The Window and
the Sill

I’ve trained him like a stray — every night I leave the bathroom light off, the door cracked just enough for him to watch me from across the courtyard. He’s always there, shirt half-open, hand moving slow to match mine. I step into the frame, let the towel drop, and take myself apart exactly the way I know he likes: open, unhurried, eyes locked on his silhouette. When I come it’s with my forehead pressed to the cool glass, and five minutes later his weight finds me on the fire escape. He doesn’t knock. He only pushes my window higher, lifts me onto the sill, and sinks into me in one deep, claiming thrust while the neon hum of the city breathes below. I’m still clenching around him when he turns us, bends me over my desk, and drives into me again — slow this time, hand flat on my spine, teaching me patience with every inch. I beg him to finish inside me and he does, then stays there, still hard, still watching the dark doorway behind me like he’s daring someone to walk in. He covers my mouth with his palm and whispers against my ear: 'I want you to come again, and I want everyone in this building to hear you.' He doesn't let me muffle it this time — he holds me open and nuzzles into my neck as I break apart all over his cock. Afterward he carries me to my own bed, cleans me slowly with his tongue, and asks if he can stay until morning. I tell him only if he fucks me as soon as I wake up. He grins, already hard against my thigh.