What Happened with My Neighbor After the Divorce

I’m not far from forty, and it’s been a little over two years since I separated. My ex-husband and I were together since I was almost a girl: he was a few years older than me and, as always happens when you’re young and think you’re invincible, we got careless and I ended up pregnant before finishing high school. We went to live with his parents, our second child came along, and over time we built our own house. I took care of the home, and he went out to work shifts. It wasn’t a bad marriage. For many years, in fact, it was pretty good.

The problem was the bed. At first we did it two or three times a week, taking advantage of the fact that the kids were at school and he had the day off. We tried every corner of the house, even the embarrassing ones. But at some point that started dying out, and we ended up at once every three months, if we were lucky, and always because I went after him.

I started noticing strange things. He dressed better, his night shifts went on forever. I never had proof, but I didn’t need it. The saddest part was realizing it didn’t hurt anymore. We lived together like two polite strangers. The lockdown during the pandemic, forced to put up with each other twenty-four hours a day, finished off the little patience that was left. One morning he packed a bag and left.

For the first time in my life, I was without a partner. It took me more than a year to close that wound and start looking outward again. Or rather, I looked ahead.

***

Across the street lived Andrés, a man a little older than my ex. I’d shared many afternoons with his wife; he’d come over to help us with any repair, because he was one of those people who can do anything, and then he’d stay drinking a beer in the yard. Other weekends we’d all sing and dance together, and he was good at that too. He took care of himself: several nights a week, while I smoked a cigarette on the balcony, I’d see him head out in shorts for a run. His legs caught my eye, firm and hairy, and his broad arms when he wore a tank top. But what I liked most was his gaze, intense, the kind that seems to read you from the inside. I always thought something about me stirred him, though he never disrespected me or made a move. That, precisely, made him even more desirable.

After my separation, he kindly offered to help me with whatever I needed, and his wife called me every so often to see how I was doing. They, and another neighbor who had separated around the same time, were my support during the bad months, when I couldn’t afford to look broken in front of my children.

A few months ago I noticed Andrés’s wife hadn’t been seen around the neighborhood. One afternoon, coming back from the supermarket, I ran into him leaving his house. I went over to say hello and asked about her.

—We had some problems —he told me, weighing every word—. She went to live with a sister, in another city. We’ve been separated for about a month.

I told him I was sorry, that I understood perfectly what he was going through. That night, already in bed, turning the news over in my head, my mind began inventing things on its own. They were the model couple in the neighborhood, and suddenly he was alone too.

Without meaning to, I pictured him fixing something in my kitchen while I walked past him in a sheer robe, until he lost his composure, grabbed me hard, and took me without asking permission. While I built that scene in my head, my body began to warm, my hands started roaming over me, and I ended up giving myself relief in silence. At first it was only a fantasy. But it repeated so many nights that it stopped feeling like one.

***

A few days later, the drain in the sink got clogged. I knew perfectly well how to unclog it, but I waited until evening, to see his car parked there, and then rang his bell to ask for help. I found him just as he was heading out for a run.

—It’ll take a few minutes —he said, helpful as always—. I’ll stop by after I jog.

I didn’t make it clear that I would be completely alone. I didn’t want to tip him off to anything. Or maybe I kept quiet so I’d have time to regret what was circling in my head.

Close to ten he knocked on the door with his toolbox, still sweaty from exercise. I don’t know about you, but I find a sweaty man incredibly sexy. Summer was ending and it was hot, so I’d put on a light, fresh chiffon dress with buttons down the front. In ten minutes he’d already unclogged everything. I offered him a beer, poured myself a glass of wine, and we stayed talking in the kitchen. One glass went by, then another, then another.

Close to midnight he said he was leaving, that he needed a shower and didn’t want the neighbors talking if they saw him leaving my house late.

—Do you have someone waiting for you at home? —I asked.

—No, I’m alone until the weekend. So I can unwind in peace —he said, and turned the question back on me.

—I’m alone too —I answered—. If you want, we can unwind together.

I don’t know whether it was the wine talking, or the accumulated hunger of two years of abstinence, or the simple fact of having him there, in front of me, just as I’d imagined him so many nights. I offered for him to shower in my room so he wouldn’t have to go out at that hour, that we could stay a little longer.

He looked at me as if reading in my eyes what I didn’t dare say. I held his gaze, my hands clasped at my stomach, silently answering yes, that I wanted him. And he understood, because he took a step forward without saying a word until he was pressed against me.

Our lips found each other on their own. He wrapped an arm around my waist, leaving no air between us. My hands were trapped between our bodies, right against the bulge in his pants, and I felt him harden against my fingers. My breath caught. I stroked him through the fabric, without any restraint, sending to hell all the respect he’d shown me for years. His tongue searched the depths of my mouth and left me breathless. One hand squeezed my ass, the other took my chin.

He paused, panting, looking at me as if asking permission. I put my hand on the back of his neck and brought him back to my mouth. That was my answer.

He pressed me against the counter. I lowered my hand to his ass to push him toward me while I kneaded the package that had so many times been with me only in my head, and that now, real, far surpassed what I’d expected. He lifted me and set me on the marble. My legs wrapped around him on their own. He stepped back half a pace to look at me, and began undoing the buttons of my dress one by one, unhurried, until it was all open.

His hand slid up my thigh to my underwear, and he just watched as the wetness was already soaking through the fabric while his fingers brushed it. I bit my lip when I saw that the shorts weren’t hiding a thing. I pulled him closer by tugging his shirt, untied the drawstring, and slid my hand in. I found him rigid, the tip already shining.

He stood still, watching me with his head bowed while I worked him. Then he lifted his eyes, looking at me through his lashes, with a half smile that set me on fire even more. With one hand he went back to my slit; with the other he lifted my bra and squeezed one breast, trapping my nipple between his fingers. He moved his mouth down my neck, over my chest, until he closed his lips over my nipple and sucked hard. It felt exquisite.

Suddenly he yanked off the last garment. He almost knelt to take it off my feet, looked at my face and then at me, open in front of him. Without pausing he plunged his mouth between my legs. His tongue traced me, sending currents through my whole body. All I could do was wrap my thighs around his neck, rest my head against the wall, and surrender to his mouth and his fingers, which joined in too, until I had to push him away so I could explode in an orgasm that bent me in half. Even the touch of his mouth on my skin afterward felt unbearably intense. And we were only just beginning.

***

Years ago I would have needed a few minutes to recover. With my ex, that’s how it was: either we finished together, or he finished a little earlier, and there was always that mandatory pause. But that night there was no pause. I didn’t want one, and he didn’t need one.

I pulled him close by tugging his shirt and we kissed frantically. He finished lowering the sleeves of my dress and taking off my bra. On his lips I tasted the flavor of my own sex, something I’d never tasted before, and it excited me to know it was mine. I took off his shirt, stroked his bare back.

—Put it in me —I whispered in his ear, wrapping my legs around his hips.

He looked into my eyes while he grabbed my ass and slowly lowered me, feeling his way through my wet folds. He began with a gentle, deep rhythm, holding my thighs. From there I could see our bodies joining, and that made me even hotter. He sped up. His hips struck against me and I wanted him deeper.

—Let me turn around —I asked. I’ve always liked being taken from behind, but my kitchen was too narrow for me to get on all fours.

He let me down, I turned around and bent over, pressing my chest to the marble, feeling my breasts slide in the sweat. I offered myself, looking at him over my shoulder, opening myself with one hand. Without waiting, he grabbed my hips and entered me all at once. The sensation was wonderful. He started pounding me hard and deep, so much that I had to brace one hand against the wall so I wouldn’t hit my head. Every thrust tore another louder moan from me. I felt another orgasm building.

Then he wrapped an arm around my stomach and made me straighten up against his chest. While he kneaded one breast with one hand, with the other he searched for my clit, never stopping his movement. In that position I could feel him hitting a different spot, deeper inside, and the sweat from his chest ran down my back. I reached one hand back and grabbed his ass so he wouldn’t ease up on the rhythm.

—So good —I told him, almost shouted it.

I could barely breathe. I collapsed back onto the marble as I came with a cry. My legs were trembling, but he didn’t stop. His breathing warned me he was about to finish. Suddenly he pulled out and, bracing himself against my lower back, I felt him spill hot over my skin, spreading it with his hand while he caught his breath. I couldn’t even stand.

***

When we’d recovered a little, he whispered in my ear how good it had been. I took his cock, and to my surprise it was still hard.

—That was delicious —I told him, playing with my fingers on the tip—. If you want, go upstairs and shower before you leave.

The truth was I didn’t want to let him go yet.

While he adjusted his pants and I wiped my back clean, I asked if he was going to shower.

—Looks like you don’t want me to leave —he replied, with a cheeky smile.

—It’s so you’ll come out fresh —I lied half-heartedly, gathering my clothes from the floor.

It was close to one in the morning. I took his hand, led him up the stairs to my room, and left him at the bathroom door.

I heard the shower turn on. I went in to leave him a clean towel and, seeing him through the glass, another filthy idea came to me without a second thought. I stayed there watching him bathe, without his knowing, spying on him, and that lit me up again. I took off my dress, started touching myself, and felt myself getting wet again. When he turned off the water, I made up my mind: I opened the door and went in naked. He had his back to me. I hugged him from behind, stroking his wet chest. He froze, surprised, and put his hands on the wall, letting me do whatever I wanted.

His body was cold because he’d showered with ice water, but the contrast with my hot skin made my nipples hard immediately. I lowered my hand to his cock and found it erect. I stroked him slowly, feeling him get harder with every caress. He reached his hands back to squeeze my ass and press me against his body.

He turned around, wrapped me in his arms, and kissed me. I started to slide down his body, ready to taste him, but he stopped me by taking hold of my arms.

—Not yet —he said, lifting me up.

It confused me a little; I thought everyone liked that beforehand. But he, evidently, didn’t need it.

We left the bathroom. I led him by the hand to the bed and got on my knees. He hugged me from behind, kissing my neck, caressing my breasts, my stomach, my slit. I felt his cock settle between my buttocks. I leaned on all fours in front of him and, without wasting time, he drove into me to the hilt, with a string of thrusts so hard that I ended up with my chest crushed against the bedspread, gripping the fabric. Then he let all his weight fall over my body, one leg on each side of mine, and kept driving into me hard. In that position he hit a precise spot that, in a few minutes, brought me to another orgasm.

He knew it, because he slowed the pace without stopping, stretching out my pleasure. Then he pulled out slowly, kissing my back, leaving my body begging for more. I was just discovering that I could come so many times in a single encounter.

He lay down beside me and, when I looked at him, I saw he was still aroused. This man was never satisfied. Without wasting time I sat on top of him and took him all at once. Braced against his chest, I rode him wildly, determined to wear him out, using every technique I had. He held my hips, sucked my breasts, sometimes trapped me in his arms to thrust upward. I couldn’t hold out long and collapsed on top of him, undone by yet another orgasm.

I lay back to recover and saw him stroking himself. He could still go, but my legs weren’t answering me.

—I can’t take any more —I admitted.

—Now you can —he said, nodding toward his erection.

I couldn’t let myself look weak. I knelt down kissing his chest and settled between his legs. At last I saw him in detail, and he seemed beautiful to me. I started kissing him slowly, ran my tongue from the base to the tip, tasting once again the flavor of my own sex. He gathered my hair into a ponytail, not to subdue me, but so it wouldn’t bother me while I enjoyed him.

—Take your time —he told me, stroking my chin.

I closed my eyes and let myself go. I traced him all over, slowly, feeling every vein, while helping him with my hand. His breathing became ragged and he started writhing on the bed until he took my wrist to stop me.

—I’m going to come —he warned me, giving me time to pull away.

But I wanted to possess him like this. I sealed him firmly between my lips and let him finish in my mouth, not losing a single drop. He came in spurts, and I accompanied him with gentle caresses to the end. When he seemed completely empty, he stroked my face. I opened my eyes, looked into his, and made sure he saw me swallow it all. He thanked me with a smile.

We stayed wrapped in each other for a while and, around two-thirty, he got dressed. I walked him to the door. Seeing all the neighborhood lights out, he crossed quickly to his house.

Since that night we’ve gotten together every so often to keep each other company. A message with a simple “Hi” is enough to start another night of lust. We agreed this would be only sex, discreet and nonexclusive, and I think that’s fine. Maybe later I’ll tell you about another one of our encounters.