The Voyeur Neighbor Who Watched Our Window

My husband came back from the bar with an expression I know very well. It wasn’t simple good humor or that silly drowsiness from coffee with liquor. It was lust. That gleam in his eyes that appears when a dirty idea gets into his head and he’s already imagining me obeying it.

I was still half-reclining on the sofa, barefoot, with the television on even though neither of us was watching it. He closed the door, left his keys on the hall table, and before even saying hello, reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“You’re going to like this,” he said.

That tone alone sent a tingling sensation between my legs. I sat up a little and pulled up the strap of my top, watching him approach slowly, enjoying the intrigue. My husband is like that: when he knows he has something that’s going to turn me on, he draws it out.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” I said.

He sat beside me, showed me the paper with a phone number on it, and told me what had happened at the bar downstairs. A neighbor from the building opposite had approached him. A mature, self-assured man, with several friends watching everything from a table, as though the conversation with my husband had been a show arranged for them.

“He says he’s seen us many times,” he murmured, watching my face. “Well, you. He says he loves watching you at the window.”

I swallowed slowly. Not because I was offended. Quite the opposite. It made my pussy clench at once. We had played many times at exhibiting myself at home, with the curtains improperly drawn, with the light deliberately left on, with the almost delicious certainty that someone might be watching from another floor. But fantasizing about it was one thing, and putting a face to it was something else entirely.

“What else did he tell you?”

My husband smiled. He loosened his belt a little and spread his legs, settling into the sofa as if he were going to savor every detail.

“That you’re incredibly hot. That you’re the kind of woman a man never forgets. And that, from the way you move at the window, it’s obvious you’re horny.”

I felt the heat rise up my neck. I didn’t pretend to be scandalized. At this stage of our marriage, the truth had always served us better than putting on an act. I get turned on by being watched. I get even more turned on knowing that he enjoys using me for that.

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I was in a hurry. But he gave me his number and made it clear he wants to continue the conversation. Him and his little friends.”

A smile escaped me. My husband saw it and held it with his own. There was hunger in his gaze. Hunger to see me react, to push me a little farther, to take our exhibitionist habit somewhere more concrete and dirtier.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

I did.

“Right now, while I’m telling you this, tell me the truth. Are you wet?”

I barely parted my thighs. I was wearing thin house shorts, and even the friction of the fabric against my pussy already felt far too noticeable.

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

I didn’t hesitate. I pulled up my shorts and moved the fabric aside. I wasn’t wearing panties because it was a hot afternoon and because he likes finding me like this, accessible, ready. My lips were already glistening. I slipped two fingers inside and brought them out wet.

My husband let out a low, almost animal snort.

“Fuck. Just from knowing a neighbor is watching you.”

“And from seeing you tell me about it like that.”

He leaned in and sucked my fingers without taking his eyes off mine. He took them to the knuckles, slowly swallowing my wetness as if he really wanted to taste it. That simple gesture always undoes me. It made me moan and spread my legs wider.

“Stand up,” he said.

He took me by the hand to the living-room window. The curtains were half-drawn. Across the street, on the other side, stood the row of apartments we knew by heart. Windows, balconies, half-closed blinds. For years they had been nothing but scenery. That afternoon they had become eyes.

“I want you to think about him,” he said, standing behind me. “That neighbor watching you from his home. The way he must have talked about you with those other assholes at the bar.”

He pressed his pelvis against my ass, and I felt his hard erection through his trousers. He gripped my neck with one hand, firmly but without squeezing too hard, and with the other he pulled my top up, leaving my tits bare in front of the glass.

“He must have seen you like this many times, right?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He pinched one nipple. The brief pain shot through me like an electric shock. Then he rubbed it with his fingers, hardening it further, while his other hand moved down between my legs. He found my open, wet pussy and gave a dry laugh.

“You’re dripping, slut.”

That insult in his mouth has never meant contempt. It means possession. A game. An obscene shove toward the place where we both want to be. I bit my lip while he stroked my clit with short, precise movements.

“Open wider.”

I spread my legs, bracing my hands against the window frame. He pulled my shorts down to my thighs. The fabric restricted my steps a little and left me exposed, my naked ass and pussy facing the building opposite. Even the air from the street made my skin prickle.

“If they’re watching us right now, let them see exactly how you get,” he murmured.

He slipped in one finger. Then two. They went in easily because I was soaked. At first he moved them slowly, exploring me, feeling the way I swallowed his hand. I arched against him and bumped my thighs together, but he slapped my ass.

“Stay still. I want you to take it.”

I took it. Or tried to. Because after a few seconds he was really fucking me with his fingers, thrusting them all the way in and pulling them almost completely out before pushing them back in. The wet sound of my pussy filled the living room more than the television did. I moaned without restraint. If anyone heard from outside, so much the better.

“That’s how he likes seeing you, huh?” he said. “Hot, open, and on display.”

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes, fuck.”

He roughly groped one of my tits while keeping his fingers inside me. He twisted them and found that spot that makes me lose my breath. My legs began to tremble. I rested my forehead against the glass and closed my eyes for a second, suddenly imagining a silhouette across the street, perhaps a pair of binoculars, or simply a man standing still behind a curtain, jerking off to my body in the window.

That thought sent a lash of pleasure up my spine.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he ordered. “Look outside.”

I opened them. The windows opposite were still there, ordinary and nondescript, but they could no longer look innocent to me.

My husband pulled his fingers out and rubbed them over my ass, then lowered them to the entrance of my pussy again, spreading my wetness all over my crotch. Then he slapped me again, harder, and the sting drew a hoarse whimper from me.

“Get on your knees.”

I obeyed beside the sofa, still facing the window. I heard him unzip his trousers. His cock emerged hard and thick, already glistening at the tip. I took it in my hand on instinct, but he pushed my wrist away.

“No. I want to use your mouth because you got me like this. Because another man wants you and you enjoy knowing it.”

He grabbed my hair and brought it to my lips. I opened my mouth and took him without putting on a show. First the tip, then more, until I felt its weight on my tongue. It had that familiar salty taste that turns me on immediately. I began to suck slowly, closing and releasing my lips, setting the rhythm with my hand at the base while he held my hair.

“That’s it. Swallow it.”

I did. I lowered myself as far as I could, feeling him fill my mouth and brush my throat. I pulled back with saliva running down my chin, then took him in again and again. My husband began moving his hips, gently at first, then with more hunger. Each thrust made my eyes water a little, and that controlled choking made me even hotter.

“Fuck, you suck so well,” he growled. “If that neighbor could see you now, he’d come in his pants.”

He pulled his cock out so I could breathe and tapped my cheek twice with the tip.

“Look at me.”

I raised my eyes.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me at the window.”

“For whom?”

I took a second, but I didn’t hide.

“For you. And for whoever’s watching.”

His smile was dirty and satisfied. He lifted me by the arm and positioned me in front of the glass again. This time he bent me farther forward, pushing my torso ahead. He pulled my shorts all the way down and left them tangled around one ankle. Then he spread my ass with his hands and whistled when he saw that my pussy was still dripping.

“Look at the mess you’re in.”

He spit into his hand, not because it was necessary, but because he liked it, because of the rawness of the gesture. He rubbed the saliva between my buttocks and let it run down to my pussy. Then he placed the tip at my entrance and pressed the back of my neck.

“Don’t move.”

He entered slowly at first, opening me with that delicious pressure that always makes me gasp. When he was halfway in, he stopped for a second, just to prolong my hunger. I pushed back, needing more, and he answered by driving into me in one thrust, all the way to the bottom.

I screamed.

I couldn’t help it. My knees buckled a little, and I had to grip the frame hard. His cock filled me completely, hard and hot, and when he withdrew just enough to drive back in, I felt my pussy receive him almost eagerly.

“That’s it,” he said through his teeth. “That’s how I wanted you.”

He began fucking me with a firm, dry rhythm, without tenderness, slamming against my ass with an increasingly filthy sound. The glass barely vibrated beneath my hands. Each thrust made my tits bounce and opened me wider. I moaned without hiding, knowing it was impossible not to hear me at least inside the house, imagining that I could be heard outside too.

“Harder,” I begged.

“You want me to use you properly?”

“Yes.”

“You want that bastard to see you?”

“Yes, fuck, yes.”

Then he did give me more. He grabbed my hip and my hair at the same time and began fucking me with longer thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. The sensation of emptiness and impact drove me crazy. Every time he went in to the hilt, he triggered a kind of spasm in my belly.

I lowered one hand between my legs and began rubbing my clit. He saw it in the reflection of the glass and grabbed my hand.

“Not yet. I want to hear you beg.”

He yanked my hand away and kept fucking me mercilessly. I was already too aroused to argue. I could only take his rhythm, offer him my ass, spread my legs a little wider. I began saying his name between gasps. Then they were no longer complete words. Just broken sounds.

He released my hair and brought one hand around to my throat, holding my neck without cutting off my air, just to feel me there, trapped and impaled. With the other he pinched one nipple through my awkward position, twisting it just enough to mingle pain and pleasure.

“You’re coming, aren’t you?”

“Almost.”

“I haven’t given you permission.”

I gasped out a desperate laugh. That control game turns me on too much because I know that in the end he always makes me come when he wants, not when I can. He left me on the edge for a second, holding me there with his cock pumping in a perfect, precise rhythm, and then suddenly eased off.

I moaned in frustration.

“Turn around.”

I turned awkwardly. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his cock hard and dripping, and pulled me onto his lap, straddling him. I was facing the window this time, with my back to the street. He held my ass and slowly lowered me onto his cock. He entered me again, and I let out a long, obscene sigh of relief.

“Now give them a view,” he said, watching my tits bounce in front of him.

I began moving up and down, slowly at first, getting used to his thickness again. Then I found my rhythm, impaling myself on him, bouncing on his thighs. He helped me, guiding my hips and lifting and lowering me forcefully whenever I fell short.

“That’s it, fuck,” he told me. “Move so they can see you.”

I gripped his shoulders and let myself go. There was no modesty anymore, if there had ever been any. Only heat, sweat, the sound of his skin against mine, and the astonishing certainty that somewhere, behind someone else’s glass, eyes might be fixed on us. Specific eyes. Specific desire. That made the scene far more intense than a simple fantasy.

My husband leaned in and eagerly sucked one of my nipples, then nibbled it. He lowered his hand between our bodies and finally began rubbing my clit. I almost collapsed on top of him.

“Don’t stop,” he warned.

I didn’t. I kept riding him while he rubbed me. My pussy was so swollen and sensitive that every stroke sent another shock through me. He kept a quick, hard circle going with his fingers, exactly as he knows I like it when I’m very close. I wasn’t moaning anymore: I was screaming his name, whispering obscenities in his ear, telling him I was going to come, telling him to let me, begging him.

“Say it properly,” he demanded.

“Let me come while I look at the window.”

“Thinking about the neighbor?”

I looked directly at him, without lying.

“Thinking about them watching us.”

He smiled and sped up his hand a little more.

The orgasm hit me without mercy. I arched, my belly clenched, and I began shaking on top of him, squeezing his cock with contractions that drew increasingly high moans from me. I came for a long time, soaking him more, trembling on his thighs, and even so he wouldn’t let me stop. He kept thrusting up into me while I could barely maintain the rhythm.

“That’s how I wanted to see you,” he growled. “Coming for those fucking voyeurs.”

I was so sensitive it almost hurt, but I liked that excess too. He kept me at the limit between pleasure and overload, pumping hard for several seconds. I clung to him, my face buried in his neck, breathing in his sweat.

Then he pulled my hips away and abruptly lifted my chin.

“Back on the floor.”

I lowered myself as best I could, my legs still weak. I knelt in front of him. His cock was still hard, shiny, throbbing with the tension before release. I ran my tongue over the tip and tasted my own flavor mixed with his. He stroked my hair, less roughly now, but with the same authority.

“Open that mouth for me.”

I opened it. He pushed himself in and began fucking my mouth with short, increasingly urgent thrusts. I took as much as I could, holding the base with one hand to set the rhythm when he sped up too much. Saliva ran from the corner of my mouth, and the wet sound of his thrusts filled the living room again.

“I’m going to come,” he warned.

That turned me on even more. I pulled him out for a second to look at him.

“Do it on my face or in my mouth. You decide.”

He let out a hoarse laugh.

“What a slut you are.”

I swallowed him again without answering. Two more thrusts, three, and I felt his body tense. He grabbed my hair, drove himself as deep as he could, and came with a deep groan. The first spurt landed on my tongue. I swallowed. Then he pulled out and kept coming over my lips and chin, gasping as I lifted my face to receive it. Some of it ran down onto one breast.

I looked at him like that, smeared with his cum, and saw in his eyes the mixture of pride and satisfied desire I love provoking in him.

We remained there for a few seconds, breathing hard. The television was still on. The street was still there. Everything seemed the same, and yet it wasn’t anymore.

He ran his thumb over my chin, gathering some of his cum, and slipped it into my mouth. I sucked it slowly.

“I want to call that neighbor,” he said at last.

The sentence gave me another shiver, different and deeper. I wiped myself a little with the back of my hand, though not too much. I was still naked from the waist down, my pussy throbbing and my legs trembling.

“What for?”

“So next time he won’t have to imagine anything from far away.”

I felt a hot knot in my stomach. Not fear. Anticipation. My husband immediately read my reaction.

“Not today,” he clarified. “Today I wanted to see you like this. To find out what putting a face to the voyeur made you feel. And now I know.”

He stood, went to the window, and this time opened the curtain a little farther. He looked toward the building opposite with a calmness that turned me on again.

“If he saw us, he must be shaking right now.”

I went to him, still half-naked, and hugged him from behind. I rested my cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Next time,” I whispered, “I don’t want him just to watch.”

He turned slowly. He took my jaw in his hand, smiling with a quiet obscenity.

“I figured.”

We kissed. My taste, his, the rest of his cum still between us. Outside, evening was beginning to fall. Inside our apartment, a door had just opened—one neither of us wanted to close again.

And for the first time, when I looked at the windows opposite, I didn’t think about neighbors. I thought about an audience.