Jirani
"The houses in Stone Town share walls and secrets. His bedroom window faces hers. He's watched her undress for months. One night, she doesn't close her shutters. She looks directly at him. Then beckons."
The houses in Stone Town are intimate.
Built in the old Arab style—coral stone walls, carved wooden doors, narrow passages between buildings. Windows face windows across alleyways barely wide enough for two people to pass. Privacy is an illusion.
And I've been exploiting that for six months.
Her name is Mariam.
She's married to a fisherman—a man who leaves before dawn and doesn't return until after dark. Their house faces mine across an alley so narrow I could reach out my window and almost touch hers.
And every night, she forgets to close her shutters.
At first, I thought it was carelessness. The heat is brutal here—everyone sleeps with windows open when they can. But as weeks became months, I realized the pattern.
She only forgets when she's undressing.
When she's bathing in the copper basin.
When she's touching herself in the darkness.
Mariam is thick.
The kind of thick that old Stone Town was built for—heavy breasts that sway when she moves, a belly that curves soft and round, hips that could barely fit through the narrow doors of these ancient houses. Her skin is dark—darker than mine—and she gleams like oil in the lamplight.
I've memorized every inch of her.
The way she removes her kanga slowly, revealing herself by degrees. The way her breasts fall free, heavy and swaying. The way she cups water from the basin and lets it run down her body, tracing paths I dream of following.
She must know I watch.
The shutters are right there. All she has to do is close them.
But she never does.
Tonight is different.
I'm at my window, hidden in shadow, waiting for the light to appear in her room. When it does, she enters—fresh from downstairs, already starting to unwrap her kanga.
But tonight, she walks to the window first.
She looks directly across the alley.
Directly at me.
And she smiles.
My heart stops.
I've been caught. Months of watching, of fantasizing, of taking myself in hand while I imagine her—all of it discovered. She's going to scream. Tell her husband. Tell the whole neighborhood that the bachelor across the alley is a pervert.
But she doesn't scream.
She backs away from the window.
Slowly unwraps her kanga.
And beckons.
I don't remember crossing the alley.
Don't remember knocking on her door. Don't remember the climb up the narrow stairs to her bedroom.
I just remember her face when she opens the door. That smile. Those dark eyes.
"Finally," she says. "I thought you'd never come."
"You knew?"
"I've known for months." She pulls me inside, closes the door. "At first I was angry. Who was this man, watching me in my own home? But then..."
"Then?"
"Then I started to like it." She steps back, lets me see her fully. She's wearing only a thin night shift—cotton, practically transparent. Her body is a shadow beneath it. "Knowing you were watching. Knowing what you were doing while you watched."
"You could have closed the shutters."
"I could have." She reaches for the hem of the shift. "But I didn't want to."
She pulls it over her head.
She's even more beautiful up close.
Her breasts are massive—heavy enough to rest on her belly, nipples thick and dark. Her stomach is round and soft, stretch marks tracing its surface. Her hips flare wide, her thighs are thick and solid, and between them—
She's shaved. Wet. Already glistening for me.
"Your husband—"
"Leaves at four. Returns at midnight." She steps closer. "We have hours."
"And if he finds out?"
"He won't." Her hand finds my chest. "He doesn't look at me anymore. Doesn't touch me. I'm just the woman who keeps his house." She presses against me. "But you look at me. Every night. Like I'm worth seeing."
"You are worth seeing."
"Then see me." She pulls at my shirt. "And touch me. And do everything you've been imagining through that window."
I worship her.
My mouth on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. I suck her nipples while she moans. I kiss down her belly while she trembles. I kneel before her and part her thighs.
"Oh—no one has—not in years—"
I lick.
She tastes like salt and honey. I find her clit and she cries out, her hands grabbing my head, pulling me closer. I slide my tongue inside her and she bucks against my face.
"Yes—right there—please—"
I eat her the way I've imagined for months. Every lick a fantasy fulfilled. Every moan a prayer answered. She comes in minutes—flooding my face, her thick thighs crushing my ears—but I don't stop.
"Too much—I can't—"
I push her onto the bed. Follow her down. Keep licking.
She comes again. And again. And again.
"Please—" She's crying now. "I need you inside me—"
I climb up her body.
I enter her slowly.
She's tighter than I expected—her husband clearly hasn't been doing his job—and wet, and burning hot. Her eyes are locked on mine as I fill her.
"Ya Allah—I forgot—forgot what this feels like—"
I start to move.
Her body welcomes me—soft, yielding, everything I imagined through the window. Her breasts bounce with each thrust. Her belly presses against mine. Her thick thighs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper.
"Faster—"
I give her faster.
The bed creaks. The shutters rattle. Somewhere in the night, a dog barks. But all I can hear is her—moaning, gasping, begging for more.
"Harder—please—I've waited so long—"
I grab her hips and let go.
I fuck my neighbor's wife while he's out catching fish. I make her scream, make her sob, make her come again and again while I pound into her thick, willing body.
"I'm going to—again—I can't stop—"
She clenches around me, screaming into her pillow. I thrust through it, drive her into another orgasm before the last one ends.
"Inside me—" She pulls me closer. "Fill me—please—"
I explode.
Pump into her while she shakes, fill her with everything I've been saving for months of watching. She screams one last time and collapses beneath me.
We lie in her marital bed.
The same bed where her husband sleeps. The same bed where he doesn't touch her.
"Every night," she whispers. "When he's at sea."
"He'll notice something."
"He notices nothing." She traces a finger down my chest. "He comes home exhausted, eats his fish, falls asleep. He hasn't looked at me in two years."
"Then he's a fool."
"Yes." She kisses me softly. "But his foolishness is my opportunity."
"And mine."
"Yours." She shifts, and I feel myself stirring against her thigh. "You can watch me from the window anytime you want. But now, when you see me—"
"I come over."
"You come over." She smiles. "And you do what you've been imagining."
We develop a signal.
When her husband leaves, she lights a candle in the window. One candle means he'll be back soon. Two candles means we have all night.
Most nights, there are two candles.
I cross the narrow alley in darkness. Climb her stairs in silence. Fall into her bed like I've done it a thousand times.
Because now, I have.
Her husband never suspects.
Why would he? He has a wife who keeps his house, cooks his fish, stays home every night. He doesn't see the candles in the window. Doesn't feel the warmth of her body when he crawls into bed.
Doesn't know that warmth comes from me.
"I used to resent him," she tells me one night. "For not wanting me. For looking through me. But now..."
"Now?"
"Now I'm grateful." She pulls me on top of her. "Because his blindness gave me you."
I kiss her.
Across the alley, my empty window faces hers. The same window where I watched her for months. The same window where this all began.
Some secrets are best shared between neighbors.
Some walls are meant to be crossed.
And some windows are left open on purpose.