The Terrace from Which They Watched Us

We had already spent several summers discovering that that kind of thrill worked well for both of us. Being watched, I mean. It’s not the sort of thing you bring up over Sunday lunch with the family, but between us it was almost a shared secret that caught fire every time we travelled. That August on the Levantine coast was going to confirm, in one fell swoop, everything we suspected.

We had rented an apartment with a terrace over the sea. In the photos it looked nice; when we arrived it was even better than the photos. There were no neighbours upstairs. The apartment next door was empty. And the railing looked straight out over the surf, with open views toward a small hill topped by three white villas.

The first midday we went down to the harbour for lunch. Two beers with the paella, a bottle of very cold Verdejo, and the feeling that the holiday was finally beginning. We went back up to the apartment with that hot, languid sluggishness alcohol gives you, and instead of taking a siesta we went out onto the terrace with a pair of deck chairs, determined not to move until the sun went down.

Marta —that’s what I call her when we’re alone, even though almost nobody uses her full name anymore— had put on a black bikini that emphasized her waist. Forty-something, but her body was holding up very well. Her tits, in particular, were still the pride of the family. I stroked one through the fabric with no intention other than warmth.

“There’s light,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

“There’s nobody there,” I replied.

I untied the top at the neck and in the middle. The little triangle of fabric fell to one side and the nipple, already awake, was left bare under the sun. Marta made a move to cover herself, but when she saw no blinds shifting anywhere, she let her arms drop to the sides of the lounger and drew a deep breath.

I pinched her nipples one by one until they stood up like two hard little points. Her hand reached for me over my swim trunks and began to rub me slowly, without hurry, as if the plan were to last for hours. I untied the side string of her bottoms; she lifted her hip, and the bikini disappeared under the lounger.

I slid my hand down to her shaved pussy, and my finger went in easily. She was soaked. I pulled it out, shining, and brought it to my mouth before sliding it back in. That salty taste, and something else that felt like mine, always drove me wild.

“I want—” she said, and there was no need for her to finish the sentence.

I took my cock out of my trunks and she turned onto her side on the lounger to reach it with her mouth. She took it all in, slowly, eyes closed, while I kept sinking two fingers between her thighs. Then I saw it.

***

It was only a flash. A pane of glass throwing back the sun from one of the terraces of the villas on the hill. I kept up the rhythm and narrowed my eyes. It wasn’t glass: it was binoculars. A guy leaning over the railing, shirtless, elbows propped, the binoculars pointed straight at us.

I didn’t say anything to Marta. I knew that if she found out all at once she’d tense up and want to go inside. But I also knew the idea, once it settled in, would excite her as much as it did me. So I made her change position. I turned her a little toward the railing, opened her legs wider, and positioned myself so the voyeur could see her pussy spread open and my fingers going in and out. Marta, with her mouth full, let out a soft moan.

I sped up. Her thighs started clamping around my hand, her hips moved on their own, and at the first hard thrust a louder moan escaped her. The reflection on the hill didn’t move. The guy was still there, fixed in place, not even bothering to hide it. I didn’t want to come yet. I wanted her to come first, knowing —without knowing it— that she had an audience.

When I felt the first contractions around my fingers, I stopped moving and stroked her clit with my fingertip, slowly, while she took me deeper. I came in her mouth almost at the same time she shuddered against my hand. Marta stayed there licking me for a while with her eyes closed, not understanding yet.

Then she sat up, brushed her hair out of her face, and looked around. I didn’t say anything. But I suggested we stay naked on the terrace, it was unbearably hot. She agreed. All afternoon, while she read with her glasses perched on the tip of her nose and I pretended to sleep, the binoculars’ reflection kept coming and going. I didn’t look at her once so I wouldn’t give myself away. And that kept me slowly aroused for the rest of the day.

***

At sunset I suggested dinner out. I asked her, as if it were nothing, to put on the pale blue dress and nothing underneath. Marta laughed, pretended to be offended, and then came out of the bathroom wearing the dress, no bra, with a look in her eyes that was already promising things.

I chose a restaurant reached by a narrow stone staircase. I’d seen it as we passed and it seemed perfect: anyone already seated on the inner terrace would have a clear view of whoever was coming up. I made her go first. Halfway up, I leaned in, stroked her calf, and hiked her skirt up just enough for a man having coffee upstairs to end up staring at her ass for three long seconds. The man turned his face toward the sea as if nothing had happened.

“You’re a pig,” Marta said when I sat down.

“You’re the one wearing the dress,” I replied.

We ordered fish and white wine. I spread her legs under the tablecloth and put my hand on her thigh. After a while I moved higher. She was already wet again. Across from us, at another table, a man in his fifties was having dinner alone with a book beside him. He wasn’t reading. He kept glancing at us every time Marta laughed. I made her cross one leg over the other so her skirt rode very high. Marta rested the back of her neck against the chair and let the man finish dinner looking at her.

“It’s not as hard as I thought it would be,” she whispered in my ear before coffee.

“We’ll talk when we get back,” I told her.

***

We got back to the apartment late at night. The living room light was on and shone straight out onto the terrace, turning it into a lit stage facing a dark auditorium: the sea and the rock opposite. We went out with two glasses of wine. I kissed her leaning against the railing, slid the straps of her dress down, and let it fall onto the tiles. She stood there completely naked against the night.

I moved behind her. She leaned a little forward, hands on the railing, and then she saw it: on the rock to the left there were two fishermen’s lamps, two green points, and another point at the tip of each rod. They were within a stone’s throw.

“They’re going to see us,” she murmured.

“They’re already seeing us,” I said.

I waited for her to step away, but she didn’t. On the contrary: she took my hands and brought them to her breasts, staring fixedly at the lights. I stroked her nipples slowly, kissed her neck, and slid one hand down to her pussy. She opened her legs a little wider so I’d have room. When I brushed her clit, the first clean moan of the night escaped her.

From behind, she untied my swim trunks with one hand without looking, as if she knew exactly what she was doing. She took my cock out and tucked it between her cheeks. She started moving in circles, squeezing me with those ass muscles that have always driven me crazy. I kept my fingers working below. On the rock, one of the little lamps moved. It changed direction. It pointed straight at our terrace.

“They’re focusing on us,” she said, her voice trembling.

Far from pulling away, she did the opposite. She turned around, crouched down, and pushed her ass and pussy out over the railing toward the sea side. She took my cock with both hands and put it in her mouth, showing everything else downward. I braced myself against the back wall, stunned, while the other lamp turned too so as not to miss the show.

I lifted her, spun her around, and bent her over the railing facing the fishermen. I pried her legs open with my knee and entered her from behind in one single thrust. Her tits swung against the rail with each pounding stroke. Marta had her eyes closed but a wide smile. I was fucking her knowing two strangers thirty meters away were seeing every movement.

When I felt I was about to come, I pulled out. I sat her on the built-in bench that runs around the terrace, spread her legs, and let her climb on top of me facing the sea. She started riding me with her face lifted, offering her breasts toward the little lamps. She came in a long shudder, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream, and stayed still for a moment on top of me.

“Finish like before,” she begged me.

She got down, knelt beside the railing, and pushed her ass out toward the sea again while sucking me off. I held her by the nape and pushed gently until I came in her mouth. She swallowed everything without moving away and, when she took my cock out of her mouth, she laughed in a way she hadn’t laughed in years.

And then, from the other side of the rocks, came the perfectly clear shout through the sound of the water:

“Thaaaaank youuuu! See you tomorrooooow!”

We both fell silent. Then Marta burst out laughing and covered her face with her hands. I lifted my glass toward the little lamps, toasted the void, and we went inside still naked and wrapped around each other.

That summer was, without a doubt, the most voyeuristic of all the ones we’ve spent together. And I know that when the next one comes, she’ll already be waiting for it to happen again.