Neighbors

When the doorbell rang, I thought nothing of it. We often had food delivered since neither one of us liked to cook. Wilson usually ordered online before he got home, so I assumed we'd be having Thai or Indian. I was still a little homesick so I typically ordered pizza, burgers or burritos.

But as Wilson jumped from his desk to get the door, he casually asked, "What did you order?" My heart skipped a beat as he opened the door to our apartment. I just had a funny feeling.

"Hello!" was the choreographed greeting we received from the hallway. Holding what looked to be a bottle of wine, the man was tall and thin with a shaved head and glasses. Clearly the creative type, the name on his t-shirt was either a band or a grocery store. I wasn't cool enough to know the difference. But the clean white t-shirt did little to cover the tattoos that extended all the way to his hands.

In contrast, her only visible tattoo was on her hand - a quote of some sort. Her ultra plain grey skirt and white button up blouse were not hiding her creative spirit, as her bouncy curls tried their best to cover her black rimmed glasses and nose ring.

Expecting some sort of house warming conversation, Wilson immediately welcomed them through the door.

"We're the Smiths," said the husband with a deep, sinful voice. "We wanted to ask a favor."

As he spoke Mrs. Smith couldn't take her smile off of me. It was as if we knew each other. But typically, you recognize someone's face and can't make the rest of the connection. With Mrs. Smith it was the opposite vibe. I understood there was a connection, but I didn't recognize her face.

"Uhhhh, shoot?" Wilson asked as Mr. Smith handed him the bottle of vintage Cabernet. At this point, Wilson got the vibe that this wasn't a generic introduction, so he tensed up. As relaxed as the Smith's were, Wilson was as confused as I was. We shrugged at each other as we collectively thought of reasons why we couldn't watch their cat or get their boxes while they were on vacation.

"We live across the street," Mrs. Smith calmly said as though she was beginning to explain their request. Her smile, was still targeted on me and then I realized that her explanation was complete.

And then she looked over my shoulder through our living room window.

My heart skipped another beat.

"Shall we pour some glasses," I interrupted to give myself time to catch my breath.

"This way," Wilson offered as he did his best to follow my newly found hostess setting. We hardly ever had company over because we were that annoying couple that only spent time with each other. Equally jealous, we found each other to be more than enough. We had friends and family, but we were the reason the term 'pair bond' existed.

Or so we thought.

As I rushed the bottle from Mr. Smith's hands I tried not feel the connection that was growing mightily within me. As I raced to the kitchen to welcome them into our apartment, I wanted nothing more than for them to leave.

"Across the street?" Wilson, asked as he offered seats to our guests.

But they were too absorbed with the view out of our window.

When we first moved into the apartment we worried about the six or seven buildings all within each other's view. We installed curtains but we never really used them except for those summer mornings when the sun baked our apartment. The view from the 17th floor was amazing during sunset because you could see downtown and the river.

The Smiths, however, weren't interested in seeing the sun set.

"Do you need any help?" Mrs. Smith asked as she peaked into the kitchen to notice that I had only hidden in the kitchen. There was no corkscrew or glasses in my plans. I merely leaned against the kitchen island as I held onto my fear and embarrassment.

"Which building do you live in?" Wilson asked, becoming somewhat agitated by the mysterious nature of the visit.

The smile that Mrs. Smith had used as a connection moments earlier turned into a smile of solidarity. She knew I wanted the conversation to end, so she got straight to the point.

"We live on the 17th floor of the Smith Tower," she explained as my husband scoped the landscape through our living room window. "During the day when I'm working from home, I can see your beautiful array of Gordon Parks photography. And at night we can see you like to watch the business news programs. Bankers, I assume?"

She was right.

At that point I walked out of the kitchen and stood next to Wilson, so he couldn't see my reaction. I trembled a bit, so he naturally I assumed I was terrified that they were watching us.

"We swear we have not been spying on you," Mrs. Smith from the Smith Tower shared. And that's when I made the realization that their names weren't really Smith.

"Knowing that we have a clear view of your life from our window," Mrs. Smith continued, "we hoped you'd have an equally clear view of our apartment."

"The red wall with the blue Matisse," Mr. Smith pointed out.

Wilson looked at me as I stared out of our living room window. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

"Our bold, yet menial request is this: We simply would like you to film us," Mrs. Smith said as she reached for her husband's hand. "We aren't porn stars or artists. We simply enjoying seeing ourselves. And we hoped that your appreciation for photography would be an opening to make this monumental request."

As Wilson struggled to fully comprehend the ask, I quickly answered, "Of course."

Wilson's eyes nearly fell out of his head. But I wanted the Smith's to leave. Quickly.

"Here's my card," Mrs. Smith said as she handed me a simple white card with only an email address. "Please send us any movies or photos you create and we will be forever grateful."

With that said, she took Mr. Smith by the hand and headed for our front door.

Wilson followed them out as I simply stared at their apartment, finally taking a deep breath.

As I heard the front door close I gathered myself to present a shocked-but-curious front. By the time Wilson returned to the living room, I was in full control again.

"Should we call the police?" he whisper-shouted as he sprinted back to the living room. "They've been watching us!"

"She said that they haven't," I explained as I read the email address to myself. "Let's just watch."

Wilson was relieved that I was looking okay with the situation. But I wasn't.

As promised, the night allowed a complete glimpse into every apartment outside of our window. The multitude of lives on display were too vast to study. The older couple with the insanely large dogs. The eastern Eoropean man with sports on 24/7. The Korean woman with the piano. There were hundreds of stories happening, but none were much more than people sitting. Eating. Waiting. Reading.

Except for the Smiths.

So we watched them. Not once did either of them look up to see if we were watching them.

But we were.

We watched them prepare dinner. We watched them talk on the phone. We watched them dance to music. We watched them watch TV.

My palms sweated as we sat on our couch watching them sit on their couch. The glare from their television glistened across their ebony skin as the blue and white painting in the background flickered from the movie they were enjoying.

"Are they going to get on with it or not?" Wilson complained as he got up to refill the glass of wine he'd been nursing since they'd left our apartment.

So like a watched pot that was left alone, the boiling began.

Promptly at 10PM Mr Smith dropped to his knees in front of the couch. Without hesitation he pulled down her tights and panties and slowly buried his head in her overgrown bush. Her hands dove into his shirt as she lifted her legs to her sides.

Within seconds I could feel myself getting wet.

"Holy shit!" Wilson shouted as he entered the room. Whether it was the act itself or the fact that you could see so clearly into their living room, Wilson was clearly impressed.

And soon mesmerized.

Mrs. Smith had her feet arched onto Mr. Smith's back as he gripped her thighs. His head bobbed in and out as her curls bounced slowly.

My hand wandered toward Wilson's mouth. I stuck my finger in it and pulled him down onto the couch. I stood up beside the couch and he immediately pulled down my shorts and panties. I then grabbed my phone from our glass coffee table and straddled my shaved pussy on his face. As I found the record button on my phone, Wilson's tongue found my clit. I could feel my pussy melting all over Wilson's face the same way I could see the glisten on Mr. Smith's face.

I sat as still as possible so I wouldn't ruin the video, but I could feel both my orgasm and Mrs. Smith's orgasm rising. I knew what came next.

For the past year I had the pleasure of watching Mr. and Mrs. Smith enjoy each other's company. While they had a medley of positions and places, each episode began with his mouth on her pussy until she came. Though their visit was a complete shocker, I understood why they thought the conversation would go smoother.

For a year I'd watched them - through quickies and all nighters. I discovered them innocently enough one day when Wilson was traveling. I was mesmerized.

But for the last six months they had watched me masturbate back at them. I'm not certain when they first discovered I was watching them, but at some point Mrs. Smith and I began masturbating together. While she obviously had informed Mr. Smith, Wilson was still in the dark. Every evening at 10PM I checked to see if I would be joining them. I suppose they could have had sex at other times in rooms whose windows faced another direction, but 10PM in our living rooms were our time.

At first I'd do it while Wilson was traveling. Sometimes I'd do it while Wilson was at the gym. Or asleep. Or washing dishes. A couple of times I'd fucked Wilson while I watched them.

The Smiths thought that I must have told my husband by that point.

I hadn't. I couldn't. I felt as though I was cheating. I had been in a sexual relationship with a couple across the street for over a year and I didn't know who they were. I wasn't sure if it was real.

But when they stood there in our apartment, I quickly realized that our connection was real - even though I didn't know their names. I don't think I would have picked them out of a line up, but I could feel my nipples rise when she handed me that card. All of those sensations erupted for people I barely knew.

Yet I knew how they fucked. I knew how he liked to get behind her. I knew how she liked him to cum on her breasts. I knew how she held his head down when she was close to coming on his face. I knew he liked heels. I knew how they liked to lay in each other and talk afterwards.

And I knew they never really looked at me while I participated. If they had I probably would have stopped. I didn't want to be watched. I always turned the lights low so they couldn't see me. Though they knew when I was there, they never showed me.

But they made certain I could see them. Early on I noticed they would start soon after I got home. I couldn't help but look out of the window as soon as I entered the apartment. So I started settling in before I took notice.

And they'd wait until I took notice to start their activities. Over time we settled into a 10PM matinee. Like clock work.

So after a year of shared anonymity, they broke the fourth wall. There I was recording their love while my husband joined our party.

With Wilson firmly pressed between my thighs I watched as Mrs. Smith writhed in a gentle agony as Mr. Smith's tongue massaged her pussy. Soon her legs stretched and her toes curled. As always, her cum lead to my orgasm, but this time I was over the top. I came hard. I had to stop the recording because I couldn't control myself. I worried that Wilson would flip over this situation, yet there he was gripping my breasts like he wanted this as much as I did.

As my orgasm subsided I found that Mr. Smith and Wilson had the same objective. I found myself bending over the arm of the couch as Wilson got behind me. Mrs. Smith found herself on the back of her couch. I picked up the phone and started a new recording.

But as Mrs. Smith bucked with an enthusiasm I hadn't seen from anyone ever in my life, I calmly enjoyed the slow thrust Wilson was giving me in order not to ruin my directorial debut. Holding my phone steady made my pussy throb more. And knowing her efforts were being recorded threw Mrs. Smith into overdrive.

As her hair danced into Mr. Smith's face, I could see that her ass was getting the best of him. Wildly she bounced on his dick like a carnival ride. Holding onto the couch she fucked him like there was no tomorrow. Her head was thrown back into him as her lips whispered to the ceiling - begging him to cum. And as his face sank into her hair and his ass began to tighten, I could feel Wilson's cum filling my own pussy.

I didn't know if Wilson was watching the Smith's but he was definitely feeling them.

Later that night I emailed Mrs. Smith the videos that I made. Wilson was already asleep, but I stayed up to see their response. I suppose I could have looked into their apartment to see them consume their new gift, but our relationship was strictly sexual. I'm not sure how to explain it, but any other peeping would have crossed the line - felt strangely perverted.

A little passed midnight I received the response I waited for.

"Thank you so much," Mrs. Smith began. "The video was everything we imagined. But meeting you both in person was like stepping out of an airplane. I was so afraid of what would happen when we knocked on your door. Truth be told, that was our third attempt. We ran with our tails between our legs the first two times."

I nearly fell out of my chair.

"But you and your husband are such beautiful souls," the note continued. "We felt as though we were meeting old friends."

I smiled as I knew what was coming next.

"We'd like invite you over for dinner next week. Maybe we can show you the rest of our apartment. No one will be watching."