I Wrote to My Neighbor in a Fit of Spite

For privacy reasons, I’ll call myself Lorena, and my neighbor Damián. It’s the first time I’ve dared to tell a story like this, and I still can’t quite believe it happened.

For months, my husband and I had been carrying on a silent war. He had been the one to neglect things first: I found messages on his phone with a coworker, nothing conclusive, but enough to keep me from sleeping well for weeks. That night, after eating dinner in front of the television without speaking, I locked myself in the bathroom with my phone in my hand and opened WhatsApp.

Damián had lived across from our house until two years earlier. After his divorce, he moved to the other end of the city and I lost track of him. By chance, that very afternoon I’d seen him at the neighborhood supermarket: he was thinner, with a neatly trimmed beard, and he’d smiled at me from the wine aisle as if nothing had changed. I went home thinking about him more than I was willing to admit.

What if I wrote to him?

I typed “Hi, neighbor. Did you come back to the neighborhood?” and deleted it three times before sending it. When I finally pressed send, I left the phone facedown on the sink and washed my face with cold water. I wasn’t expecting a reply. Not that same night.

But he replied a few minutes later. He was living in the neighborhood again, three blocks from the club. He asked how everything was going and I, instead of lying, gave him the truth: “I need to get out for a while. Want to go for a drive?”

There was a long pause. So long that I convinced myself it had been a mistake. And then the message appeared: “When?”

***

The following Saturday I told my husband I was going out for a drink with two college friends I hadn’t seen in years. He didn’t even look up from the game. I dressed in the clothes I used to wear before I got married: tight black jeans, a sleeveless blouse, and the long earrings he had given me on our first anniversary, which suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else. Underneath, I put on a black lace panty I’d had tucked away for years and a matching bra that lifted my tits until my cleavage looked like an invitation.

Damián picked me up three blocks from my door in a blue Corolla I didn’t know he had. I got in, looking both ways like a teenager skipping recess. My hands were freezing and my mouth was dry.

“You’re prettier than the last time,” he said, and he didn’t look at my cleavage even once as he said it.

“You’re getting good at lying,” I replied.

He laughed. I did too, and suddenly the tightness in my chest eased a little.

We drove for ten minutes without any clear destination, talking about silly things: the shopkeeper who had died, the dog that always wandered around the same corner, the bakery that had closed the previous summer. At some point, stopped at a red light, he asked me without looking at me:

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

I swallowed.

“Yes.”

Nothing more. One word. He changed lanes and took the avenue heading south, where there was a row of motels with neon signs. I squeezed my purse against my thighs and looked out the window so he wouldn’t see my face. Between my legs I was already wet, so wet that I could feel my panties stuck to my pussy, and that moisture alone was enough to tell me I wasn’t going to regret a thing.

***

The room smelled of pine disinfectant and freshly ironed sheets. There was a huge mirror on the wall opposite the bed and an old television that neither of us turned on. Damián locked the door and stood looking at me from the threshold, as if giving me a chance to back out.

I didn’t back out.

He crossed the three steps between us and kissed me without asking. It was a long kiss, slow at first and then deeper and deeper, his hands holding the back of my neck, his tongue seeking mine with an insistence that made my legs give way. I answered him with the same hunger, as if I’d been waiting months for exactly that kiss without knowing it. I felt his hard bulge against my hip and my knees began to tremble: he was thick, long, and already pushing against the fabric of his trousers, looking for a way out.

“Wait a second,” I whispered, though I didn’t even believe myself.

“I don’t want to,” he answered, and kept kissing me.

While he kissed me, his hands slid beneath my blouse, found the clasp of my bra, and released it in a single movement. I felt the cold air on my back and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. I let him undress me standing in the middle of the room. He pulled my blouse over my head, slipped the straps off my shoulders, and the bra fell to the floor. He stared at my tits for a few seconds, then crouched down and took an entire nipple into his mouth. He sucked it hard, then the other, then alternated between them with his tongue until they grew so hard they hurt. I dug my nails into the back of his neck and swallowed a moan.

He pulled his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it, and for the first time I saw his bare torso: it was leaner and more muscular than I remembered, with a fine scar over his collarbone that I’d never noticed.

“Where did that come from?” I asked, touching it with my index finger.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said, and gently pushed me toward the bed.

***

I landed sitting on the edge of the mattress. He knelt between my legs, pulled my jeans down over my ankles, and took his time with everything else. He pulled my panties down with his teeth, looking me in the eyes, and when the fabric caught on my feet he swatted it onto the floor. He wasn’t in a hurry. That was what undid me most: the calm with which he touched me, as if he’d left all urgency in the car.

He opened my legs with both hands and looked at my open pussy for one long second before speaking.

“You’re soaked,” he said, and drove his middle finger inside me in one motion.

I arched my back. He inserted another finger and began moving them inside me, searching for that rough spot just behind the bone, while he licked my clitoris with the tip of his tongue in very slow circles. Then he stopped making circles and began sucking my entire clit, drawing on it with his lips closed, and I grabbed the quilt with both hands because my legs no longer obeyed me. He sucked me like that until he made me scream for the first time that night, my thighs squeezing his head and my hips rising on their own to give him more. When I came in his mouth, he looked up at me with my juices shining on his chin and ran his thumb over his lower lip without stopping his smile.

I looked down at him while he kissed my stomach. Then I leaned over, undid his belt, and went down too. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to know what that cock I’d spent years imagining tasted like. I pulled down his trousers and boxer briefs in one tug, and it sprang free, hard and thick, its head red and a large drop of precum hanging from the tip. I took it in both hands first, slowly, and licked it from base to tip, following the vein running along its length. Then I put the tip in my mouth and sucked it like a piece of candy, playing my tongue beneath the glans. Damián closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. I lowered my mouth until I felt the back of my throat, and stayed there, swallowing, while I squeezed his balls with my other hand. Once he tried to hurry me, placing his palm on the back of my head, and I pushed his hand away without lifting my head. He let me continue. I sucked his cock at my own pace, spitting on it when I pulled it out for more lubrication, jerking it with my hand while I sucked his balls one by one.

When I let him go, his jaw was tense and his cock throbbed on its own against his stomach.

“Come here,” he said hoarsely.

He took a condom from his trouser pocket, opened it with his teeth, and put it on himself. He pushed me back against the mattress, his open hand on my chest, and settled over me. He spread my legs as wide as they would go, gripped his cock, and ran it over my soaked pussy a couple of times, wetting the tip, rubbing the head against my clitoris until I moaned in sheer desperation.

“Put it in me now,” I begged. “I can’t take it anymore.”

The first thrust was slow, almost exploratory, pushing in little by little until I felt him opening me completely. The second tore a moan from me that I didn’t try to hide: he sank all the way in with one hard thrust and drove so deep that the air left my lungs.

I wrapped my legs around him. I dug my heels into his lower back so he would go deeper. He began fucking me with long, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then burying himself to the hilt again, and with every stroke the headboard struck the wall. He kissed my neck, the hollow of my collarbone, my breasts, and from time to time returned to my mouth as if afraid of forgetting something. He squeezed one of my tits with his free hand and tugged my nipple between his thumb and forefinger just as he picked up the pace, and I screamed so loudly that he laughed against my mouth and covered my lips with his palm.

“Shh,” he said. “They’ll hear us.”

I bit his palm. He pulled it away and replaced it with his tongue. When he felt that I was about to come again, he seized both my wrists and pinned them above my head against the mattress, then began fucking me faster, harder, the bone of his pelvis striking my clitoris with every thrust. I came like that, restrained by his hands, screaming into his mouth. I forgot everything: my husband watching the replay of the game in my living room, the spite that had brought me there, even the name of the hotel I hadn’t read when we entered. Only Damián’s weight on top of me existed, his cock splitting me open inside, and the sound of my own ragged breathing. He lasted a few more thrusts, then went rigid, clenched his teeth, and came with a low growl, his cock throbbing inside the condom while he kept fucking me in short jolts until the very last drop.

When he finished, he dropped onto his back beside me. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and he wore a half-stupid smile I had never seen on him before.

***

We rested for a while without speaking. He slipped an arm beneath my shoulders and pulled me against his chest. I could still feel his heart beating fast. I drew circles with my finger on his sternum, over the scar, at the top of his stomach.

“Are you all right?” he asked after a while.

“I’m better than all right.”

He laughed softly.

Twenty minutes later, the urgency returned. This time I started. I kissed his chest, barely bit his earlobe, and went down again with my mouth until I made him breathe hard. I sucked his limp cock until I felt it grow between my lips, swell, and harden again against my tongue. When it was fully hard, I spat on it, stroked it with my hand, and ran my flat tongue over his balls, one and then the other, sucking them carefully while I kept jerking him off. Damián lifted his hips, seeking my mouth.

When he was ready again, I found another condom in the bedside-table drawer and climbed on top of him. Damián settled against the headboard, gripped my hips with both hands, and let me set the pace. I lowered myself onto his cock slowly, feeling it slide in inch by inch, and when I had him completely inside me, I stayed still for a second with my eyes closed, squeezing him with the muscles of my pussy.

I moved slowly at first, almost punishing him, rising and lowering myself just enough for the tip to remain right at the entrance before sinking back to the hilt. I planted my hands on his chest for leverage and began riding him harder and harder, my tits bouncing in front of his face. He looked up at me with an unusual intensity, as if he wanted to memorize me. He sat up a little, caught one nipple between his teeth, and bit it without hurting me while squeezing my ass with both hands, guiding my rhythm. I threw my head back and rotated my hips in circles, rubbing my clitoris against his pelvic bone with every downward motion. When I leaned down to kiss him, he grabbed my hair in a fist and pulled my head back just enough to see my face.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he ordered.

I didn’t close them. I held his gaze as I came for the second time, never stopping my ride, mouth open and voiceless, watching him watch me. He dug his fingers into my buttocks, pushed me against his hips, and came behind me with his jaw clenched, murmuring filthy things against my neck that I don’t dare repeat here.

***

There was a third time that night, and it was the one that changed my whole outlook. We were both lying on our sides, exhausted, his thumb tracing the line of my spine, when he asked whether I had ever done it from behind. I told him the truth: once, years ago, with my husband, and it had been so painful that I never wanted to try again.

“It won’t hurt with me,” he said.

He said it without a challenge, almost like a promise. I didn’t answer.

He got up, went to the bathroom, and returned with cold cream in his hand. Without asking, he turned me over and arranged me on all fours in the middle of the bed, my face against the pillow and my ass raised. He began stroking my lower back, then my buttocks, spreading them with his thumbs so he could look at all of me. He explained in a low voice, almost against my ear, what he was going to do. That we would go slowly. That if I told him to stop at any point, he would stop. That I should trust him.

I trusted him.

He crouched behind me and I felt his tongue first: hot and long, licking my entire ass from bottom to top, wetting me, pressing the tip against my tight hole until I trembled. No one had ever done that to me. A long moan escaped me against the pillow. Then he covered me with the cold cream, pushed one finger in slowly to the knuckle, waited for me to relax, and inserted a second. He moved them inside me patiently, spreading them apart like scissors, dilating me, while his other hand searched for my clitoris from the front and rubbed it in gentle circles. The combination drove me crazy: without realizing it, I pushed my ass against his hand, begging for more.

When he finally entered, there was a moment of discomfort, a brief burning as the head of his cock forced its way through, followed by a new sensation as he worked himself all the way in, and then something else I didn’t know how to name: a strange fullness, a different, dark pleasure rising from a place in my body I hadn’t known existed. He began moving very slowly, with short thrusts, letting me feel everything. He placed one hand on my lower back to keep me still and tangled the other in my hair. I buried my face in the pillow and let him take me. After a while, I asked for more, my voice muffled against the fabric.

“Harder,” I begged. “Come on.”

He gave it to me. He began fucking my ass with increasingly long thrusts, gripping my hips with both hands, pulling almost all the way out and then burying himself again until his balls struck my wet pussy. The sound of our skin colliding filled the entire room. I bit the pillow and moaned things I didn’t even hear.

We stayed like that for a long time. At some point we changed positions, and I ended up on top, sitting backward on him, facing the wall of mirrors, controlling him, slowly rising and lowering myself with his cock buried in my ass while I watched my reflection, tits bare and mouth open. I asked him to touch me with his hand, and he obeyed without a word: he reached around in front of me and began rubbing my clitoris with two fingers in the same rhythm as I rode him. When I came, it was different from everything before: longer, stranger, more mine, a wave that shook my whole body and made me squeeze his cock inside me with spasms he felt too. I heard him whisper my name twice in a row, “Lorena, Lorena,” and that finally broke me. He came behind me, clutching my tits with both hands, biting my shoulder so he wouldn’t scream.

***

After the last time, we lay still, staring at the ceiling. My hair was stuck to my forehead and my mouth was dry.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“That I should have written to you two years ago,” he said.

I didn’t answer. There was no need.

We got dressed without hurrying. He helped me fasten my bra, and I buttoned his shirt cuffs. In the bathroom mirror, I fixed my smeared mascara as best I could. When we left the hotel, it was almost two in the morning and the street was empty.

On the drive back, he dropped me off three blocks from my door, just as he had on the way there. Before I got out, he took my face in both hands and kissed me again, slowly.

“Are we going to see each other again?” I asked.

“If you want to.”

“I do.”

I walked the three blocks home thinking about a thousand things at once. When I opened the door, my husband was asleep on the couch with the television on. I put a blanket over him and slipped into the shower without making a sound. Under the hot water, I ran my fingers over my swollen pussy and my still-sensitive ass, and shuddered alone at the memory.

I have no excuse, I know. I’m not defending myself. I also know this didn’t begin solely because my husband had cheated first: it began because I wanted it to begin. His infidelity was the crack. What happened with Damián was the decision.

Three weeks have passed and I still don’t know what I’m going to do with all this. I only know that today, when the phone rings and it’s his message, I’m going to answer yes again.