Across the Courtyard, He Waited

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.

...............................................................................................................................................

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.

**************************

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."

The man's voice was low and rough, growling in her ear, pushing her, forcing her to repeat those words.

Tamara bit her lip hard, her hips beginning to move with a subtle rhythm. She circled her clit faster, chasing the fire blossoming between her legs, curling up through her belly like wildfire.

Her mind raced.

She wasn't watching this for the actors. Not really.

She imagined herself there.

Not with the man on the screen.

But with him.

The man from the balcony.

That tall silhouette who watched her like she was a prize no one else could touch.

One hand pressing hard over her mouth, silencing any protest.

The other hand gripping her hip like he owned every inch of her skin.

His voice deep, commanding whispering, "Let me ruin you."

Her breath hitched again.

A shiver rolled down her spine.

She pictured his touch how rough, how deliberate it would be. The way he'd pull her hair back, dragging her head to the side so he could bury himself deeper, fucking her into the mattress while the world fell away.

Her free hand clenched the couch cushion, knuckles whitening.

The screen flashed a close up of the woman's cunt stretched impossibly wide, slick and quivering with pleasure and pain.

Tamara's pulse thundered in her ears.

She imagined the warmth spreading inside her how it would feel to be taken like that.

Not tenderly.

Not sweetly.

But raw, unforgiving, and utterly consuming.

Her fingers moved faster now, slick against her clit, her hips rocking with the rhythm of a fantasy she could almost taste.

She wanted to taste it.

To feel it.

To be broken open and made hers.

Every thought was filthy.

What would his cock feel like sliding between my thighs?

Would he growl my name?

Would he make me beg for it?

Would he claim me in front of everyone, or keep me secret his possession alone?

Her breath stuttered. Her free hand gripped the couch cushion tight.

She kept going, hips starting to rock subtly, chasing it.

The screen flashed close up of the girl's cunt stretched around him, soaked and quivering.

Tamara's body tensed. So close

And then...

Something shifted in her periphery.

She opened her eyes, heartbeat in her throat.

The apartment across the courtyard. Third floor. Right side.

The curtain was open.

He was there.

Not fully visible. Just enough.

Silhouetted against the light. Leaning, watching.

Not jerking off. Not even moving.

Just... there.

His head tilted slightly. The beer bottle in his hand lifted a fraction.

As if he was cheersing her.

She froze.

Her hand still in her panties. Her inner thighs drenched.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Tamara's entire body went still.

They stared at each other across the distance. The porn still playing behind her. Moans still filling the room. The taste of her own heat on her fingers.

And him.

Watching like a secret.

A silent sin.

She stood.

Heart racing, cheeks burning.

Pulled her hand from her panties slowly guilty, hot, soaked. The outline of her fingers visible through the thin cotton.

She moved to the curtain but didn't close it yet. Just hovered. Standing in the soft glow of the apartment light.

Then, finally, she reached up and drew the curtain closed.

Not fast.

Deliberate.

Like she wanted him to see her do it.

She didn't finish.

Didn't cum.

She couldn't.

She'd been too seen. Too known. Too exposed.

But the ache didn't fade.

Later, she cleaned herself up quietly, cheeks still flushed. She stared into the bathroom mirror with shaking hands. Her pussy still throbbed. Her tank top clung to her nipples.

She opened the medicine cabinet, took out her toothbrush, then paused.

Opened the bottom drawer.

There, shoved under folded towels and extra razor cartridges: the old pink vibrator she hadn't used in months.

She stared at it.

Then slowly pushed the drawer closed.

"You're not getting off easy tonight," she whispered to herself.

Back in the bedroom, Petar was still out with colleagues he'd messaged earlier, another round of drinks. She didn't reply.

She curled into bed.

And when she finally dozed off, the man from the balcony followed her.

In the dream, she was naked on the floor of her living room, ass up, legs spread, begging for something too big to handle.

And behind her?

That same man's voice low, steady.

"You can't take it?"

"No..."

"Then I'll make you."

And he did.

***************************************

The Silent Challenge

Tamara didn't sleep much that night.

She lay awake in the half dark, sheets tangled between her thighs, skin still humming from what almost happened. Every time she closed her eyes, it replayed his silhouette behind that window, watching her touch herself. Her pulse still quickened at the memory, the same way it had when her fingers slid over her soaked panties hours earlier.

But she hadn't come.

Not then. Not later.

And now, she burned with a different kind of ache. Not just lust.

Defiance.

She wasn't a submissive girl. Not easily rattled. But that man had seen her really seen her and done nothing but stare. Not even a smirk. Not a raised brow. Just a steady, unreadable gaze that stripped her to her bones.

And it left her wanting more.

By midmorning, Petar was home again warm, chatty, slightly hungover but sweet. He kissed her neck and made them eggs. Tamara smiled. She laughed at his stories. She curled against him on the couch while they watched TV, like any good girlfriend would.

But behind her smile?

A second heartbeat.

A secret rhythm.

Every time he left the room, her eyes drifted to the curtain. Wondering. Waiting.

By afternoon, she couldn't stand it anymore.

That evening, Petar left again another late shift at the office. Kiss on the cheek. A promise to bring home takeout. An "I love you" with that same casual sincerity she once took comfort in.

Now?

It felt... distant. Like a postcard from a previous life.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Tamara waited. Counted to thirty. Then stood and pulled the curtain back.

His window was dark. Closed.

Her stomach twisted in something close to disappointment.

No silhouette. No gaze.

No acknowledgment.

She stared into the shadows a little longer, then turned away.

But not to pout.

To prepare.

She walked to the bedroom, slow and deliberate, breathing shallow.

Pulled open the lingerie drawer one she rarely touched and thumbed through the pieces. A mesh bralette. Lace panties. A pair of sheer thigh highs she'd bought for an anniversary and never worn.

She chose something simple: tiny black boyshorts and a cropped tank top that hung loose enough to tease, tight enough to tempt.

No bra. No socks. No shame.

She looked in the mirror and hesitated.

Her nipples were hard. Her thighs still slightly parted.

"You're not doing anything wrong," she whispered aloud.

"It's your apartment."

Then she stepped out into the living room.

She didn't turn on the lights this time.

She just moved through the space slowly tidying dishes, lighting a few candles on the coffee table, fluffing a pillow. Innocent tasks made sinful by intention.

Each movement calculated.

Each glance angled toward the window.

Still no sign of him.

But she knew he was there. Somewhere behind those curtains. Watching. Judging.

She turned, reached for the remote, and stretched just enough for her tank to lift her bare lower back exposed, the curve of her ass peeking from beneath the hem of her shorts.

She left the TV off.

Instead, she sat down on the couch and tucked her legs under her.

And waited.

It was almost twenty minutes before anything happened.

She was starting to think she'd imagined it all that it had just been a perverse fantasy she'd built in her own restless mind.

But then the curtain shifted.

Not fully. Just a sliver.

A barely perceptible movement.

A breath of fabric.

Tamara's heart stopped.

She didn't turn her head.

Didn't react.

She only shifted her legs uncrossed, then crossed again allowing the hem of her shorts to ride higher along her inner thighs.

She imagined the way he'd see her: one leg pulled beneath her, the other bent and relaxed, her torso slightly twisted, nipple pressed against her tank, a single flick of wind away from exposure.

She reached for her wine and took a slow sip.

Then glanced at her phone and took a picture of the candles.

Casual. Innocent.

But her skin burned.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. The curtain didn't move again.

But she didn't need it to.

She could feel him.

The weight of his gaze.

The air in the room felt heavier, thicker. Like she was already halfway undressed.

Tamara pressed her thighs together.

And without fully realizing it, she pressed her hand between them, over the soft fabric of her panties.

She didn't move.

Just held herself.

Felt the heat growing.

She stood and stretched again, walking back toward the balcony.

She unlocked the door, stepped out into the cool night air, and leaned casually on the railing exactly as she had that first night.

No robe this time. Just the outfit that did nothing to hide her body.

She stood like that for a full minute.

Then turned slowly and looked across the courtyard.

And there he was.

Standing at his own railing.

Not a word.

Not a smile.

Just watching.

The only difference?

This time, he raised his glass first.

Tamara hesitated.

Then lifted her own.

A single, silent toast.

Then she turned and walked back inside deliberately, slowly, letting him watch the sway of her hips with every step.

She shut the door. Pulled the curtain closed.

And smiled.

************************************

The Temptation

At first, Tamara thought she imagined it.

It was early barely dawn when she rolled over in bed, face pressing into a still warm pillow, and caught movement through the curtain slit she hadn't fully closed the night before. Just a shape. A blur. A ripple of shadow shifting behind glass. Her sleep fogged brain brushed it off as nothing.

But then it happened again.

Midmorning. She was brushing her teeth when something pulled her gaze toward the window, and there barely framed in the far corner of her periphery was Stefan.

Shirtless.

Just for a second.

A stretch. A turn. His arm rising above his head like a lazy yawn and his torso twisting with it, lean and defined and glinting faintly in the natural light. Then he disappeared again.

No eye contact. No wave.

Just... there.

Present.

Undeniable.

Tamara stood frozen, toothbrush limp in her mouth, pulse thumping in her ears. She rinsed, spat, and tried not to read into it. Probably coincidence. Probably just a neighbor going about his day.

Probably.

Except by noon, he passed by the window again this time bare chested, towel riding dangerously low on his hips, like something out of a magazine ad. Tamara watched from her couch, her laptop balanced on her thighs, entirely forgotten.

He didn't look at her. Never turned.

But that felt deliberate now. Studied.

Like the man understood the power of being seen, and how much more devastating it could be when you pretended you didn't know you were being watched.

By mid afternoon, her restlessness had turned volatile. Tamara kept pacing around her apartment, unable to focus on anything for more than a minute. Her skin buzzed, nipples hard beneath her oversized tee, thighs brushing too close together every time she crossed the room. Everything felt overexposed.

She hated herself for checking the window so often. For leaning too far to the side when walking by. For hoping.

It was just a game.

Right?

But late that evening, everything changed.

She was halfway through folding laundry when she caught movement again sharper this time. Intentional.

Tamara stepped closer to the window and paused.

Stefan's curtain was half drawn.

And for the first time, she had a clear view inside.

He was in his bedroom.

Naked.

She froze. Breath caught. Every cell in her body tensed.

He didn't face the window. He sat on the edge of the bed, profile angled toward her, as if completely unaware she might be watching. But his hand...

His hand was wrapped around his cock.

Slow strokes. Unhurried. Like this was part of a lazy evening routine, not a performance.

Tamara's mouth went dry.

Her first reaction was panic eyes darting away, blood rushing to her cheeks. Her chest fluttered like it had something to confess. But her gaze betrayed her. It crept back.

And stayed.

He was... enormous.

Thick. Veined. Dark. So much larger than she expected, it felt surreal at first like he was cast from something cinematic, not real flesh and blood. The kind of cock that rewrote a woman's understanding of what she could take. The kind that girls whispered about after one night stands. The kind she sometimes searched for in porn tags, only to scroll endlessly through thumbnails and feel disappointed.

This wasn't disappointment.

It was awe.

She watched, transfixed, as his hand moved lower, cradling his balls, teasing the sensitive underside before gliding up again. He wasn't fast. Wasn't frantic. It was all control long, languid movements, like he had all night.

And maybe he did.

Tamara pressed one palm to the windowpane. Cold glass met hot skin. She realized she was holding her breath.

Was this for her?

No. No, he didn't even know she was there.

But... maybe he did.

Because just then, Stefan leaned back slightly. Not far. Just enough to shift his body his cock rising proudly from his lap, standing thick and heavy, head flushed deep with blood. The curtain didn't close. The angle didn't change. Nothing obscured the view.

He wanted her to see.

She stepped back, heart racing. Sat down hard on the edge of her couch.

But she didn't look away.

He kept going.

And she... adjusted.

Crossed her legs. Then uncrossed them.

Fingers drumming against her thigh. One sliding higher.

The embarrassment faded faster than she expected. That old self consciousness how she'd once covered her webcam before masturbating, even when alone vanished under the weight of the moment.

Watching him felt dangerous. Intimate. Like peeking into a dream she wasn't meant to see.

And yet, she couldn't turn away.

Her brain fed her fantasies in rapid fire:

The weight of him in her palm hot, heavy, velvet over steel.

The stretch of him splitting her open slowly, painfully, gloriously.

The ache that would bloom and linger.

The sting when he bottomed out, hips grinding, cock buried so deep she'd feel it in her throat.

She imagined the way his hands might pin her wrists, steady and unhurried. The way he'd push her face into the mattress without saying a word. The weight of his body pressing her down while he fucked her like he owned her breath.

She thought about all the porn that had left her cold those tight framed shots, the fake sounds, the predictable rhythm. Dudes who jackhammered with no awareness, no artistry. Men who looked like they didn't even care if the girl finished, let alone whether she was shaking apart underneath them.

But Stefan?

He looked like he knew.

Every movement of his hand had the elegance of precision. Not flashy. Not theatrical. Just... devastatingly confident. Like he had learned what drove a woman wild not through guesses, but through experience.

He stroked himself like a man who had made women cry out. Fall apart. Come so hard they trembled.

And he took his time.

Slow, deliberate, gliding his fist from base to tip, thumb brushing over the slit now and then, teasing out more arousal with every pass. His cock stood thick and flushed, veins raised, a dusky purple head slick with pre come. Heavy enough it looked like it would bend with gravity if not held.

Tamara couldn't stop staring.

He was... huge.

Not just big in the casual, locker room boast kind of way. But intimidatingly big.

Porn star big.

The kind of cock women talked about after wine and too much honesty, admitting they'd tried to take it all and failed. The kind that made you hesitate before mounting it. The kind that made you train.

And God, the curve. Upward, just a little. Designed by the universe for destruction. Or pleasure. Maybe both.

She felt her panties cling tighter, soaked straight through. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily.

There was no possible way he didn't know what this was doing to her. No way he wasn't performing.

And yet he never looked up. Never glanced her way. Didn't wink or smirk. Just... let her watch.

Like he was offering her a preview. A silent dare.

Her hand crept lower without her realizing it. Just resting between her legs, as if to remind her where the heat burned. She didn't touch herself. Not yet.

But she didn't look away either.

And then just as her breath caught and her skin prickled with goosebumps he came.

No groan. No dramatic show.

Just a hard arch of his back, a quiet exhale, the subtle quake of muscle beneath skin as his cock throbbed and spilled thick ropes across his stomach. It was obscene in its simplicity. Honest. Like watching the most private part of a man in absolute control of his own desire.

Tamara gasped softly, hand pressing harder into her damp panties. Her whole body responded like it had been summoned.

She'd never seen anything like it. Not in porn. Not in real life. It wasn't just arousing it was beautiful. In a filthy, raw, soul hungry kind of way.

Then he stood.

Slow. Unrushed. Confident.

She watched the way his abs tensed as he rose, the way his cock swung low and heavy between his legs still thick, still half hard, glistening faintly with his own release. He didn't wipe it off. Didn't flinch. Just walked toward what she assumed was the bathroom, unapologetically nude.

And as he moved, he turned.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

Enough for her to know.

To feel it in her gut, deep and sure:

He had known she was watching the entire time.

He didn't look directly at her.

He didn't need to.

It was there in the tilt of his chin, the way he didn't bother hiding himself. The way he let her see every inch of him, like a final gift before disappearing behind the frame of the window again.

Tamara just stood there, barefoot and trembling, skin hot with sweat and arousal, breath uneven.

The ache between her legs was no longer subtle. It was a throb. A pulse. Her whole body strung tight, on the edge of collapse.

She wanted to strip naked, lie on her back, and fuck herself raw thinking about him. She wanted to feel her throat stretch around that cock. She wanted to see if she could take it. If she could survive it.

But just as her hand began to slide beneath the waistband of her panties

The front door opened.

"Babe?"

Tamara's entire body snapped upright. Heart slammed against her ribs like a warning bell.

"Hey, it's just me! Forgot my phone."

It was Petar.

She scrambled ripping herself from the window, yanking her T shirt down over her thighs, wiping her hands quickly against her hips. Her reflection in the mirror looked wild eyed and ruined.

She bolted into the hallway just as Petar stepped into the living room, keys still jingling in his hand.

"You okay?" he asked, brow furrowed.

"Yeah! Just... startled me. I was doing laundry."

She smiled too wide.

He didn't seem to notice.

Just kissed her cheek, muttered something about how late he was going to be tonight, and grabbed his phone off the counter.

"Love you."

"Love you too," she replied automatically.

The door clicked shut again.

And Tamara stood in the center of her apartment, heart still galloping, the scent of her own arousal thick in the air.

She didn't go back to the window.

She couldn't.

Not tonight.

Instead, she peeled off her damp panties in the bathroom, tossed them in the hamper, and stared at herself in the mirror.

Eyes dilated. Nipples hard. Skin flushed from neck to thighs.

She looked like she'd been fucked.

And in a way, she had.

Just not by anyone who'd ever touched her.

She went to bed after midnight, pretending to scroll her phone. Pretending she wasn't trembling beneath the sheets. Pretending Petar hadn't called on his break just to say goodnight.

But she didn't hear his voice.

All she saw when she finally closed her eyes was Stefan's body arched in pleasure.

His come pulsing across his stomach.

That slight, devastating turn of his head.

And the way his cock had hung low and heavy as he walked away.

*********************************

The Gift

Tamara didn't expect anything that day.

It was one of those late afternoons that had bled out slow overcast sky, heavy clouds smothering the sun, and a steady thrum of city noise beneath it all. She had spent most of the day answering emails and half heartedly pretending to work, trying to ignore the now constant pulse between her legs that didn't seem to ease no matter how many showers she took.

There had been no sign of him since the balcony toast.

No silhouette behind the window.

No shift in the curtain.

And still, she thought about him. Constantly.

Every move she made felt... observed. Even if no one was watching, she imagined he was. That the fabric clinging to her nipples was seen. That the sweat between her thighs left a scent on the air he'd somehow catch.

She wanted him to see her.

No. She wanted him to want her.

Not gently.

Not politely.

But with hunger.

With the kind of need that didn't ask for permission.

She returned from a short walk to grab groceries, bags in hand, and was halfway up the stairwell of their building when she saw it: a brown package, tucked against her apartment door. Unmarked. No logo. No writing. No name.

No return address.

Tamara frowned, glancing around.

The hallway was empty.

No one at the neighbor's door. No sound from behind hers.

Just the soft buzz of the overhead light and that package plain, almost deliberately inconspicuous.

Still warm to the touch.

She picked it up, tucked it under her arm with the groceries, and unlocked her door.

Inside, the apartment was quiet as usual. She dropped her bag on the kitchen counter, placed the groceries in a lazy heap, and stared at the box.

There was a moment a long one where she considered just... tossing it. Or leaving it unopened.

But that wasn't going to happen.

Not anymore.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the top flap.

Inside: a bed of tissue paper. Black. Soft. Folded.

She peeled it back.

And froze.

There, nestled in the center, was a big dildo.

Not the kind you bought for a laugh with girlfriends. Not novelty. Not cartoonish.

Real.

Veined. Thick. Heavy.

Unbelievably realistic a dark flesh tone, glistening slightly with a skin like sheen.

Her breath caught.

She reached for it before her brain could catch up. Her fingers wrapped around it and it yielded just a little, just enough to feel like skin warmed by body heat. Not stiff plastic. Not rubber.

This wasn't store bought.

This was personal.

Lifelike down to the detail. The foreskin. The subtle curve. Even the way the shaft flared at the base almost a challenge to see if she could take it all.

It was huge.

Bigger than anything Petar had ever been. Bigger than even the porn she watched.

Tamara's thighs pressed together involuntarily.

There was no note. No card. No brand label.

Only the dildo. And the unmistakable fact that someone had left it for her.

Someone who knew her address. Knew her tastes.

Knew exactly what she was thinking.

Tamara walked to the bedroom slowly, the weight of it heavy in her hand.

She locked the door.

Drew the curtains closed. Double checked them.

Set the dildo on the bed and just stared.

It shouldn't have turned her on.

It should have scared her, maybe.

But it didn't.

Instead, she felt seen.

Pinned under a gaze that hadn't touched her skin, but already knew how to melt it.

She imagined him across the courtyard again. Not watching. But remembering.

As if this wasn't just a toy it was him, made into silicone, gifted in silence.

Her fingers grazed the tip.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

It twitched. Not really, of course but her body responded to the fantasy with such violence, it felt real.

Tamara stripped slowly, standing at the foot of the bed.

Panties first wet already.

Then her top nipples hard, pebbling in the cool air.

She crawled onto the sheets, the dildo in hand, her breath already unsteady.

"You're not doing this."

"You're just... testing it."

That's what she told herself.

But when she knelt on the bed and pressed the cock to her lips, guiding the tip between them, it didn't feel like testing.

It felt like surrender.

She sucked it.

Eyes closed.

Tongue swirling the head, just as she had in the dream. Her jaw ached by the time she reached halfway down, and there was still more left.

She moaned without shame.

And when she pulled it from her mouth, it glistened with saliva.

"That's yours, isn't it?" she whispered, looking out the closed curtain. "You want me to take this? To learn how to handle you?"

She lay back, legs spread.

The dildo slid against her soaked entrance, and Tamara gasped.

Her body shivered not just from the stretch, but from the fantasy taking hold:

Him holding her hips down.

Him filling her, deeper, harder.

Him watching from the balcony. Maybe he could see through the curtain. Maybe he knew what she was doing.

Maybe that was the point.

She pushed it inside.

And came within minutes.

Afterward, she lay still. Panting. Trembling.

She wiped herself clean in silence, hiding the dildo beneath her pillow for the night.

Not the drawer. Not the closet.

Close.

Accessible.

"Just in case."

Before crawling into bed, she walked to the window and lifted the curtain just enough to peek.

His light was off.

But she knew.

She knew he'd watched her before. That he'd seen enough to know what to send. What she'd do with it.

She didn't need proof.

The ache in her thighs said everything.

******************

Name the Devil

For two nights, Tamara didn't open the curtains.

She couldn't.

Not after what she'd done.

Not after she'd cum so hard the sheets beneath her had dried stiff from it.

The dildo remained under her pillow, hidden but not forgotten. She could still feel it its phantom weight between her legs, thick and impossibly real. It wasn't just the toy anymore. It was him, and she didn't even know his name.

That made it worse.

And so much better.

Her shame flickered, dim but persistent. Petar was still sweet. Still devoted. He'd come home late from work, kissed her forehead, and talked about his day while holding her from behind on the couch.

But her mind was never really there.

Not anymore.

Every laugh felt borrowed. Every smile held back a storm.

She was split in two and the darker half of her wanted to be caught. To be known.

To be claimed.

That morning, Petar had left in a hurry suit and tie, conference call in one hand, coffee in the other. A quick kiss and a muttered "Love you," and the door clicked shut behind him.

Tamara stood barefoot in the hallway, lips still tingling.

And then she moved.

No hesitation.

She slipped on leggings and a hoodie over her braless chest, grabbed her keys, and headed down to the lobby. Her pulse pounded with each step. Her thighs rubbed slick beneath the cotton.

Because she knew what she was about to do.

And that knowledge thrilled her.

The mailboxes sat in a row along the front wall, little brushed metal rectangles with numbered plates and key slots. She ignored her own. Instead, she scanned the column to the right.

Third floor. Facing her unit.

Apartment 3B.

She knew that view well. She could trace it in her dreams.

She dropped her gaze.

There it was.

"S. Stefan."

Stefan.

She said it under her breath.

"Stefan."

It hit differently when it had a name. Not a shadow. Not a stranger. But a real man with five letters and a mailbox and a massive fucking cock that had haunted her for days now.

Suddenly the dream didn't feel like a dream anymore.

It felt like inevitability.

On the way back up the stairs, she lingered.

Apartment 6B wasn't on side, but she passed it anyway just to hear if anything was happening behind that door. A voice. A TV. A movement.

Nothing.

The hallway was still.

But her mind wasn't.

Back inside, Tamara made herself coffee, but barely drank it. Her thoughts spun. Her nipples stayed tight the entire time. Every time she said his name in her head, her thighs clenched.

She didn't open the curtains that night either.

But when she got into bed alone, finally she didn't reach for her vibrator.

She didn't watch porn.

She just closed her eyes.

And imagined him whispering.

"Say it."

"Say my name."

"Say who you want to fuck while your boyfriend's cock is inside you."

"Stefan..." she breathed in the dark, clutching the pillow between her thighs.

"Harder."

"Stefan."

"You think I didn't see you fuck yourself with my cock? You think I don't know exactly how deep it went?"

"Deeper."

"I'm going to open your throat, stretch your little cunt, make you feel things your sweet little boyfriend never could."

"Yes, yes please "

She woke soaked.

No climax. No relief.

Just the brutal ache of need and the faint taste of his name on her lips.

Stefan.

She knew it now.

And that meant everything was going to change.

*********************************

The Fog Between Us

The shower hissed behind the glass, heat curling into steam, fogging the mirror with slow, delicate strokes. Tamara stood beneath the water, eyes closed, head tilted back as rivulets slid down her skin, circling her breasts, tracing her waist, following the curve of her thighs.

It was supposed to be routine.

Wash. Rinse. Cool down. Pretend she was just another girlfriend with a calm, quiet life.

But her body betrayed her.

She couldn't scrub away the ache in her cunt. The phantom pressure of that dildo his dildo still lived in her hips. She was restless, over stimulated, but somehow never satisfied. Like every orgasm she gave herself only carved the hunger deeper.

"Stefan."

She whispered it before she could stop herself, the name rolling off her tongue like a secret prayer.

She didn't even feel guilty anymore.

When she finally shut the water off, the silence was thunderous.

Tamara reached for her towel, wrapping it loosely around her body. She rubbed absentmindedly at the fogged mirror, then paused.

Her reflection blinked back.

Eyes still clouded with want.

She looked down at the swell of her breasts, how the damp towel clung to her curves, the faint outline of her nipples hardened beneath the terrycloth.

You could pull it just a little looser...

She didn't move.

Not yet.

She padded barefoot down the hall, lights still off in the rest of the apartment. She liked the shadows. They felt safer. More honest. Like her body had become a secret ritual, performed only at night.

Petar wasn't home. Again. A meeting downtown. He'd texted her a picture of a wine bottle he was bringing home.

Tamara had sent back a heart emoji.

Now she stood at the living room window.

She reached for the curtain with a hand that didn't feel like her own.

The courtyard was quiet.

Evening had just begun to settle warm hues casting long shadows across the brick walls. The window across from hers was open. The curtain pulled only slightly, just enough to suggest privacy but not enough to keep her out of sight.

She knew that slit in the fabric now.

She stared at it as though it were a mouth waiting to speak.

She hesitated.

Then, slowly, she undid the knot of her towel.

Let it fall to her hips.

Her breasts bared themselves to the open room.

Tamara didn't breathe.

She simply existed all taut skin and exposed nipples, standing like an offering at the altar of a man she hadn't even touched yet.

She thought she saw it then a flicker in the shadows.

Movement.

A hand brushing the curtain. Or a shift in posture.

She stepped closer.

Her bare breasts, soft and flushed from the heat of the shower, caught what little light slipped in from the window. She felt the air rise along her damp skin.

She pressed a palm against the window.

The glass was still cool.

And then... she moved her hand lower.

Not dramatically.

Just... down. Across her belly. Over the faint line of moisture clinging to her skin.

Lower.

To the place where her thighs met.

She didn't part her legs. Didn't need to.

The towel hung precariously, and her fingers just grazed the edge of her mound.

"You're watching."

"Aren't you?"

Her breath fogged the glass.

She could almost feel the heat of his stare against her nipples.

A subtle shift of her hips pressed her fingers into her folds only slightly. Barely a touch. But her body lit up like a match struck.

She whimpered. Quietly. Enough that the silence in the room swallowed it.

Enough that it felt real.

She stayed like that for minutes.

Not touching herself.

Not quite.

Just... standing there. Watching the curtain across the courtyard. Imagining the silhouette behind it. The breath. The hardening cock. The fist stroking slowly in rhythm to her movements.

Her body throbbed.

It wasn't the act itself that turned her on.

It was being known. Displayed. Wanted without a single word exchanged.

She was no longer just imagining his gaze.

She was inviting it.

Then, as quickly as she had started, she stepped back.

She tightened the towel around herself.

Turned off the lamp.

Left the window uncurtained.

And walked back to the bathroom.

But not before glancing one last time at the sliver between his curtains.

No movement.

No proof.

But her nipples stayed hard until she fell asleep.

*********************************

How Deep Does It Go?

Tamara hadn't planned on touching herself that day.

She told herself it would be productive. She even made a list emails, laundry, maybe yoga if she found the energy. Petar was working late again, off at some coworking space downtown, prepping for a pitch he was excited about. He'd kissed her before leaving, but she didn't remember the taste. Only the absence.

And now the apartment felt too quiet.

Too still.

It buzzed with all the things she wouldn't say out loud.

By midafternoon, she found herself in the bedroom again, fingers hovering over the edge of the drawer.

She knew what was inside.

Had been thinking about it since she woke up soaked between the thighs.

The memory of last night standing in front of the window, towel dropping to her hips, nipples hard from the cool air and the sheer risk of it still hadn't faded. She had imagined his face behind the glass, his hand stroking a cock she had yet to see in full.

That dildo...

That impossibly thick, veined thing she now kept hidden beneath her sweaters...

It wasn't a toy anymore.

It was his cock.

Stefan's.

And she wanted to know it.

Not just dream of it. Not just let it haunt her. But understand its limits. Feel how far it would go. How much she could take.

She wanted to know what it felt like to be split open by the thing that had only visited her in the dark of night.

She pulled the drawer open.

There it was nestled in silence, its weight instantly familiar.

She took it out slowly, reverently, as if it were sacred. Her nipples tingled. Her breath grew shallow.

She laid the toy on the bed, staring at it like it might speak to her.

Her pulse pounded in her clit.

Tamara undressed without ceremony.

Just a T shirt and panties, already damp.

She crawled up the bed and knelt, placing the dildo in front of her like she might bow to it.

It felt obscene.

It felt perfect.

She pressed her thighs together and let herself warm up fingers sliding over the thin fabric between her legs, teasing her clit through it, the wetness soaking into her palm.

Her body reacted fast now.

Just thinking about Stefan his name, the heaviness of his gaze, the way he didn't move or speak but just watched was enough to send her skin humming.

She didn't go slowly this time.

She wanted to feel full.

No teasing. No pretending.

She laid back, knees spread, and guided the tip to her entrance.

She gasped as it kissed her folds wide and thick and already slick from her anticipation.

"F fuck..."

The first few inches filled her like a breath held too long. Her pussy stretched around it, her fingers gripping the shaft for control as she exhaled in shudders.

Her back arched.

Her head tilted back.

Every nerve inside her sparked.

"Oh my God... that's so fucking big..."

She rocked her hips forward deeper.

And again more.

The fullness was shocking. She felt it in her core, in her lungs, in the back of her throat.

She moaned. Louder than she should have.

Her hips began to roll.

The toy disappeared inside her inch by inch, the suction cup at the base forgotten as she gripped it with both hands, using it like a lever to pull herself onto it harder, deeper.

Her walls spasmed.

She couldn't breathe through the pressure.

But it felt right.

Dirty.

Ruined.

Beautiful.

"This is what you'd do to me, isn't it?" she whispered aloud, no longer pretending he couldn't hear. "You'd make me take every inch. You'd watch me stretch for you."

"You'd ruin my little pussy."

"You'd make me beg for it."

Her legs shook.

Her moans turned guttural.

And then...

"Stefan "

It tore from her lips unbidden, a curse and a confession all at once.

"Fuck, Stefan!"

She came hard, bucking, the dildo buried as deep as she could force it. Her legs trembled. Her stomach clenched. Her eyes rolled back as wave after wave tore through her.

She wasn't quiet.

And she didn't care.

Afterwards, she lay spread out across the sheets, one hand on the toy still inside her, the other resting on her breast, cupping it gently.

She wasn't crying.

But she felt wrecked like something inside her had shifted.

Saying his name while coming?

That was new.

That was dangerous.

And she already knew she'd do it again.

*********************************

Already Taken

The scent of fresh sweat and regret still lingered in the air when Tamara heard the apartment door open.

Keys jingled. A duffel bag thudded to the floor. Petar's familiar voice echoed softly down the hall.

"Babe?"

Tamara panicked for a half second.

She hadn't cleaned up.

The sheets were a mess. Her thighs were still sticky with cum. Her breath barely back to normal. The dildo lay tucked under the mattress now, but her body betrayed her flushed, loose, aching in a way no shower could hide.

She sat up, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth as if it might erase the memory of what had just happened. As if Stefan's name hadn't spilled from her lips in the peak of orgasm less than ten minutes ago.

"You okay?" Petar stepped into the doorway, his tie half loosened, the light from the hallway bathing him in a soft gold.

His smile was so pure.

Tamara forced herself to return it.

"Yeah. Just tired."

He walked in and leaned down to kiss her, pressing his lips to her temple, then moving toward her mouth.

She hesitated, then let him.

The kiss was gentle. Familiar. He tasted like spearmint and exhaustion.

Nothing like the need she'd just poured out into her sheets.

"I missed you," he murmured, brushing hair from her face. "You smell incredible."

Tamara swallowed hard. It's the sweat, she wanted to say. It's the heat of being stretched open, sore from something you'll never match.

Instead she nodded.

"I missed you too."

Petar was already undoing his shirt. "Mind if I crash next to you for a bit? Meeting ran late, and I just want to curl up with you."

She offered a breathy "Sure," and scooted over.

Her legs still tingled. Her lips down there were puffy, overworked, and slippery from the orgasm she'd ridden minutes before. Her pussy still gripped at emptiness, as if it were confused by the loss of the thick toy it had been clinging to.

And now Petar was climbing in behind her, wrapping his arm around her bare waist, pulling her in tight.

"God," he exhaled, kissing her neck. "You feel amazing. Like... so warm and soft. Fuck, babe."

His cock was already hard, pressing against her ass through his slacks.

She could feel it twitch.

Her breath hitched.

"Please don't want me tonight."

But he did.

Petar's hand slid up her side, cupping one of her breasts. His thumb flicked gently over her nipple, and Tamara's body responded on instinct.

Not for him.

But for the ghost still imprinted inside her.

"You're so sexy," he whispered, pressing his hips into her. "I've been thinking about this all day."

His hand drifted lower.

She didn't stop him.

When his fingers slid between her legs and found her soaked, he let out a soft groan.

"Shit. You're already this wet?"

Tamara's heart pounded.

He didn't ask questions.

He kissed her shoulder. Licked at the curve of her neck. His fingers teased her pussy, spreading her slick, dipping inside.

"God, I love how ready you always are."

She bit her lip.

The stretch was nothing like Stefan's toy.

Where that had overwhelmed her opened her Petar's touch was familiar, comforting.

But it didn't set her on fire.

Not like before.

Still, she let him guide her onto her back. Let him push inside her.

He moaned softly into her mouth.

"You feel so good... baby..."

Tamara stared at the ceiling.

Her pussy was too loose. Too soft. She felt him move but didn't clench the way she used to.

The dildo had left her stretched out, and now Petar's cock slid in with almost no resistance.

His eyes fluttered shut, clearly thrilled by how easily he could fuck her.

"So fucking tight tonight "

She almost laughed.

He didn't even know.

She reached up, cupping his face, kissing him deeply not because she wanted to, but because she needed to distract herself.

If she stayed in the moment too long, she'd start fantasizing again.

And she couldn't say Stefan's name twice in the same day.

Not while Petar was inside her.

But it was so easy to imagine.

Petar's weight on her...

Could have been Stefan's.

Petar's lips on her throat...

Could have been his tongue.

The fantasy seeped in like smoke slow, thick, curling into her lungs until she couldn't breathe anything else.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and Stefan's voice filled her head.

"Tight little pussy still remembers me."

"He doesn't stretch you like I do."

"Does he even know how sloppy you get when you think about choking on my cock?"

Tamara moaned.

Petar took it as a good sign and picked up speed.

She didn't stop him.

She came.

Not hard.

Not real.

But enough to fake it. Enough to convince him.

And after a few more thrusts, Petar groaned and finished inside her with a deep shudder, burying his face in her neck, whispering that he loved her.

Tamara held him.

Fingers threading through his hair.

Pretending.

Her pussy still dripped around him.

But not from this.

Later, after Petar had drifted off, Tamara stared out the window.

Stefan's light was on.

A shadow moved behind his curtain.

She didn't close hers.

********************************

Pinned

The building was buzzing.

Literally.

A moving truck idled outside, its engine growling beneath the hum of morning chaos. Two sweaty men maneuvered a heavy cabinet up the front steps, shouting casual curses at each other as they wedged the thing awkwardly through the narrow doorframe.

Tamara clutched her mail tighter, standing at the back of the lobby near the elevators, trying not to let her nerves eat her alive.

She hadn't planned to leave her apartment this morning.

But cabin fever, poor sleep, and the quiet ache between her legs had pushed her out into the open air like a woman fleeing her own temptations.

She needed to move. Breathe.

Clear her head.

He's not going to be there.

She told herself that.

Repeated it.

But it didn't matter.

Because the second the elevator doors pinged and opened, she saw him.

Stefan.

Baseball cap low over his brow. Dark shirt clinging to his torso, rolled sleeves exposing lean forearms dusted with veins. He was already inside, earbuds in, arms crossed over his chest as if the world didn't touch him.

He didn't even look up at first.

Not when she stepped forward.

Not even when their eyes finally locked.

Just a flick of recognition. Cool. Composed.

Like he hadn't watched her touch herself.

Like she hadn't moaned his name in the dark.

Like they were strangers.

Fine. Pretend.

The elevator was already half full two neighbors she vaguely recognized and a woman with a stroller but just as the doors began to close, the movers shoved through with another boxed up table.

"Hold it hold fuckin' hell "

The doors retracted with a groan.

Everyone shuffled.

More boxes. More bodies. Heat.

Tamara was jostled back, closer much closer until her shoulder brushed the cool metal wall and her other side was

His chest.

He didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

Her back was pressed flat to the wall now, and Stefan was against her, his body angled just enough to box her in, one arm braced on the wall beside her head.

They weren't touching.

But they might as well have been naked.

The elevator jerked into motion.

Tamara's breath hitched.

The warm scent of him hit her nose something earthy and clean and male, edged with sweat and faint cologne.

The next floor stopped. Another person wedged in. A shuffle. A laugh.

And suddenly bodies pressed.

A jolt.

Someone bumped Stefan from behind.

And just like that, he was flush against her.

Chest. Hips. Groin.

Oh God

She felt it.

The press.

The size.

There was no mistaking it.

It wasn't hard but it wasn't soft either. Just there, warm and heavy between them, nestled against her lower stomach.

She tried not to gasp.

But he felt it too. She knew it. He didn't move away.

He just... adjusted slightly.

Pressed his palm to the wall behind her head and shifted his hips subtle, deliberate. Like testing her.

Her nipples were tight beneath her shirt, painfully so. Her thighs clenched. She didn't even realize she was holding her breath until the air in her lungs burned.

"... Sorry."

His voice was low.

It rumbled in his chest. Into her.

Her lips parted to say something anything but all that came out was a quiet breath that sounded a little too much like a whimper.

The elevator stopped again.

More boxes in.

No one out.

Stefan didn't budge.

Neither did she.

They were sandwiched now, strangers pressing from all sides, and her lower back arched instinctively to relieve the pressure on her spine

Which only made her hips press harder into him.

She felt it grow.

Right there.

Right against her.

His cock.

Thick. Heavy. Slowly filling.

And she knew he wasn't doing anything to stop it.

The tension between them now was molten. Her entire body buzzed. She felt wetness blooming in her panties. She could smell her own arousal. She wondered if he could too.

Or maybe he didn't need to.

Maybe he already knew.

"You really don't know how obvious you are, do you?"

He whispered it close to her ear.

No one else could hear it.

She nearly whimpered.

"Window open every night. Curtains wide. That pretty little towel always falling just low enough. You think I haven't noticed how your fingers disappear under your sheets?"

She didn't answer.

Couldn't.

The elevator stopped again.

Their floor.

Stefan shifted.

The pressure between them loosened. His cock dragged against her body one last time as he stepped back, giving her just enough space to slip past.

She walked out on shaky legs, heart thundering.

But before the doors closed again, she looked over her shoulder.

Stefan met her gaze.

Eyes unreadable.

Then the doors slid shut.

She didn't even remember walking down the hallway.

Didn't remember unlocking the door.

But the moment she stepped inside her apartment, Tamara leaned against the wall, legs trembling, pussy drenched.

She pressed a hand between her thighs and gasped.

Still no words.

Only heat.

And the echo of his cock against her belly.

*********************************

The Hangout

It was supposed to be just a casual thing.

A neighborly gesture. One guy bumping into another in the lobby and making friendly small talk. Tamara hadn't been there to stop it. She'd only found out when Petar came upstairs with a grin and two six packs.

"Hey, babe. Guess what? I met the new guy from across the way Stefan, I think his name is? Super chill. Works freelance or something. I invited him over for a drink tonight."

Tamara nearly dropped her phone.

Stefan.

The name buzzed in her brain like static. She tried to keep her voice even.

"You... invited him here?"

"Just for a bit. It's good to know the neighbors, right?"

Right.

Tamara smiled. Nodded. Pretended to agree.

Inside, her stomach flipped.

All she could picture was the elevator.

The pressure. His cock swelling against her, thick and unapologetic.

His whisper in her ear:

"You really don't know how obvious you are, do you?"

And now he was coming here.

Stefan arrived an hour later.

Simple. Confident. Nothing flashy.

Just jeans, a fitted black tee, and that calm, unreadable face. His hair was tousled like he'd just run a hand through it and forgotten about it. He carried a bottle of dark liquor instead of wine.

"Didn't want to show up empty handed," he said casually, locking eyes with Tamara for a split second.

Just a flicker.

Just enough.

She forced herself to smile, then turned too quickly toward the kitchen.

Fuck.

Her heart thundered.

Her thighs clenched.

She hadn't stopped thinking about the elevator for days. Not even when Petar kissed her. Not even when she came alone in the shower the night before, biting her lip so hard it left a mark.

And now he was in their home.

The night passed with low music, laughter, and clinking glasses. The windows were open, a summer breeze drifting through the living room as Petar and Stefan hit it off better than Tamara ever could've predicted.

"Dude, so you used to do design for games?"

"Yeah. Mostly UI, some character design. Contract stuff."

"Shit, I always wanted to get into that. But I ended up doing sales. You know how it is."

They talked like old friends. Swapping stories. Sharing playlists. Taking shots. Tamara sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed tight, her glass of wine half empty in her palm.

Stefan was sitting across from her slouched deep in the armchair, legs spread comfortably apart, one arm lazily slung over the back. His eyes drifted to her every so often, always soft, slow, like a hand sliding under her shirt.

He's going to ruin me.

Petar was too busy telling a story to notice her silence.

"And then the fucking elevator got stuck halfway up! I was stuck between floors for like fifteen minutes."

Tamara nearly choked.

Stefan just smiled. Sipped his drink. Said nothing.

This is sick.

She wanted to stand. Wanted to leave.

But she couldn't stop watching him.

And Stefan?

He knew.

At one point, Petar got up to grab another beer from the fridge. Tamara rose quickly, needing distance, but so did Stefan.

They collided gently in the hallway barely a touch, a ghost of one.

He leaned in.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Just enough for her to feel the heat.

"You smell like guilt," he murmured, lips so close to her ear she thought they brushed it. "It's delicious."

Tamara didn't move.

Couldn't.

She felt her pussy clench reflexively, her panties already damp from the pressure of his gaze all night.

Then Petar called from the kitchen.

"Babe, do you know where the bottle opener went?"

She blinked, broke the spell, turned away.

"Check the drawer by the sink," she answered, voice too tight.

Stefan stayed only a little longer.

He shook Petar's hand with a solid, friendly smile.

"Thanks for the drinks, man."

Then he turned to Tamara holding her gaze just a heartbeat longer than polite.

"Pleasure meeting you."

"You too," she lied.

The door clicked shut behind him.

She was still shaking when Petar wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck, buzzed and content.

"That guy's cool, huh? We should hang with him again sometime."

Tamara laughed, hollow.

We already are.

**************************************

Aftertaste

The apartment was quiet now.

The kind of quiet that comes only after company has left, and the warmth of laughter has faded into stale air and empty glasses.

Petar was already asleep.

Tamara could hear the steady rise and fall of his breath, could feel the heat of his body beside her under the sheets. He'd fallen asleep fast half drunk, happy, full of stories. He'd curled into her like he always did, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, the other heavy across her waist.

But Tamara couldn't sleep.

Not with Stefan still in her mouth.

She lay on her back, eyes open, heart ticking like a time bomb beneath her ribs. Every time she closed her eyes, she tasted the ghost of what had happened. The hallway. His breath. His voice. That low, smug murmur against her ear.

"You smell like guilt."

She squeezed her thighs together beneath the sheets, but it didn't help.

If anything, it made it worse.

The heat hadn't faded. It had only thickened like syrup in her veins. Her body still remembered the elevator. The brush of his cock against her stomach. The pressure of his arm braced over her head. His mouth so close, his voice like gravel wrapped in smoke.

And then he'd sat in their living room. Smiling. Chatting. Laughing with Petar like they were old friends.

The same mouth that had whispered filth into her skin.

Tamara shifted beneath the blanket. Her panties were still damp. She'd changed into sleep shorts and a loose tee after the hangout, but the fabric clung to her now wet in the wrong places. She resisted the urge to touch herself.

She didn't deserve release.

Not after this.

Instead, she rolled onto her side and watched Petar sleep.

His lips were parted slightly. Hair mussed from the pillow. He looked peaceful. Kind.

He didn't know.

Didn't know how close she'd come to falling to her knees for someone else.

Didn't know that his neighbor had already had her on his tongue, in her dreams, in every twitch of her ruined body.

Didn't know she had whispered another man's name into the dark.

Eventually, exhaustion crept in.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

And the dream came quickly.

The Dream

She was at the window.

Naked.

Standing in the blue shadows of her own bedroom, the curtains parted, the city outside humming low and far away. The glass was cool against her nipples as she leaned into it, chest rising and falling with need.

Behind her he stepped in.

Stefan.

She didn't see him arrive. He was simply there. Solid. Silent.

One arm wrapped around her waist. The other slid up, slow and possessive, curling lightly around her throat. Not choking. Not yet.

Just... holding.

Claiming.

Her breath hitched.

Their reflection was ghosted in the window a dark silhouette of want. Her lips parted. Her pupils dilated. Her skin flushed like it was trying to bloom for him.

His voice came next.

Low. Velvet and gravel.

"You've wanted this since the beginning."

Her eyes closed. She moaned quiet, ashamed.

"Tell me you think about it when he's inside you."

She couldn't answer.

Couldn't lie.

Because her hips were already pressing back into him.

And his cock thick, hard, hot dragged against her ass as he stepped closer. His hand on her throat tilted her chin up slightly. His mouth brushed her ear.

"You imagine me, don't you?"

His hand slipped down between her thighs, cupping her heat.

She was already soaked.

"You think I don't know? That you haven't been fucking yourself on the cock I sent you?"

She whimpered. Pressed harder against the glass.

"Say it."

"I I "

His fingers dipped inside. Two, thick and slow.

She came undone instantly, bucking back against him.

But he didn't stop.

Didn't slow.

He twisted her around, pressed her back to the window. Lifted one of her legs around his hip. She could feel the length of him now bare, heavy, teasing at her entrance.

"You want to be filled in the same room where you sleep beside him?"

"Yes..."

"You want to cum on my cock and kiss him goodnight after?"

"Please..."

He pushed in.

The stretch was brutal impossibly deep.

She screamed his name.

Awakening

Tamara gasped.

Sat up fast, one hand clutching her chest, the other already between her legs.

Soaked.

The sheets clung to her. Her body trembled, pussy clenched hard around nothing. Her breathing was ragged, eyes wide.

Petar hadn't stirred.

She glanced at him still deep in sleep, oblivious to the filth beside him.

Tamara swung her legs out of bed and padded silently down the hallway, heart hammering.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water, hands shaking.

It didn't help.

Her body still buzzed.

The dream still echoed.

The stretch. The pressure. The whispered truths against her ear.

"You think I don't know?"

She set the glass down and moved to the window.

The street below was quiet. A breeze played with the sheer edge of the curtain.

Across the courtyard his window.

Dark.

Closed.

But she could feel it.

Feel him.

Watching, even when she couldn't see.

Like a wire pulled tight between them.

She didn't pull the curtain shut.

Didn't hide.

She stood in the glow of the streetlamp and whispered into the silence:

"I do imagine you."

"And I hope you never stop watching."

Then she turned and walked slowly back to bed.

Climbed in beside Petar.

Curled under the same blanket she'd soaked with another man's name.

And lay awake for the rest of the night, wide eyed, aching, ruined.

That's when she had another dream of sucking his big fat dick. Before waking up in the morning.

**************************

Mirror Games

Tamara woke with a moan still caught in her throat.

Her sheets were damp.

Between her thighs: sticky heat. Her skin flushed. Her heart beating like a trapped thing.

She sat up sharply in bed, the memory still clinging to her body like sweat.

The dream had been vivid. Too vivid.

Stefan.

His voice in her ear. His hand on her hair. His cock in her mouth while she knelt on their balcony her balcony legs trembling, her moans swallowed by the open night.

And she had loved it. In the dream.

She'd begged for it.

By late morning, Tamara was still restless. She moved through her daily routines like she was underwater.

Coffee. Shower. Laundry half folded. Online class muted while she stared at the screen, unable to focus. Petar had already left for work, and she was left alone with her spiraling thoughts.

It was just a dream, she told herself.

You didn't actually do anything.

But the ache in her core disagreed.

So did the subtle soreness in her jaw imagined or not from the way she'd been sucking him off in her sleep.

She caught herself looking at the dildo hidden beneath her clothes drawer. Her breath caught.

It had started as a joke. A way to "relieve tension." Something harmless, private, naughty in theory but safe.

Now?

Now she couldn't stop thinking about how much it resembled him.

About the elevator.

About the growing bulge pressing into her.

About how she'd gagged on the toy before... and wondered how it compared to the real thing.

Just a little.

Just to feel it.

You're alone. You can stop any time.

She brought the dildo out.

Her hands were trembling as she peeled away the plastic suction base, sticking it firmly to the tall mirror on the far wall of her bedroom.

She adjusted it slowly eye level, angled slightly down.

Just like it would be if someone were standing in front of her.

Her eyes drifted to the window.

Curtains open.

Stefan's apartment still quiet. Curtains drawn.

He's not watching.

She dropped to her knees anyway.

The soft carpet bristled against her skin as she leaned in, eyes locked on the mirror. On the thick, veiny shaft standing upright like it was waiting for her.

She hesitated.

Then opened her mouth.

Just the tip. Slowly, tentatively, letting her lips stretch around it.

Her hand gripped the base. Her other hand pressed to the mirror beside it for balance.

It was warm from her palm, slick from the last time she'd used it.

She pushed her head forward.

Another inch. Then another.

Her lips dragged down the shaft. She inhaled through her nose. The toy filled her mouth in a way that made her eyes water immediately.

She tried to stay calm.

Tried to imagine how it would feel if it were him. If Stefan were watching her now.

Would he pull her hair?

Would he call her a good little slut?

Tamara moaned softly around the toy.

Her jaw ached. She tried to take more.

The mirror reflected everything her flushed cheeks, teary eyes, saliva already dripping from the corners of her mouth.

She pressed forward. Gagged.

Pulled back.

Pressed again.

The second time, her body recoiled. Her throat spasmed.

She gasped and pulled back too quickly, her hand flying to her lips.

Spit stretched in thin strands between her tongue and the thick silicone head.

She stared at herself.

What the fuck are you doing?

The curtain was still open.

Her eyes darted to the window

And that's when she saw it.

A flicker behind Stefan's curtain. Just enough to make her heart seize.

No. No. No

She scrambled up, yanking the dildo from the mirror with a loud pop and tossing it under the bed like it had bitten her.

Her hands flew to the curtains, drawing them shut so fast the fabric tangled.

She stood in the half darkness, chest rising and falling, the sound of her own breathing loud in her ears.

What if he'd seen?

What if he hadn't, but she wanted him to?

"I said I wouldn't do this," she whispered aloud.

But her thighs were sticky.

Her pussy was soaked.

And in the mirror, her reflection looked like someone who had just been fucked senseless.

*****************************

The Delay

Tamara stood in the bathroom with the door locked and her phone clutched like it might start bleeding.

She'd counted again.

And again.

But the days refused to change.

Her period was late.

By five days.

She sat on the toilet, not even needing to pee, just staring at the floor while her heartbeat pounded in her throat. She wasn't panicking yet. She hadn't done anything. Not really.

No sex. No contact. Just...

A dream.

A toy.

A mirror.

A name gasped into the dark like a prayer.

"It's fine," she whispered.

But her body didn't feel fine.

Her breasts had been sore all week, nipples brushing against her bra with electric sting. Her thighs stuck together at night with a wetness that didn't let her sleep. Her stomach cramped not sharply, but low and heavy, like it was preparing for something. Like it knew.

She felt fucked.

She wasn't.

At least not by anyone real.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, the apartment smelled like fresh coffee. Petar had come home early from work something about "mental health hours," a Friday perk. He was out on the balcony, mug in hand, squinting at the sun. His hair was still damp from a shower.

"Hey babe," he called without looking, "Stefan's out too."

Her stomach lurched.

No. Please no.

But when she walked into the living room and glanced toward the sliding door, there he was.

Stefan.

Two balconies away, lean forearms draped over the rail, a cigarette dangling from one hand. Sunglasses perched on his nose. The picture of casual indifference.

Petar leaned out a bit, raising his mug in greeting.

"Hey, man! You're not working today either?"

Stefan lifted his chin. "Half day. Took the rest off."

"Nice. You smoke a lot out here?" Petar asked. "Guess I would too if I had your view."

Stefan's lips curved around the cigarette, but he didn't smile.

"Only when it's worth watching."

Tamara's breath caught.

She should've gone back inside. Hidden. But instead, her feet moved without her permission.

She stepped out onto the balcony.

Slid up behind Petar and wrapped her arms around his waist like it was nothing.

Like she wasn't buzzing with the need to scream.

"Hey," she said, pressing her face into his back.

Petar laughed softly. "Look who's clingy today."

"Mm," she managed. "Just cold."

It was eighty two degrees.

Stefan didn't even glance at her.

He kept his eyes on Petar, like she wasn't there.

Like she was nothing.

Her hands flexed against her boyfriend's stomach. She almost felt sick.

Petar kept talking something about the party tomorrow, asking Stefan if he was coming, saying it'd be good to get neighbors together more. Stefan gave him polite replies, short, cool. His voice didn't change. His gaze never drifted.

Not to her.

Not even once.

Eventually, Petar kissed her forehead and said, "I'm going to top off my coffee. Want some?"

She shook her head.

He went inside.

And for one sharp, humming second, she and Stefan were alone on their separate balconies.

Still, he didn't look at her.

He flicked his cigarette into the wind, turned, and went inside without a word.

Tamara stood frozen, her skin burning.

The rest of the afternoon she tried to watch TV. She couldn't tell you what show.

Every few minutes, she looked up from the couch to the window. To his window.

Stefan didn't reappear. But she imagined he was just out of view. Maybe watching her the way she watched him. Maybe not caring at all.

Both were unbearable.

She shifted on the couch. Her panties clung to her. Her lower belly throbbed, heavy and wet.

She pressed a hand there.

She wasn't pregnant.

She couldn't be.

But it felt like her body had already chosen him.

**********************************

The Calm Before

She got her period three days later.

It came with a dull ache and a wet smear of red on the inside of her underwear that made her sag against the bathroom sink in a messy kind of relief.

The cramps were bad. The bleeding was worse. And yet... she didn't care.

For the first time in days, her body felt like hers again.

No phantom weight. No haunted sensitivity.

Just blood.

Just reality.

Later that night, Petar returned home buzzing.

He dropped his keys on the counter and came straight to her, lifting her off her feet in a surprise hug that made her yelp.

"What are you?"

"I got the promotion."

Her heart thudded. "Wait. Seriously?"

He nodded, grinning like a teenager. "Senior account lead. More hours, better pay, my own team. I start Monday."

She laughed, clutching at him. "That's amazing."

"I want to celebrate," he said, already reaching for his phone. "We should do something. Drinks? Dinner?"

"Whatever you want."

"No, better let's throw a party. Just a little one. Here. Some coworkers, the neighbors, that guy Stefan I was talking to the other day he's cool. You liked him, right?"

Her stomach flipped, but she kept her face smooth.

"Sure," she said lightly. "That sounds nice."

The next few days passed in a blur her cramps are gone she was back to normal.

Tamara was caught in the logistics: grocery lists, wine runs, cleaning every surface, checking their playlist, wiping down the patio chairs even though they probably wouldn't be used. She ordered disposable glasses. Rearranged the fridge. Spent twenty minutes debating whether to light the lavender candles or the spiced ones.

She was busy. Busy enough that she didn't look at Stefan's window.

Didn't check the balcony.

Didn't dare.

Whatever game they had been playing... she needed it quiet. Just for now.

Every time she remembered the look on his face the nothingness her insides twisted.

So she didn't look.

Didn't check.

Didn't wonder if he was watching her lean over the kitchen counter in her sleep shorts.

Didn't think about whether he remembered her lips wrapped around the toy shaped like him.

She pushed it all down.

Party first.

Everything else could burn.

And then, finally, the night arrived.

The doorbell rang.

The first guests stepped in.

***************************

The Party Below the Surface

The apartment was full of bodies and sound.

Music pulsed low through the walls, not loud enough to bother the neighbors, but just enough to hum through the floorboards. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the living room, a mellow celebration in full swing. Petar's promotion had brought together coworkers, friends, and a few neighbors he'd insisted on inviting for "community spirit."

Tamara moved through it all like a ghost in her own skin.

She smiled where she had to. Poured wine. Nodded and laughed in the right places. But her insides were wrapped tight around a single, burning thought:

Stefan is here.

She hadn't expected him.

Petar had waved her over earlier while juggling a tray of drinks.

"Hey babe, remember that guy from across? The cool one we talked to? I invited him."

Her heart had stopped.

"What's his name again?" she asked, as casually as she could.

"Stefan, I think. Cool dude. We should have him over more."

She had smiled, her mouth a lie.

Inside, she was screaming.

Now, Stefan stood near the kitchen, drink in hand, leaning against the counter as he chatted with a couple of Petar's friends. He wore dark jeans and a white button up rolled at the sleeves. Clean. Relaxed. Effortlessly magnetic.

He hadn't looked at her once.

Not once.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Tamara kept to the edges of the party, pretending to busy herself with snacks or tidying napkins. Every time someone walked past her, she tensed, expecting a voice in her ear, a hand grazing her waist, a whisper no one else could hear.

But Stefan stayed where he was.

The restraint was unbearable.

At some point, Petar looped an arm around her waist, clearly tipsy.

"Having fun?" he asked, lips brushing her temple.

Tamara nodded. "Yeah. It's nice."

"Good turnout, huh? I was hoping Stefan would come. I actually think you two have similar senses of humor."

She nearly choked on her drink.

"Mm. Maybe."

Petar kissed her cheek and turned to refill glasses.

She watched him, her heart heavy.

He was being sweet. Warm. Proud. Everything a boyfriend should be.

And yet... her panties were already damp from the memory of her dream.

From the press of Stefan in the elevator.

From the low, knowing voice that still echoed inside her skull.

She made her way to the kitchen eventually, needing a refill. Her hand was steady, but her pulse wasn't.

And as she reached for the wine bottle, a voice cut just behind her.

Low. Quiet.

"Careful. That's the one that makes you loud."

Her body froze.

Stefan.

His breath warm against her neck.

His chest near but not touching her back.

Tamara turned her head slightly, not enough for others to notice, but enough to see the faint smirk on his lips.

"You're not funny," she whispered.

"I wasn't trying to be," he murmured.

Their fingers brushed as he handed her the corkscrew. She nearly dropped it.

"Relax. Everyone here thinks you're the perfect girlfriend."

"Shut up."

"No. Not until you stop pretending you don't like this."

She said nothing. Her silence was admission enough.

Just then, Petar called out from across the room.

"Hey, Stefan! Can you help me with something real quick? Bathroom door won't close all the way sticky hinge, I think."

Stefan gave her a long, slow look. Then smiled politely and walked off toward the hall.

Tamara exhaled.

This is not happening.

Petar's voice followed: "Tamara, can you go show him where it is? I need to keep this game going with the rest of the crew."

Her stomach dropped.

"Sure," she managed to say.

She followed Stefan down the hall, her skin flushed.

When they reached the narrow bathroom, he stepped inside, flipped on the light, and glanced at the door.

"Hinge looks fine to me."

She stood frozen outside the door.

"Tamara."

His voice was quiet now.

Commanding.

"Come in."

She hesitated.

But her feet moved.

She stepped inside.

And the door clicked shut behind her.

************************************

The Bathroom Door

The door clicked shut with a soft, final sound.

Tamara stood frozen between the sink and the tub, back pressed to the cool tiled wall. The music from the party outside was muffled now reduced to a distant pulse, like a heartbeat buried beneath water.

Her chest rose and fell too fast. Too shallow.

Stefan was still near the door, his hand resting lightly on the knob behind him. He didn't move. Didn't speak right away.

He just looked at her.

Really looked.

As if she were something laid out and waiting to be devoured.

Tamara swallowed, but it didn't help.

The air between them felt tight and hot and wildly alive.

His eyes dropped briefly, pointedly to the curve of her chest, to where her nipples pressed against the silk of her champagne dress. Then they rose again, meeting hers with a calm that made her feel unspooled.

"I thought you might not follow me," he said.

"I almost didn't," she whispered.

He smiled. Not kind. Not cruel.

Just... sure.

"You don't want to keep pretending, do you?"

Tamara pressed her palms to the wall behind her, fingers curling.

"This is insane."

"You think I don't know that?"

He took a step forward. And another.

No rush. No hesitation.

He stopped in front of her, so close now she could smell him clean skin, whiskey, and the faint musk of arousal he never bothered to hide.

She tilted her chin up, stubborn. Defiant. Shaking.

"My boyfriend is thirty feet away."

"And I'm right here."

His hand came up. Not aggressive just fingers brushing her cheek, a feather's weight of contact that lit her skin on fire.

Tamara's breath hitched.

"You've been torturing me," she said, voice nearly breaking.

"You've been letting me."

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Because it was true.

Every open window. Every slow movement. Every night she came with his name on her lips while lying beside another man.

It had always been an invitation.

She felt his fingers on her jaw now, tilting her head gently to the side.

His mouth hovered over hers.

"Tell me to stop."

Her lips parted.

But no words came.

And that was all he needed.

He kissed her.

Hard. Deep. No hesitation, no coaxing. His mouth claimed hers like he was erasing time, like he'd been dying for this moment since the first time she stepped into view.

Tamara moaned into him helpless, desperate, angry at herself for how instantly her body gave in. Her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt. His hand slid down to her hip, gripping it firmly, pressing her back against the wall.

He broke the kiss only long enough to breathe her in.

"You taste like wine and guilt," he murmured.

Then his mouth was on her neck sucking, biting lightly at the skin just below her ear. She gasped, her head tipping back as her hips arched toward him.

She felt him hard and ready through his jeans, pressing between her thighs.

"You're soaked," he whispered against her skin. "You came to this party wet for me, didn't you?"

Tamara shook her head. But it was weak. Pointless.

He slipped a hand beneath the hem of her dress, fingers dragging up her thigh. Her panties were lace thin, damp, and utterly unhelpful at hiding anything.

When his fingers slid over the fabric, her knees nearly buckled.

"Fuck "

"Quiet," he murmured, eyes wild now. "Do you want him to hear you?"

That threat real and impossible made her wetter.

His fingers moved faster. Not gentle. Not soft. Just enough to spread her open. To find the heat. The throb. The place only he had ever truly reached, even without touching her.

She clung to his shoulder, biting her lip so hard it hurt.

"You don't even need to cum, do you?" he whispered. "You just need to be *ruined*."

She whimpered.

He kissed her again, messier now teeth catching her bottom lip, hand gripping her ass as he pressed her harder into the wall. Her dress was wrinkled. Her lipstick smeared. Her body trembling.

She didn't care.

He pulled her panties aside, fingers sliding between her folds wet and slick and ready.

And when he pushed two fingers inside her, deep and curling just right, she cried out before she could stop it.

It wasn't loud.

But it wasn't quiet, either.

He didn't stop.

He fucked her slowly with his fingers, thumb circling her clit in rhythm. Every sound outside the bathroom faded to white noise.

"You've been waiting for this," he said softly. "Admit it."

"I can't "

"Say it."

"I shouldn't "

"Say it."

"I wanted this," she breathed, eyes glossy. "I want *you*."

That was enough.

He dropped to his knees.

Right there, on the bathroom floor of her boyfriend's apartment, during his promotion party, surrounded by friends and family, Stefan pushed her dress higher, pulled her panties down to her knees, and buried his face between her thighs.

Tamara choked on a sob one hand clamped over her mouth, the other grasping the edge of the sink behind her.

His tongue was ruthless.

He licked her like he was starving broad, firm strokes over her clit, then dipping lower, deeper, tongue fucking her with obscene precision. She was already close. Too close. The buildup had been happening for weeks.

And now he had her.

Really had her.

She came in less than a minute.

Shuddering, twitching, silent screams muffled into her own fist.

When it was over, he stood.

Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Looked her dead in the eye.

"You taste like everything I've ever wanted."

Then he turned, unlocked the door, and walked out.

Left her standing there panties at her knees, dress bunched at her waist, legs shaking and soaked.

Tamara stared at the closed door for a full thirty seconds before she remembered how to move.

By the time she rejoined the party, Petar was laughing with a drink in hand, talking to someone from work.

Stefan was nowhere in sight.

No one noticed her flushed skin.

No one saw the wreckage.

But inside her?

Everything had changed.

And she knew it would never go back.

*****************************

Starved

He was gone.

No flickering lights behind his blinds.

No dark figure in the window.

No open balcony door cracked just enough to tempt her gaze.

Three days.

Three nights.

Nothing.

It was like Stefan had disappeared.

And Tamara was losing her mind.

At first, she pretended not to notice.

She made coffee. Tidied the apartment. Went out with Petar one night to meet friends. She even laughed once at something dumb and normal and forgettable.

But even then, her eyes flicked up to the sixth floor window every time they stepped back into the building. Every night, she peeked through the curtains like a thief casing her own shame.

Still dark.

And then it began to ache.

A slow burn between her thighs that no amount of fantasizing could satisfy. She tried god, she tried to masturbate, telling herself she didn't need him, didn't need to see him to feel it.

The dildo came out the first night.

But it didn't work.

It filled her, yes. It stretched her open like before. But she couldn't finish. Her body reacted tightened, clenched but the orgasm didn't come. It hovered, cruelly distant, just out of reach.

Like he was holding it hostage.

She tried again the next night.

This time her fingers. Slow, patient, soaked with slick and frustration.

Still nothing.

No release.

No vision of him behind her.

No voice whispering filth into her ear.

Only silence.

By the third night, she was pacing in her bedroom like a caged animal.

Window open. Cool air teasing her bare legs. Her nipples stiff beneath her shirt, pussy aching, her throat dry from gasping at her own reflection.

She thought about the bathroom at Petar's party.

His tongue.

His fingers.

That kiss.

You taste perfect.

I love how you come.

And then... he'd left.

Just like that.

Vanished.

She stood at the window now, braless in a tank top and sleep shorts, her bare feet cold against the floorboards. The light was dim behind her, soft enough that she looked like a silhouette against the pane of glass.

If he was watching...

He'd know.

She wanted him to.

But the opposite apartment was dead. Silent. Dark.

She pressed her forehead to the glass, closed her eyes, and whispered,

"Where the fuck are you?"

Her heart pounded. Her panties were soaked.

And suddenly, something snapped.

Tamara didn't think she just moved.

She stormed into the hallway, barefoot and quiet, wearing only her tank and thin shorts. No bra. No shame.

His floor.

His door.

Stefan's Apartment.

Her pulse was thunder in her ears.

She stared at the plain wood panel for a long, trembling second. Her body screamed at her to knock. Or scream. Or beg.

Instead...

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded scrap of notepad paper she'd been carrying all day, just in case.

A pen followed.

With hands that shook more than she'd admit, she scribbled the words fast. Messy. Barely legible.

Why are you ignoring me?

She stared at it.

Then underlined the last word.

Slid it beneath his door.

Walked away without looking back.

The next morning, it was still early when she cracked the door open.

A breeze stirred through the hallway.

But it wasn't the air that caught her breath it was the small square of paper that had been slid back, halfway under her door.

She dropped to her knees.

Picked it up.

His handwriting. Clean. Blocky. Intentionally distant.

I don't chase.

You come to me. If you really want to do it you come to me i don't want to force you into something you alone cant decide.

She stared at the words.

Her thighs clenched involuntarily.

She swallowed the moan building in her throat.

Because for the first time in her life, she realized what it meant to be starved and how badly she wanted to be fed.

******************************

The Knock

Sunday morning arrived too slowly.

The apartment was quiet again, save for the distant hum of traffic beyond the glass. Petar had left an hour ago early breakfast with his parents, something she had conveniently "forgotten" until it was too late to join.

Tamara moved through the silence like she was waiting for something to fall apart.

She had showered, but it hadn't helped. The heat of the water had only reminded her of Stefan's breath on her skin. She hadn't touched herself. Couldn't. Not after last night. Not after the silence that came afterward. The bathroom. The taste. The power.

She was dripping wet with memory and shame.

She put on a robe. Loose. Thin. Nothing underneath.

And then she sat by the window, pretending to read.

Waiting.

The note she'd slid under his door the night before still echoed in her mind. Four stupid, desperate words. Why are you ignoring me?

No answer had come.

Until now.

A knock.

Three soft raps.

Not urgent. Not polite. Just... inevitable.

Her heart stopped.

She didn't check the peephole.

She knew.

When she opened the door, Stefan stood in the hallway. Calm. Immaculate. He wore a black t shirt stretched tight over his chest and faded jeans. He held nothing. No note. No bag. No expression.

Just eyes that pinned her where she stood.

His gaze drifted downward, to the bare line of her thigh where the robe parted. Then up, slowly, deliberately, to her face.

"Close the door," he said.

She stepped back. Closed it without turning.

Didn't ask if he wanted to come in.

He already had.

Stefan walked past her like he'd been there before. Because he had if not physically, then in every dark part of her body. He glanced around once, expression unreadable. Then turned back to her.

The silence thickened between them.

Then:

"Take it off."

Her throat worked as she swallowed.

She didn't ask why. Didn't say no. She simply reached for the tie and undid it with shaking fingers.

The robe slid off her shoulders and puddled to the floor.

Naked.

Exposed.

Heart hammering.

Her nipples tightened under his gaze, not from cold, but from heat. Shame. Anticipation.

"Say it," he said.

Tamara's voice was barely audible.

"I want to feel pleasure."

He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, but not touching her.

"Then kneel."

Her knees hit the floor almost too quickly.

It wasn't grace. It was surrender.

She knelt on the rug at his feet, eyes level with the bulge in his jeans. Her breathing had gone shallow again, chest rising and falling fast.

He unbuttoned his pants slowly. Pulled himself out.

Thick. Hard. Heavy.

She'd seen it before in her dreams, in shadow, behind windows.

But now it was real. Inches from her mouth.

She whimpered.

"Show me," he said, voice low and steady, "how you practiced with the dildo I sent you."

Tamara flushed instantly deep and full body. Her breath caught. That filthy, unspoken thing between them finally named out loud.

The dildo.

The one she said she never used.

The one she fucked herself on every night for a week straight. On her back. On her knees. Gagging, moaning, shaking while Petar slept inches away.

She couldn't lie now.

Not with Stefan standing there.

Not with his cock already hard and heavy in front of her thicker than anything she'd ever taken, visibly veined, the flushed tip glistening at the crown.

She swallowed hard. Her pussy clenched just from looking at it.

He was... huge.

That same aching stretch she'd tried to train herself for, now real and throbbing before her lips.

Tamara's hand rose tentative, reverent and wrapped around the base of his cock. Her fingers barely touched around him. That realization made her stomach clench with equal parts fear and desire.

She leaned in.

Her lips parted slowly, her tongue flicking out to taste the head salt, skin, heat.

He didn't groan.

Didn't move.

Just stood over her, watching.

Her lashes fluttered.

Then she pushed forward, taking more of him in. Inch by inch.

The head pushed past her lips, then her teeth, then into the tight, slick heat of her mouth. Her jaw ached from the width already, and she'd barely gotten halfway.

Her tongue curled beneath him, working slow and steady along the underside of the shaft. She used both hands now one gripping the base, the other gently guiding, bracing herself against the sheer mass of him.

She gagged once when he bumped the back of her throat, but she didn't stop.

Didn't pull back.

She wanted this.

She wanted to prove she could take him.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

And that's when she saw it.

Not just hunger.

But control.

Possession.

Like he was watching a fantasy made real, watching her become what he always knew she was.

"Good girl," he murmured. "That's it. You can take more."

The praise hit her like a drug.

She moaned around him, the sound muffled and wet.

Saliva began to slide from the corners of her lips, slicking her chin and his cock as she worked him deeper. Her mouth was stretched wide now, jaw already trembling with effort, but she didn't care. She wanted to struggle.

"You love how full your mouth feels, don't you?"

She nodded as best she could, her cheeks flushed and hollowing on every withdrawal.

He groaned, finally quiet but real.

"Fuck. That dildo didn't stretch you like this. You feel every inch of me now, don't you?"

She moaned again. Desperate. Needy.

She pressed in deeper, nose brushing his abdomen, throat spasming as she swallowed around the thickness. Her eyes watered, but she didn't break eye contact.

"You practiced for this. You trained your filthy mouth to fit me."

She whimpered and pulled back for air gasping, spit trailing from her lips to the tip of his cock, glossy and obscene.

Then she dove again. Faster now.

Her hands pumped at the base, her mouth slurping noisily with every pass, saliva coating them both. She sucked him like she meant it, like she needed it. Her thighs squeezed together involuntarily, slick with arousal.

"He doesn't even know, does he?" Stefan murmured, fingers curling into her hair, not yanking, just holding. "While he slept next to you, you were choking on this toy... thinking of me."

She moaned around him broken, helpless.

"He has no idea how fucking filthy you are."

Her lips slipped down his length again, messier now, less technique and more raw need. She gagged once, hard, spit running freely down her chin.

He watched every second of it.

"God, look at you," he breathed. "Tears in your eyes, throat stretched around my cock... and you fucking love it."

She let him go with a loud pop, drool still connecting her bottom lip to the flushed, pulsing head.

She looked up at him.

Eyes glassy. Mouth ruined. Chin soaked.

Her voice trembled, barely a whisper:

"He doesn't know anything."

"But I do."

He pulled her up fast, rough.

Kissed her hard, hand tangled in her damp hair. His other hand slid down between her legs and groaned into her mouth when he felt it.

"Fucking soaked."

He pushed her backward until the backs of her knees hit the couch.

She fell into it legs parting instinctively, already soaked. Her breath caught in her throat.

Stefan didn't speak.

He didn't undress.

Didn't hesitate.

He gripped her thighs hard his fingers biting into soft skin and dragged her down until her ass was barely on the cushion. Her heels planted wide on the floor. Her pussy was exposed, glistening, hungry. His cock slick from her mouth pressed against her entrance.

"No condom," she whispered, the last sliver of hesitation clinging to her voice.

He looked at her, calm and unreadable.

"Are you on the pill?"

She nodded. "Yes."

His smirk was slow. Dark.

"Perfect."

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

"Then you already know what happens next."

And then he pushed in.

No warning.

Just one long, brutal thrust buried to the hilt.

Tamara cried out loud, broken. Her hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in. The stretch was unreal. He was too thick, too deep, splitting her open like she was made for this. For him.

"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, you're "

"Bigger than you imagined?" he growled into her neck. "You trained your mouth. But this this pussy's mine now."

Her walls clenched involuntarily around him. Her whole body trembled.

Guilt and pleasure crashed into each other inside her chest. Petar's face flashed behind her eyes his laugh, his hands, his softness and she shoved it away.

Because nothing had ever felt like this.

Not this depth. Not this possession. Not this utter ruin.

Stefan pulled back slowly drawing out, dragging against her slick heat then slammed back in. Hard. Deep.

Tamara arched with a cry. Her tits bounced with the impact.

"This is how you should've been fucked," he said, his voice rough, unrelenting. "Not gently. Not sweetly. *Used.*"

"Yes..." she moaned, head thrown back.

"Say it again."

"I want to feel pleasure."

"No," he growled, slapping her thigh sharp and sudden. "Say what you really want."

"I want to be *used*."

"That's what I fucking thought."

He shifted, grabbed her ankles, threw her legs over his shoulders and bent her in half. The new angle hit something dangerous her body seized, thighs trembling. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

"God, this cunt just *milks* me," he hissed. "So fucking tight."

She clawed at the couch cushions, sobbing open mouthed into the air.

"Please "

"Please what?"

"Harder please don't stop "

He fucked her harder.

Loud, skin slapping, brutal thrusts that shook the frame of the couch. He slapped her ass again, again until it stung. Her skin lit up, pain laced with dizzying pleasure.

"You're going to remember this," he said, panting. "Every time he fucks you soft, you'll remember how I *wrecked* you."

And then he pulled out.

She gasped empty, dripping, twitching.

"Hands and knees," he ordered.

She scrambled to obey, dizzy, fucked stupid, limbs shaking.

He grabbed her by the hips, yanked her back toward him. No mercy.

Then he slid back in one long, forceful thrust from behind.

Tamara screamed.

"Good girl," he breathed, hand fisting in her hair. "Take all of it."

He didn't slow.

He fucked her hard animalistic, skin against skin, one hand around her throat now, pulling her head back. She could barely breathe. Couldn't moan. Couldn't do anything but feel.

His cock was relentless deep, thick, heavy with intent. His grip tightened around her throat just enough to make her brain buzz, her pussy clench. Her world narrowed to heat, to pain, to stretch, to the way he owned her body like it had never belonged to anyone else.

"You were made for this," he said against her ear. "Made to be filled. Used. *Bred.*"

She came again.

A sudden, feral explosion pussy clenching around him, legs giving out, vision whiting at the edges. She collapsed onto the cushions, sobbing into them.

He didn't stop.

He chased his own pleasure through her quaking body.

"You want my cum?"

"Yes yes inside "

"Say it."

"I want you to cum *inside* me."

And with a guttural growl, he did.

He buried himself deep, hips grinding against her ass, cock twitching as he came hard thick, hot, flooding her.

Tamara collapsed fully now face pressed to the cushions, legs spread, ass raised, thighs slick and shaking.

He stayed inside her for a few long seconds, panting, unmoving.

And when he pulled out, her body stayed open.

Slick with cum, raw and wet, twitching.

Stefan stood behind her. Watching.

Possessive. Calm.

Then he stepped back. Zipped up. Tucked himself away.

"Clean yourself up," he said, voice cool again.

And he walked out.

The door didn't slam.

It clicked quietly shut.

And Tamara remained exactly where he left her naked, dripping, filled.

Staring blankly at the couch cushion beneath her face.

Her robe still in a puddle on the floor.

And for the first time, she didn't move to get dressed.

Because her body was saying everything she couldn't.

I'm yours now.

*****************************

Love or Lust

Tamara woke slowly.

Her body ached.

Not in the way it usually did after sleep, but in that bruised, hollow, filled way that made her thighs clench instinctively. Her cunt was still tender raw from use, stretched in a way no amount of practice could have prepared her for.

She was alone in the apartment. The sun had climbed high mid morning light sliced through the curtains, painting everything in that washed out glow that made real life look surreal.

The couch beneath her was a mess of rumpled cushions and dried sweat.

Her robe still lay on the floor where Stefan left it.

Her legs were parted. Her skin tacky from dried arousal and cum. She hadn't moved since he left.

Clean yourself up, he'd said.

But she hadn't.

She couldn't.

She'd lain there, drifting in and out of a half sleep, half shock state body limp, heart pounding, the silence roaring too loudly to hide in. Her fingers had skimmed her inner thighs once or twice, not with lust but disbelief, as if she needed proof she hadn't dreamed it.

She hadn't.

Her pussy was still leaking him. Still twitching with phantom strokes. Still holding the shape of him inside.

And her mouth... her mouth tasted like sin.

The sound of keys in the front door snapped her awake.

Panic set in hard and fast.

She bolted upright, pain blooming through her hips. She scrambled to her feet, robe in hand, barely managing to wrap it around her body before the door opened and Petar walked in.

Smiling.

Whistling softly.

Holding a paper bag.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said cheerfully, closing the door behind him. "I brought croissants."

Tamara's stomach twisted.

Her face burned.

"Hey," she managed, voice rough.

"You sleep on the couch?" he asked, stepping into the kitchen, setting the bag down. "Did I kick you too hard again? Sorry, babe."

She nodded. Lied.

"Yeah, I just needed space. You were flailing."

He laughed.

"That sounds like me. Jesus, you okay? You look like you ran a marathon."

Tamara turned away, busying herself at the sink.

"Just tired. Didn't sleep well."

She caught her reflection in the microwave door.

Hair tangled. Lips swollen. A faint red mark across her throat.

Choking.

Her thighs squeezed together, involuntarily.

The pressure between her legs wasn't pain anymore.

It was heat. Lingering. Dangerous.

"Come here," Petar said gently.

She turned. He stepped in, wrapping his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. Warm. Familiar.

And utterly, impossibly wrong.

"I missed you this morning," he said, pressing a kiss to her neck.

She froze.

Because Stefan had kissed her there too.

Bit her. Marked her.

Claimed her.

And she couldn't scrub it off.

Not with soap. Not with time.

"I missed you too," she whispered.

A lie.

Petar turned her gently in his arms. Brushed a thumb along her cheek.

"You sure you're okay? You're acting kind of quiet."

Tamara blinked, forced a smile.

"I'm just tired. Last night was a lot."

"Yeah," he said, grinning. "Great party, huh?"

She nodded.

He leaned in and kissed her.

Soft. Innocent.

Her lips parted automatically.

But all she could think of was Stefan's mouth bruising, devouring, unapologetic. How she'd begged for it. How she'd opened her legs like it was a prayer. How she'd gagged on his cock, whispered filthy things she would never let Petar hear.

*He came inside me.*

The thought screamed in her head.

And Petar kissed her like nothing had changed.

Because to him, nothing had.

But to her?

Everything was different now.

Everything was ruined.

Later, she sat at the kitchen table, picking at her croissant.

Petar chatted beside her, animated, telling a story about his coworker's dog getting loose at the café.

Tamara nodded in the right places.

Smiled when she should.

Laughed softly.

But her mind was somewhere else.

Not just back in the living room.

Not just bent over the couch.

But across the courtyard. In the apartment with no lights on. With Stefan's scent still in her hair. With his cum still dripping from her pussy.

Her thighs pressed together under the table, subtly.

She bit into the pastry and chewed slowly.

Her body still remembered how full she'd felt.

Still missed it.

Still wanted it again.

That night, after dinner, after dishes, after Netflix and quiet kisses, they went to bed.

Petar undressed. Brushed his teeth. Crawled under the sheets.

"Come to bed," he called softly.

Tamara stood in the doorway for a long moment.

The bedroom felt cold.

Like a place she didn't belong anymore.

She crossed the room. Slipped out of her robe. Climbed in beside him.

He curled around her, like he always did.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" he whispered.

Tamara stared at the ceiling.

"No," she lied again.

"I missed you."

She hesitated.

Then:

"I missed you too."

Another lie.

And when Petar drifted off beside her, warm breath brushing her neck, she lay perfectly still eyes open, cunt aching.

And all she could think about was Stefan.

About his hands.

His voice.

The way her body opened for him like it had never opened for anyone else.

Across the courtyard, a light flicked on.

His window.

Only for a second.

Long enough for her to see the silhouette of his body pass across the frame.

Then it went dark again.

But it was enough.

Enough to remind her:

She wasn't his girlfriend.

She was his possession.

And her body had already chosen.

She turned back toward her window, still bare beneath her robe, pulse steady now. Steady in the way only surrender can bring.

Then movement again.

This time, not just a shadow.

Stefan stepped onto his balcony.

He wore nothing but a loose shirt, unbuttoned. A glass of red wine in his hand, cradled like it belonged there like she did.

He looked directly at her window.

Not frantic.

Not performative.

Just calm.

Deliberate.

He raised his glass in a slow, lazy toast. Just a few inches. No smile. No wave.

But it wasn't for anyone else.

Only she noticed.

Only she understood.

Tamara stood in the window's glow.

Naked beneath silk.

Watched.

Owned.

And she smiled.

A soft, wicked little thing.

Then nodded once.

An answer.

A vow.

Yes. I know.

And then he turned.

Disappeared inside.

The light went off.

It felt like a secret pact they had to cherish.