Introduction:
Some desires stay buried. Others find a way to look back at you.
Tamara thought she had everything a stable relationship, a quiet life, a body that slept beside love each night. But one glance across the courtyard changed everything. One man. One silence. One unbearable gaze.
The First Glance begins a slow, dangerous unraveling: voyeurism turned obsession, hunger turned ritual. As lines blur between love and lust, guilt and need, Tamara's world becomes a mirror reflecting every secret she tries to suppress... and every craving she can no longer resist.
This is a story about longing. About power. About what happens when someone sees too much of you and you want them to.
Intense. Explicit. Addictive.
You've been warned.
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The First Glance
The sun had long disappeared behind the edge of the city skyline, casting Tamara's apartment in a soft orange hue. She stood barefoot on the warm tile of her balcony, sipping wine from a half full glass. Her silk robe barely tied clung to the subtle dampness of her post shower skin, the night air still humid from an earlier rain. She wasn't dressed for anyone. Just comfort. Solitude. Maybe a little indulgence.
The city glowed. Car lights flickered far below. Conversations rose from unseen patios. Someone was playing soft music nearby. It was a rare kind of quiet a moment that stretched.
She leaned on the railing, tilting her head slightly. Across the narrow gap of the building's central courtyard apartment windows facing hers like a mirror she saw movement.
Third floor. Right side. The unit with the dark curtains always half drawn.
A man stepped out onto the opposing balcony.
Tamara froze not out of fear. It wasn't like that. There was no threat in his presence. But something about him... something still, centered, and almost deliberately slow, made her pulse shift.
He was tall. Broad shoulders beneath a fitted black T shirt. His forearms flexed as he stretched, cracking his neck to one side, a beer bottle dangling casually from one hand. His jaw was square, unshaven. He didn't glance at her.
But he knew she was there.
That certainty lodged in her chest like a slow moving thrill.
She stared longer than she meant to. Waiting.
But he didn't turn.
Didn't acknowledge her.
Just leaned against his railing, sipping.
Unbothered. Unhurried.
As if he'd been doing this long before she stepped outside.
Tamara blinked, realizing she was holding her breath. She took a sip of wine and looked away, trying to re focus on the skyline.
But the glass felt heavier in her hand now. Her chest warmer.
She stepped inside and let the curtain fall behind her.
Later that night, she passed the window again on her way to bed.
And she looked.
He was still there.
This time, shirtless. Arms resting on the railing, body motionless in the shadows, lit only by the silver spill of moonlight from above.
Their eyes met finally.
Not a flicker of surprise. Not even a smirk.
Just that same, steady gaze.
Tamara swallowed hard and shut the curtain fully, her fingers trembling for no reason she could name.
Inside the bedroom, Petar was already asleep. One arm over the pillow she normally laid on. His back rose and fell in the soft rhythm of dreamless sleep. The man who loved her. Who she loved. Who never once made her feel unsafe.
She slipped under the sheets carefully, not waking him.
And yet...
When she closed her eyes, her mind didn't drift to the man beside her.
It drifted across the courtyard.
To the man who never looked away.
That night, Tamara had her first dream.
It was vague, half formed a blur of body heat and breath against her neck. In it, she was on her own balcony. Barefoot. In only her robe. But it kept slipping. Exposing. Inviting.
And someone behind her, tall and silent, stepped in. Pressed against her back. His hand around her throat. His cock grinding between her thighs, thick and hard and so much more than Petar's.
She didn't resist.
She whispered, "Someone might see."
And the voice behind her murmured:
"That's the point."
Tamara woke with a soft gasp, her thighs clenched and her panties sticky with need. Her breathing was uneven. She glanced at Petar. Still out cold.
Across the room, through a crack in the curtain, she saw the soft glow of light from the opposite apartment.
And though she couldn't see him, she felt him.
Watching.
Waiting.
No words exchanged. No messages.
Just presence.
She went to the bathroom. Rinsed her hands. Wiped between her legs. She didn't dare bring the vibrator out from the drawer she kept hidden in the back of her nightstand. That would make it real.
Instead, she stood in the mirror for a long time, staring at her own flushed face.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
But deep down?
She already knew.
She was going to look again.
And she was going to want him to look back.
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Watched
The next day moved like molasses.
Tamara couldn't focus.
Her online classes blurred into background noise. Petar had left early for work, his usual sweet goodbye kiss still lingering on her cheek. He'd made her coffee. Left a note. Told her to treat herself to a slow morning.
She should've appreciated it.
But instead, she spent half the day on autopilot, her mind drifting back again and again to the moment on the balcony.
That man. That stranger. Across the courtyard.
How still he'd been.
How certain he was of her attention.
She didn't know what disturbed her more: that he had stared so boldly, or that she'd wanted him to.
By evening, she tried to shake the thought.
She showered again hot and indulgent shaving every inch of her legs with slow, methodical care, lotioning her skin until it was impossibly soft. For herself, she told herself. Just to feel human. Just to unwind.
Still damp, she pulled on a pair of thin cotton panties and a soft tank top with no bra. Her nipples pressed lightly against the fabric, still sensitized from the hot water.
The apartment was quiet. She didn't turn on the TV. Just a low indie playlist on shuffle, something forgettable. She poured herself a glass of white wine and curled up on the corner of the couch, phone in hand.
She hesitated.
Then she opened her browser.
She told herself it was just curiosity. But her fingers trembled slightly as she typed, heart fluttering like a trapped bird. She avoided the usual playlists no soft kisses, no whispered promises. Not tonight.
Her thumb hovered, then scrolled faster, her eyes hungry for something raw, something that made her pulse spike and her breath hitch.
No romance. No tenderness.
She skipped straight to the rougher category.
"Rough sex. Big Dick. Ruined girl."
The words felt like a dare.
Tamara froze on the thumbnail a woman not unlike herself. Long, dark hair tangled, eyes wide with a mix of shock and surrender, back arched in a perfect, painful curve. The woman was being fucked hard from behind, her mouth muffled by a large, rough hand.
Something flickered in Tamara's gut a sharp mix of shame and heat.
She clicked play.
Her thighs clenched immediately.
The screen flickered to life with wet, gasping sounds. The woman's moans tumbled out raw, desperate, breathless. The camera lingered on the thick, veiny cock driving mercilessly into her, pounding, stretching, filling every inch. The relentless squelch of lube mixing with the slap of skin on skin echoed in the quiet room.
Tamara's breath caught. Her chest rose and fell faster.
Without thinking, her hand slipped beneath the waistband of her cotton panties, fingers finding slick, sensitive folds. She rubbed gently at first, teasing herself like a secret she wasn't ready to share.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
God, he was big. Thick. Brutal. Unforgiving.
The girl in the video was gasping between desperate pleads:
"It's too big!"
"Take it anyway."
