I Got My Revenge on My Neighbor with Her Own Husband

I’m not writing this to clear my conscience. I’m writing it to confess how far I was capable of going, and to admit that I’m still frightened by how little I regret it. I hope no cop is reading this, because if anyone put the pieces together, what happened that afternoon in my studio would cost me more than embarrassment.

Marisol had been my neighbor my whole life. Her parents moved into the apartment across from ours when we were both six years old, and from the very first day I knew we were going to clash. I could have ignored her the way I ignored the other kids in the building, but she made it impossible: we lived door to door and, to make it worse, her parents enrolled her in the same school as me.

Childhood was a war of hair-pulling, threats, and insults that neither of us understood but repeated because we’d heard them from the adults and they sounded like victory. The worst came with adolescence. Marisol’s body developed before mine, and suddenly all the boys in class only had eyes for her.

“Don’t worry, Noelia, yours will grow soon enough,” she’d say with a fake, pitying smile. “Besides, you draw great. You had to have something going for you.”

Deep down I knew she enjoyed every word. She loved making me feel small, reminding me of my place. And I learned to swallow my rage and keep it inside, not yet knowing that locked-up anger doesn’t disappear: it only waits.

Time, which is rarely fair, played in her favor. Marisol grew into a woman with full lips, a narrow waist, and the kind of walk that made heads turn on the street. When we finished high school, I chose Fine Arts and she chose nursing. Our paths finally split, and years passed without us crossing them again.

***

Until one March morning, when the little bell over my studio door rang and there she was, identical and yet a stranger.

“Good morning, I’d like a quote for a tattoo.”

At first I wondered if she was pretending not to recognize me just to humiliate me one more time. Then I realized she hadn’t recognized me. To her, I was just some tattoo artist, a nameless woman behind a counter.

“It’s for my husband,” she added with a sigh of rehearsed patience. “He turns thirty-five next week and’s set on getting one. You know how men are with their little whims.”

I showed her the prices by size and design. She picked, of course, the smallest and cheapest one.

“This one. That way it won’t show much and I don’t waste money on nonsense.”

I snorted inwardly. She was the same as ever: bossy, stingy, convinced the whole world owed her something. I leaned over to adjust the lamp and a strand of hair slipped behind my ear. That was when something about my gesture made her narrow her eyes.

“Noelia? Is that you?”

I hid it as best I could.

“Do we know each other?”

“I’m Marisol, we were neighbors. Don’t you remember me?”

Of course I remember you, you fucking witch. That was what I thought. But my cowardly side, the one that had spent years keeping its head down, was the one that spoke.

“Marisol! What a surprise, it’s been ages.”

We spent a few minutes catching up. For a moment I even thought maybe time had softened her, that maybe we could see each other without resentment. And then she tilted her head, looked around my studio, and said:

“So you make a living painting people’s skin? How curious. I imagined you doing something more serious.”

I smiled with my teeth clenched. It wasn’t worth answering. I just wanted to tattoo her husband as soon as possible and have her disappear from my life again.

“Come back tomorrow with him late in the day,” I said. “I’ll do the design and that’s that.”

She thanked me as if I were doing her some huge favor, completely oblivious to what had already started moving inside me.

***

The next day, punctual as nails, Marisol and her husband showed up. And I have to admit it: Adrián was genuinely handsome. Dark-haired, fit, with a smile that in adolescence must have opened more than one door. Especially hers.

They went into the small office in back. I showed him the sketch his wife had chosen and he agreed, though with the meekness of a man who had long since stopped deciding anything for himself. It only took a few minutes with him to understand it: beneath the façade of a confident man, there was nothing more than someone used to obeying.

I laid him on the tattoo bed. Before I started, Marisol touched my arm.

“Would you mind doing me a favor? Adrián gets nervous around needles and I gave him a sedative. Try to tattoo him as quickly as you can, okay?”

“All right,” I answered.

“I’m just going to the shop next door for a minute. I saw a dress I liked. I’ll be right back.”

I nodded. The bell rang as the door closed and, for the first time in a long time, I was left alone with something that felt like an opportunity.

When I went back to the tattoo bed, Adrián was deeply asleep. The sedative had knocked him out: he was breathing heavily, his eyelids still, cut off from the world. The tattoo was going on his back, so I tried to turn him over. He was too heavy and there was no way. I thought that if Marisol complained later, I’d tell her he himself had asked me to change his position.

And while I was deciding where to tattoo him, I saw it. A bulge slowly growing beneath the fabric of his pants.

“Mm, yes, baby…,” Adrián murmured in his sleep. “Suck it so good, Lorena. Take it all in, don’t be such a scared little bitch…”

I froze. Lorena. He was dreaming of another woman, fantasizing about a name that wasn’t his wife’s, imagining her on her knees sucking his cock while saintly Marisol tried on dresses twenty feet away. And that, I won’t deny it, was music to my ears. Perfect Marisol, the one who had it all, didn’t even have her husband all to herself. Another woman was eating him out in his dreams, another was sucking his cock in his head while he paid for her little tattoo whim.

Adrián shifted, pulled down the waistband of his pants and underwear by himself without waking, and his cock sprang free, hard, thick, much bigger than I’d ever imagined. A veiny trunk throbbing against his stomach, the head swollen and already glistening with a thick drop of pre-cum. In that half-sleep he started grabbing it and jerking off slowly, fist tightening at the base, sliding up to the tip with a thumb that spread the pre all over the crown, repeating that Lorena woman’s name in whispers.

I was hypnotized by the firmness with which his hand moved up and down that cock. I felt the heat climbing inside me, my cunt throbbing in a way I hadn’t recognized so clearly in years, the wetness already soaking my panties and sticking them to my lips. And then that part of me that had so often stayed silent thought for me.

“What if…?”

I went to the studio door and cracked it open. No one was in the street, no sign of Marisol. I shot the bolt, went back to the bed, and without giving myself time to regret it, I yanked my pants and panties down to my ankles and kicked them off.

I didn’t think twice. I climbed onto the bed, swung one leg over his hips, straddled him, and grabbed his cock with my hand. It was hot, hard as stone, throbbing alive against my palm. I stroked the head against my wet lips a couple of times, smearing it with my slick, and when I saw it all shining, I lined it up with my entrance and dropped down hard.

A rough moan escaped me when I felt him open me and fill me to the hilt. I was so wet he slid all the way in at once, but it hurt just as much because he was so thick, and that pain only turned me on more. I stayed still for a moment, his cock buried to my womb, feeling it pulse inside me. Adrián let out a sleepy groan, arched his hips by reflex, and drove himself even deeper into me.

“Fuck…” I whispered, and started moving.

I rode him slowly at first, rising almost all the way off him and then dropping back down, feeling every inch go in and out of my soaked cunt. The squelching was obscene, my ass smacking against his thighs with a wet sound that bounced off the studio walls. I ran my hands over his chest, scratched him, twisted his nipples to see if he’d react, and he only groaned louder with Lorena’s name, moving his pelvis beneath me like a rutting animal.

“Yeah, Lorena, just like that… ride it like that…” he slurred with his eyes closed.

“Shut up and let yourself get fucked,” I hissed, squeezing my thighs against his hips.

Adrián, still trapped between sleep and the sedative, lifted his hands and found my tits beneath my shirt, ripping the buttons off in one yank. He groped my breasts clumsily, pinched my nipples, kneaded them, and I began bouncing faster, harder, letting myself be speared to the hilt with every drop. I tore his shirt off, opened it up, bit one of his nipples, and his cock got even thicker inside me. Within minutes we were both naked as the day we were born, moving like animals at midday, sweat sticking my hair to my forehead and his cock going in and out of my cunt with a pornographic sound.

I leaned back, braced my hands on his thighs, arched my spine, and started grinding my hips, rubbing my clit against the bone of his pubic mound while his cock churned inside me. Every clumsy thrust from his sleeping hips hit exactly the right spot, took me one step higher, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

Even now my pulse speeds up when I remember the exact feeling of having him inside me, the way he filled me with every shove, the way his cock scraped the walls of my cunt as if it wanted to split me in half. It wasn’t only the pleasure. It was what it meant. It was every “yours will grow soon enough,” every pitying little laugh, every year of swallowing my rage, paid back in that room that smelled of ink and disinfectant, packed into every inch of the husband of Marisol who was fucking me blind without even knowing it.

I slid down for a moment, turned all the way around, and mounted him backward, giving my back to him so I could see his thighs and his balls pressed tight against my ass. I grabbed his ankles from the front and started bouncing again, this time in full view of anyone who might walk in. I put two fingers in my mouth, wet them with saliva, and rubbed my clit with them while his cock went in and out of me. I could feel his balls slapping against my pussy on every drop, hot, heavy, full.

I was just about to come when the bell rang again.

The bolt wasn’t the one on the front door. I had forgotten the inner door.

Marisol came in with the dress bag hanging from her arm and froze in the doorway. She saw me with my back to her, riding her husband, Adrián’s cock going in and out of my soaked cunt, my fingers rubbing my clit in plain sight, his balls slapping against me. The scream she let out could have shattered the glass. Adrián woke up with a start, disoriented, not understanding where he was or what this woman was doing on top of him or why his cock was buried to the base in a cunt that wasn’t his wife’s. But I didn’t stop. On the contrary. I turned my head over my shoulder, looked her straight in the eyes, saw on her face the mixture of horror, disgust, and defeat I had spent twenty years waiting to see, and I sped up. Bounce after bounce, fingers rubbing, thighs clamped tight, until the orgasm shot through me like a jolt and I came on her husband’s cock, squeezing it with my cunt in spasms, moaning long and filthy with my eyes locked on hers.

Adrián came too, unable to hold back the milking, and I felt the hot spray of his semen filling me inside while his wife stood speechless in the doorway. I felt each lash of his cock unloading inside me, a thick load that spilled out when I finally stood up and let his cum run down the inside of my thighs to my knees.

For the first time in my life, I was the one who won.

***

A month later the court notice arrived. Marisol had reported me, although even she wasn’t sure under what charge: her husband kept swearing he remembered nothing, and proving what had happened was nearly impossible. My lawyer told me the most likely outcome was that it would come to nothing.

I should worry. I should feel remorse. And yet every time I think about that afternoon, about her scream, about the rage on her face while I trembled with pleasure with her husband’s cock coming inside me, I feel again that so many years of waiting were worth it. It wasn’t just sex. It was justice, in my twisted way.

I confess it without pride, but also without lying: I’d do it again.