Prologue:
Sometimes I think it all started with something as simple as an open door. That if that day I hadn’t heard the soft knock, if I hadn’t still been in my uniform, if the sun hadn’t filtered through the window just like that, maybe nothing would have happened. But the truth is it did happen. And although I could blame curiosity, or the heat, or the way Julián looked at me without saying anything, deep down I know the story was already written. It just needed someone to open it.
Chapter 1: The new neighborhood.
Around that time, we moved into that house, a neighborhood that seemed stuck in an endless afternoon: quiet, surrounded by normal families, kids on bikes and dogs that barked nonstop. It was exactly what we wanted: stability, calm, a routine we could build together. Everything smelled of freshly cut grass and Sunday, even on weekdays.
Our neighbors, Julián, the father, must have been around 48. He looked like a retired military man, firm in his posture but friendly in his manner. His wife Amanda, a very kind lady the same age, was rarely seen around. I was 23. Barely a few months married to Andrés, and still with the feeling of trying on a suit that was a bit too big for me.
If you had asked me a few weeks ago what I thought of him, I would have said he was just that: the neighbor across the street. Polite, educated, with a good relationship with Andrés, with whom he would exchange a few words every now and then on the sidewalk. I, on the other hand, barely gave him a wave from afar. There was never anything more.
Until that night.
Chapter 2: The neighborhood gathering.
A simple gathering, a barbecue in his backyard, with other neighbors and some of his friends. Andrés accepted delightedly, and I went with him without giving it much importance.
I wore a cream-colored linen dress, fitted at the waist, with a square neckline that revealed the start of my collarbones. The sleeves fell softly over my shoulders, and the hem ended just below the knee, long enough to be “proper,” but with fabric light enough for the breeze to play with my movements. Without a bra—because I didn’t need one with that cut—and with thin-strapped leather sandals that made me feel flirty without trying too hard. I tied my hair in a loose bun, letting some strands escape. It wasn’t to impress anyone; I just wanted to feel comfortable. Although somehow, I knew I looked good. I thought it would be just another night. And in part it was… but it was also the beginning of something I didn’t know how to name at that moment. Something that started to change the way I looked at him, even though I didn’t know it yet.
Julián’s house looked different that night. The patio lights hung between the trees like motionless fireflies, and soft music filled the spaces between conversations. It was a simple gathering, with meat grilling on the barbecue and glasses of wine passing from hand to hand. Andrés was delighted. I, rather, let myself go.
I had greeted Julián as soon as we arrived, as always: with a cordial smile, nothing more. He wore a gray t-shirt that hugged his shoulders and chest, and simple jeans. During the night, the conversations among the men became evident, so I had no choice but to look for some group of not-so-old ladies to talk to. At some point in the night, I looked for an escape to the bathroom and to do something more exciting, check my social media, or take a photo in the mirror. When I came out, I ran into Julián.
“How’s the gathering going?” he said with his deep voice as he passed next to me with a glass of wine in his hand, shifting his body to the side to let me pass and each continue on their way. But I didn’t manage to answer.
“That dress should come with a warning,” he said, without looking at me directly, as if the comment were casual, just thrown into the air. And then he walked away, leaving his scent—wood, something clean and masculine—floating for a few seconds behind him.
It took me by surprise. I turned, looking for him, but he was already chatting with another group, as if he hadn’t said anything out of place.
I looked at him with a bit of disgust.
He moved with a confidence I hadn’t noticed before, as if everything around him responded to him. His arms, firm, stood out every time he picked something up from the table or cut meat. His laugh was deeper than I remembered. Suddenly our eyes met from afar; I noticed he held my gaze a second longer than necessary. He didn’t look away. He didn’t smile. He just looked at me, directly. As if he already knew something I was just starting to understand.
From that moment, I felt watched. Not harassed or uncomfortable… but visible. As if someone had turned on a light over me, and that light came from him.
I tried to hide it. I joined a conversation between two women talking about their children. I smiled, nodded… but I wasn’t really listening. My eyes kept returning to him every now and then, looking for him without wanting to. Since I was very young, I have preferred sexual experiences with older men, that mix of security, maturity, performance and that certain something that always generated arousal in me. But it was absurd. One single comment and he had already stirred something inside me that was now disturbing my peace.
When we left, Julián approached to say goodbye. He shook my husband Andrés’ hand with a strong pat and then turned to me. There was no touch. There were no double meanings. He just held my gaze while saying, “Thanks for coming, Tatiana.”
But he said it with such a measured, deep voice that my name seemed to have a different weight. It sounded different to me, as if I had never heard it from a man’s mouth before. We walked back home, and Andrés talked about how much fun he’d had, how tasty the meat was. I answered just enough, while my mind kept returning again and again to that comment. To the tone. To the look. To how everything changed with a single phrase.
Chapter 3: The friction of the days.
The days following the gathering were normal. The routine continued: mornings with coffee, the sound of Andrés’ shower, my daily tasks at home and at work, the occasional outing. Nothing had changed… except that now, every time I crossed the living room, my eyes would drift toward the window facing the front.
Julián’s house seemed more present than before. Sometimes I would see him leave early, in sportswear, jogging around the block with his dog. Or loading things into the back of his truck. Other times, I would simply find him standing in his yard, with a cup of coffee in hand, looking toward the street. Toward my window.
I couldn’t always be sure. Sometimes it seemed like yes, that his gaze was fixed on mine. Other times, it was me who stayed watching too long, trying to guess if there was intention or coincidence in his gestures.One ordinary midday, I found him in front of his house, alone, watering the plants in his garden. I was going out to throw out some recycling bags. As soon as I stepped out to the street, he greeted me with that same deep and contained voice.
“Tatiana.”
Just that. My name. And again that tone.
“Julián.”
I replied, trying to sound natural, although I felt my cheeks flush for no reason.
I stopped for a second. There was no one else. No car passing, no other neighbor on the sidewalk. Just him and me, separated by the sidewalk and some freshly watered grass.
“You looked really good in that dress the other day,” he said, without lowering his gaze. He didn’t smile, he wasn’t mocking or bold. He said it as if it were a simple fact.
My stomach contracted.
“Thanks,” I murmured. It was the only thing I could say. His gaze was so direct, so clean, that it disarmed me. He wasn’t the type of man who played with double meanings. He said what he saw. What he thought. And that, precisely that, was what unsettled me.
We stayed in silence for a few seconds. The water kept falling on the plants at his feet. His arm held the hose with a calm that contrasted with my racing pulse.
“Well… I’m going before they kick me out of the house for playing gardener in someone else’s yard,” I joked, trying to break the tension.
There he did smile. Just barely. But his eyes remained fixed on mine.
“Andrés wouldn’t kick you out even if you slept with someone else,” he said then, and lowered his gaze for the first time to turn off the water.
I didn’t know if he said it to me or to himself, or if the thought simply slipped out. But I heard it. I heard it so clearly that I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how. I turned slowly and crossed the street back, feeling his gaze on my back until I closed the door.
Nothing happened.
Since that conversation by the garden, something had come loose inside me. I didn’t say it out loud. I didn’t write it, I didn’t admit it, but it was there, beating like a deep note among everyday things. Now, every time I passed by the window, I looked for him. Sometimes he wasn’t there. Sometimes he was.
I started to notice things. That he went out jogging when I was sunbathing outside. That he walked by my sidewalk with his dog, just when I was walking mine or went out to water the plants. That he lingered a few seconds longer when greeting me, as if he refused to let those encounters remain accidental.
I did my part too, although it was hard for me to admit it.
I dressed better to go to the store. I put on makeup, thinking he might be outside. I opened the living room curtain more often. And when he looked at me from across the street, I held his gaze. I no longer pretended surprise. I no longer looked down. I began to see him for what he was, a mature man who made me wet by creating fantasies.
One afternoon, arriving from work before Andrés, I was dedicated to being the ideal housewife. The washing machine was running in the kitchen, the sun entered warmly through the window. I bent down to pick up clothes from the basket, distracted, when I heard a soft knock on the door.
I opened it.
Julián.
Tight black t-shirt, a towel around his neck, sweat on his arms. He seemed to have just finished exercising. His chest moved slowly, breathing deeply. He took a couple of seconds before saying anything, as if giving me the opportunity to admire him.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said at last. “Do you have some ice by any chance? I ran out and my shoulder is a bit tense.
“He spoke calmly, but I felt like I was short of air seeing that hardened man’s body, tense, now at my door. Because of the salty and clean smell of his sweat. Because of how his voice hit me in the chest, without warning.
“Sure, wait a second,” I said, and turned to go inside.
I felt his eyes behind me. I felt it. I knew he was looking me up and down in my already wrinkled airline uniform, from which I had barely taken off my heels.
I went to the kitchen, took out a bag of ice from the freezer and came back. When I handed it to him, our fingers barely brushed. One second. A spark.
“Thanks, neighbor,” he said, and stayed one second longer than necessary. I saw his eyes go down. Not in a vulgar way, not like any ordinary man. They went down to look at me. For real.
And for the first time, I didn’t cover myself. I didn’t move. I just looked back at him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, as if he noticed something in my expression.
“I’m…” I interrupted myself. “Yes. Just surprised.”
Maybe excited was the more accurate word for the moment.
“Why?”
“Because I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
He smiled, as if he understood more than what I was saying.
“I wasn’t expecting to run out of ice either.”
And with that, he turned. He walked toward his house without hurry. I closed the door with trembling hands and my heart pounding in my chest.
Nothing happened. Again, nothing. But that “nothing” was starting to fill with everything.
Chapter 4: The surrender
The rain was falling. It wasn’t heavy, but it was constant, as if the sky was taking its time to let us feel every drop. The window was slightly open and the sound of the rain on the roof had hypnotized me all afternoon. I heard some barking just as I was finishing getting out of the shower. They were insistent, urgent. I wrapped myself as best I could with a towel and went to the window. There was my dog, Max, wet, fidgeting in front of Julián’s garden, a Yorkshire Terrier barking as if defending his honor against a German Shepherd that looked at him with contempt behind the fence.
I had no idea how he had gotten out. Still not fully dry, I put on sweatpants and a blouse, opened the door to run out, but I crashed into a silhouette at the entrance. It was Julián. With Max carried like a child, both soaked.
“He got in up to the entrance and wouldn’t stop barking,” he said, smiling, his voice somewhat muffled by the rain. “I thought it was better to bring him back before he started a war.”
He was wearing a white t-shirt stuck to his chest, wet, that showed without disguise the relief of his torso. As if it were a Coca-Cola commercial: I saw how the water fell down his temples, down his neck, down his marked arms, like in slow motion, generating a thirst you didn’t have before seeing the commercial.
“Sorry,” I said, laughing nervously. “I don’t know how he got out.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not the first time a dog gets me in trouble.”
We looked at each other for a few seconds. The sound of the rain outside filled the silences. Julián was one step away from me, his breathing more agitated than normal, and I still had damp hair from the shower and clothes stuck to my body from the moisture of the skin with which I put them on in the rush to run out.
“Do you want a towel?” I offered, turning around.
“Or an umbrella, at least,” he said, following me.
“Better a towel. You’re soaked.”
He came in. I closed the door.
I went ahead to the bathroom and returned with one of the large white towels. I handed it to him. He took it without taking his eyes off me. His fingers brushed mine. The touch was light, but it made me inhale deeper than I wanted.
“Thanks,” he said, but he didn’t dry himself immediately. He looked me up and down. Not brazenly, but with attention. As if he was just now really seeing me. And I… I could no longer pretend that I hadn’t noticed it before. That body. That paused way of speaking. That invisible tension every time we were close and nothing happened.
“Do you want to dry off in the bathroom?” I asked. I didn’t recognize my voice.
He shook his head. He left the towel on the table and took a step. Then another. I didn’t step back.
When he was in front of me, he looked at me with contained intensity. His hand brushed my cheek, barely. It wasn’t rough. It was a test. And I didn’t pull away.
“You know I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, his voice low, hoarse.
“Me neither,” I whispered.
There was no other permission. No more doubts.
He kissed me hard, as if he had been holding back for weeks. My back hit the wall. His body, damp and warm, pressed against mine preventing me from escaping, I felt his bulge. His hands took me by the waist and hips. He pressed his body against mine. He ran his hands under my wet blouse, but he didn’t stop to grab my tits; he lifted it completely until he removed it, I raised my arms to make it easier for him. His lips went down my neck. I saw how unconsciously I had put my hand on his nape, pressing him against me. I was panting in silence, not thinking about anything other than that mouth, that chest, that way of taking me as if he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.
And I didn’t want to either.
With his mouth, he left my neck to take my collarbone. I used my hand to direct him toward my breasts. He understood the message and dedicated a few seconds to sucking my nipples and squeezing my tits with his big hands. He had sat me on the sink, with my legs hugging him, I felt his strong member, fighting to get out of its confinement. I wanted to help release his pressure, so I quickly undid his pants and lowered his zipper. Without hesitation, in one single movement, I grabbed his pants and boxers and let them fall to the floor. Since he wouldn’t leave my nipples, I started jerking him off, I felt the throbbing in my hands of that piece of hot, hard… mature flesh.
He lowered me from the sink, turned me to face the mirror, and not only did my sweatpants fall to the floor, my thong did too, while from behind he squeezed my tits. He didn’t bother with foreplay, masturbating me, or looking for my clitoris, and I didn’t want that either. He brought his cock from behind to my crotch. At the same time, I leaned forward to make things easier for him. He began to rub me with that delicious and throbbing manhood. I don’t know if he just wanted to soak it with the juices that were coming out in buckets from me, or if he couldn’t aim at my entrance. Whatever the reason, it was driving me crazy. Electric shocks ran up and down my spine, my legs trembled. I felt how his cock played with my vaginal lips, spreading them with every rub. And suddenly… Ohhhh, I felt my insides opening to let this guest in, Julián must have noticed the pleasure in me from that moan.
He easily filled my insides with his cock. The amount of fluids I was releasing allowed nothing to have resistance. He started with his strong thrusts, without caution, each one synchronized harmoniously with the sound of my ass cheeks slamming against his body. I moaned… I moaned like I hadn’t in a long time, like I hadn’t had a mature man inside me in a long time.
“Since I saw you, I’ve wanted this ass,” he told me in the hustle, or that’s what I thought I heard without paying much attention. He slowed the rhythm of his pumping, ran the tips of his fingers through my vagina, still without taking his member out of me. Then he ran them over my ass. I immediately knew what he had in mind, anal sex was not new to me, but although it wasn’t my favorite, I was willing to let Julián enter there. He withdrew his cock from me and ran his fingers a couple of times from my vulva, trying to carry my juices to my anus. I tried to relax my muscles and make it easier for him.
When the moment came, he positioned the tip of his cock, still soaked in my vaginal juices, against my anus. I grabbed onto the sink, lifted my ass and closed my eyes. Julián started applying pressure, soft but constant. A delicious mild pain started to accompany it. I felt how millimeter by millimeter my anus was forced to expand. Contained screams sought to come out of my mouth. The pain grew, and every millimeter that Julián entered into me seemed to be the last because he would stop, which I appreciated, but one or two seconds later, he would apply pressure again.
“The worst is over, Tati,” he encouraged me once he had the head of his cock inside me. Immediately after, he applied pressure again, and his entire length entered. He stayed still. He was finally able to release my hip where he was holding me to increase the effect of his effort. He put his hand on my back, pressing me against the sink. He stayed motionless for a few seconds. I wanted to believe he did it to allow me to adapt to this new invader. It wasn’t so, suddenly his cell phone sounded capturing the scene with a photo.
“You have a fucking great ass,” was the phrase I heard just before feeling that powerful member withdraw from me until it almost came out completely. With the same speed it came out, it went back in. Again and again. Stealing moans of pleasure from me with each thrust. Each one seemed to carry more force than the previous. Little by little, not only the force increased, the speed did too, so I foresaw that the end of this delicious suffering would soon arrive.
Julián put his fingers in my hair, closed his fist, and without mercy pulled my head. It hurt me, but it wasn’t a pain I couldn’t bear, that I wouldn’t want to repeat.
“Open your eyes whore,” I heard the order. “Look at your face of pleasure, look how this ass is mine.”
The scene I saw in front of the fogged mirror was spectacular, no porn could capture such a sexual attitude. My face reflecting evident tiredness, my wet messy hair falling over my face, my mouth unable to control the drool coming out, my eyes expressing the pleasure in each thrust trying to close every time Julián’s cock hit the bottom of my intestine, my body harmoniously highlighting each of its curves laid over the sink, and him…. in the background him, whom I saw with his toned body, his strong arms securing me from the head and the hip, just at the precise moment when his eyes began to roll back, the veins in his neck began to stand out and his mouth opened to exclaim a grunt of pleasure while my insides began to feel the heat of his cum. I would have wanted to capture that scene in something more than my mind.
The next morning, the sky was still gray. The street was wet, and the leaves of the tree in front of the house dripped with unbearable calm. I put on the coffee maker as every day. I prepared two cups. I served Andrés’ with the same routine as always, two spoonfuls of sugar, without stirring. Just the way he likes it.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked me from the table, without looking up from his cell phone.
“Yes,” I replied, without thinking. As if it were true.
