The Neighbor Who Taught Me Manners by Force
I’m going to start at the end, because the end is the only thing that repeats. Every night I jolt upright in bed, the pillow damp and my heart hammering against my ribs. Always the same dream. Always her. And always that feeling of never having truly escaped, as if a part of me had been locked inside that house forever.
To make you understand the nightmare, I have to talk first about the woman who lives in it. Her name is Vilma, and she lives in the house next to ours.
My mother and I lived quietly in a neighborhood of wide streets and front gardens. I liked the calm of the place, the silence of the afternoons, everything except having her pressed up against our wall. There were hundreds of houses in that neighborhood, and fate had decided that Mrs. Vilma would breathe right on the other side of my window.
She was an older woman, well into her years and her weight. I never knew her exact age; she could have been around sixty, maybe more, but she had the bearing of someone who felt entitled to every inch she stepped on. Voluminous, with thick arms and a heavy gait, with huge tits hanging beneath her apron and a wide, weighty ass that bounced with every step. She ate with a devotion that bordered on vice. Her greatest talent, however, was not the table but her temperament: she argued with the whole neighborhood over a leaf falling onto her sidewalk, over a radio turned up too loud, over trash taken out a minute too early. Nobody could stand her.
Nobody, except my mother. With her, Mrs. Vilma transformed. They spent entire afternoons in our living room, drinking coffee and a sweet liquor they kept like a secret, laughing at things I couldn’t quite make out. Seeing her installed in my house, owning the sofa, made my stomach turn.
I wasn’t an exception to her blowups either. We clashed dozens of times. She corrected my manners, the way I spoke, the way I looked at her, and I answered in kind, because I wasn’t going to let myself be bullied like the rest of the neighborhood. Over time, a thick, silent hatred grew between us. She had a favorite line she’d throw at me after every fight.
—You’re lucky I’m not your mother —she’d say, fixing me with her eyes—. I swear I’d teach you manners in a week. You’d obey me without a peep.
I always answered her badly. It was my little way of winning.
I had no idea then what that woman was capable of.
***
It all started on an ordinary afternoon. I was watching a game with a cold beer in my hand when my mother called me from the other room.
—Take this to Vilma —she said, holding out a bag to me—. I promised I’d lend it to her.
I made a grimace of annoyance that she noticed right away.
—I don’t understand why you hate her so much. She’s a lovely woman.
—She’s the one who hates me, Mom —I answered, irritated, as I grabbed the bag and went out, closing the door softly behind me.
I crossed the garden and knocked on the front door. I knocked once, twice, and nobody answered. The door was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and stepped inside. I made my way down a long hallway, repeating her name, until an open door stopped me cold.
Mrs. Vilma was in the bathroom. She hadn’t heard me because she was sitting on the toilet, her stockings and panties bunched down over her thick thighs, her face tight with focused effort, utterly unaware of me. I saw her hairy cunt between the folds of flesh, her tits hanging under her open blouse, and all the apparatus of an old woman no one should ever have to see without permission. The scene was so absurd, so different from the haughty woman I knew, that I burst out laughing without being able to help myself.
It took her a moment to realize I was there. When she did, she sprang up in fury and lunged for the door with her clothes tangled around her knees, taking short, awkward little steps like a rushed duck. She slammed the door with brutal force.
—You filthy pig! —she shouted from the other side, while I walked out of her house dying of laughter.
I should have left it there. I didn’t.
***
The next day, Mrs. Vilma came over for coffee as always. Taking advantage of the fact that my mother was in the kitchen with her back turned, I took revenge with the cruelest weapon: mockery. I pretended to sit on an imaginary toilet, pulled a strained face, then got up and hurried away in tiny steps, mimicking her clumsy escape from the day before. I laughed out loud, not holding back, enjoying her humiliation.
She thought none of it was funny. I saw her swell with rage, her face flushed, her eyes throwing sparks like a pot about to boil over.
—You’re going to regret this disrespect —she said quietly, so my mother wouldn’t hear—. You’re going to pay dearly for it. I promise you, as sure as my name is Vilma.
I didn’t care. I kept laughing until my mother came back with the cups, and then I dropped the act and left the room, convinced I’d won another battle.
That night I dreamed for the first time. And since then I haven’t stopped dreaming.
***
In the dream, everything begins the same way. I leave the house and she calls me from her garden, with a smile that’s far too friendly.
—Come in for a moment. I have something for you to take to your mother.
I obey reluctantly, wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. I follow her down the hallway, counting the seconds, when I feel a sharp sting in my neck. I turn and see her withdrawing a syringe from my skin. I don’t manage to say anything. My legs go weak, my vision blurs, and I collapse onto the floor like a puppet.
I don’t know how much time passes. When I come to, I’m lying on my back on a cold floor, staring up at a ceiling I don’t recognize. I remember everything at once. I try to get up and can’t: I’m naked, my clothes have disappeared and my whole body has been left exposed. My hands are tied behind my back and my ankles are bound tight. My dick hangs limp between my legs, on display, and I feel the cold floor biting into my bare ass. Something is squeezing my neck, a thick leather collar tightened around my throat, and when I try to move my head I discover it’s wedged inside a metal box open only at the top. The collar holds my face against the rim. I can’t get my head out. I want to scream, but a rag fills my mouth and a thick strip of tape seals it shut. No sound comes out.
The door opens. Mrs. Vilma enters slowly, savoring every step, and leans over me with a smile I’ve never seen on her before.
—I promised you’d regret your behavior —she says—. You made fun of me. Was it really that funny? Let’s see if you still find it amusing now.
She takes a pair of long rubber gloves, the kind used for washing up, from the pocket of her apron and starts slipping them over her fleshy arms. The rubber squeaks as it goes on, tight on her, pulled up to the elbows. The sound makes my skin crawl. She squats beside me and grabs my dick with her gloved hand, squeezing it with no interest, like someone weighing a piece of fruit at the market.
—Look at the poor little dick on the brave boy —she laughs, moving it from side to side—. Don’t worry, I’ll get it hard for you. Everything gets used here.
She lets go of my dick with a disgusted sneer, grabs a metal object I don’t recognize, rips off the tape, and pulls the soaked rag out of my mouth.
—What are you doin... —I manage to stammer before she jams the device between my teeth.
It’s a mouth opener. She works the side levers and my jaw is forced wide open, the metal pulling at me without mercy. My tongue is exposed, my throat open like a hole to the air. I don’t understand anything. All I feel is the cold steel and panic rising up my throat.
—Now you’re going to learn to respect me —she says as she lifts her apron and lowers her panties to her knees—. I assure you, you’re not leaving this room until you understand your place.
She hikes up her skirt to her waist and lets me see everything I only managed to catch a glimpse of the day before: thick thighs veined with blue, a sagging belly, a bush of gray-flecked black hair around a huge cunt, with purple, hanging lips, swollen like overripe fruit. She parts it with two gloved fingers and shows it to me, the pink flesh inside shining wet.
—This is your punishment, filthy boy. You’re going to suck my cunt until I cum in your mouth as many times as I feel like it.
***
What follows is the part I have the hardest time telling, the part that comes back every dawn.
She leans over the box and sits on it, covering the only opening with her body. Her enormous ass drops onto my face and crushes me to the floor, the two warm flesh cheeks sealing the gap. Her hairy cunt slams into my open mouth, the old, heavy lips getting shoved between my forced teeth. Everything goes dark and everything smells like sweaty woman, old urine, and stale sex. I try to beg, to ask for mercy, but the mouth opener won’t let me form words and my tongue sinks on its own into the wet flesh of her cunt. I hear her laughing over me.
—It’s useless to ask for help. Your mom won’t hear you. She’s not going to save you this time. Suck, pig. Suck like your life depends on it.
She starts rocking on top of me. She grinds her cunt against my open mouth, back and forth, rubbing her swollen clit against my upper teeth, setting the rhythm with her hips. I feel her clit hard as a small, thick, slippery nipple. My tongue hurts from being stretched, but I have nowhere to go: the device holds my jaw open, the weight of her ass crushes my skull, and every time I breathe through my nose I swallow the concentrated smell of her folds. Her cunt starts dripping. A thick, sticky, warm flow runs down my throat and makes me cough inside her flesh. She laughs harder.
—That’s it, swallow it all. Everything I let out is yours. That’s what I have you for.
She braces herself with her gloved hands on the box and rides me harder. Her thick thighs pin my ears, her dead weight sinks me down. She jabs her clit into my tongue and moans, husky, without a shred of shame, like a filthy old bitch who has no one to answer to. I feel her cunt pulsing, tightening against my mouth, and suddenly she convulses all over. A hot gush fills my throat. She comes all over my face, holding her belly with her free hand, shaking like a mare, and she doesn’t let me go until the last tremor dies out of her. When she finally stands, my face is soaked, my hair stuck to my temples, and my mouth is full of the thick slobber of her orgasm.
She seals my mouth again with the tape and sits in a chair facing me, to admire her work with her gloved hands resting on her knees and her legs crossed, as calm as someone sunbathing.
—Well now —she taunts, sucking on a gloved finger and savoring it slowly—. You’re not laughing so much now. Do you know what you are? My toilet. Nothing more. And we still have the best part left.
The minutes stretch like hours. I watch her open her apron and pull her tits out over her bra. They’re enormous, white, with blue veins crossing them and dark wide nipples like coins. She fondles them in front of me, squeezes them, pinches her nipples, and laughs when she sees my dick starting to move against my will. My cock hardens treacherously, rising in the air, betraying me. My face burns with shame.
—There it is —she sings, delighted—. The body doesn’t lie. Your mouth insults me, but your dick begs me.
She stands, walks over to me, and straddles my hips, crushing me to the floor with all her weight. She grabs my hard dick with her gloved hand, spits on it, and takes it in one stroke all the way in. Her fat cunt swallows me whole. It’s hot, tight with flesh, wet inside, and it squeezes me with a strength I would never have expected from a woman her age. She starts riding me slowly, lifting and lowering her heavy ass over my thighs, her tits bouncing on her chest, her belly swaying with every thrust.
—You’re going to cum inside me, piglet —she pants—. And then you’re going to eat what I drip all over you. That’s today’s lesson.
I cry with my mouth open, unable to close it, unable to speak, unable to resist. Pleasure and disgust blend together until the line between them disappears. She rides me harder and harder, holds her tits and smears them across my face, coats my lips with her sweat, forces me to watch her as she rolls her eyes back and comes again over my cock, tightening her cunt around my dick in hot spasms that drag the orgasm out of me without permission. I fill her cunt completely with semen. I feel every spasm leaving my body against my will, emptying me inside that hated old woman as if it were the only thing I’d ever known how to do in my life.
She stays still on top of me, panting, enjoying herself. Then, very slowly, she gets up. She crouches over my face, tears off the tape again, and lets the semen mixed with her juices drip from her cunt into my open mouth. It falls thick, warm, sticky. It fills my throat and forces me to swallow. Swallow or choke. I swallow.
—Good boy —she purrs, while the last white thread falls onto my tongue—. That’s how I like it. Clean and polite.
When she thinks I’m resisting, she plants a sandal on my balls and presses until the pain bends me inward. My testicles get crushed under the sole, my emptied dick twists on its own, and my whole body turns into a voiceless plea. She repeats the procedure again and again, patient, methodical. She sits on me, forces me to suck her cunt until she comes, rides my dick until she wrings another orgasm out of me, smears my face with the mixed cum. Until there’s nothing left and I’m nothing but a trembling rag stuffed into her metal box, my belly full of her juices and my skin stinking of her.
—From today on, you’re mine —she says, stroking my defeated dick with the cold rubber of her glove—. You’ll come when I call you. You’ll beg to come back, you’ll see. You’ll beg for me to sit my ass on your face and make you swallow. I know you better than you know yourself, piglet.
She gags me again, yanks the gloves off with a sharp pull, and leans over me one last time.
—This isn’t over. It’s only just beginning.
***
Locked inside her bathroom, I hear my mother calling her from the garden.
—Vilma, have you seen my son?
—Yes —she lies, with an unnerving sweetness—. A friend came by to pick him up. They said they were going to watch a game.
And that’s how she makes sure nobody looks for me for hours. The door cracks open and her voice comes back, soft as a knife:
—Your mom isn’t coming. I’ve taken care of that. Rest up, because we still have the afternoon ahead of us. And this time I’m going to break in your ass.
That’s when I always wake up. Soaked in sweat, my dick hard against the sheets and the taste of fear still in my mouth, thanking heaven it was only a dream. I get up, wash my face, and go out into the garden to breathe cold air and convince myself I’m safe.
And then I see her.
Mrs. Vilma is leaning against the fence that separates our houses, slowly putting on her long rubber gloves, staring straight at me as if she knows every frame of my nightmare better than I do.
—I need you to come in for a moment —she says with that smile I already know—. I have something for your mother.
It’s exactly the same as in the dream. I hesitate. My heart screams at me to turn around and run. But there’s something else beneath the fear, a dick swelling in my pants without permission, something I’ve been pretending not to feel for too long, and this morning, at last, it weighs more.
I start walking toward her door. Mrs. Vilma is waiting for me with her apron on and her gloves snug in place, and for the first time in a very long while I don’t feel like laughing at her.
Maybe, after all, I always wanted the nightmare to come true.