What Happened When the Repairman Climbed Through My Window

My name is Camila, and I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m fair-skinned, with wide hips and a body my husband stopped paying attention to a long time ago. What I’m about to tell you happened on a Saturday in June, one of those days when the heat slips in under the doors and it’s hard to stay dressed inside the house.

My husband got up before I did. He kissed my temple and told me, almost in my ear, that a repairman was coming to check the swamp cooler in the bedroom. That I should stay alert. That he had to stop by the office even though it was the weekend. I barely managed a sleepy grunt of yes from under the sheets. When I heard the front door close, I sank back into the pillow.

I always sleep in a long nightshirt and nothing underneath. No thong, no shorts, nothing tight on me. It’s a habit I’ve had since adolescence, and my husband learned to respect it without arguing, even though for months now he hasn’t even put his hand under the fabric.

I woke halfway to the sound of metal banging against the outside wall. Dry knocks, a man’s voice giving another man instructions. My room is on the second floor and, since the air still wasn’t working, I had left the window open. I stretched out an arm and only then realized the nightshirt had ridden up to my waist.

I was about to fix it when I saw him in the vanity mirror.

The ladder propped up outside was exactly level with my window. Through the reflection, I could make out the silhouette of a man leaning in over the frame. He wasn’t looking at my face. He was looking at my bare ass, right there, offered up like dessert, in the middle of the bed. And something else: I was sleeping with one leg crossed over the other, and when I moved, my cunt had fallen open, showing my pink lips and the trimmed pubic hair I always keep.

My first instinct was to cover myself. I snatched everything under the sheet up over my shoulders. My heart was pounding like I was about to run a marathon. But it wasn’t fear. It was something else. Between my legs I felt that wet tingle I hadn’t felt in months, and I realized my panties were already soaked and I wasn’t wearing any panties.

If he saw me, then he saw me.

I closed my eyes for a second. Then, slowly, without lifting my head, I let the sheet slide down to the foot of the bed. I tugged the nightshirt up a finger’s width higher, not lower. I shifted my leg so the mirror angle would betray me even more clearly. I opened my thighs a little, just enough for him to see my cunt straight on, and stayed completely still, pretending to sleep.

The man went up and down the ladder I don’t know how many times. Every trip was unnecessary. There was no work to justify showing up and disappearing like that, over and over. I kept my breathing measured and my eyelids half-lowered, spying on him in the reflection. He was about forty-five, solidly built, with closely cropped gray hair and arms weathered by the sun. I won’t lie: I liked what I saw. There was also a thick bulge standing out in his pants every time he came near the glass. Without breaking character, I let one hand fall between my legs and ran a finger through the lips of my cunt, very slowly, biting down inside my mouth so I wouldn’t moan. I was soaked.

The phone rang and I jumped. It was my husband. He told me, with his usual rushed voice, that the technician needed me to sign a service order and confirm that the unit was working. That I should please come downstairs. I answered yes, I’d be right there, while my eyes searched for anything to put on over myself.

I didn’t put on anything. No bra, no thong, not even a robe. Just the nightshirt. If the man had already seen me from the ladder, there was no point pretending to be modest at this stage. Before going down, I ran a wet finger over my nipples to make them hard under the fabric, and I looked in the mirror: both of them stood out like little stones, and the hem of the nightshirt barely covered the start of my ass.

I went down barefoot. He was in the living room, with the toolbox at his feet and a rag in his hand. When he saw me appear on the landing, he went rigid. His eyes dropped twice before he could stop them and then fixed on mine, with a shy smile.

—Good morning, ma’am. Sorry to bother you. I need you to test the start-up with me.

—Camila. Call me Camila.

I crossed my arms as I passed him, not so much to cover myself as to make it obvious I wasn’t wearing a bra and my breasts were pressed together over my forearm. I turned my back on him while I handled the remote, and I felt that gaze again, that warm pressure on the nape of my neck and lower. I bent over a little, more than necessary, and I could feel perfectly how the room’s cool air was hitting me between the cheeks. I pressed the power button. The unit started with a groan and shut itself off a few seconds later.

—There’s a part that isn’t responding —he said, clearing his throat—. I need to go up and confirm what’s failing. If you could come with me for a moment, so you can see with your own eyes what I’m going to have to replace…

—I’ll go up —I told him.

I lied. I told him I was terrified of heights, that if he didn’t mind, he should go up behind me. That I preferred to have someone holding me in case I got dizzy. He agreed, of course. I grabbed the first rungs of the folding ladder leaning inside the room, right under the vent, and started climbing slowly, the nightshirt rippling around my thighs.

It didn’t take much effort. By the third step, the hem was already level with his face. I felt him stop breathing below. I also felt the room’s air grow thick, as if too many people were breathing at once. I was wet before I even started climbing, and with every movement I got wetter. I knew he was seeing, from below, my cunt open and shining, with a thread of moisture running down the inside of my thigh. I knew he was seeing everything and not even trying to hide it: I heard his heavy breathing, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him swallow and reach down to adjust the bulge in his pants.

I wanted to stretch the scene a little and, with all the theatrics, I got distracted. My left foot twisted on the step and I let myself fall to one side with a cry that was half fright and half comedy. He caught me in the air before I hit the floor. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing and carried me in his arms to the bed. His forehead was shining with sweat. When he picked me up, the nightshirt rode all the way to my waist and I could feel his hairy forearm pressed right against my bare cunt.

—Stay still, Camila. Let me see if nothing’s broken.

***

He sat me on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of me. He took my ankle in both hands and started moving it carefully, drawing slow circles. The worry had wiped, at least for a while, the heat from the first moment off his face. Or so I thought. Until I remembered how I was sitting and exactly what he had at eye level: my cunt, open, wet, smelling like me, within half a hand’s breadth of his mouth.

—Does it hurt here too? —he asked, running his fingers up over the top of my foot.

—A little higher —I said.

—Your calf?

—Higher.

He slid his palm up my calf, then along the inside of my knee, and stopped there, his hand open on my thigh, looking at me as if asking permission. I didn’t answer. I just looked at him, breathing hard, and spread my legs all the way, not crossing them, so his hand would keep going.

His fingers kept moving. Straight, determined. When his thumb touched the lips of my cunt, a long gasp escaped me, one I hadn’t let out in months. He ran two fingers through my slit, from bottom to top, and lifted them up glossy, dripping with my slick. He took them to his mouth without breaking eye contact and sucked them.

—You’re soaked, Camila —he murmured.

—Finger me —I asked him.

He didn’t need to hear it twice. He sank two fingers into me in one thrust, all the way to the knuckles, and began moving them slowly inside, searching for my spot with the pads of his fingers. I braced myself on my elbows. The nightshirt had ridden back up to my hips and, from where he was, there was absolutely nothing left to discover. My right foot, by accident or by my own will, I don’t know which, landed against the bulge in his pants. I left it there. Pushed a little. I felt it grow, pulse, strain against the fabric looking for release.

—If you give me a real massage maybe it’ll go away —I murmured, my voice trembling—. My husband never gives me massages. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t even look at me.

—Are you sure?

—Go get me some ointment from the cabinet. The one on top, the red jar.

Before he stepped away, I grabbed his head with one hand and shoved his mouth against my cunt. He didn’t resist. He stuck out his tongue and gave me one long, broad lick from bottom to top, then stopped to suck my clit until I pressed my legs against his ears. He licked me like he was hungry, with teeth and all, nibbling my lips, pushing his tongue inside and pulling it out. He got me off in his mouth for the first time in less than two minutes. I sucked in air as I came against his face, my back arched, pushing the nape of his neck. He kept sucking even after, swallowing everything that came out of me.

—The ointment —I said, laughing, breathless.

He opened the cabinet on my side of the bed. I knew perfectly well that in that drawer, besides the red jar, there was a cardboard box with three toys inside. A vibrator, a dildo, and a pair of Ben Wa balls. I heard him taking longer than necessary. When he came back, he was carrying the jar in one hand, the vibrator in the other, and a new smile, different from the first one. A conspiratorial smile.

—Take off the nightshirt —he said. It was no longer a suggestion.

I took it off. I was naked on the bed, my tits out, my nipples hard as if I’d been put on ice, and he was standing at the foot of the bed, looking me over with his mouth still shining from my orgasm.

I lay down on my stomach, legs slightly apart and arms crossed under my cheek. He straddled me, resting almost all his weight on my ass, and started spreading the cream over my back, shoulders, and waist. It wasn’t a therapeutic massage. Every time his hands slid lower, they went farther in, parting my ass cheeks, grazing my crotch with the tips of his fingers as if by accident. I moaned into the mattress and let him do it. I felt the vibrator’s buzz before I felt it on my skin. He ran it along the hollow of my back, then along the crack of my ass, and rested it against my asshole for a moment, just enough to make me jerk and draw out a rough laugh from him. He moved lower. He pressed it against my clit from behind, the long handle jutting between my thighs, and with his other hand he spread my cheeks and spit on my ass.

—Hold still —he told me—. Let me keep you like that.

In the vanity mirror I caught the exact moment he unbuckled his belt and pulled out his cock with one hand. It was thick, dark, almost the color of his arms, with the tip swollen and a thick vein running along the underside. He started stroking himself slowly while with his other hand he kept pressing the vibrator against my cunt. The friction of his skin against mine and the motion of his wrist made me arch without meaning to. He spat into his hand and coated his whole cock, top to bottom, until it gleamed.

I lifted my ass a little. I raised it just enough for him to understand that the playing was over.

We didn’t say a word. I felt him settle behind me, felt the heavy head of his cock press against my cunt and then, with one firm push, sink all the way in. The cry that escaped me was more surprise than pain. I was so drenched he slid in like he’d been waiting for me all morning. He filled me completely. I felt his balls slap underneath me, against my clit, and the hair of his pubic mound scrape my ass.

—Don’t stop —I begged, biting the pillow—. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

He grabbed my waist with both hands and started moving with a rhythm that brooked no argument. I was rolling my hips up and down against him, seeking him, impaling myself on him. The bed creaked. The air still wasn’t working and the room smelled like cream, sweat, wet cunt, and something else, something sweet and dark that only exists when you’re fucking someone who should not be there. He shoved one hand into my mouth and I sucked his fingers, biting them. With the other he grabbed my hair and arched my neck back.

—Look at you, Camila —he said in my ear, never stopping—. Look at you taking it all.

I watched in the vanity mirror as his cock went in and out of me, shining with my slick, and I didn’t recognize myself. I had never seen my face like that, mouth open and eyes gone distant.

He flipped me over with one tug. He left me on my back, legs spread wide, and sank into me again while he kissed me with his whole tongue, not letting me breathe. He grabbed my tits with both hands, squeezed them until his fingerprints marked me, pinched my nipples until I screamed. He lowered his mouth and sucked them one by one, biting them, pulling them with his teeth. He opened my legs wider than I thought they could open, lifted them until my ankles rested on his shoulders, and drove his cock all the way in, pulling almost all of it out and shoving it back in with a hard slap that made me squelch.

—You’re such a horny little thing —he told me in my ear, never stopping.

—I’m a horny little thing —I repeated.

—You’re my slut.

—I’m your slut.

—Say it right. Tell me why you called me.

—So you’d fuck me —I told him, looking him in the eyes—. So you’d fuck me all the way. So you’d fuck me like nobody ever does.

I said it without thinking and without shame. I said it because it was true, at least that morning. I came like that, with him looking me in the eyes, two fingers in my mouth and his cock hammering inside me, without really understanding at what point I’d crossed the last line. I came in streams, squeezing his cock inside, soaking his pants where they were bunched at his knees. He sped up, gripped my hips hard, and at the last second pulled out and left his warm load splashing over my belly, between my tits, one stream all the way to my chin. I counted them: five, six. He stayed there for a moment, panting, his cock dripping onto my navel, looking at me as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.

My phone rang. My husband again. He was calling to say he’d be home in ten minutes.

I ran a finger over my chest, gathering up his cum, and took the finger to my mouth. He watched me swallow. Then I ran two more fingers through my soaked cunt, collecting mine too, and I put those fingers into his mouth one after the other, all the way to the back, so he’d suck up everything I’d given off. He sucked them like candy. He pulled his pants back up with clumsy hands, adjusted his belt, and held my gaze one second longer, already by the door.

—I’ll be back Tuesday —he said—. That part still needs changing.

—Make it when he’s not here.

I went down barefoot, showered in two minutes, put on something decent, and opened the front door to my husband with a fresh smile. I kissed him on the mouth. He kissed me back without noticing anything, without smelling anything, without suspecting anything.

***

Since that Saturday, the swamp cooler in the bedroom breaks down with remarkable regularity. Right around the days my husband goes into the office. The technician already knows the way, already knows the cabinet, already knows what’s inside, and doesn’t even bother pretending anymore. But that part of the story, if I feel like it, I’ll tell another day.