What Our Neighbors Saw from Their Windows

The years went by and the frequency diminished, but not the intensity. Marina and I have continued seeking each other out as we did that first summer, and the driving force behind almost all our encounters remains the same: the thrill, the measured risk, that current that sparks when we know we might not be as alone as it seems.

Anyone who knows us from other stories will already know that the beach is our fetish setting, the place where she completely lets go. But when we can't get away to the coast, we have another, more accessible setting that's almost as powerful: the garden of our house.

We live in a quiet development, on a small plot with neighbors pressed close on both sides. A tall, leafy hedge blocks the front, while the sides are covered with heather screening and privacy mesh. That gives us privacy, yes, but not a wall. From their windows, if someone leans out with the intention of looking, they can see perfectly well what happens on this side.

And that's the fun of it.

We've had the same neighbors for many years. We've watched their children grow up and move away; we greet one another with genuine cordiality, exchange packages and favors. We've never spoken about the other thing, of course. But we're almost certain that at some point they've seen us naked, or more than naked: Marina with my cock down her throat, me with my face buried between her thighs, fucking against the porch table in broad daylight. A muffled murmur, a blind lowering slowly just when you look up, the squeak of a piece of furniture being dragged closer to the glass for a better seat. Small signs that we read perfectly.

When we notice that attention, we don't run away. We simply retreat a little toward the back, to a strip of the garden from which, if they still want to look, it isn't accidental anymore: they've gone looking for it. And that, as I always say, stops being our problem.

“Your reasoning is very convenient,” she laughs when I remind her.

“It's fair,” I reply. “We don't hide. What they do with their curiosity, and with the hand shoved down their pants, is their business.”

***

In summer the routine is always the same. We come back from the beach or the pool, take off our wet swimsuits as soon as we pass through the gate, and walk to the garden shower. Then, still with salt on our skin and our breathing slow, we make our way to the clothesline to hang up our things. Naked, unhurried, as though we're doing the most natural thing in the world.

For us, it is. It's not a show put on for anyone. It's simply refusing to pretend inside our own home, knowing that if someone is watching us, it's because they've chosen to watch.

Marina loves the sun. Many afternoons, when I get home from work, I find her lying in the hammock, completely naked, seeking the best angle for the time of day so that not a single inch remains in the shade. She closes her eyes, disconnects from the world, lets herself be warmed. And I, when I cross the door and see her like that—her tits flattened by gravity, nipples stiff and pointing skyward, her shaved pussy gleaming with oil—feel my breath catch and my cock get hard in exactly the same way it did twenty years ago.

Those afternoons I sit a little farther away, in the shade, and simply watch her. Her chest rising and falling slowly. The line of her hip. The way she barely parts her thighs when she thinks nobody is studying her, revealing the wet pink between her lips. Coming home to find her relaxed, hot, and receptive is one of the everyday gifts I value most.

“I know you're watching me,” she murmurs without opening her eyes. “And I know you're hard.”

“Just like them,” I reply, indicating with my chin the row of closed windows on the other side of the hedge.

Then she smiles. And, very slowly, she opens her legs a little wider, brings two fingers to her mouth, wets them with saliva, and lowers them to her pussy. She starts rubbing her clitoris in slow circles, never stopping showing me her face of pleasure, while with her other hand she beckons me closer.

By the time I reach the hammock, my cock is already out, swollen and dripping. She doesn't waste any time: she grabs it at the base, licks it from top to bottom as if it were an ice cream, then takes the whole thing into her mouth until I feel the back of her throat and she swallows around me. She sucks slowly, sinking down to the root, sticking out her tongue to lick my balls between thrusts, while continuing to finger her own pussy with her other hand. When she pulls it out, she paints my lips with her fingers so I can taste her. I suck them one by one while she keeps swallowing me.

“Fuck me in the hammock,” she asks, her lips shining. “If they're watching, let them see exactly how you drive it into me.”

I lift one of her legs and rest it on my shoulder, guiding the head between her soaked lips. I enter slowly, feeling her pussy open around me, squeezing me with those muscles she knows how to control like nobody else. I thrust into her from above, the hammock swaying and creaking, her tits bouncing with every blow, her open mouth releasing moans she doesn't bother to stifle. We come almost at the same time, her first, squeezing me so tightly she nearly leaves me no way out, and me right afterward, emptying inside her with the sun straight ahead and the silent row of windows at my back.

***

We've fucked in that garden so many times it would be impossible to count them, and I can assure you not one was mediocre. I've put it in her on her knees over a chair, her ass sticking up and her face buried in the backrest while she spread her cheeks with both hands so I could penetrate her more deeply. Leaning against the large clay planter, biting her lip and asking me to slap her until my fingers left marks. Tied to the umbrella pole, her wrists bound above her head with the cord from her bathrobe, while I ate her from behind, running my tongue from her pussy to her ass as she begged me not to stop.

But there's one particular spot that drives us both crazy: the gate leading to the communal area. It's in the middle of the front hedge, so from that opening we're visible from both sides, and there's no way to hide if things get complicated. Fucking there, exposed on both sides, without a safety net, creates a state of arousal I haven't managed to equal anywhere else. Every time we suggest it, neither of us dares say no.

The last time was in the middle of the day. I grabbed her from behind right in front of that gate, bent her back until her tits rested against the hot iron, and drove my cock into her in a single thrust. Marina let out a hoarse moan that must have been heard three houses away.

“Keep going,” she panted. “As if nobody were here.”

But someone was. There always is. And fucking her there, with the metal marking her nipples and her ass bouncing every time I thrust, knowing that any neighbor who came out to take the garbage would see the whole spectacle, made me hornier than I wanted to admit. I grabbed her hair, wound it around my fist, and drove my cock all the way in again and again while she rubbed her clitoris with two fingers. When she came, her whole body trembled against the gate. I pulled out, turned her around, put her on her knees on the grass, and came over the tits I'd worshiped for twenty years, drenching her chin, neck, and nipples without the slightest shame.

Another of our classics is the table. Sometimes beneath the porch, other times in the middle of the lawn, in broad daylight. I always begin the same way: her lying on her back, legs spread and hanging over the edge, her pussy offered at exactly the right height for my mouth. I lick her calmly, parting her lips with two fingers, sucking her clitoris slowly, pushing my tongue deep inside to lap up all the juice that's already beginning to run. I slide in one finger, then two, twisting them, searching for the spot that makes her arch her back until her ass lifts from the wood. She grabs my head, presses it against her pussy, rubs her vulva across my face without the slightest embarrassment.

“Don't stop, don't stop, eat me whole,” she pants. “Eat all my pussy.”

I continue until she comes in my mouth, with a spasm that travels from her thighs to her neck, flooding my face with her juices. I lick up every last drop and give her a long kiss on her lower lips, sucking her hypersensitive clitoris once more just to make her tremble.

When she can't take any more, she turns and lets her head fall backward over the edge of the table, offering me her throat. She loves that position, losing control of the angle, letting herself be filled slowly while she digs her nails into my thighs. I push my cock in little by little, watching her neck swell with every inch, her lips tightening around the shaft, saliva slipping from the corners of her mouth and running down her cheeks into her hair. I fuck her mouth that way, without hurrying, feeling the back of her throat strike my glans, while with one hand I pinch a nipple and with the free one keep playing with her clitoris.

And we almost always finish the same way: her face down on the warm wood, her ass right at the edge, me standing behind her, gripping her hips with both hands and thrusting until her moans stop being discreet and she no longer cares who hears them. I slap her buttocks until they turn red, spread them with my thumbs, penetrate her all the way, pull almost completely out, then sink back into her hard. The table creaks. Her tits flatten against the wood and lift away with every thrust. The smell of pussy, sweat, and freshly cut grass fills my head.

“Harder,” she asks through clenched teeth. “Let them know. Let them hear how you fuck me.”

And I obey, because refusing her has never been one of my options. I drive my cock into her with all my strength, drawing increasingly high-pitched moans from her, feeling her pussy contract around me. Her fingers search for the edge and cling to the wood, her hips thrust backward seeking more, and behind me I sense the row of windows like a silent audience. I deliberately don't look that way. Looking would break the spell; what sustains it is not knowing, imagining, letting doubt do the work.

When I'm close, I tell her. She pulls away, turns around, sits on the edge of the table with her legs spread, and asks me to come all over her. She grabs my cock, slips it between her tits, and makes me finish that way, squeezing it with those breasts that still drive me crazy after so many years. I come in spurts, splattering her neck, cleavage, and chin, and she slowly smears it around with two fingers, looking me in the eyes, then sucking them clean one by one with all the leisure in the world.

When it's over, she remains still on the table for a few seconds, her cheek pressed to the warm surface, wearing the loose smile of someone who's just played with fire and come out whole. I stay standing, catching my breath, my cock still dripping and the sun on the back of my neck, with the certainty that whatever happened on the other side of the hedge, it was absolutely worth it.

***

We almost always accompany these games with photos and videos. Not to fill a hard drive, but because there's a third person in the equation: a trusted friend of ours who shares the same weakness for open spaces and the sensation of being exposed. After every good afternoon, we send him a handful of images—Marina with her mouth full of my come, a close-up of her open, dripping pussy, a short video of me thrusting into her from behind on the table—and knowing that he'll see them, that he'll jerk off while looking at them, that he'll imagine the rest, adds another layer of excitement to it all. It turns Marina on enormously, above all. Many times she comes thinking about him while I fuck her.

We're not the type to give up when the weather turns against us, either. We live in an area with a privileged climate, but cool days don't stop us, and rainy ones even less. There's something clean and wild about fucking beneath the rain, with soft grass beneath our feet, our skin prickling with cold and Marina's nipples hard as stones in my mouth, then going inside wrapped in one another into the hot shower and finishing with me coming inside her as water pours over our faces. Nights have their moments too: more than once we've ended up on the pavement, just inside our property, naked with the gate open, her on her knees sucking me beneath the streetlamp, with no possible escape if a late car went by or a door slammed somewhere in the distance.

***

What may not be obvious at first glance is that these games have a price, and I pay it. She likes to collect her fees, and I pay them gladly.

We almost always park in front of the door. One of the things she finds most amusing is asking me to get out of the car naked and wait at the entrance for her to open it. It takes only a few seconds, but to me, standing in the street with nothing on, my cock hanging openly in view and my heart in my throat, they feel endless. That commanding streak of hers, that need to have me at her orders, knows perfectly well that it turns me on too. All she has to do is ask.

I didn't expect it of myself, but I ended up liking it far more than I ever could have imagined.

There are afternoons she calls “humiliation” afternoons. On those days she takes it into her head to dress me in underwear that isn't mine: lace panties digging into my balls, thongs making my cock disappear between my buttocks, a garter belt, sometimes a bra that we stuff while laughing. Then she takes me out into the garden like that, into her exposed territory. What would be a punishment for anyone else has the opposite effect on me: my cock presses against the lace from the first minute, dampening the fabric with the fluid it begins leaking on its own. Fucking with your naked wife in a place where any window might be open, while you're dressed that way, is so embarrassing and so intense at once that I have to bite myself to keep from coming at the first brush.

“Look at you,” she says, slowly turning me around so the hedge doesn't completely cover me. “If someone leaned out right now, what would they think? Can they see your little cock outlined inside your panties?”

I don't answer. There's no need. My body answers for me, and we both know it.

Those days she makes me lie down on the grass and sits on my face, her soaked pussy directly over my mouth, forcing me to eat her until she comes two or three times, while she gently steps on the bulge showing through my panties. Then she lowers the fabric just enough to pull out my cock, spits on it, and slowly sits down on it, riding me with the panties around my thighs, laughing at me while she rides and calls me every name in the book.

“Look how much you like it, you filthy thing. Look how hard you get in your wife's clothes.”

She turns me over, puts me on all fours with my ass bare, stands behind me, and pushes two saliva-wet fingers into my asshole while she jerks my cock with her other hand. She makes me come like that, humiliated and happy, semen staining the lace of the panties while she laughs at me uproariously, proud to have me exactly where she wants me.

The curious thing is how the roles reverse on those afternoons. Marina, who is sweet and playful the rest of the time, adopts a slow, firm tone that leaves me no room for argument. She orders me to walk to the clothesline and back, my cock poking over the edge of the thong and my buttocks bare. She makes me wait on my knees in the grass while she calmly pours herself something to drink, and when she passes me, she lets me lick one finger wet with her own pussy as a reward. Every minute outdoors, dressed as she has dressed me, is another twist of the screw, and she knows it, and deliberately stretches it out.

On those days her messages to our friend become longer and cruder. She describes me, calls me a thousand different things, recounts what she “forces” me to do, attaches photos of me in panties with my hard cock outlined beneath them, or of my face smeared with her come. I put “forces” in quotation marks because the simple truth is that obeying her is the greatest pleasure for me. There is no coercion where there is such a strong desire to please.

***

This, deep down, is what we do in the garden at home when nobody sees us. Or, rather, when we don't quite know whether anyone is watching us, which is exactly what keeps the spark alive after all these years.

Maybe it isn't the most scandalous story you'll ever read. There are no strangers bursting in, no orgies, no grand twists. Just us, a hedge that only partly conceals us, a handful of silent windows, and the warm certainty that behind some of them there may be eyes—and busy hands—enjoying the same thing we are. We'd never told anyone about it, but we felt like sharing. If you've made it this far, we hope some of this little domestic thrill has made you as horny as telling it makes us.