Soft In All Right Places – Way 4 – I Let Him Watch

Before deciding where university would take me, I chose something simpler.
Time. And money of my own.

I wanted to work for the summer, earn enough to breathe, to feel independent, to delay choosing a future before I was ready to carry it.

My father’s younger sister left for a two-month business trip, and her apartment sat empty in a bigger city not far from ours. Close enough to feel safe. Far enough to feel new.

I could stay there.
Find work.
Disappear just a little, without anyone calling it escape.

The apartment was nothing special.

Second floor. One bedroom. Slanted floors and a bathroom sink that never drained properly. The windows rattled when it rained. The stove made a clicking noise before it caught fire, like it had to think about it.

But it was mine for 2 months.

No roommates. No parents. No bunk beds or sign-in sheets or shared bathrooms.

Just me.

And the window.

It faced another building – old, brick, with peeling paint and crooked blinds in every window. The gap between us was maybe six feet. Just enough to hear someone cough if their window was open. Just enough to see.

I first noticed him on a Wednesday. Or maybe Thursday.

It was late. After eleven. I was eating cereal out of a mug in the kitchen wearing nothing but a T-shirt and underwear, one sock on, hair damp from the shower.

I looked up and there he was.

Second floor, just like me.
Kitchen light behind him.
A cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.

He didn’t look away when I saw him.
But he didn’t stare, either.

Just stood there. Still. Calm. Like the smoke was more important than me.

I froze. One hand on the mug.
The other hanging useless at my side.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t turn off the light.

Eventually, I did.

The next night, he was there again.

Same time. Same spot.

No cigarette this time. Just standing. Watching.
Not like he was trying to catch me.
Like he was waiting to see if I showed up again.

I did.

I stood by the window in the dark, lights off behind me.
Bare legs. Tank top. Nothing underneath.

He didn’t wave.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t blink, as far as I could tell.

The light behind him stayed on.

So did mine, inside my chest.
It started as a dare.

Not his.

Mine.

A question whispered inside my own body, low and warm and curious:

What if I didn’t move away?

The next night was thick with heat. I’d just kicked off my shorts and pulled a cold soda from the fridge, half-naked and humming something I didn’t know the words to. The curtain stirred behind me in the breeze.

When I turned to look, he was already there.

Second floor. Opposite window. Leaning against the frame with his arms crossed this time. No cigarette. No drink. Just standing in the yellow light of his kitchen.

Watching.

Or maybe not watching. Just… there.

My hand hesitated at the hem of my tank top.

Then slid beneath it.

I didn’t undress.

I didn’t pose.

I just leaned against the cool edge of the windowsill and let my fingers drift under my underwear, testing how wet I already was.

It surprised me.

My breath caught. My thighs tensed.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t react.
He could’ve looked away.
He didn’t.

That silence…that stillness…fed me.

I rubbed slow circles over my clit, lazy at first. Not performance. Not show.

Need.

The kind that grew in layers. Heat. Pressure. Pulse.

I pressed my cheek to the window frame, my palm flat on the glass, and let my other hand keep working, slower now. Deeper.

His light stayed on.

His face in shadow.

My hips rocked forward. I bit the inside of my lip hard enough to taste metal.

And when I came, when it hit, fast and hot and sharp, didn’t close my eyes.

I looked right at him.

Right into the dark shape across the alley.

And when it passed, when my body sagged against the window and my thighs trembled, when my breath came back ragged and real –

He was still there.

Just watching.

Like nothing had happened.

And everything had.

The night after, I didn’t pretend it was an accident.

I turned off the overhead light and left the desk lamp on low – warm, golden, the kind of light that made skin glow but left corners in shadow.

I didn’t wear anything under the hoodie.

No panties. No bra.
Just the soft scratch of cotton against bare skin, my breath already shallow before I even pulled the curtain back.

And there he was.

Same window. Same man. Same stillness.

He didn’t step closer.

He didn’t lean back.

He just stood in that square of light like it belonged to him. Or me. Or both of us.

This time, I didn’t touch myself at the window.

I sat on the edge of the bed, facing it.

Facing him.

And slowly, quietly, I unzipped the hoodie.

My chest rose and fell as the fabric slipped from my shoulders.

I didn’t rush.
I didn’t pose.

I just let him see.

I spread my knees slightly and ran my hand down my stomach, over my hip, between my legs. I was already wet. Already pulsing. The cool air on my skin only made it worse.

Better.

I dipped two fingers into myself and sighed, loud enough for me to hear it echo off the bedroom walls.

He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t reach for anything.
Didn’t even shift his weight.

He just watched.

And I let him.

My other hand slid up to my breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until it tightened. I moved in rhythm now. Circles, pressure, that steady build I’d taught myself over the last few months.

But this time, it wasn’t private.

This time, it was shared.

Not with words. Not with touch.
Just with knowing.

I moaned once, quiet, but real.

My body curled in on itself as I came, harder than I expected, thighs flexing, stomach twitching, neck arched. I let it roll through me until I had nothing left.

And when I opened my eyes – 

He was still there.

Still.

Present.

Watching.

I stayed there for a long time after.

Breathless. Legs open. Hand wet against my thigh.

My skin buzzed, not just from the orgasm, but from being seen.

Not imagined.
Not remembered.
Seen.

I stood slowly. My knees were weak, and my pulse throbbed behind my ears.

But I didn’t reach for the hoodie.

I didn’t hide.

I walked to the window naked, my chest flushed, my stomach rising and falling, my thighs still slick from where my fingers had been.

The light across the alley hadn’t changed.

And neither had he.

He stood exactly as he had before.

Watching.

Still.

Like the moment belonged to both of us.

I looked at him. Just looked.
Not shy.
Not proud.
Just… open.

I didn’t wave.

I didn’t smile.

I didn’t move to make him feel comfortable.

I let him see what I looked like when I was done.

What I looked like when I didn’t want to be anyone’s fantasy.

Just real.

Just full.

Just mine.

Then, without a word, I reached up and drew the curtain closed.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just… finished.

Not because I was ashamed.Because I was satisfied.

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