Next Door's First Fuck

I was twenty-two, three weeks out of college, the summer I finally let the man next door fuck me. My name is Magda. I want that on the record because I am done pretending this was an accident. Felix was twenty-four, a software engineer who worked from home in the little gray house beside mine, and he had been under my skin since the week he moved in. Six months. Half a year of waves that lasted too long and conversations over the backyard fence that left my panties ruined. We were adults. I paid my own rent. He had a job and a beard he forgot to trim and a mouth I watched while he talked about deploys I did not understand. Nothing about the wanting was unclear. We just took our time being cowards about it.

Those months were a slow, mean kind of heat. I timed my coffee for his kitchen light. I lingered at the mailbox in a tank top and felt his eyes drop and snap back up, guilty and starving. Over the fence we talked about nothing that mattered. His build had failed. My mom had mailed sheets I did not need. His tomatoes were doing better than mine. I rested my arms on the sun-warm wood and let my shirt gape, and he looked, and I let him look. Every sentence sat on top of the sentence we were not saying.

I went inside after those talks and locked my door and got myself off with two fingers and his name in my mouth. I pictured his forearms when he carried groceries, the line of his throat when he laughed, short and surprised. I was a virgin. Not a story I told people, not a shrine I kept. College had been books and a roommate who brought boys home while I put on headphones. I had kissed. I had let a hand under my shirt once and decided I did not want that hand. I wanted his. I had wanted it since I was already twenty-two and he was already the quiet man next door, and I am not interested in dragging the wanting back any further than that.

He noticed. A man who spent his days hunting bugs noticed patterns. My waves got longer. My questions got dumber. I asked what he was building and then stopped listening because I was watching his mouth. When the heat hit he started coming outside without a shirt, and I started finding reasons to be in the yard. We were two grown people circling a couch we had not sat on, me throbbing, him shifting his weight so I could see the shape of him in his pants if I was brave enough to look. Once he caught me. He did not smile. He held my eyes until I flushed down my chest and said, low, "You keep doing that." I said, "Doing what?" He said, "Looking at me like you already know how this ends." I laughed too bright and went inside and came so hard I bit the pillow. That was the week before. By the night it happened I was finished being careful.

The evening was humid enough to taste. The air sat on my skin like a wet sheet. I was barefoot on my back step with a glass of ice water sweating in my hand when I heard his screen door and looked up and there he was, shirtless in his yard, gray sweatpants low on his hips, a sheen on his chest from whatever he had been doing with the hose. Twenty-four. Engineer. Neighbor. The man I had been fucking in my head for half a year. He saw me see him. He did not reach for a shirt. He just lifted a hand, that same half-wave, and the look on his face said he knew exactly what the missing shirt was doing to me.

I heard my own voice before I decided to use it. "Felix. Come over. I've got a cold drink if you want one."

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, "Yeah. I want one." He came through the side gate like he had been waiting for the invitation since winter. Up close he smelled like sun and clean sweat and the soap he used, and I had to grip the glass so I would not put my hand on his stomach. I led him into my kitchen because outside felt too open for what my body was already doing. I poured him something cold. We stood at the counter. We tried the old script. Weather. Work. The tomatoes. It lasted about four minutes.

"You've been looking at me," he said.

"You've been letting me."

"I have." His eyes stayed on mine. "Magda. I'm not confused about what I want. I need to know you're not confused either."

My heart was a fist. My cunt was worse. I set the glass down so he could see my hands were steady. "I'm twenty-two. I know what I'm asking. I've never done this. Any of it. Not really. And I want it to be you. I've wanted it to be you for months. If you want that, say so. If you don't, drink your drink and go home and I'll stop waving like an idiot."

He exhaled like I had hit him. "I have wanted you since the second week. Since you leaned on that fence in a white shirt and asked me if I knew how to keep basil alive and I forgot every word I knew. I didn't push because you seemed careful, and I liked you careful. I don't want a maybe. I want you sure."

"I'm sure." I stepped in until my breasts brushed his bare chest through my thin top. "I want you to kiss me. I want you to teach me. I want you to fuck me. Tonight. Here. And I want you to stop if I say stop, and I will not say stop unless I mean it. Is that clear enough?"

"Clear," he said, and his voice had gone rough. "Tell me again that you want my mouth on you."

"I want your mouth on me. I want your cock. I want you to come inside me when I ask. I am asking now, in advance, so you hear it while I'm still dressed."

He kissed me then, hard, one hand in my hair and the other spread wide on my lower back, pulling me up against the thick line of him in those sweatpants. I made a sound I did not recognize. He tasted like the cold drink and heat. I opened for him and he took the invitation, tongue slow and then not slow, and I clutched his shoulders and felt how solid he was, how real, not the version I had been grinding on in the dark. We stumbled to the couch because my knees had opinions. He sat and pulled me into his lap and I went, straddling him, my cotton shorts riding up, his hands under my shirt at once, palms hot on my ribs.

"Still sure?" he asked against my mouth.

"Don't ask me that like I'm going to spook. Ask me because you like hearing it."

"I like hearing it."

"Then hear it. I want this. I want you. Take my shirt off."

He did. No bra. The air hit my nipples and they tightened so fast it almost hurt, and he looked at them like he had been imagining the exact color. "Fuck, Magda." He ducked his head and sucked one into his mouth, tongue flat, then the other, and I rocked on the ridge of his cock and felt the wet of my panties drag against him. His hands were careful and greedy at the same time. He kept checking my face. I kept nodding, panting, telling him yes, there, harder, don't stop. When I shoved my hand down between us and wrapped it around him through the sweatpants he groaned into my tit and his hips jerked.

"Bedroom or here?" he said.

"Here first. I want to see you. I want to learn you before you put me on my back."

We got his pants down. I had never held a cock that was hard for me. He was thick, hot, the head already wet, and I stared because I wanted to remember the first look. "You can touch," he said. "However you want. I'll tell you if something's too much. You tell me the same."

I wrapped my fingers around him and stroked, clumsy, fascinated by the way the skin moved and the way his stomach jumped. He hissed and put his hand over mine, not to take over, just to show me a grip, a pace. "Like that. Yeah. You don't have to be fancy."

I slid off his lap onto the rug between his knees because I had decided, somewhere between the kitchen and the couch, that I was going to put my mouth on him before I lost my nerve to curiosity. "I want to suck you," I said. "I've never done it. Go slow with me. Let me figure it out. But I want it."

"Then take your time." He spread his thighs and rested one hand on the back of the couch, the other hovering near my hair without grabbing. "I'm not going anywhere. Use your tongue. Watch your teeth. If you need to stop, you stop. I will not be disappointed. I will be inside your mouth either way in my head for the rest of my life."

I laughed, breathless, and leaned in. The smell of him was stronger there, salt and skin. I licked the head first, experimental, and the taste was bitter-salt and not bad. He swore quietly. I did it again, flatter, then closed my lips around him and took what I could, which was not much, and hollowed my cheeks the way I had read about and immediately had to pull off to breathe and laugh at myself. "Okay. That was terrible."

"That was not terrible." His voice was wrecked. "Do it again. Slower. You don't have to take it deep. I like watching you learn it."

So I learned it. I licked up the underside, curious, mapping the vein, the ridge, the place that made his thigh jump when I pressed my tongue there. I sucked the head and stroked what I could not fit, and when spit ran down my chin I did not wipe it because the look on his face said he liked the mess. He talked me through it in that low engineer voice gone filthy. "A little tighter. Yeah. Tongue under the head. God, Magda, look at you. Such a hungry little mouth for a girl who said she'd never done this." I looked up at him with my lips stretched around his cock and he groaned like I had punched the air out of him. "Eyes. Keep them on me. That's it. Fuck, you're perfect. Curious little virgin on her knees for the neighbor. You like the taste?"

I pulled off, strings of spit connecting my lip to him, and said, "I like that it's you. I like how heavy you feel. I want more, but my jaw—"

"Then stop. Come here." He hauled me up and kissed me, tasting himself, not shy about it. "My turn. I have been thinking about eating you out since March. Lie back. Tell me what feels good. I want your first orgasm on my mouth, and I want you loud."

I shimmied out of my shorts and panties, suddenly aware of how wet I was, the shine on my thighs. He looked and his cock jumped. "Jesus. All that from sucking me?"

"All that from six months," I said, and lay back on the couch, one leg over the back, the other foot on the floor, open for him because I had decided shame was a waste of the night. He settled between my thighs and just breathed on me for a second, and I whimpered. Then his tongue was on me, broad and slow, from my entrance up to my clit, and my whole body tried to fold. "Felix—"

"I've got you." He licked again, patient, learning me the way I had learned him. He sucked my clit gently, then firmer when my hips chased him, and slid one finger into me, careful, watching my face. I was tight. I told him so. He said, "I know. We'll go at your speed. Does this hurt?"

"No. It's full. It's good. More tongue. Please. I want to come. I've never come with anyone. I want it to be your mouth."

He gave me his mouth like it was a job he intended to finish. Two fingers eventually, curling, his tongue relentless on my clit, his free hand pinning my hip when I thrashed. I babbled. I told him yes, there, don't you dare stop, I'm close, I'm so close, Felix, please. The orgasm hit like a wire snapping. I came with a shocked cry, thighs clamping his head, cunt pulsing around his fingers, and he stayed on me through it, licking softer as I shook, groaning into me like my pleasure was feeding him. When I pushed at his hair because it was too much he lifted his face, mouth shining, eyes dark, and said, "That was one. You want my cock now, or do you need a minute?"

"I want it. I want to be on top. I want to control how deep, at least at first. Then you can put me where you want me."

"Condom's in my wallet if you want it. You said you wanted me to come inside. I need you to say the real-time version, not the dressed version."

"I'm on the pill. I want you bare. I want you to come in me. I'm saying it now, naked, still shaking. Fuck me."

He sat back and I climbed on, knees on the cushions, one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching down to fit him against me. The head nudged my entrance and I had to breathe. He held my hips and did not pull. "You sit. You take it. I'll stay still until you tell me to move."

I sank. Slow. The stretch burned in a bright, good way, inch by inch, my body arguing and then yielding. I gasped and he swore and his fingers dug in but he did not thrust. "Okay?"

"Big. God, you're big. Don't move. Let me—" I rocked, experimentally, and the burn eased into a deep ache that made my eyes roll. I took more. Then more. When I was seated fully I froze, stuffed, trembling, and looked at him. "I'm not a virgin anymore."

"No," he said, voice shredded. "You're sitting on my cock in your living room, and you look like you were made for it. Move when you want. Use me."

I rode him. Awkward at first, then greedy, finding a grind that rubbed my clit against him and a bounce that made me gasp every time he bottomed out. He watched my tits, my face, the place where he disappeared into me, and he talked. "Look at you taking it. First cock and you're already milking me. Such a pretty little neighbor slut, waving at me for months with this cunt empty. You feel how wet you are? That's all you. That's months of looking at me over the fence. Ride it. Yeah. Just like that. Fuck, Magda, you're going to make me lose it if you keep clenching."

"I want to see your face when you come," I panted, "but not yet. I want you on top. I want you deep. I want to watch you while you fuck me properly."

He nodded, jaw tight, and we shifted. He laid me back, hooked one of my knees over his elbow, and slid back in with a slow, devastating thrust that punched a moan out of me. Missionary. Eye to eye. Nothing to hide behind. He started to move, deep and steady, and I locked my arms around his neck and did not look away. Every thrust shoved a sound out of me. He kept asking, wordless at first, then, "Good? This deep okay? You want harder?"

"Harder. I can take it. I want to feel it tomorrow when I see you in the yard. Look at me. Don't close your eyes. I want you looking at me when you fill me."

He fucked me like that, forehead nearly on mine, eyes open, cock driving deep, the wet sound of us obscene in the quiet house. I was climbing again, shocking myself, the angle hitting something that made my vision spark. "Felix—I'm going to come. Come with me. Come inside me. I want it. I want your cum in my cunt. Please. Please, give it to me, I've been empty for you for months, fill me up, don't pull out, I want every drop—"

"Fuck—Magda—" He slammed deep and stayed there, and I broke, coming around him with a wail, and he followed with a raw groan, hips jerking, pulsing inside me, hot spurts I could feel, his eyes locked on mine the whole time like he was branding the moment into both of us. We shook through it. He kept grinding, shallow, working the last of it into me while I clenched and sobbed his name and told him yes, yes, stay in, I can feel you coming, don't waste it.

He did not gather me up like something precious. He stayed braced over me, still hard enough to keep me plugged, and looked down at the mess. "Push it out a little. I want to see it."

I did, filthy and obedient and still twitching, and a thick white trickle slid out around his cock onto the cushion. He dragged his thumb through it and pushed it back in beside his shaft, and I gasped. "Greedy," he said. "Good. Shower. I'm not done using this hole, and I want you standing up when I fuck the rest of it deeper."

We stumbled to the bathroom still joined for two steps before he slipped out and cum ran down my thigh. Under the water he did not wash me like a lover putting me back together. He bent me against the tile, kicked my feet apart, and slid back into the sloppy heat of me while the spray hit my back. "Still want it?"

"Yes. Fuck me. Use your cum as lube. I want to be dripping when I walk past your fence tomorrow."

He hammered into me, one hand on my throat—not squeezing, just holding, asking with his eyes, and I nodded and he held firmer—and he talked in my ear until I was sobbing and coming again, weak and filthy. "Next time I see you waving in those little shorts I'm going to call you over and bend you over the rail and pump you full where the tomatoes can watch. You're my next-door cumdump now. Say it."

"I'm your next-door cumdump," I gasped, and came so hard my knees buckled, and he followed with a grunt, grinding in, adding another load to the first, and the last thing I said, forehead on the tile, his cock still jerking inside me, was, "Don't you dare wash it out—leave me stuffed and leaking, neighbor, and fuck it back in when it runs."