I still remember the first time I saw her, standing on the porch of the house next door with a box of books in her arms and the sun catching the edges of her dark hair. I was twenty-four, just moved in after a breakup that left me raw and restless, and she was twenty-one, fresh out of college and renting the place on her own. We waved. That was all at first. Small waves, polite smiles across the fence line while I mowed the lawn and she watered her tomatoes. But the heat that summer was thick and constant, the kind that made clothes feel like an afterthought, and soon our conversations stretched longer. She would lean on the fence in cutoff shorts and a thin tank top, telling me about her job at the bookstore, her voice low and a little husky when she laughed. I started noticing how her nipples pressed against the fabric when the breeze hit, how her thighs flexed when she shifted her weight. Confession time: I jerked off thinking about her more nights than I can count, imagining what it would feel like to peel those shorts down and bury my face between her legs right there against the fence.
One Friday night the power went out on the block. She knocked on my door holding a candle and a bottle of wine, saying her place was too quiet and she hated being alone in the dark. We sat on my couch drinking straight from the bottle, the candle flickering across her collarbones. She told me she had noticed me watching her. Not in a creepy way, she said, but like she wanted me to keep watching. Her knee brushed mine and stayed there. I leaned in and kissed her, slow at first, tasting the wine on her tongue, then deeper when she climbed into my lap. Her shorts were already damp when my hand slid between her thighs. She rocked against my fingers while I sucked on her neck, whispering how long she had wanted this. I carried her to the bedroom, stripped her slowly in the candlelight, and spent the next hour with my mouth on her pussy, learning exactly how she liked to be licked—soft circles at first, then firmer when her hips started bucking. She came twice before she pulled me up and guided me inside her, tight and hot and so wet I had to pause to keep from finishing right away. We fucked like we had been waiting months instead of weeks, her legs locked around my back, nails digging into my shoulders while she moaned my name.
After that night the fence between our yards stopped mattering. She would text me when she got home from work, and I would find her already naked on my bed or bent over my kitchen counter. One afternoon she showed up in a sundress with nothing underneath, dropped to her knees in my living room, and took me in her mouth so deep her eyes watered. I fucked her throat until she pulled back gasping, spit trailing down her chin, then flipped her onto the couch and took her from behind while she reached back to spread herself for me. The sounds she made were filthy—wet, needy, begging me not to stop. Another time we tried the shower, her hands braced on the tile while I held her hips and drove into her, water streaming over both of us. She came so hard her legs gave out and I had to hold her up, still thrusting until I filled her.
The best nights were the slow ones. She would come over after dark wearing one of my old shirts and nothing else. We would start on the couch with long kisses, my hands exploring every inch of her skin, then move to the bedroom where she would straddle me and ride me at her own pace. She liked to lean down and whisper in my ear—how full she felt, how she could feel me throbbing inside her, how she wanted me to come deep so she could feel it dripping out of her later.
I learned she loved when I talked back, telling her what a good girl she was for taking every inch, how pretty her pussy looked stretched around me. Sometimes she would reach down and rub her clit while I fucked her, coming with a long, shaking moan that always pushed me over the edge.
By the end of that summer we had a rhythm that felt almost domestic in the most obscene way. She would leave her window cracked some nights and I would climb through like a teenager, finding her already wet and waiting. We tried everything we could think of: her riding my face until she soaked the sheets, me tying her wrists to the headboard with my belt while I teased her for hours, quickies in the hallway when one of us was supposed to be leaving for work. The last time we were together before she moved for a new job, we stayed up all night. She let me take her ass for the first time, slow and careful at first, then deeper once she relaxed and started pushing back against me. I reached around to stroke her clit and she came so intensely she sobbed my name into the pillow. Afterward we lay tangled and sweaty, her head on my chest, and she confessed she had started writing down everything we did in a little notebook she kept under her mattress. She called them her neighbor girl sex stories. I kissed her forehead and told her I hoped she kept adding to them.
She moved two weeks later. We still text sometimes, late at night, trading memories and new fantasies. I kept the fence repaired and the lawn mowed, but the house next door never felt the same. Every time I pass her old bedroom window I remember the way the light used to catch on her skin, and I smile, because those stories are still mine too.
