She Knew I Was Watching Her and Didn’t Move

The building where I live has sixteen floors and a single communal laundry room in the basement. Four washing machines, two dryers, fluorescent lights that flicker when it’s cold. It’s not a place one chooses to stay in longer than necessary, and yet there are nights when you go down for no real reason, just to see whether the light is on.

I’d been going there every Sunday morning for two years, always early, always alone. Until I started crossing paths with her.

She lived on the eighth. I was on the seventh. I’d see her sometimes on the landing or in the garage: a woman of about thirty-four or thirty-five, dark shoulder-length hair, quick steps, the kind of person who always has somewhere to be. We never spoke beyond what was necessary. A greeting, a nod. Nothing more. But there are people you notice without meaning to, without any conscious intention. She was one of those.

I knew she had two children because I could hear them in the mornings, through the ceiling of my bedroom, before they left for school. I knew her husband got home late almost every weekday because I’d seen him in the garage more than once, after ten at night, with the face of a man who’s had a long day and would rather not have to climb four flights of stairs. It wasn’t something I was trying to know. It was just information that accumulates when you live in a small building and don’t make a habit of ignoring what’s around you.

I also saw her on Sundays in the laundry room, of course. That was what had started changing everything.

We crossed paths three times in March. Twice in April. In May I started adjusting my schedule without quite admitting it to myself. Not to talk to her: I never knew what to say, and I think I didn’t want to break something that was working just fine as it was. Just to be in the same space. To watch her fold clothes with that methodical gesture she had, or check her phone while waiting for a cycle to finish, or simply stand still and stare at nothing for a moment before going back to what she was doing. There was something about that woman that didn’t quite fit the image she projected on the landing. On the landing she was pure efficiency. In the laundry room she was something else: someone letting her guard down without realizing it, breathing differently when she didn’t think anyone was watching.

I’m not a voyeur, or at least that’s what I told myself. I’m just someone who pays attention. Someone who’d jerked off more than once thinking about the ass she had under her tracksuit, about how her tits would move when she bent down to pull clothes out of the drum.

***

That night was Wednesday. It was eleven-thirty and I couldn’t sleep.

I had no real reason to go down to the basement at that hour, but I grabbed my bag of dirty laundry anyway, like someone who needs an excuse even when nobody’s going to ask for one. I went out onto the landing, tied my sneakers by the door, and went down the stairs to the basement.

When I opened the metal door, I saw light.

I stopped. Just for a second, no more. Then I kept going inside.

She had her back to me, bent over in front of the washer nearest the door. She was wearing gray sweatpants, fairly worn from the fading at the knees, and a short-sleeved white T-shirt that had ridden up her back when she leaned forward. The sweatpants clung to her ass in that way old clothes only do, tracing every curve, making it obvious she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her hair had been hastily tied up, with several loose strands stuck to the back of her neck from the heat in the basement. She was loading clothes into the drum one piece at a time: a sock, a child’s T-shirt, something else I couldn’t make out in the dim light. Her movements were automatic, the kind of motions of someone who’s been doing the same thing for too long and no longer has to think about it.

She didn’t hear me come in. Or she heard me and chose not to turn around. I’ll never know for sure.

I left my bag by the door and stayed in the doorway. I didn’t turn on the hall light. I didn’t say anything. I felt my cock starting to harden against the fabric of my pants just from looking at her like that, bent over, unknowingly offering me the full view.

I watched her for what must have been three or four minutes. Her movements were slow, almost mechanical. Every so often she paused, her hands still on the clothes, as if she were thinking about something specific that had nothing to do with what she was doing. Then she picked the motion up again and kept going. The washer on the right was in its last cycle: that soft, steady hum that fills everything without interrupting it.

There was something in that image that I found hard to name. It wasn’t just desire, though that was there too, tightening my dick against the seam of my pants. It was the contrast between the woman I saw on the landing — always moving, always in a hurry — and this one, who seemed to be carrying something invisible but heavy. The exhaustion of someone doing at midnight what nobody else did during the day, without complaining, without anyone noticing.

At some point, she stopped moving.

She didn’t turn around. But she stopped moving.

Her hands stayed still on the edge of the drum, holding a child’s T-shirt halfway inside. Her back changed posture: her shoulders tensed slightly, the way they do when someone realizes they’re not alone in a room even though they haven’t heard anything specific.

I didn’t move either.

The washer’s hum filled the silence. That moment lasted longer than I expected. We both let it last.

That was when I stepped closer.

Without hiding my footsteps, but without hurrying either. I walked through the narrow space between the machines and the wall until I was less than a meter from her. She still didn’t turn around. She finished putting the shirt into the drum and closed the washer door in a calm motion. Then she stood still, her palms resting on the machine’s surface, her arms slightly tense.

—It’s almost midnight —I said quietly.

—I know —she answered.

Her voice was lower than I remembered. Or maybe it was the basement, making sounds reverberate differently.

I positioned myself directly behind her. Close enough for her to notice the heat of my body, and also for her to notice the hard bulge already pressing against the fabric of my pants, resting right against the small of her back. I leaned toward her neck without quite touching it, just enough for her to feel my breath on her skin.

—Can’t sleep? —I asked.

—My son’s uniform needs to be ready for tomorrow.

It was an answer that wasn’t really an answer. We both knew it.

—And your husband?

—Asleep.

She said the word without any inflection. Without resentment, without relief. Just information.

I put a hand on her hip. Slowly, giving her time to react if she wanted to. She didn’t move away. On the contrary: she pushed her ass back just an inch, just enough for my hard cock to wedge between her cheeks, separated only by two thin layers of fabric.

I felt her tense for a second, that inevitable second when the body registers what’s happening before the head decides what to do with it. Then, little by little, that tension dissolved under my fingers.

—You’ve been watching me for weeks —she said. It wasn’t a question.

—Yeah.

—I know —she repeated. The same phrase as before, but now with a different weight.

—And it doesn’t bother you? —I asked.

—It would bother me if I didn’t want you to do it. —She paused, breathed, and added in that same flat voice—: I’ve been coming down here for weeks hoping you’d do more than look.

I took a moment to let that settle. Then I brushed the loose strands away from her neck with my fingers and brought my lips to the skin just below the nape. Not a kiss. Just contact. Just heat.

She tilted her head back slightly.

I slid my fingers under her T-shirt and traced the line of her stomach upward, slowly, feeling the curve of her ribs, the movement of her accelerated breathing. I went up to her tits and took them in my hands from underneath her bra, which was barely more than an elastic strip, one of those sleep bras. Her nipples were already hard, tense against my fingertips. I pinched them slowly, one after the other, and she let out a sharp breath against the metal door of the washer. She pressed her palms flat to the machine, looking for something solid to hold onto.

—Not here —she whispered.

—Here, yes —I answered.

I pushed the elastic of her sweatpants down just enough. She wasn’t wearing panties. The skin of her ass appeared bare, white under the fluorescent light, and I couldn’t help squeezing it with my free hand, digging my fingers in, feeling the flesh give. She spread her feet a little, an involuntary gesture that said everything. I moved my hand to the front, between her thighs, and touched her slowly, with no hurry at all, exploring.

She was soaking wet. Her pussy was already running onto my hand before I’d even touched her twice. Her lips were swollen, slippery, her clit already swollen and throbbing under the pad of my middle finger. She’d been like that for a while, maybe long before I came down. I confirmed it by sliding two fingers through her slit, from back to front, gathering the thick wetness already running down the inside of her thigh.

—You’re soaked —I said in her ear.

—You already know that —she panted. —Shut up and keep going.

I shoved two fingers inside her at once. She jerked, pushed her ass back, and a short, rough moan escaped her, which she swallowed by biting her lip. I felt her clench around my fingers, scorching hot, tightening with a force I hadn’t expected. I started pumping slowly, all the way in, pulling them almost out before sliding them back in again, while with my thumb I drew circles over her clit.

—Like that —she whispered. —Like that, don’t stop.

I worked her with my fingers for a good while, not rushing, letting her breathing set the pace. She kept her palms on the washer’s surface, her head tilted forward, eyes closed. Every now and then she let out a short, contained sound, unconsciously calculating the proper volume for a basement in an apartment building at midnight. With my other hand I kept kneading her tits under the T-shirt, tugging her nipples, and she started fucking my fingers by moving her hips on her own, searching for the rhythm she needed.

—Deeper —she gasped. —One more finger.

I added a third. She dropped her forehead against the metal of the machine and let out a longer moan, now no longer able to control it completely. I spread my fingers a little inside her, turning them, searching for that rough patch a bit above the entrance, and when I found it her whole body shook.

—There —she said. —There, fuck, there.

When she came, it came with a long shudder, pressing her forehead against the metal of the machine and clutching my wrists with both hands as if she needed to anchor something. Her pussy trembled all around my fingers, pulsing in waves, and I felt a hot trickle slip out and wet my palm. She didn’t say anything. She just breathed, slowly, until the shaking passed.

I pulled my fingers out, shiny with wetness, and brought them to my mouth. Then she turned around.

Not all at once. Slowly, with that same calm she’d had from the beginning. She looked me in the eyes for a few seconds with an expression that was neither surprise nor shame, but something different: recognition. The face of someone who had known something for a while and had just had it confirmed.

She kissed me without preamble.

It was a direct kiss, without the tentative beginning of two people feeling each other out. She put one hand on my jaw and kissed me like someone who’s gone too long without this and knows exactly what she wants. With her other hand she went straight to the crotch of my pants and squeezed my cock through the fabric. I pressed her against the washer. She wrapped her arms around my waist and tilted her head back when I pulled her T-shirt off one shoulder and worked my mouth along her neck. She grabbed my hair with her fingers.

—Take it out —she said in my ear. —I want to taste it before we go upstairs.

She pulled down my pants and boxers herself, with that same efficiency I’d seen on the landing, and my cock sprang free, hard, the tip already beaded. She looked at it for a second, licked her lips without realizing it, and dropped to her knees right there on the cold basement floor.

She took me in her hand at the base and brought me to her mouth without hesitation. She started slowly, with the tip, wetting it with her tongue, circling the head, and then took me in all the way, to the root, until I felt her throat close around the crown. She pulled back breathing through her nose, a thread of saliva hanging from the corner of her mouth, and started again. She moved up and down setting a slow, deep rhythm, looking up at me with shining eyes, and I had to brace one hand on the washer to keep my balance.

—Fuck —I muttered. —Fuck, like that.

I put a hand on the back of her neck, not forcing, just guiding the motion, and she picked up speed. Every time she went down she helped herself with her hand at the base, squeezing, twisting her wrist on the way up. She sucked my balls between thrusts, one first, then the other, and took me back into her mouth until her eyes watered. I felt my balls tighten and shifted my hips an inch. She understood, pulled my cock from her mouth with a pop, and kept it against her lips while she looked at me.

—Not upstairs —she said, voice rough. —I can’t make noise upstairs. Here I can.

The washer next to us entered its final spin cycle and started vibrating hard. We both laughed at the same time, a strange and unexpectedly human second in the middle of everything else. She stood up, turned around, and bent over the machine again, this time with her ass pushed back and her pants around her ankles.

—Put it in —she said, not looking at me. —Now. No more detours.

I grabbed her hips with both hands and lined my cock up against her slit, sliding it up and down, smearing it in her slick before aiming and pushing. I went in all at once, all the way, and she let out a guttural moan that she swallowed by biting her arm. She was squeezing me with incredible force, still trembling from the previous orgasm, and I had to stay still inside her for a second so I wouldn’t come right there.

Then I started fucking her. At first slowly, with long strokes, pulling almost all the way out before burying myself in her again, watching my cock come out shiny and disappear back inside her. She arched her back, searching for the angle, pressing her ass back against me every time I hit the deepest point.

—Harder —she panted. —I’m not going to break.

I changed pace. I grabbed her hips with both hands, digging my fingers in, and started driving into her deep, with dry thrusts that made my balls slap against her clit. The washer vibrated and rattled against the wall with each stroke, and she held onto the edges of the machine with both hands, head down, moaning louder and louder, no longer able to control it.

—Be quiet —I whispered, without stopping.

—I can’t —she answered, voice breaking. —I can’t, don’t stop.

I put a hand over her mouth. She moaned against my palm, long and loud, and I felt her pussy clench around my cock again in quick spasms. I was coming. She was coming again, braced against the washer, my hand over her mouth and her ass smashed against my pubis.

I pulled out a second before emptying myself. I grabbed my cock with my hand and kept rubbing it between her cheeks until I started to come, thick spurts falling onto the small of her back and sliding down toward her ass. She stayed bent over, panting, her head against the metal, feeling my cum wet her skin.

We stayed like that for a while, in silence, while the washer next to us finished its cycle with a short beep.

She straightened slowly. She took a towel from the basket beside her —one of her children’s towels, with a faded drawing— wiped her back with unexpected calm, and tossed it into the drum of the washer that still hadn’t started.

—Come upstairs —she said when she was done.

—To your apartment?

—To yours.

She looked at me steadily as she said it. With the kind of clarity people have when they’ve made a decision and are no longer afraid of it.

—My husband’s a very heavy sleeper —she added. —And I’m not done with you yet.

I didn’t know whether it was an explanation or a warning. Maybe both at once.

***

We went up the stairs, she two steps behind me, still smelling of sex and fabric softener. As soon as I closed the apartment door she pushed me against it and kissed me again, this time with no hurry at all, tasting herself and tasting me. I pulled her T-shirt over her head and yanked off her bra. Her tits were heavier than I’d imagined, pale, with dark nipples still hard. I bent down and took one into my mouth, sucking it whole, pulling on it until she moaned, while with my other hand I pinched the other one.

—Bed —she whispered. —Now.

I took her to the bedroom and laid her on her back. She finished pulling off her sweatpants with one quick, efficient movement, and lay naked on top of the duvet, looking at me with that same calm expression from the basement. I spread her legs and knelt between them. Her pussy was still shiny, swollen, the lips parted. I lowered my head and ran my tongue from her perineum to her clit in one long, firm lick.

She arched her whole body and brought a hand to her mouth so she wouldn’t scream.

I ate her out thoroughly. I sucked each lip one by one, nipped them gently, shoved my tongue as deep as I could, pulled it out and went back to her clit, circling fast and then sucking it between my lips. I slipped two fingers inside her again while keeping my tongue moving up top, searching for the spot I’d found in the basement, and she started rocking her hips against my face, out of control now, crushing herself into me.

—It’s been so long —she panted. —So fucking long. God.

—How long? —I asked, lips glued to her pussy.

—Too long —she answered, and laughed for a second, a laugh broken by gasping—. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.

She came a third time, squeezing my head between her thighs, tugging my hair, muffling the cry against the pillow. When I let her go, my face was soaked. She looked down at me and stretched her arms toward me.

—Come here —she said. —Put it in me again. But slowly now.

I lay on top of her, supporting myself on my elbows, and slid into her again. I entered slowly, all the way, and stayed there, inside, looking into her eyes. She wrapped her legs around my waist and locked them behind my ass, pushing me a little deeper.

I started fucking her with long, deep thrusts, setting the rhythm with my hips. She dug her nails into my shoulders and bit my shoulder to keep from moaning, though every two or three thrusts a muffled sound still escaped her. I grabbed one leg and put it over my shoulder to get in deeper, and she let out a long moan that I covered with my mouth.

We changed positions. I put her on all fours and fucked her from behind again, grabbing her hair with one hand and her hip with the other. She pushed her ass back against me, searching for me, and I even gave one cheek a sharp smack that made her shudder and tighten around my cock.

—Again —she panted, surprising me.

I gave her another. And another.

Then I fucked her face-down, her legs closed and her pressing the pillow against her mouth. Then she got on top, sat on my cock and started riding me slowly, resting her hands on my chest, looking at me with half-lidded eyes, moving in circles with her hips. I grabbed her tits with both hands and squeezed them while she went up and down, faster and faster.

When she came for the second time, she made more noise than in the basement, a long, rough moan she let out without even trying to hold back, and then she laughed a little at that, with my cock still inside her, panting on top of me.

—I don’t care if he hears us —she whispered. —I don’t care about anything right now.

I came for the second time shortly after, with her on her back again and her legs resting on my shoulders, as soon as I felt her clenching around me from the inside. I asked her if she wanted it inside and she nodded, almost impatiently, and I emptied myself completely, pushing all the way in, while she held my head against her neck.

She stayed until she heard the first subway train pass on the nearby tracks, a little after two in the morning. When she got dressed, she did it without hurry and without saying anything, with the same calm as always, with my cum still running down the inside of her thigh. She picked up her keys from the floor, where they had fallen without either of us noticing at the time, and headed for the door.

There she stopped.

—Tomorrow I’m taking the stairs —she said.

—I know —I answered.

She looked at me for another second. Then she smiled, just for a moment, the first time I’d seen her smile like that, and closed the door carefully so as not to make noise.

I stayed up for a while, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling. From upstairs, a little later, I heard her washer finish its cycle.