The Neighbor Watched Me from the Window

Hello again. For those who don't know me, I'll say it plainly: I'm an adult woman, the kind who knows perfectly well the effect she has when she wants to provoke it. I'm not innocent, although more than once people have assumed I was because of my face. My body, on the other hand, doesn't leave much room for doubt, and a long time ago I stopped pretending I don't like being watched.

After ending a long relationship, I was left with too much pent-up desire and no one steady to spend it with. At first I thought it would be difficult, but the opposite happened: I began discovering that being single gave me a brutal kind of freedom. I no longer had to worry about jealousy or explanations. If I wanted to put on a tiny thong, go out without underwear, or stroll in front of a window knowing someone might see me, that was my business.

It all started as a simple game. One afternoon I put on an incredibly tight pair of sweatpants and decided to go to a supermarket in my neighborhood without panties. I wore a short blouse, white sneakers, and my hair tied back—nothing too outrageous if someone wanted to play dumb, but I knew exactly what I was doing.

With every step I felt the fabric rubbing directly between my legs, outlining more than it should. It took less than ten minutes to notice the first looks. Men on their own, a cashier, one man pretending to choose products while he checked out my ass whenever I bent down. I deliberately lingered in front of the low shelves, parting my legs a little, stretching up more than necessary. The heat rising inside me was so intense that I went home with the absent panties weighing on my mind like a promise.

That day I masturbated while remembering every look. I spread my legs on the bed, still wearing the sweatpants pulled down to my knees, and slipped my fingers beneath the damp fabric. I came quickly, squeezing my thighs together, aroused not by any particular face but by the thought of having been devoured with their eyes by several strangers.

From then on, I started repeating it. Sometimes it was a short dress out on the street. Sometimes leggings with nothing underneath. Sometimes lightweight nightgowns in my room, whose window faced other apartments and businesses across the avenue. My room was on the second floor, and I turned that space into a stage all by myself.

Folding clothes in front of the window became an excuse. Sweeping in a long T-shirt and panties, too. Bending over the bed, stretching, crouching, lifting one leg onto the chair while I put on lotion. Everything was a little private performance for other people's eyes. And the best part was not always knowing who was watching.

Until one day, I did know.

Across the street, on another second floor, I began making out a man who appeared far too often. He wasn't a child or anything like that; he was clearly a young adult, maybe in his twenties, dark-skinned, slim, with lean shoulders and a habit of standing motionless in the shadows, as if he thought that way no one could see him. But I could see him. And the more I noticed him, the more shameless I became.

I would put on leggings without a thong and walk around the room knowing he was there. One night I even stood in front of the window adjusting my nightgown very slowly, letting it ride higher than it should over my thighs. I couldn't see his face clearly, but I could see his tense, motionless posture. That detail made me burn.

I also started going to the gym in tight clothes just to feel the same effect. I wasn't really there to work out, if I'm honest. I went to look at myself in the mirrors and feel eyes turning toward my ass when I did squats or bent over. The feeling of being watched was making me hornier, hungrier, needier to take the game one step further.

And that step came on a Saturday.

That day I put on a short straight skirt, a sky-blue blouse, and sneakers. I went down to the corner store to buy a few things I didn't really need. I hadn't gone half a block when I sensed someone behind me. It wasn't paranoia: the footsteps kept their distance, but they followed me.

I glanced back in the reflection of a pane of glass and recognized him. He was the neighbor from the window. In person he looked better: my height or a little shorter, brown skin, barely-there beard, arms defined without being exaggerated. He followed me with some papers in his hand and his gaze fixed exactly where I imagined it was.

I went into the store with my pulse racing. While I picked out some random nonsense, I could see his reflection behind me. I bent down once more than necessary to take a bottle from the bottom shelf and felt that second of heavy silence, that vacuum of air left by a gaze concentrated on a woman's ass. I left with the bag and walked home without looking back. He followed behind me.

When I entered my house, I thought the scene would end there, later becoming another glorious wank. But someone rang the doorbell almost immediately.

It was him.

He told me, nervous but determined, that he had moved into the building opposite with some friends and was looking for work. He needed help putting together a résumé and asked if he could borrow a computer for a moment. The excuse was so clumsy it nearly made me laugh, but it was also perfect. I let him in.

My mother was in the house, which reassured me, if only for an instant. He introduced himself, said he had just moved in across the street, and I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye when he realized I had noticed. I turned red like an idiot. A while later, my mother went out to do some shopping and left me alone with “the new neighbor” and his famous résumé.

I sat him in the dining room beside the computer cabinet. I stayed in the kitchen for a moment, pretending to act normally. He asked me a couple of questions, and I ended up coming over to do it myself faster. I sat in a swivel chair, crossed my legs, and began typing.

My skirt rode up as soon as I settled in. I did nothing to pull it down. I felt his gaze on my thighs, on the inner curve, on the exact place where the fabric ended. Every time I reached over to point something out on the screen, his scent reached me more strongly, and I grew wetter.

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?” he asked.

I showed him where it was and continued with the document. When he came back, I was leaning forward, arranging some papers in the printer. I saw him in the reflection of the screen. He had stopped behind me, openly staring at my ass while the tight skirt outlined everything. I said nothing. On the contrary, I leaned a little farther forward.

I handed him the printed pages and, instead of sending him away, let the situation keep breathing. I don't know which of us mentioned dancing first, but within two minutes we had music playing from his phone. He told me he wasn't familiar with the style around here and wanted to learn. I could have said no. Instead, I went upstairs to my room for a pair of high heels, just so he could watch me go up and come back with my legs tauter and my ass lifted even higher.

When I came back down, he ran his eyes over me with his mouth half open. That's when I knew it was done.

We started with something gentle. I taught him to follow the rhythm, one hand on my waist, one turn, then another. Since my heels made me taller, his face was level with my breasts, and his hands brushed too low every time he tried to guide me. I didn't know how to dance that well, but I did know how to move enough to rub myself against him under the guise of a mistake.

Then he changed the music to something slower and closer. He positioned himself behind me, and I hesitated for show.

“That's not teaching anymore,” I told him, turning my head slightly.

“Just one song,” he replied in a deeper voice than I expected.

I let him. His body pressed against my back, and I felt his cock harden through his pants. The first rub drew a very soft moan from me, which I disguised with a laugh. I began moving my hips, slowly at first, and he responded by gripping my waist more firmly. His hands moved lower. He brushed my buttocks once. Then again, with no possible accident this time.

I was burning. I turned him around and sat him in a dining-room chair.

“Look,” I told him. “Sometimes girls do it like this.”

I climbed onto his lap and began moving over him, slowly rubbing my pussy, covered by the skirt fabric, against his hard bulge. His hands moved from my thighs to my hips, then to my buttocks, and from there higher, squeezing my tits through my blouse with a clumsiness that, far from bothering me, made me even crazier. I let myself drop onto him in little thrusts, feeling him search for me between my legs even though our clothes were still on.

When the song ended, I tried to stand, but he held me by the waist.

“Another one,” he asked.

I didn't answer. I stayed there, breathing over him, noticing the urgency in his face. He started another song and we stood up. This time he didn't hesitate to hug me from behind, bite my breast through my blouse, and grab my ass shamelessly. That gesture shattered what little caution I had left.

I pushed him onto the sofa and straddled him. At last we kissed, with real hunger. I thrust my tongue into his mouth until I felt him moan inside me, and he opened my blouse with eager hands. I took it off myself, then removed my bra, and planted my tits in his face. He latched onto one nipple with his mouth while squeezing the other breast with his hand. I grabbed his head and pressed it against me, needing more pressure, more saliva, more of everything.

“Like that, fuck... like that,” I told him.

I lowered my hand to his pants and felt his hard cock. I stroked it through the fabric for a moment, enjoying the way he writhed beneath me, then opened the zipper. I pulled it out. It wasn't huge, but it was thick, pretty, and very hard. I looked at it for a second, bit my lip, and bent down.

The first suck was desperate. I had too much pent-up desire to pretend to be delicate. I took the tip into my mouth, licked around the glans, and sank down as far as I could in one go. He let out a dry gasp and grabbed my hair, not quite sure whether he was allowed to. I lifted my eyes toward him and kept going, dirtier and faster, letting saliva run down the shaft while I jerked him with one hand and sucked him with the other.

“Shit... neighbor...” he murmured, incredulous.

I sucked his cock as if I'd been waiting months for that mouthful. I pulled it out and put it back in, licking underneath, squeezing it between my lips, swallowing a little more each time. I could feel the pulse in his cock and the trembling in his thighs. My pussy was leaking on its own, soaking the fabric of my skirt.

Then my phone vibrated. I looked at the screen: a message warning me that they would be home in a few minutes. That urgency drove me completely wild.

I set the phone aside, stood up, and yanked off my skirt. I wasn't wearing anything underneath. I was left with only my heels and my blouse half undone, naked from the waist down, my pussy shiny and open before his eyes.

“Do you like watching?” I asked, breathing quickly.

“Yes.”

“From the window too?”

He fell silent for a second, then nodded.

“I've jerked off watching you several times.”

I felt a wave of heat rise from my belly to my face. I gripped his cock, settled myself over him, and guided it to my entrance. I was so wet that it slid in easily. I lowered myself slowly at first, feeling him open me, then let myself drop down completely.

“Fuck...” I breathed, closing my eyes.

He was truly hard, thick, and filled me in the way I had needed for weeks. I began riding him eagerly, bouncing on his cock, driving my heels into the floor to push myself up more effectively. He gripped my hips and moved with me from below, watching my tits bounce, my face twisted with pleasure, the way my pussy swallowed and released him again and again.

“You're so fucking delicious,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Don't talk. Fuck me.”

But I didn't want to give up control yet. I kept riding him, faster and faster, feeling his pubic bone pounding against my ass, the exact friction against my clitoris, the wetness sliding between us. I leaned forward to kiss him, and he took the opportunity to squeeze my buttocks with both hands, spreading me wider and driving his cock all the way in with every drop.

I moaned without trying to hide it. Dirty words came out by themselves, as if they had been forming for weeks.

“Like that... yes... put it all in... don't stop...”

He began thrusting upward harder. His initial clumsiness had disappeared quickly; once he understood the rhythm, he handled me well. He stayed inside for an extra second at the deepest point, then lifted his hips to meet me. The sofa creaked, my tits struck his chest, and the thought that they might open the door at any moment had me on the edge of delirium.

I lifted myself slightly to change positions, and he took me by the waist. He turned me around and bent me over the arm of the sofa. I ended up on all fours, my ass open to him, my legs trembling, his cock brushing my entrance again.

“Spank me,” I told him, looking over my shoulder.

He gave me the first one somewhat timidly. I clicked my tongue.

“Harder.”

The second one really landed. It burned deliciously. By the third, he was penetrating me at the same time, entering me with short, rapid thrusts while one hand held my hip. I felt another smack on my ass and moaned louder.

“That's it, that's it... don't be gentle with me.”

He grabbed my hair and pulled just enough to arch me farther. Then he began fucking me for real. His cock went in and out with a raw, wet rhythm, growing firmer each time. My face was buried in the back of the sofa, biting it so I wouldn't scream too loudly, while he spread me with slaps and drove his cock into me again and again.

The sound was obscene: skin against skin, my wet pussy swallowing him, my broken moans. One of his hands moved between my legs and searched for my clitoris with clumsy but insistent fingers. That undid me.

“Don't stop... there... there, fuck...”

I felt the orgasm approaching like unbearable pressure. He was close too; I could tell from his ragged breathing, from the way his thrusts became less regular and more violent. I clutched the sofa and pushed my ass backward to receive him better, asking for more depth, more force, more cock.

“Where do you want it?” he asked, breathless.

I didn't hesitate for half a second.

“Inside. Come inside me.”

He grunted something I couldn't understand and thrust three more times, deep and disorderly, until he remained buried completely. I felt him come hot inside me, in distinct pulses, filling me while he squeezed my hip with one hand and my hair with the other. That sensation sent me over the edge. I came almost at the same time, with a long, filthy orgasm, my legs weak and my moan impossible to contain.

I remained trembling, still bent over, feeling his semen mix with all my wetness and move inside me with the last spasms. He pulled out slowly, and I half straightened, my body hot, my ass marked by the spankings, my legs useless.

We looked at each other for a few seconds without saying anything. The room smelled of recent sex and urgency. He adjusted his pants, still smiling as if he couldn't believe what had just happened.

“Thanks for the help with the résumé,” he said at last, wearing such a cheeky expression that I laughed.

I picked up my skirt from the floor and put it on without underwear, feeling the fluid slide out slightly whenever I moved.

“You're welcome,” I replied. “And you'd better keep an eye on your window.”

He bit his lip, understanding perfectly.

I walked him to the door. Before leaving, he looked me over again, from my badly fastened neckline to my bare legs beneath the skirt. There was no need to promise anything. We both already knew it hadn't been an accident.

After he left, I went upstairs to my room and approached the window. I pulled the curtain aside just a little and looked across the street. It didn't take long for him to appear on the other side, in his own window, searching for me. I smiled, lifted the hem of the nightgown I'd left on the bed a little, and watched him go still, attentive and obedient.

My new routine had just found a permanent spectator. And I, if I'm being honest, was sluttier than ever.