Locked Out With My Sexy Neighbor

My name is Jake. I’m 26, live in a two-bedroom apartment on the north side of Austin, and work remote for a software company. Average height, keep myself in decent shape, nothing special. I’ve lived in this complex for almost two years. Most of the neighbors are quiet. One unit across the breezeway always stood out though.

Locked Out With My Sexy Neighbor English Erotica

Rebecca lived there with her husband. She was 39, looked closer to early thirties. Blonde hair she usually wore in a loose ponytail, clear blue eyes, and a body that looked like she still worked hard at it. Full breasts that filled out her shirts, a narrow waist, and an ass that moved when she walked. She dressed casual most of the time — yoga pants, fitted tanks, the occasional sundress. Her husband worked in oil and gas and was gone weeks at a time. I only saw him a handful of times, always in a hurry.

I used to watch her from my window more than I should have. Nothing creepy, just noticing. The way she carried groceries, the way she stretched on her balcony some mornings. I never talked to her beyond a polite nod or “hey” when we passed.

That changed on a Thursday in late August.

A heavy storm rolled in around six. Power flickered a couple times in my building. Around seven-thirty there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, Rebecca was standing there in a damp white T-shirt and dark leggings, hair wet, looking annoyed and a little embarrassed.

“Hey… Jake, right?” she said. “I’m locked out. My phone’s almost dead and the building manager’s not answering. Can I use your phone real quick? And maybe wait out the rain for a bit?”

I stepped aside. “Yeah, of course. Come in.”

She walked past me. The wet shirt clung to her. I could see the outline of her bra and the shape of her breasts clearly. I told myself to stop looking and handed her my phone. She left a message for the manager and then stood there dripping on my floor.

“You want a towel?” I asked.

“Please. I feel like a mess.”

I got her one from the bathroom. She dried her hair and arms, then looked down at her shirt.

“This is soaked. Do you have anything dry I could throw on for a few minutes? I hate sitting around in wet clothes.”

I found an old oversized gray T-shirt of mine and handed it over. She went into the bathroom. When she came out the shirt was long enough to cover her to mid-thigh. She had taken the wet leggings off and was just in the shirt and her underwear. The fabric hung on her in a way that still showed the full shape of her breasts and the curve of her hips.

She noticed me noticing and gave a small, awkward smile.

“Sorry. Hope this is okay.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “You want something to drink while we wait?”

I poured two glasses of wine. We sat on the couch. The storm was still loud outside. Conversation started normal — how long she’d lived here, what I did for work, how often her husband traveled. She relaxed after the second glass. She sat with one leg tucked under her, the shirt riding up a little on her thigh.

“He’s gone three weeks this time,” she said. “I’m used to it, but the quiet gets old. And now I’m locked out like an idiot.”

I laughed. “Happens to everyone.”

She looked at me for a second longer than normal.

“You’re easy to talk to. Most people in this complex barely make eye contact.”

We kept drinking. The power came back on around nine, but the manager still hadn’t called. She didn’t seem in a rush to leave. She asked if I had any food. I heated up leftover pasta. We ate on the couch. At one point she leaned forward to set her plate down and the shirt gaped open enough that I saw the top of her breasts and the edge of her black bra.

She caught me looking again. This time she didn’t pretend she hadn’t.

“You’ve been staring since I walked in,” she said quietly. Not accusing. Just stating it.

I felt my face get hot. “Sorry. You’re… hard not to notice.”

She set her glass down and turned more toward me on the couch.

“My husband notices less and less these days. When he’s even home.” She said it casually, but there was something underneath it. “I work out, I take care of myself, and most nights I go to bed alone.”

The air in the room changed. I didn’t say anything. She kept looking at me.

“I’m not usually like this,” she added. “But I’ve seen you watching me before. From your window. I noticed.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t think you saw.”

“I did.” She smiled a little. “It was flattering, actually.”

She reached over and took my glass, set it on the table, then put her hand on my thigh. Not high, just resting there. My cock was already half-hard from looking at her all night. It jumped under my jeans.

“I’m locked out,” she said. “Storm’s still going. Manager’s not answering. And I don’t really feel like sitting alone in a wet shirt waiting.”

I covered her hand with mine. She didn’t pull away. I leaned in slowly. She met me halfway. The first kiss was careful. The second one wasn’t. Her mouth opened under mine and she made a small sound in her throat. I put my hand on her waist and felt the warmth of her skin through the thin shirt. She shifted closer until her breast pressed against my arm.

We kissed like that for a long time on the couch. My hand slid up under the shirt along her side. She didn’t stop me. When my fingers brushed the underside of her breast she arched a little into the touch. I cupped her fully through the bra. She was soft and heavy in my hand. I squeezed and she broke the kiss with a quiet “fuck.”

“Bedroom?” I asked.

She nodded.

I stood and pulled her up with me. In the hallway she stopped me against the wall and kissed me harder, pushing her body flush against mine so she could feel how hard I was. Her hand went between us and rubbed me through my jeans.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You’re really hard.”

I walked her the rest of the way into the bedroom. She pulled the borrowed shirt off over her head and stood there in just the black bra and matching panties. Her body was even better up close. Full breasts, soft stomach that still had shape, wide hips, thick thighs. I reached behind her and unhooked the bra. When it fell away her breasts settled heavy and natural. Pink nipples already tight.

I bent and took one in my mouth. She held the back of my head while I sucked. I switched to the other side, then kissed down her stomach. She sat on the edge of the bed when I pushed her gently. I hooked my fingers in the sides of her panties and pulled them down. Her pussy was already wet, trimmed neat, the lips swollen.

I spread her thighs and licked her. She tasted clean and a little salty. I worked my tongue over her clit in slow circles while I slid one finger inside. She was tight and hot. A second finger went in easier. She rocked against my mouth, breathing harder, one hand in my hair.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “I’ve needed this.”

I kept going until her thighs started to shake. She came with a low, drawn-out moan, hips lifting off the bed. I stayed between her legs until the tremors slowed, then stood and stripped. My cock was fully hard, thicker than average, curved up. She looked at it and reached out, wrapping her fingers around the shaft.

“Come here,” she said.

I climbed onto the bed. She pushed me onto my back and straddled my thighs. She stroked me a few times, then leaned down and took the head in her mouth. Warm and wet. She sucked slowly at first, then deeper, using her hand on what she couldn’t fit. I watched her blonde hair move and felt the wet heat of her mouth. After a couple minutes I pulled her up.

“I want to be inside you.”

She nodded and reached for her purse on the nightstand — she’d brought it in earlier. She pulled out a condom. I was a little surprised she had one, but she just gave a small shrug.

“I keep one in there. Habit.”

She rolled it on me, then climbed up and positioned herself. She rubbed the head of my cock along her wet slit a few times before sinking down. She was tight. She took me slow, inch by inch, until I was buried all the way. We both stayed still for a second.

“Fuck, that’s good,” she breathed.

She started moving. Slow rolls of her hips at first, then longer strokes. Her breasts moved with every shift. I held her waist and thrust up to meet her. The wet sound of us filled the room. She leaned forward, hands on my chest, and rode me harder. I reached between us and rubbed her clit with my thumb. Her rhythm got faster and less controlled.

She came again with her head thrown back, pussy clenching around me. I flipped her onto her back without pulling out. I hooked her legs over my arms and started fucking her steady and deep. She wrapped her legs around me and pulled me in. The bed creaked. Her moans got louder. I could feel myself getting close.

“I’m gonna come,” I told her.

“Do it,” she said. “Come.”

I buried myself deep and came hard, hips jerking. She held me there until I finished. I stayed inside her for a minute, both of us breathing heavy, then carefully pulled out.

We lay side by side in the dark. The storm had quieted. She rested her head on my shoulder.

“That was… not how I planned my night,” she said after a while.

“Same.”

She laughed softly. “Manager still hasn’t called. Mind if I stay? I really don’t feel like dealing with the lock right now.”

“Stay.”

She did. We had sex again around two in the morning, slower that time. In the morning she borrowed a pair of my shorts, got ahold of the building manager, and finally got back into her apartment. Before she left she kissed me at the door, longer than a friendly goodbye.

That was three months ago. Her husband is still gone most of the time. She comes over a couple nights a week. Sometimes we just talk. Most times we don’t. She still calls it “waiting out the rain” even when the sky is clear.

And every time she walks through my door in those yoga pants, I remember the first night she showed up wet and locked out — and how easy it was for everything to change.