My Ex’s Mistress Ended Up Coming After Me

I didn’t know she had stopped loving me. What I did know, instead, was that she had stopped coming home.

For months she kept me going with clumsy lies, meetings that ran late, abruptly ended calls, someone else’s perfume on her shirt, and that habit of showering the moment she crossed the door. Then she disappeared altogether. One day she collected a few things, said she needed space, and left me in the dining room with a cup of coffee going cold between my hands and a mute shame that weighed more heavily than the sadness.

My name is Clara, and for far too long I was the patient wife of an asshole named Mauro.

People always know more than you want to hear. A neighbor first told me she’d been seen with someone else. A coworker added that the woman was considerably younger than her. Another, with that cruel taste for details, said there was also a rumor that the other woman wasn’t interested in men, that she had always been with women, and that no one understood what she was doing with her.

I wanted to laugh. Not because it was funny, but out of rage.

Mauro had always needed to feel special. If the story was true, she had surely convinced herself that she’d conquered something extraordinary, something she could tell her friends about with her chest puffed out and a shit-eating grin. It was exactly the kind of miserable trophy that turned her on.

Weeks passed. Then months. One night she reappeared.

She knocked on my door nearly at midnight, wearing that practiced look of exhaustion she used when she wanted pity. Her beard was unkempt, her voice low, and her hands were in her pockets, as though that could erase what she had done.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” she said as soon as I opened the door. “I want to come back.”

I looked at her without inviting her in. Even so, she walked inside as though the house still belonged to her.

“I’m not with her anymore,” she added. “It was a mistake.”

She was a terrible liar. She had always been a terrible liar. But that night she found me weak, exhausted, hungry for some kind of answer even if it was a lie. I let her stay.

It wasn’t reconciliation. It was habit. It was an old body remembering a routine.

She got into my bed with an ease that turned my stomach. She kissed my neck, touched me beneath my T-shirt, and murmured my name as if she hadn’t broken me in two. I closed my eyes and let it happen, not because I wanted her, but because I wanted to find out, one last time, whether anything was still left between us.

There was nothing left.

Her hands moved like those of someone asking for lodging, not forgiveness. When she pulled down my underwear and slid her fingers inside me, I felt no desire, only a sour discomfort. She spread my legs, penetrated me, moaned over me, and thrust with that selfish urgency she had always mistaken for passion. I stared at the ceiling, enduring the weight, the smell, and the brutal certainty that she was still using me even while pretending to come back.

She came quickly. She turned over. She slept as though she had closed a deal.

The next morning she dressed in a hurry, kissed my forehead, and promised to come back at the end of the day to have a serious talk, collect her things, and start over. She said it with such ridiculous conviction that I almost laughed.

She didn’t come back.

By eleven in the morning I had no doubts. At noon I found the address of the apartment where the other woman lived. At one I was there, trembling with fury outside a gray-fronted building, pressing the buzzer until my finger hurt.

No one opened.

I kept insisting. Then I pounded on the door with my fist.

“I know you’re in there, Mauro!” I shouted. “Either someone opens up or I’ll make a scene throughout this entire building.”

I heard footsteps. Silence. Then the lock clicked.

The person who opened the door wasn’t her.

It was the other woman.

She was wearing a badly buttoned white shirt that barely covered her thighs. She had nothing underneath. Her dark hair was tousled, damp at the ends, as if she had just gotten out of the shower or out of bed. Her face belonged to a real adult, not a girl: a full-grown, self-assured woman, her eyes shadowed by lack of sleep and her mouth still swollen from recent kisses. And even in the middle of my fury, the first thing I thought was that she was insultingly hot.

Behind her appeared Mauro, barefoot, shirtless, his jeans half-buttoned.

“Clara...” she stammered.

I didn’t let her finish. I went in, shoving her by the shoulder.

“So you weren’t with her anymore,” I spat.

The other woman, whom I later learned was named Vera, crossed her arms over her chest, more annoyed than embarrassed. The open shirt revealed the firm curve of her tits and the reddish mark of a bite near her collarbone. I didn’t want to look at her, but I did. I ran over her entire body with a guilty quickness: long legs, a narrow waist, a round ass hinted at beneath the shirt, hard nipples outlined beneath the thin fabric.

No wonder the son of a bitch couldn’t let this go, I thought. And immediately hated myself for thinking it.

“She told me she was separated and free,” Vera said flatly, without taking her eyes off Mauro. “That there was nothing left between you.”

“Last night she told me she’d left you,” I replied.

We looked at each other. That single exchange was enough for us to understand that the only truth in that apartment was the size of her lie.

Mauro tried to explain, stumbled over her words, swore that everything was complicated, that she hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, that she loved us both in different ways. It sounded so pathetic that Vera laughed in her face.

“Don’t drag me into your little performance,” she snapped. “Get dressed and get out.”

“Vera...” she said.

“Right now.”

I expected to argue, scream, maybe break something. Instead I watched her pick up her T-shirt from the floor, mutter an excuse, and leave the apartment feeling as though she had been thrown out of her own game. The door closed behind her. Suddenly, we were alone.

Completely alone.

Vera leaned against the dining table and exhaled through her nose, still wearing her shirt open. I was still furious, but I no longer knew exactly at whom. At Mauro, obviously. At myself. At her, a little. And, in a way that was difficult to confess, at the unexpected heat running through my belly ever since I had seen her appear half-naked in front of me.

“I had no idea she’d gone looking for you last night,” she said.

“She slept with me and came back to you this morning.”

Vera closed her eyes for a second, disgusted.

“What a pig.”

I nodded. Then she went to the sofa, took a pair of loose trousers from the back, and put them on without hurrying. Her shirt remained open. She could have buttoned it, but she didn’t. I didn’t know whether it was carelessness or something else. What I did know was that every time her chest moved as she breathed, my eyes dropped on their own.

“Do you want coffee?” she asked.

The normality of the question disarmed me.

“Yes.”

We went to the kitchen like two women who hadn’t just discovered they shared the same man, but like two acquaintances forced into an awkward conversation. While she filled the coffee maker, I watched her hands. She had long fingers, short nails, no polish. Practical woman’s hands. Without meaning to, I thought about how they would feel on my skin.

“So it was true,” I said, more to fill the silence than anything else. “The part about you preferring women.”

Vera smiled faintly, without seeming uncomfortable.

“I do. That doesn’t make getting involved with that man any less stupid.”

“Out of curiosity?”

“Stubbornness. A bad spell. Wanting to see whether I was wrong.” She looked me straight in the eye. “I wasn’t wrong.”

It should have upset me. Instead, her frankness turned me on.

We sat facing each other with our coffee. We talked for a long time. About Mauro’s lies, how she had played us both, her empty promises, her absences. And the more we talked, the less I saw Vera as the mistress and the more I saw her as a woman dragged through the same filth as me.

But there was something else. A current beneath the words. A physical tension, harsh and electric. I caught her looking at my mouth. She caught me staring at her tits whenever her shirt opened a little farther as she leaned forward. Neither of us pretended very hard.

“I imagined you differently,” she told me at one point.

“Worse?”

“No. More fragile.”

“And what do you see?”

Her gaze dropped to my legs, then slowly rose again.

“A woman who’s been putting up with too much.”

I felt a knot in my throat. And beneath that knot, desire.

“I imagined you differently too,” I admitted.

“How?”

I hesitated for a moment. Then I decided not to lie.

“Colder. Less...” My gaze drifted toward her chest. “Less difficult to look at.”

Vera let out a low laugh. She didn’t button her shirt. On the contrary, she pulled the lapels a little farther apart with her fingers, revealing the entire skin of her sternum, the nonexistent bra, and the natural weight of her bare tits beneath the fabric.

“You can look,” she said.

My mouth went dry.

“I didn’t come here for that.”

“I know.” She rested her elbows on the table. “But you’ve been doing it for a while.”

I felt heat rising into my face. I was about to apologize, but she cut me off.

“It doesn’t bother me.”

The air grew denser. We were no longer sorting out a betrayal. We were standing on the edge of something else, and we both knew it.

“I’ve never been with a woman,” I said, almost without meaning to.

Vera held my gaze. This time she didn’t smile. She became serious, attentive.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

That sentence, spoken like that, without pressure, loosened something inside me.

“What if I do want it?”

Her tongue barely moistened her lower lip.

“Then come and kiss me.”

I stood up on shaky legs. I walked around the table and stopped in front of her. She was sitting, but she still had an imposing presence. I put one hand on her shoulder, the other on her waist. I kissed her awkwardly at first, barely brushing her lips as I tested the ground. Vera responded by opening her mouth, grabbing the back of my neck, and deepening the kiss until I couldn’t think.

She kissed like a woman who didn’t ask permission twice. Her tongue tangled with mine, slowly at first, then more firmly. She pulled me against her body, and I felt her tits press against my abdomen, warm, heavy, real. A moan escaped me into her mouth. I was embarrassed for a second. She swallowed it, smiling against my lips.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Don’t hold back.”

She tore open my blouse, sending the buttons flying, and slipped her hands inside. When she grabbed my tits over my bra, I let out a breath as though I’d been struck. Her fingers were confident; they knew exactly how hard to squeeze, how to cup me, how to rub with her thumb until my nipples hardened.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

“That’s exactly what I thought when I saw you at the door,” she said.

I laughed in disbelief and desire. She took advantage of my distraction to kiss my neck, bite me gently beneath the ear, and move one hand toward my skirt. She slipped her fingers underneath without ceremony. She stroked me over my underwear and immediately found the wet heat between my legs.

“Look at you,” she said softly. “You’re getting wet for me.”

The bluntness shot through me like an electric shock. No one had ever said that to me so directly, without embellishment. And I liked it far too much.

“I didn’t know this was going to happen,” I confessed.

“I started suspecting it when you stopped looking at the door and started looking at my body.”

She slipped two fingers inside my underwear and rubbed my pussy through the fabric, playing with my wetness before touching me for real. I nearly folded over her.

“Can I?”

“Yes,” I answered far too quickly.

She pulled my underwear down to mid-thigh and turned me around so I could brace myself against the counter. I felt the cool marble beneath my palms. She knelt behind me, lifted my skirt, and spread my ass with her hands. Air hit my soaked sex full-on. I moaned just from feeling so open in front of another woman.

“You’re so tasty,” she murmured, then immediately corrected herself with a smile in her voice. “You’re so delicious.”

Her tongue touched my pussy and my legs trembled. It wasn’t a timid caress. She licked me from bottom to top, slowly, coating me in saliva, pausing at my clitoris only long enough to make me gasp before going back down. I gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white.

“Don’t stop,” I said, embarrassed and desperate at the same time.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Her mouth worked with obscene precision. She opened my lips with her tongue, sucked, licked again, alternating pressure and gentleness as though she were reading my body from the inside. When she pushed in one long, firm finger, a spark shot up into my chest. Then a second. She moved them inside me with a patient rhythm, curling them just enough to make me writhe.

“Shit, Vera...”

“Say it again.”

“Vera... fuck... just like that...”

She sped up. Her tongue remained fixed on my clitoris while her fingers fucked me inside with a wet cadence, growing deeper and deeper. I moaned without dignity, rocking my hips toward her face, searching for more. It was humiliating and delicious to realize how quickly she was undoing me.

“No man ever ate you like this, did he?” she asked without fully pulling away.

“No.”

“I can tell.”

She sucked me harder, and my orgasm surged up all at once, fierce and without warning. I came trembling against her mouth, with a broken moan that ended in a sob. She didn’t pull away. She kept licking while I shook, stretching out the release until it became almost painful.

When she finally let me go, her face was glistening and her satisfied expression lit me up again instantly.

She stood and kissed me. I tasted myself on her tongue. I opened her shirt all the way, needing to see her. Her tits fell free, round and heavy, with dark, hard nipples. I grabbed them with both hands and squeezed them as I had wanted to do ever since she opened the door. Vera closed her eyes and let out a deep moan.

“That’s it,” she said. “Touch me like that.”

I pushed her against the kitchen wall and kissed her hungrily. I no longer cared about being inexperienced. I wanted to learn her body by using it. I sucked one nipple while her other breast filled my hand; I nipped it gently, licked around it, and felt her arch against me. I lowered my hand to her trousers, slipped my fingers inside, and found her hot, soaked pussy.

“Look at you,” I said, repeating her sweet cruelty. “You’re dripping.”

Vera chuckled and grabbed my hair to make me lift my head.

“Then stop talking and put them in.”

I did. Two fingers at first, slowly, feeling out her breathing. She spread her legs wider. Her pussy received me tight, soft, and very wet. I moved my hand the way I had felt hers move inside me: in, out, curling my fingers. I learned quickly from the way her body answered me. Every time I got it right, she squeezed my wrist or dug her nails into my back.

“Like that, Clara. Fuck, like that.”

I pulled her trousers down to her ankles and removed them awkwardly. Then I knelt in front of her. Vera looked at me for a second, giving me time to back out. I didn’t. I kissed her mound over her short, neatly trimmed hair, then opened her with my fingers and ran my tongue through her wetness.

Her reaction was immediate: a spasm in her thighs and one hand on my head.

“Don’t be gentle,” she asked. “Eat me.”

I obeyed. I licked her pussy hungrily, without false delicacy, copying some of what she had done to me and letting myself be guided by my own greed. She tasted intense, hot, addictive. Her breathing became disordered at once. I alternated between a flat tongue and the tip, sucked her clitoris, opened her wider with my fingers, and heard her say my name through clenched teeth as if she were struggling to contain herself.

“That’s it, shit... don’t stop...”

I pushed two fingers inside her while I sucked her. Vera shamelessly pushed my face harder against her sex, and instead of offending me, it turned me on even more. I was hearing her lose control because of my mouth. Because of me. And that erased the last trace of doubt I had left.

I made her come against my tongue, her legs trembling and her back softly striking the wall. She came saying a swearword and then my name, in that order. I loved it.

We stayed there for a few seconds, breathing hard, pressed against each other. Then she took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom.

***

The bed was still rumpled from the previous night with Mauro. Vera glanced at the sheets and shook her head in annoyance. Without letting go of me, she tore the entire bedding off the bed and left it in a heap on the floor.

“I don’t even want to smell her,” she said.

Neither did I.

We lay down on the bare mattress. There was no trace of her there anymore, only us and a new, more intimate tension. Vera opened the bedside-table drawer and took out a harness with a dark silicone cock, sleek and firm. I stared at it openly.

“Does it scare you?” she asked.

“It turns me on.”

“Good.”

She strapped it on with brutal naturalness, as though putting it on were as simple as putting on a pair of shoes. The sight undid me: the woman who an hour ago had been my ex’s mistress was now standing naked in front of the bed except for the harness, her hair tousled, her tits upright, and her confidence making me spread my legs wider before she even asked me to.

“I want to do this right,” she said, climbing on top of me. “I want you to enjoy it.”

She kissed me while undressing me completely. She lowered one hand between my legs, rubbed my clitoris again until I was wet once more, and slipped in two fingers. She moved them for a while, preparing the way, watching my face to read every reaction.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

“Yes.”

The tip of the harness pressed against my entrance. I felt pressure, heat, a new stretch. Vera pushed slowly. I drew a deep breath and clung to her arms. When she went a little farther in, I let out a startled moan. It wasn’t pain. It was fullness, invasion, a sensation different from what I knew with a man because there was no clumsiness or ego, only absolute attention to the way I was opening for her.

“All right?” she asked.

“Yes... yes, keep going.”

She entered me all the way and paused for a moment. Our breasts brushed together. Her nose touched mine.

“Look at me.”

I did. Then she began to move.

The first thrusts were slow and deep. Every withdrawal left me empty; every entrance filled me all at once. Vera kept one hand between our bodies, rubbing my clitoris at the same time, and that combination made me lose my breath very quickly. I moaned shamelessly, my legs open around her waist, feeling her move in and out with an increasingly confident rhythm.

“This is how I wanted you,” she whispered in my ear. “Open for me, moaning for me and not that idiot.”

The sentence turned me on even more than it should have.

“Fuck me,” I begged, surprised to hear myself say it.

Vera smiled, a fierce gleam in her eyes.

“That’s what I was waiting for.”

She increased the pace. The mattress began to creak with every thrust. I clung to her back, digging my nails into her, while she fucked me hard, never losing control of the angle, entering exactly where she made me tremble the most. Every time the harness struck deep inside me, her thumb kept pounding my clitoris with precision. It was too much. It was perfect.

“Fuck, Vera... don’t stop... don’t stop...”

“Come again.”

“I’m close.”

“Then do it.”

Her words, her tone, the way she held my hips and thrust into me—all of it came together. I came with a hoarse cry, squeezing her between my legs and trembling all over while she kept fucking me through the orgasm a few more times, until I was completely wrecked.

When she finally pulled away, I fell onto my side, trying to catch my breath. Vera removed the harness without hurrying, set it aside, and slipped between my legs again, this time facedown, to lick the wetness still running out of me. I nearly cried from how sensitive I was.

“Too much,” I moaned.

“Just a little more.”

It was only a little, but it was enough to pull another brief, finer spasm from me, leaving me seeing white spots behind my eyelids.

Then she lay down beside me. I stroked her belly, her hips, her thigh. I moved lower and put my hand between her legs again. She was still wet. Very wet.

“Now it’s your turn,” I told her.

I straddled her, sitting on her thigh. We kissed while I rubbed myself against her for a few seconds, still aroused, and then I lowered myself to her pussy. I wanted to watch her come with nothing but my mouth and fingers. I sucked her clitoris insistently, penetrated her with two fingers and then three, feeling her open for me, feeling her soak my entire hand.

Vera stopped trying to maintain her composure. She spread herself wider, talked dirty into my ear, begged for more, faster, and ordered me not to stop. I obeyed happily, using my fingers and tongue until she came again, this time with beautiful rawness, swearing and clutching handfuls of the bare sheets.

When she finished, she pulled me against her body, and we lay there embracing, sweaty and satisfied, our legs tangled together.

“I didn’t expect my worst morning to end like this,” I said.

“Neither did I.” She kissed my forehead. “But I’m not complaining.”

I laughed for the first time in a long while, with a clean lightness and no bitterness. The apartment was still the place where my ex had humiliated me. Yet in that bed, in that moment, she no longer mattered.

Vera brushed her fingertips over my back.

“If you see her again,” she said, “tell her she did me a favor without meaning to.”

I raised my head to look at her.

“What favor?”

She smiled and spread my legs with one hand, playing again with the wetness still left on me.

“Bringing you to my door.”

I kissed her before she could say anything else. And when her fingers touched me again, there was nothing left of the betrayed wife who had stormed upstairs to confront her. There was only an adult woman, finally awake, discovering amid gasps and open legs that the best confession of her life had begun with a betrayal and ended on another woman’s tongue.