The Birthday When She Put on a Show for the Neighbor

It had been a long time since I’d written anything about what goes on inside me. The last time, I titled that piece “Learning to Dance” and swore it would be the only one. My therapist insists otherwise. He says these episodes, these flashes that assail me without warning, are worth putting down in writing and, if possible, letting other people read them. He is always my first reader.

I need to clarify something before I go on. These experiences I describe are like flashes of lightning, moments I relive with unbearable intensity and that, nevertheless, seem like glitches in my memory. They feel tremendously real, but they cannot, must not, have happened. Almost all of them revolve around Noelia, my girlfriend at the time, especially from the period when we were still dating. They appear when I least expect them, with no order or sequence; I live through them in their entirety, and afterward they remain there, floating, like impossible stories.

I want to tell you about the last one I had.

It takes place in my old apartment. It’s Noelia’s birthday. She’s turning twenty-two. We’ve just come back from dinner and, when I go in, I head straight for the bedroom and find three wrapped packages on the bed. I know they’re for her. What I don’t remember is buying them.

“You’ve made the living room look beautiful,” she says from the doorway.

The living room? I haven’t touched anything.

I look and see dozens of lit candles scattered across the shelves, the floor, and the coffee table. They cast a warm, golden light, a cozy half-darkness trembling on the walls. We’ve only just come in. Who lit them? The curtain over the picture window is pulled all the way up. I could swear it had been down. My memory is failing again, as always, and I decide not to fight with it.

Noelia notices the packages.

“Are they for me?”

My smile is enough of an answer. She gathers them up and drops onto the sofa, impatient as a child. I sit beside her, and the truth is I’m just as curious as she is. I don’t know what they contain. I only hope she likes them.

She opens the first one. From the weight and shape, I guess it’s a shoebox before she tears through the paper.

“Shoes?” She looks at me in surprise.

They’re red pumps with impossibly high stiletto heels. She raises an eyebrow and breaks into a naughty-girl smile.

“Do the others match?”

She opens the second one with shining, expectant eyes.

“I knew it,” she sings. “Lingerie!”

Fishnet stockings, a tiny set, a garter belt. All in the same blazing red.

“You’re such a pervert,” she says, giving me a sidelong look. “You want me to put it on, don’t you?”

She vanishes toward the bathroom in a single bound. It takes her a while. The wait is worth every second. When she returns, everything fits her perfectly, as though it had been sewn onto her. The fishnets climb halfway up her thighs, held up by the garter belt, and the tiny thong barely covers her pussy. Her tits spill over the top of the red bra, her nipples standing hard against the fabric.

“You went overboard with the color. I look like a… you know…”

I finish the sentence inside my head, surprised by how easily the word appears: whore. She looks like an expensive whore, the kind who gets paid well, and my cock starts throbbing in my trousers at the mere thought. I’d never seen her in lingerie that color. I’d given her black sets, burgundy once or twice, but this brazen red would never have occurred to me. And yet I must have bought it. There’s no other possible explanation. She looks unbelievably fuckable.

“Bring me something to drink while I finish putting this on.”

I watch her pick up the lipstick. I go to the kitchen and, when I open the refrigerator, there’s a bottle of champagne chilling inside. Nothing surprises me anymore. I take it out. She’s waiting for me sitting down, her lips painted an intense red to match everything else, and wearing a different smile, one I’ve never seen before. The smile of a woman who knows she’s going to be fucked properly.

“Champagne!” She gives a little squeal. “You’re the best!”

I pour two glasses and we toast. The situation is pleasant, gentle, almost unreal. I look at her and can’t stop myself from feeling my cock hardening against my fly. I pour her another. Desire fully awakens in me, but she, playing the tease, pretends to be aloof, tough. She opens her legs for a moment, just long enough for me to see the red thong stretched tight over her pussy, then crosses them again. She knows exactly what she’s doing. The more I want her, the more she enjoys herself. My impatience is her arousal. I know her; she’s played this game many times.

“Should I open the third one?” she asks.

I’d completely forgotten about the last package.

“Of course. Open it.”

She unwraps it, takes it out, and looks at me without understanding. It’s a black blindfold, opaque and made of thick fabric.

“You want to fuck me blindfolded?” She turns around and offers me the nape of her neck. “Put it on me.”

I tie it around her head while she talks.

“I didn’t know you were into this kind of game. You certainly kept that quiet.”

The truth is, I didn’t know either. But I like it.

“I can’t see a thing,” she says, moving her head from side to side.

***

And just as she says it, I see him.

There’s an older man on the balcony of the building opposite. He’s a neighbor who goes out to smoke at all hours; they don’t let him smoke inside his apartment, so he has no choice but to go outside, whether it’s cold or hot. From his railing, he can see our entire living room from one side to the other. And with the curtain raised and the candles lit, he can see her perfectly.

My first impulse is to lower the blind. But my hands don’t obey me. Instead, I find myself unhooking her bra, an automatic gesture, as though someone else had decided to do it. Her tits spring free, round and firm, her pink nipples pointing toward the ceiling. I cover them with my hands as if protecting her, squeezing them and feeling her nipples press into my palms. The old man takes a drag. I think he smiles.

I start caressing her. I pinch her nipples between my forefinger and thumb, pulling on them until she moans. She’s surprised.

“You’re really horny today.”

And then, without thinking, I remove my hands and let the man across the way see what I had been covering. The tits of a twenty-two-year-old girl offered to a man in his sixties. I brush her nipples with my fingertips, draw circles around her areolas, wet them with saliva, and she gasps, oblivious to everything, blindfolded, surrendered to the game she believes belongs only to us. I slide one hand down to her belly and slip it beneath her thong. She’s wet. Soaking wet. I rub her clitoris with two fingers, and a long moan escapes her, making the old man take a step forward onto the balcony.

“Mmm, keep doing that,” she whispers, throwing her head back.

I can’t stop looking at the man.

I make her get on all fours on the sofa, facing me. I rip her thong to one side with a sharp tug, leaving the piece of red fabric hanging from the garter belt. Her pussy gleams, swollen, her lips open and a thread of moisture running down the inside of her thigh. I yank down my trousers and underwear. My cock springs out hard, aimed at her mouth. I hear a laughing “you’re wicked” and feel her red-painted lips close around my glans, her tongue slowly running over me, her mouth swallowing me all the way down. But that’s not why I did it. I did it so the man on the balcony could see her raised ass, round and framed by the garter belt, her pussy open between her thighs, her entire body from behind, complete and unobstructed. I don’t understand where that desire comes from, but there it is, and I can’t control it.

She sucks me hungrily. She pulls me out, licks my balls one by one, then takes me all the way back in, her throat yielding, until she gags and a string of drool runs down her chin and stains her tits. I grab her by the hair and set the pace, burying myself deep while she moans with her mouth full.

The old man lowers his hand and starts touching himself over his trousers. A voice inside me, one I recognize and yet don’t, tells me what I have to do.

That’s it, that’s it. Show her off. Let that man come watching her suck you.

And she wriggles, sticking out her ass and moving her hips, without knowing why I’m suddenly holding her differently. I push two fingers into her pussy from behind while she keeps sucking, and I notice she’s already so wet that my fingers slide in and out with a wet, obscene sound that fills the entire living room. She does it well, too well. I catch myself thinking that she must be experienced, that mouth has sucked many cocks before mine, and I’m immediately frightened by the thought. The cigarette burns down quickly in the man’s hand; he must be taking very deep drags. The candles give him enough light to see everything: how I put my cock in her mouth, how I spread her pussy with my fingers, how her lipstick melts onto my cock.

I feel that I’m about to come and stop. I yank my cock from her mouth, and she’s left with her tongue out, breathing hard. I don’t want to come yet.

***

I sit her up and bring her closer to the picture window. Now he can see her even better. I press her against the glass, her back to me, and caress her tits from behind, squeezing them and offering them to the old man. I whisper in her ear to touch herself over the torn thong, to put her hand inside.

“Pervert,” she murmurs. But she does it. She slips two fingers into her pussy and starts moving them, and from where I’m standing I can hear the wet sloshing as she drives them in to the knuckles.

“Run your tongue over your lips,” I tell her.

“Am I supposed to imagine that someone is watching me?” she suddenly says.

The comment startles me so much I almost pull away.

“Mmm, you’re impossible today,” she laughs, and slowly licks her lips, sticking out her pink tongue and dragging it very slowly over the red lipstick.

I lower my hand, and now I’m the one caressing her, pushing her fingers aside and sliding mine into her soaked pussy. I rub her clitoris with my thumb while penetrating her with my forefinger and middle finger. Without being asked, she pinches one nipple with her other hand while playing with her own mouth, sticking her tongue in and out as though she were sucking an invisible cock.

“What if someone really were watching me…” she insists. “I’d come in your hand right now.”

It frightens me every time she repeats it, as if she senses something, but I keep going. I know that somehow I’m giving her away, and part of me doesn’t want to. She’s my girlfriend. And yet I make her kneel facing the window and push aside her abundant, curly brown hair so the man across the way can see her face clearly. I put my cock in her mouth again, this time slowly, and turn my head toward the balcony to make sure the old man can see everything. I want him to see how she licks the tip, how she slides down the shaft, how she swallows my balls one by one, how afterward, greedily, she takes me all the way back in and drives me into her throat.

I grab her head with both hands and fuck her mouth. She doesn’t resist. She lets me set the pace, lets me use her, and when I release her hair she keeps sucking on her own, her hands resting on my thighs and her blindfolded eyes fixed upward, toward me, not knowing that in reality she’s looking sideways toward the window.

The man has already gone through several cigarettes while enjoying the show. What does he think of her? How can I talk about my Noelia this way? And then a thought comes to me that chills me. What if they cross paths one day in the supermarket checkout line? What if they run into each other in the café on the corner? He’s seen her so clearly, with semen smeared across her powdered face, beginning to seep from the tip and stain her cheek, that he’d recognize her anywhere.

Better stop. Better lower the curtain.

I sit her up and take her back to the sofa. I lie down and position her on top of me, her back to me, facing the window. I spread her legs with my hands and drive my cock into her pussy in one hard thrust, all the way in. She cries out, a hoarse moan escaping from deep in her belly. Hadn’t I decided it would be better if he didn’t see her? Wasn’t that what I wanted? My intentions and my actions are traveling down different paths.

She starts moving on top of me, rising and falling, impaling herself on my cock. You can tell she’s experienced; I already knew that. She writhes, rolls her hips, and squeezes her pussy around my cock with a skill that forces me to bite my lip to keep from coming. I grab her tits from behind, kneading them and offering them to the window. She rides faster and faster, and her moans fill the living room, wet slapping sounds from her soaked pussy swallowing my cock again and again.

The old man opposite does what anyone would do: he frees his cock from his trousers and starts openly masturbating, without trying to hide it. I see his cock in his hand, moving quickly, his eyes fixed on Noelia. Seeing it is like a signal, a spring snapping inside me. I seize her hips and start fucking her from below with brutal thrusts, making her tits bounce, her moans run wild, and the whole sofa creak.

And then my hands rise toward the blindfold, once again as though they weren’t mine, as though they belonged to another man. Just as she’s about to come, when I feel her pussy beginning to contract around my cock in spasms, I rip the blindfold from her eyes.

It takes her a moment to understand what she’s seeing. And instead of screaming, instead of covering herself, she keeps staring at the neighbor on the balcony while he stares at her. She has a savage, drawn-out orgasm, her eyes locked on the stranger. She spreads her legs wider, touches her clitoris with one hand, and starts rubbing it frantically without taking her eyes off him, while I keep driving into her from below. Her pussy contracts in waves around my cock, and I feel her juices running over my balls.

“Let him watch me come, let him watch me come,” she pants, and that’s all I need.

I drive my cock all the way into her and come inside her in spasms that shake my entire body. I feel my semen escaping, filling her pussy, spilling over the edges and running down her thighs. On the other side of the glass, the old man comes over his own hand as well, mouth open, never taking his eyes off us. All three of us finish almost at the same time, except that she strings one orgasm after another together without looking away from the man, rubbing her clitoris with two fingers and moaning higher and higher while I keep spilling inside her and she keeps squeezing me in spasms.

“I like it,” she says at last, breathless, my semen running between her thighs. “Pervert.”

***

And that’s where the flash ends.

It’s like coming out of a trance. I wake up sweating and, just as my therapist asked, sit down to write, reconstructing it point by point, everything I experienced or thought I experienced. I have a tremendous erection, and I find myself imagining that I’m the voyeur, that I’m on that balcony watching my own girlfriend from outside, her legs spread as she comes on another cock that is actually mine, offered by someone with my same face.

I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why my mind invents Noelia putting herself on display, or why it arouses me to be both the one who gives her away and the one who watches her. My therapist told me that the more comments I read, the sooner I’ll understand what my unconscious is trying to tell me. Even if that means continuing to have flashes like this one.

So this time, yes: I’ll read everything you have to say.