What the Tenant Was Hiding in His Room

Before I tell you what happened, I need to explain how he ended up living in my house. I met Tomás a long time ago, during that confusing stage when we liked each other but neither of us would make the first move. We argued about everything, drifted apart, started talking again, and did it all over and over without anything ever becoming official.

When his family kicked him out, my mother was the one who offered him a room. She always treated him like a son, and honestly, I didn’t care: after all, we were already fighting over every little thing about living together. He accepted, they gave him the back room, and he stayed. He’s been with us so long now that he seems like part of the family. He works long shifts with one of my uncles, far away, and sometimes he doesn’t show up for days.

I’m telling you all this so you understand the relationship we had. Neither boyfriend, nor brother, nor stranger. Something weird in between, that gray area where you never know how to act. Sometimes I treated him with the easy confidence of someone who shares a bathroom, and other times I got nervous just running into him in the hallway half dressed.

Over time I got used to his presence. To hearing the shower when he got home from work, to finding his sneakers thrown by the entrance, to arguing over who had left the dirty dishes. What I never imagined was how much he had gotten used to me.

***

The worst part of living with someone who isn’t family but isn’t a stranger either is that they have the same rights and obligations as anyone else in the house. Washing, cooking, cleaning and, above all, sharing space and things. When we were alone, each of us took care of our own stuff, and even the shower became a reason to argue about who got in first.

One of the tasks that fell to him, and that made me uncomfortable, was taking the clothes out of the dryer and leaving them in each room. He didn’t respect privacy all that much, and among those clothes there was always some of mine: pajamas, skirts, thongs, bras, and the sexiest lingerie I own. The idea of his hands fiddling with my panties before putting them in my drawer gave me a weird mix of rage and heat.

I tried to handle my underwear myself, especially the pieces even my mother didn’t know existed. But sometimes she would grab them and hand them out without thinking, and other times, everything would simply get mixed together.

There were “mix-ups.” I’d end up with one of his T-shirts, and that was normal. What was strange was that he always ended up with my things: a pair of shorts, one of my skirts. Even short skirts I only wore inside my room and I was sure I hadn’t put in the wash.

At first I chalked it up to laundry chaos. A house with three people and one dryer is a permanent disaster. But the coincidences started piling up, and I’m the kind of person who remembers exactly what I left in every drawer. It didn’t add up that the most intimate garments, the ones that cling to my cunt or my ass, kept ending up on his side.

***

One day, after showering, I was getting dressed. I don’t usually wear a bra, but that time I wanted to put one on and couldn’t find it anywhere. Tomás had just gotten into the shower, so I took the chance and went to his room to look.

Amid all the mess in his stuff, there it was: my bra. I took it, went back to my room, put it on, and went on with my day like nothing had happened.

Later I went to confront him.

—Why did you have my bra in your room? —I asked.

—It must’ve gotten mixed in with my clothes, sorry —he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I pretended to be angry and was about to turn away when I heard him laugh under his breath.

—What’s so funny? —I said.

—It doesn’t look like yours.

—And why do you say that?

—It’s a bit stiff, very covering. I’ve seen you wandering around the house in light clothes, without a bra, and… well, forget it.

So he’d been looking at me.

—Oh, so you’ve been watching my tits? —I blurted, putting my hands over my breasts through my T-shirt and squeezing them just enough for my nipples to show.

He told me to forget it, uncomfortable, with his eyes fixed right where I wanted them. I answered him with all the calm in the world.

—Well, just so you know, I’ve got very nice tits. Firm, with pink nipples. And if I wear a bra, it’s to look sexier, not because I need one.

And I left, leaving him with a bulge starting to show in his pants and no response. If there was anyone I didn’t want looking at me like that, it was him. But it was my house, and if I wanted to go around without a bra, in a thong or in a short skirt showing half my ass, I was going to do it.

***

Not long after, what really kicked all this off happened. I’m the kind of girl who tries on sexy lingerie, takes photos, and every now and then wears it for someone. I’ve got lace pieces, semi-transparent straps, thongs that wedge between my ass cheeks, those kinds of things I keep like a secret.

That day I wanted to put on a red set I love. I wanted to feel good, do something just for myself. It’s lace, two pieces: the bottom barely covers what it needs to, held up by tiny straps that dig into my hips, and the top is so fine that, because it’s lace, my whole nipples show through. The back is thong style and leaves every inch of my ass out in the open.

I came out of the shower, still damp, and looked for the set. The bottom piece wasn’t there. And with that piece I was completely sure: I hadn’t worn it.

I threw on whatever and went straight to his room. I searched through the mess until I found it. And then I understood two things at once.

The first: it hadn’t “gotten mixed in” anywhere. He had taken it from my room on purpose.

The second my fingers told me before my eyes did. The thong was soaked. Something was on it, thick, still warm, hanging in a white strand from the part that covers the cunt. It was recent. I lifted it with two fingers, opened it up, and saw it completely coated inside: streams of semen still warm stuck to the lace, a huge stain dripping onto the floor.

My first instinct was disgust, at the idea of touching what he’d left there while using my thong to masturbate. But the disgust didn’t last long. What really shocked me was the amount. It was a lot, way too much, as if he’d emptied his balls there after holding back for days thinking about me. I pictured him sitting on his bed, his hard cock in his fist, my thong pressed against the tip, smelling it, moving fast, swallowing his moan when he came and unloaded everything into the lace thinking about my cunt.

He can’t be coming that much just from this.

I brought the thong to my nose, unable to stop myself. It smelled like thick semen, like a recently fucked man, like what had been emptied from his cock thinking of me. A hot tug pulsed between my legs, and I felt my cunt starting to wet on its own. My nipples had gone hard under my T-shirt and I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

The funny thing is, I wasn’t bothered that he’d taken it. I understood that much: living with a girl like me, with my tits out around the house and thongs hanging in the bathroom, it was almost inevitable that he’d jerk off with my underwear. What bothered me was that he’d gone digging through my most intimate things. So I decided to get revenge. But my way, in a way that would give me pleasure too.

***

Tomás wasn’t there, and it would take him a while to get back. I closed his bedroom door, though there was no need, and stood for a moment in the middle of his mess. His clothes piled on the chair, the charger hanging from the wall, the smell of his cheap cologne mixed with the closed-room staleness and that sharp sour smell of fresh semen still floating in the air.

I took off the little I was wearing. The T-shirt hit the floor without a second thought, and I stood naked in the middle of his room, nipples stiff and my already wet cunt dripping down the inside of my thighs. I jumped onto his bed. The mattress smelled like him, like work sweat and his skin, and instead of stopping me, that only lit me up more.

I spread my legs wide on his sheet and took my hand to my cunt. I started touching myself right there, slowly at first, running two fingers over the lips that were already swollen and slick. I opened myself for him even though he wasn’t there, showing his empty room my pink, shiny cunt, as if Tomás could see me from some corner. With my other hand I squeezed one breast, pinched my nipple, tugged it until it tore a moan from me.

Looking at the ceiling of his room as if I were the one spying on him, I started rubbing my clit in circles, harder and harder. I imagined how many times he’d lain exactly in that spot thinking about me, my thong stuck on the tip of his cock, holding back his moans so no one would hear, his hand moving up and down faster and faster until he shot a hot load onto the lace thinking of my cunt.

I slipped two fingers inside. My cunt sucked them in right away, tight, so wet it made a sound with every movement. I started fucking myself with my hand, imagining it was Tomás’s cock opening me up from the inside. I pictured him on top of me, sweating, with his whole cock buried in my cunt, pounding me hard against his own mattress. I added a third finger. I spread my legs wider and started pumping fast, my palm slapping my clit every time I thrust, my wrist sliding through the juices dripping all the way to my ass.

—That’s how you’d put it in me, right? —I whispered to no one, biting my lip—. With that cock that shows when you look at my tits.

I grabbed one of his pillows and shoved it under me, straddling it. I rubbed my cunt against the pillowcase, dragging my clit over the fabric again and again, faster and faster, grinding like a bitch in heat. The pillow was soaked in seconds, glossy with my juices. I stopped thinking about revenge and there was only me, his bed, the smell of him and the pressure rising from my stomach until it was about to burst me open.

I felt the orgasm come like a wave. My thighs went tight, my whole belly clenched, and I came hard on Tomás’s pillow, stifling my cry against the sheet. My cunt throbbed hard, clenching again and again, and I felt a warm gush slip out of me, soaking the pillowcase until it turned dark. I kept rubbing slowly as I came down, squeezing out the last contractions, leaving the pillow drenched in me.

Now you’ll know what it feels like to find the other person’s fluids in your things.

I lay there on my back for a moment, panting, my cunt still pulsing and my tits rising and falling. I slid two fingers between my lips and cleaned myself a little, and just because I felt like it, I ran those fingers over the other pillowcase, the one he uses every night, leaving a shiny trail of what I’d just pulled out of myself. Let him smell it. Let him wonder.

Exhausted, I got dressed, took my red piece, and left the room. I knew he and my mother would be back soon, so I washed it and put it in the dryer with the rest of the laundry, erasing any trace.

***

When Tomás came back, he didn’t take long to notice something.

—Hey, did something happen in my room? It’s all damp —he said, glancing at me sideways.

—Maybe it was an accident —I replied, unfazed—. By the way, haven’t you seen one of my things around? A bottom piece. A red lace thong.

He looked surprised. He got uncomfortable, dropped his gaze to the floor, his ears turning red.

—No, I don’t have anything. Maybe it got lost.

I turned my back on him and went to my room with a smile he didn’t get to see. From his room I hadn’t just recovered what was mine: I also took one of his intimate pieces, a black pair of boxers he had tucked away in the drawer. I wanted to keep it for a while, just for fun, so he’d feel the same intrigue I had felt. A silent game neither of us was going to name out loud.

***

The next day, after showering, I tried on the red piece I’d already washed. And it was strange. No matter that I’d put it through the dryer, it felt like it still held something of him, as if the fabric remembered what had happened, the semen he’d emptied onto it, the way he’d come thinking of my cunt.

I stood in front of the mirror for a while. I turned around to look at my ass, the thong strap lost between my cheeks, and ran my hand down the front, squeezing my cunt through the lace. Everything showed. The lips, the dampness that was already starting to build again just from remembering.

I took Tomás’s boxers from the drawer, brought them to my face, and breathed in deeply. They smelled like him. I slipped my hand inside the thong, found my clit already swollen, and made myself come again, pressing his boxers against my mouth so I wouldn’t scream, thinking of the cock that must’ve gone hard thinking of me, of the load he’d emptied onto my lace, of all the times he must’ve been silently jerking off a few feet from my room.

I wondered what else he’d fantasized about me on those nights when he didn’t show up at home. How many times he’d watched me walk around without a bra and counted the seconds until he was alone with his cock in his hand. And above all, I wondered how far I was willing to keep taking this game.

I thought it would end there, with a silly revenge and a couple of hidden garments. But I was wrong. That was only the beginning of a series of things that would happen between that tenant and me under the same roof. Things that, at this point, I’m not sure I want to stop.