With the Curtains Open

I watch from the high rise across the alley as the man with open curtains politely bids his latest guest adieu. It's not quite right to say that when he entertains a woman it's for my entertainment; it's not explicitly a performance. Although, the drawn window treatments give a sense of showmanship, and I'm always most entertained when it is explicit. This afternoon's caller is a petite blonde who arrived in a pink lingerie set, covered only by a wrinkly windbreaker. It cut just below her bum, her bare and milky legs cocked and slinked in his doorway. Before she'd even crossed the threshold, she'd dragged the zipper down and revealed her readied body.

All of this is available for me to see. We're essentially neighbours, this man and I. Although we've never met. His building has these wonderfully grand picture windows, two of which give me visual access into his living room and bedroom respectively. I have to believe the view back is better obscured, thanks to my scattered patio furniture and the fact that I keep the lights low when I watch him.

Afternoon Girl pulls up her panties and manages to retain some of her femme fatale persona. But there's no sexy way to put a windbreaker back on. She kisses him again and is ushered out the door. I know the elevator takes thirty-five seconds to arrive at his floor, and another twenty-five delivering a single occupant to the lobby. Sure enough, the windbreaker is visible on the sidewalk less than a minute later. She doesn't board an Uber or public transit; she simply walks on, downstage and disappearing from view quickly. My last thought of her is that she must feel the cold Spring air on her backside.

I return my gaze to the man's apartment. The time I've spent watching his guest's exit is all he needed to change into workout clothes - airy shorts, a shirt that forms around his broad chest and arms, and Nikes. He often runs after sex. It's like a spiritual cleanse before the hot shower that will give me a final spectacle for the day. He stretches a bit, I assume not just because it's responsible, but also to ensure clearance from she who's just departed. Before leaving, he pops in AirPods. I count the thirty-five seconds, and then the twenty-five. He emerges onto the sidewalk and instantly breaks into a steady jog. I'm used to seeing him at a distance, either fifty meters across the alley through our windows, or from four stories up. But he never looks small to me, his masculine physique and exemplary posture always tower over.

He trots off in the opposite direction, which means I get to watch him for longer, and even longer still when he briefly stops at a red. Here, he turns and smiles as another runner approaches. She's elegantly glided up to him, her brown ponytail poking through the back of a cap, her chiseled traps peeking over a sports bra, her ass like a valentine in purple Lulus. When he smiles at her, it's not a look of familiarity. When he speaks to her, it's not small talk, not catching up. I can't see her face, but both of us can see his, and what she's digesting only makes her human. After a moment, the walk-light switches and he gives a single wave of the hand before turning and running off. She remains on the curb just long enough to put distance between them, although not enough that he could escape her sight. When they're both gone, I eat my dinner.

It's a thirty-minute jog, never more. When I know he'll soon be closing the loop, I return to my window and watch as he drifts in from under my balcony. His cadence has stayed consistent and he slows only a little as he weaves into his lobby and boards the elevator. But something catches my eye as I avert upward. Appearing at the end of the run route, below my balcony, is the Lulu girl. She's kept back, and followed him the entire time, and unlike him, she fully stops at the foot of the building. She seems to be in deep consideration, as if the thirty minutes prior weren't enough. This doesn't last long though, and before our gentleman has made it all the way back upstairs, she's made up her mind to go inside.

This is a first. I've seen him bring women home; I've seen him summon women over. I've never seen a woman follow him in. I should be viciously jealous of her tenacity, but all I can think is 'Good for her.' Up in his apartment, the AirPods have been removed, and so has his shirt. He wades about, his ripped torso glistening with a light sweat. I can't estimate the duration of Lulu's trip upstairs because he was still on the elevator when she entered the lobby. I also can't possibly know if she was delayed upon reaching his floor. Perhaps she knocked on a few doors, or maybe she got it right the first time but had to psyche herself up first. I knew one of two things had to occur: either she'd appear in his doorway, or she'd abandon ship and dribble sadly back onto the sidewalk. It takes a solid five minutes, but I was glad it's the former, and even gladder he hasn't yet entered the shower and missed her arrival completely.

He cocks his head and I know he's heard a knock. Casually, he reports to the door and opens up to reveal Lulu, who I'm now seeing front-on for the first time. She has a cute, heart-shaped face, dough eyes, and a rack as perky as her behind. She's removed her cap and it's dangling from a finger by her side. It's hard to tell if she's flushed with embarrassment or if it overexerted her to follow him the whole way. Regardless, she's smiling and it's safe to assume he is also, because he quickly relaxes his posture. He's still shirtless, and her stare is wandering shamelessly. After a moment of banter, he turns and welcomes her in with an out-stretched hand. She enters as if she can't believe this is happening to her, that this profound carnal opportunity has landed in her lap and that she did nothing to contrive it. I nestle against the arm of my sofa, and I touch myself.

The host closes his door and reaches for the shirt he'd taken off and slung on a bench by the shoes. As he's about to pull it over his head, the guest stops him, catching the shirt with one hand and laying her other on his bare chest. They hold in the pose and it's unclear if words are being exchanged or if the gesture says enough on its own. Slowly, he removes her hand from his body and allows himself the space to advance. He's at least a foot taller than her and he's forced to dip considerably as he lays the first kiss. I see her knees buckle ever so, and she promptly stables herself. They peck a few times, although each lock of the lips gets a bit longer, and each one seems to pull a deeper sense of severity over their faces. What began as a timid, cordial interaction, is now a passionate and heaving make-out. The expert that he is, our gorgeous man begins walking the dainty waif backward. Before she spills over the furniture, he takes the small of her back and drapes her downward. Once she's seated, she beams up at him and bites her lip. He stands waiting, and watches as she rips off her sports bra and frees her lovely breasts.

This woman is such a peculiar blend of bashful and blunt. She's in his apartment because she saw something in the wild and decided she wanted it. This shows a confidence I can never understand. In spite of that, though, she's masterfully pulling off her timid persona, a girl who's waited in line to meet the band and now finds herself nervous. She wants him to see her this way, and she wants him to feel as in control as he always does. He leans his large body over the couch and kisses her flat stomach, then he tucks his fingers under the waistband of her stretchy pants and tugs. She braces onto her elbows and lifts her bum to give him access. He peels her clothing off so slowly, as if to be teasing an audience (which, of course, he is doing, unknowingly). Her legs are slender and delicate, and the side of her ass cheek proves it to be plump and spherical. When the nest of Lulus is bunched at her ankles, I spot the tangled thong he's efficiently jettisoned simultaneously. Now she lays perfectly naked on his couch, with her right knee bent upward, shielding against my view of her hungriest area.

The logical next step was for one of them to remove his shorts, but I appreciated his digression, which was to lean low again and bury his kiss between her legs. She immediately threw her head back into the cushion and gave over to bliss. In fairness, he loves doing this. All these women come to him already desperate to please, and then he goes and ups the ante. With this one in particular, the balance is about to be completely off. He clutches her ass with one hand and begins working at her clit with the other, fingering with finesse, all the while never relieving his tongue. In minutes, she's arching her back off the cushions, clinging to the fabric like it's all that's strapping her to a cliffside, and she's wincing in orgasm, bawling out and panting. Her heaves reach a climax before gradually winding down, and her eyes remain shut as he lifts his mouth and retracts his grasp. She bobs a few times, and twitches once as she catches her breath. When she opens her eyes she sees an empty room. She's naked and alone, her body vibrant and pink, and at last her adorable pussy is visible. It's glistening with eagerness and it's been manicured like only one of great expectation.

I've watched him advance beyond the living space and briefly disappear behind the wall that separates his two large windows. When he appears in the other, he's in his bedroom. Here, he plucks off his shorts and his glorious member springs forward. He pumps himself operationally before turning and sitting his toned buttocks on the edge of his bed. I've seen him in this state countless times, but it never gets old. Not even all that much time has passed since his previous tryst-- his sheets remain furrowed from where he fucked Afternoon Girl on her hands and knees. Through the other window, Lulu can be seen standing and collecting her bearings. I watch as she spots him through the bedroom doorway. She smiles and joins him via a slow and sexy walk.

She kneels before him and takes in the majesty of his long cock. It's the visual she takes in first, and then the thing itself as it penetrates her lips. It occurs to me these two have both just completed a well-paced jog and that there must be a funk about this particular activity. Honestly, it invigorates me to think of the sweat-dried tackiness of their skin and how they must peel and frict against each other; that their necks and shoulders must taste salty and human, free of the insincerity of freshly applied toiletries. And their voracious gnawing at one another's parts, unencumbered by self-consciousness-- I have to imagine I wouldn't be so open, and yet it's hard to say who's enjoying themself more. He stays seated on the bed and tilts back as she grips a fist around his rod and pumps it deep into her mouth. She sinks into her knees and her legs fold all the way, and her slender frame resembles a highway plinking down a mountain. One of her tits is pressed against the edge of his bed, the other is cupped in her spare hand, enjoying a firm massage.

More than ever I wish I could hear what I was watching. I know I never will, of course, but occasionally I've entertained a silly fantasy of procuring some discrete spy tech online and posing as an electrician or something so I could plant a microphone in his apartment and listen to the wondrous moans and wails and grunts and smacks and slurps and squelches and roars. I imagine myself taking note of a new gentlelady caller and dashing to blare the Bluetooth speaker over my otherwise muted home, immerse myself in all the senses of his escapades. It's a mere fantasy, though. If I could work up the nerve to knock on his door, I might as well simply proposition him the way Lulu has done. Granted, there's something unique and special about my version of this experience. It's ever-changing and renewing. Not even they have a better view than I do.

She's relocated her spare hand to her lower half and she appears to be fingering herself. The head she's giving has progressed to a state of rigor and his cock is slicked with her generous saliva. She sucks harder, deeper, faster, letting the base of his shaft connect with her lips. It's impressive, really, just to know about one's self their capacity for such depth. I know he's impressed with her skills, but he's a ways away from coming and he is gentlemanly enough to give her the out. Crunching forward, he taps her shoulder and she draws off and looks up at him. He nudges her to stand, and when she does, he rises off the bed and swivels her around, letting her crash against the sheets. Like a gazelle he crawls on top and their naked bodies form an equals sign. The tip of his cock raps against her pelvis and she reaches for it and pumps.

They kiss sensually. This is not always a feature of his dalliances. More often than not, it's fucking, not love making. I'm not sure what sets this instance apart, but his kisses give her the signal that he's about to take care of her, that the nerve of her visit will be rewarded. She widens her legs and bends each knee just slightly before steering his primed rod toward her slit. After rubbing him at her entrance a time or two, she fishes him inward, and he lunges forward, moving his mouth to her neck and spilling her tension into the cotton. His ass clenches with her thrust, and the muscles in his arms flex as he holds himself safely above her tiny frame. Gradually, I notice the bend in her knees is sharpening and she's angling them more and more certainly toward the ceiling. This invites him to plunge deeper, and for the bottom player, it's clear she's doing everything in her power to contribute to the motion. Shades of delight parade over both of their faces as this orientation lasts. It's also evident a good deal of vocalizing has commenced, although from her moreso than him. It's not a surprise, he's often quite stoic. She has his attention, though. I know it.

After a duration of this, he withdraws his cock and rolls onto his back. Without skipping a beat, she tumbles aside, throwing a leg over him and straddling his waist. And clearly not wishing to be vacant long, she swiftly lines up over his hard unit and lowers all the way until her ass flattens in his lap. She begins writhing up and down, her hair and tits dancing and flailing. She's ensuring he can see her body; she even leans back a bit, stretching her length away from him and forcing his dick against her frontal interior. She gets into a rhythm here, and he reaches for her, only able to claw as far as her ribs. Eventually, she bends fully forward, kissing him deeply and suspending herself in a tight vessel to be fucked from underneath. Her grabs her breasts and extends into her, soon igniting her next orgasm. She clenches her body, squeezes her eyes shut, and tweaks as it tears through her. Then, as it dissipates, she resumes a steady but moderate grind.

There are words between them. I can never know what they say, but based one what happens next, I imagine it's this: He says "You're amazing, but don't tire yourself out," / "Did you come?" she asks / "No, that's okay," he assures / But she insists "It's not okay." Her movement hastens and she commits to the task. It's deadly serious between them and the sweat of their earlier exercise pales compared to the workout underway now. I so admire her tenacity, and I'm thrilled to see it pay off. He rests his head back and lets her do the work. She rocks upon him like a piston, her skin slapping down onto his, riding his implement like it's the power source to her outlet. Soon his eyes close and he emits a long exhale. Next, an expression of intensity comes over him and he winces in orgasm, widening his mouth and limping into the mattress. She keeps pace until the last molecule of come transfers, and then slows to a steadier glide. He sighs again before opening his eyes, and she's looking down at him grinning. They kiss sweetly while he remains threaded up inside her.

The unprecedented happens. She dismounts and reports immediately to the ensuite bathroom. She does not close the door, so I can see as she leans into the rain chamber and starts the water. Before the steam builds, she steps beneath the showerhead and lets it pour down over her. The women always always leave after the deed is done, and I assume that's by his design. But what's unfolding now doesn't appear to bother him. He rolls onto his side, giving me a perfect view of his rear, and he watches her a moment. Then she leans her head out and calls to him. He rises and joins her beneath the water. She soaps his chest and stomach, his groin and his legs. He does the same for her, and after they rinse, they remain there and bring each other to climax yet again, this time using only their mouths. He exits first to fetch towels. They dry and don terrycloth robes before making omelets and then falling asleep in his bed.

It kills me to have to turn in for the night. It's been an absolute pleasure to join them in my way. When I wake, I stagger to the window and look to see if I've beaten them to rise. I haven't. The bed is made and the host is dressed in casual loungewear, watching TV in the living room. His overnight guest is gone. Now, as to the question of his roster and the frequency of each member's appearances, it really all varies. Some women come only once or twice, others have been by dozens of times over periods of many months. There is nothing typical about the way this latest meeting played out, so I can only hope for her return and that it isn't far in the future. What's certain is now I must wait.

The sunlight streams over him and he looks satisfied-- not only sexually relieved, but well-rested in a way I can't remember seeing. His relaxation is interrupted when the apartment door opens suddenly and a large suitcase is pushed through. The next in a bottomless array of business trips has ended. He hurries to stand and gather the suitcase. A cheek-to-cheek mu-ah is exchanged. High heels cross the area rug and the curtain is taken in a firm grasp. It's swept shut, and I go back about my quiet life.