The Night I Took My Revenge Without Planning It

The night I discovered Rodrigo was cheating on me was also the night I discovered something about myself.

There was no scene. I didn’t scream, I didn’t cry in his face, I didn’t throw anything to the floor. I saw them together in the café on the corner where he always said he stayed late to work, sitting across from each other with the kind of familiarity you can’t fake. She was older than me. They were laughing. His hand rested on top of hers on the table. I stood frozen on the sidewalk for about three seconds, long enough to understand everything, and then I turned around and left.

I went down into the subway without remembering that I’d descended the stairs. I got off two stops later without knowing why. And I started walking.

It was late. Past midnight, the streets downtown were almost empty. Just a few drunks, the occasional solitary taxi, metal shutters lowered over the shops. I walked quickly, as if I had somewhere to go, even though I had nowhere to go. The anger was bigger than the pain, and that surprised me. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to do something, although I didn’t know what.

My mind kept circling in a loop: Rodrigo, her hand, his smile. Two years. Two years of weekends and shared plans and the feeling that what we had was solid. I walked without thinking about the direction, and at some point I turned onto a street I didn’t recognize.

The streetlamps were yellower here, and fewer. There were bars with their doors open, slow music spilling onto the sidewalk, men clustered in the entrances, smoking and drinking with the languor of people who had nowhere else to be. They watched me pass. Someone whistled. Another man said, in an alcohol-thick voice, that I had a great ass and that you could tell how well-fucked I was, and something tightened and loosened between my legs at the same time when I heard it.

What are you doing here?

But I didn’t stop. I kept looking straight ahead, my heels ringing against the wet asphalt, until I noticed that one of the men was no longer with his group. He was walking beside me. I didn’t know how long he’d been there.

He was older, in his fifties, broad-built, wearing a dark jacket and carrying the mingled smell of alcohol and tobacco. He wasn’t threatening in the conventional sense, but he wasn’t harmless either. He watched me from the corner of his eye with the calm of someone who knew he had time, and that refusals didn’t keep him up at night.

“Where are you going all alone at this hour?” he said. It wasn’t a real question; it was an opening.

I didn’t answer. I quickened my pace.

It was when we reached an empty lot between two buildings with dark windows that he grabbed my arm. It wasn’t a violent tug; it was something more calculated: he turned me toward him gently and pushed me against the brick wall with the weight of his body. He was big. Much bigger than Rodrigo.

“Let me go,” I said. My voice didn’t sound as firm as I wanted it to.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to,” he replied, and his hand was already sliding beneath my skirt, moving up the inside of my thigh with a slowness that wasn’t hesitation but savoring.

I still don’t fully understand what happened next, even now, weeks later. I should have screamed. There were people not far away. I had my phone in my purse. But I didn’t scream or look for my phone. I stayed still while his hand lifted the fabric and found the backs of my thighs, and something in my body decided, without consulting me, that this wasn’t necessarily terrible.

His hands were rough and thick, with the square palms of someone who earned his living with them. He caressed me with a familiarity he hadn’t earned, and inexplicably, I didn’t take his hand away. His lips found my neck, and I felt the scrape of his unshaven beard against my skin, and then his teeth closed over the muscle, biting hard enough to leave me short of breath. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t trying to be.

Rodrigo had always been delicate, almost ceremonial. He did everything in order, carefully, as if following a protocol. I had wanted to ask him for something different many times, something more urgent, more careless, without polished edges, and I had never found a way to say it without sounding strange. And now this stranger who reeked of beer had me pressed against a wall in the middle of the night, his knee wedged between my legs to force them apart, and my body was responding with a clarity that embarrassed me.

“You’re wet,” he murmured against my neck. It wasn’t a question.

“Shut up,” I said. But I didn’t move.

He reached between my legs from behind, and when his fingers pushed aside the fabric of my panties and found what they found, we both fell silent for a moment. Him because it confirmed it. Me because I had nothing left to argue. I was soaked. I was dripping between his fingers, and he knew it, and he made sure I knew it by running his wet fingertip up and down the lips of my pussy, very slowly, with the languor of someone assessing merchandise.

“Look at you,” he said, and he thrust two fingers into me all the way to the knuckles at once. A short moan escaped me against the brick. He pulled them out and put them back in, and again, pressing his palm against my clit with every thrust, and I spread my legs wider without deciding to—“That’s it, slut, open up.”

The word went through me as if it had been pushed inside along with his fingers. Rodrigo had never spoken to me like that. No one had. And instead of being outraged, I squeezed my thighs against his hand.

With his other hand he hiked my skirt up to my waist, yanked my panties down to my knees, and fingered me again, now directly, without fabric in the way. My cheek was pressed against the brick and my hands were spread against the wall. I could feel the wetness running down the insides of my thighs.

“Why don’t we go somewhere quieter?” I said at last, my voice breaking.

The man moved away just enough to look at me. His eyes were narrowed, and he wore a half-smile that wasn’t exactly friendly. He withdrew his fingers from me without hurrying, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean while staring straight at me. He adjusted his jacket and nodded toward the next corner.

“I know a place,” he said.

***

The cinema was two blocks away. From the outside it didn’t look like anything: a narrow entrance, a ticket booth with scratched glass, a neon sign only half lit. He paid without asking me anything. We went inside.

It was cold inside. An artificial, deliberate cold that contrasted with the heat of the street and the heat I was carrying on me. The screen was showing images that under any other circumstances would have made me laugh nervously: a woman on her knees sucking two men’s cocks at once, switching from one to the other, her face smeared with saliva and cum. Here they only made me more alert, more aware of the weight of what I had decided to do, and even more aware of the wetness that was still running down the inside of my thigh.

There were four or five people scattered around the theater. No one looked at us. Or no one looked directly, which wasn’t the same thing.

We sat in the back. He draped an arm over my shoulders with a familiarity that didn’t fit the amount of time we’d known each other, and took a flask from his inside pocket. He offered it to me without saying anything.

I drank. It burned—I don’t know what it was, but it burned, and that was what I needed.

His free hand found its way beneath my skirt almost immediately. This time without the urgency of the vacant lot, more calmly, as if he had all the time in the world. I kept my eyes fixed on the screen, although I couldn’t see anything that was happening on it anymore, only hear the woman’s amplified moans and the wet sound of cocks moving in and out of her mouth.

When he reached the edge of my underwear and pushed it aside, I held my breath.

“Stay still,” he said, although I hadn’t moved.

He inserted two fingers slowly, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound I didn’t want to make there, with those people nearby. He moved them unhurriedly, sinking them all the way in and drawing them out to the tips, twisting them inside, looking for something with his fingertip that he found immediately and that made me arch my back against the seat. That was worse than if he’d done it quickly. Worse in the good sense. In the sense in which waiting becomes something physical that presses from inside you. He pressed my clitoris in short circles with his thumb while his fingers kept moving in and out, and I squeezed my thighs around his wrist so he wouldn’t stop.

“Touch me too,” he said.

I found the zipper of his pants with my free hand, lowered it easily, pushed aside the fabric of his briefs, and reached inside. What I found made me exhale slowly. He was substantially bigger than what I knew. Not just in length: in thickness, in density, in the way he responded effortlessly. He was hard as a rock, heavy, and there was already a thick drop at the tip, which I spread over the head with my thumb while gripping him in my other hand.

That was exactly what I’d wanted to touch for years without knowing how to ask for it.

I wrapped my fingers around him—I could barely close them—and began moving my hand up and down to the slow rhythm he was setting with the fingers inside me. That exchange lasted several minutes, in the darkness of the theater with the screen lighting us from the side. I squeezed him at the base and then moved up to the tip, squeezing harder when I reached the top, and he answered by pushing his fingers deeper inside me, searching for that spot that made me clench my teeth.

“Suck me,” he said. Directly, without dressing up the words. “Here. Now.”

Something in that raw tone made me want to obey. I knelt over his lap, pulled him completely out of his pants, and put him in my mouth. I heard him inhale sharply. I felt him tense beneath my hands. He grabbed my hair—not violently, but firmly enough to leave no doubt about what he wanted—and set the rhythm from above, pushing my head down until the tip struck my throat and made me cough softly.

“All of it,” he whispered. “Swallow me whole.”

I relaxed my jaw and let him go deeper. My eyes watered, my nose touched the rough hair at his base, and he released a low growl from his chest. I pulled him out to breathe, a strand of saliva hanging from my lip, and put him back in, this time setting the rhythm myself, sucking the head and plunging down to the bottom. I licked his entire length from base to tip, then took his balls in the palm of my hand, squeezing gently while I kept sucking up top.

I stayed like that for quite a while. He made no effort to keep quiet: he moaned with the ease of someone who didn’t care what other people thought, and that, combined with what his fingers continued doing beneath my skirt every time I lifted my hips to seek them out, was taking me to a place where I no longer thought about Rodrigo or the café or anything that had happened before that night.

Before he reached his limit, he pulled me up by the shoulders, tugging my hair.

“Up,” he said, and stood with his cock still out, gleaming with my saliva.

***

The upper floor of the cinema was almost empty. Two silhouettes at the back, motionless, although one of them was moving slightly with the unmistakable rhythm of someone jerking off in the dark. The rest was darkness and the muffled murmur of the audio from below, muted by the low ceiling.

We went to the last row. He turned me around without saying anything, and I placed my hands on the back of the seat in front of me and waited. He shoved my skirt up to my waist, pulled my panties down to my thighs, and left them there, stretched tight between my legs. He positioned himself behind me. I felt the hot tip of his cock resting between my ass cheeks, sliding downward, searching for the opening of my pussy and finding it soaked.

“Look at how ready you are for me,” he murmured against my ear, running the head up and down between my lips without entering. “You’re melted, slut.”

“Put it in me,” I said, and didn’t recognize my own voice.

He entered slowly the first time. Only the first time. He forced his way in, inch by inch, until I felt his balls striking my clitoris and a long breath leaving me as if I’d been holding it for years.

After that, he wasn’t slow anymore.

Every thrust drove me against the seats, and I clung to the hard plastic as if it were the only thing keeping me anchored. He fucked with his whole hips, driving all the way in, pulling almost completely out and slamming back in with a sharp thrust that lifted me onto my toes. It was exactly what I had needed someone to do to me and had never had: no consideration, no questions in the middle, no pauses to check that everything was all right. Just that—him behind me with his hands firm on my hips, pulling me toward him every time he thrust inward, burying himself to the hilt with a calculated violence that knocked the air from me.

He reached around and grabbed one of my tits inside my bra, pinching my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it while he kept thrusting. His other hand moved down my belly to my clitoris and began rubbing it in circles, synchronized with the blows of his hips, and I felt my knees buckle.

“Hold on,” he growled against the nape of my neck. “Hold on, don’t fall.”

He pulled out abruptly. I was about to protest when I felt the tip pressing against my other hole, my ass, spreading my own wetness there.

“Here too?” he asked, although he didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed lightly, the tip forcing its way in, and I pressed my hands against the seatback and held my breath until I felt him inside me. It burned. It burned just enough. Then he went back to my pussy, and then to my ass again, alternating in a rhythm that had me moaning low, very low, behind closed lips so the silhouettes at the back wouldn’t hear—“They’re both mine tonight, aren’t they?” he said, and I nodded against the seatback, unable to speak.

He went back to my pussy and stayed there, fucking me hard, his hand once again on my clitoris.

“Don’t stop,” I heard myself say, barely audibly.

He didn’t stop.

When I came, it was with a sound I couldn’t control, a short, dry moan that rang against the theater’s ceiling in the complete silence, followed by a long shudder that rose from my thighs to my stomach and made me clench my pussy around his cock like a fist. He let out a muffled curse, increased the pace for three, four more thrusts, then pulled out just in time to come all over me, hot, thick spurts landing on my lower back, my ass, and the inside of my thigh, while he kept jerking and grunting under his breath until the very last drop.

We stayed like that for a moment without moving. I felt the semen slowly running down my skin.

Then he adjusted his clothes. He took a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my back with a roughness that wasn’t carelessness but habit. I did the same with my panties, pulling them back up, still hot and sticky inside, and straightened my skirt. Neither of us said anything. We went down the stairs in silence and out into the street, where the night air smelled of wet asphalt and something fried coming from some nearby place, and the man nodded toward a corner and walked away in that direction without looking back.

I went the other way.

***

I walked back to the subway with steadier feet than I’d had on the way there, and with the warm, damp sensation between my legs from what had just happened still very much present. I don’t know if what I had done was revenge. I don’t know if Rodrigo deserved to have me thinking about him while all that was happening.

In reality, I didn’t think about him at any point.

That, more than anything else, was what left me thinking during the ride home: not the guilt, not the adrenaline, not the stranger or the name he didn’t give me and I didn’t ask for. Just that absence. The ease with which two years of something I believed was solid had vanished from my head in a matter of hours, replaced by something as simple and immediate as the cold of the cinema and rough hands on my hips.

I sat in the empty carriage, looked at my reflection in the dark window, and thought that the person looking back at me didn’t seem broken. She seemed, in a way I didn’t know how to explain, considerably more awake than before.