My Mature Neighbor Asked Me to Pretend She Was Someone Else

I went to her house on a Friday morning, knowing perfectly well why I was going and yet with my pulse racing as if I were about to do something crazy for the first time. My wife, Marina, knew. Not only did she know: after weeks of hearing her neighbor drop increasingly blatant hints, she was the one who told me to go and find out what she really wanted.

“Go, if you dare,” she threw at me that morning before leaving, with a half smile that left me aroused and confused at the same time. “But tell me everything afterward.”

Everything. That word stayed with me on the way there.

The woman waiting for me across the hall was named Estela. Widowed for a few years, elegant even when taking out the trash, one of those mature women who didn’t need to show anything to get noticed. But that morning she hadn’t bothered pretending to be respectable. She opened the door before I could knock, as if she had been glued to the peephole waiting for me.

She wore a thin, pale nightgown, clinging to her body in the light coming through the living-room window. It didn’t need to be completely transparent; even so, I could make out her heavy breasts, hard nipples, and the dark shadow between her thighs. She looked first at my face and then at my crotch, without the slightest embarrassment.

“I thought you were going to back out,” she said.

“I thought so too.”

She smiled strangely, half triumph and half nerves. Then she stepped aside.

“Then come in before you change your mind.”

The house smelled of coffee, lavender, and that thick warmth an aroused woman gives off when she has been getting ready to be looked at for a while. She closed the door behind me, and I heard the lock click. It wasn’t theatrical. It sounded like a decision.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked, although she was already walking toward the bedroom.

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

I followed her. I watched her hips beneath the nightgown, the slow, confident sway of a woman who knew her body and knew what it did to people. The bedroom was half-dark, with the blinds halfway down. The bed had already been mussed. On a chair were a robe, a pair of panties, and nothing else. This hadn’t been improvised.

Estela turned toward me and studied me for a few seconds. She didn’t have the expression of a nervous mistress or a neighbor playing at something innocent. She was hungry. Hungry for skin, for contact, for a very specific fantasy I still didn’t understand.

“I want one thing before we start,” she said.

“Start?”

“Don’t play dumb. We both know why you came.”

I couldn’t deny it. She was less than a yard away, wearing that nightgown that showed enough to turn me into an idiot. The bulge in my pants was impossible to miss. She looked at it and briefly licked her lips.

“I want you to do exactly what I ask,” she added. “If at any point you don’t want to, you leave. But if you stay, you play along all the way.”

I nodded. My throat had gone dry.

“What game?”

She came close enough to place a hand against my chest. I felt her warm fingers through my shirt.

“I want you to imagine that I’m in your wife’s place while you fuck me.”

The sentence struck me right in the back of the neck. It aroused me and made me uncomfortable at the same time.

“Estela...”

“Don’t lie to me. I know how you look at her when you ride up together in the elevator. I know how you touch her when you think no one can see you in the garage. I’ve wanted her for months, but she never would have let me touch her. You’re here. So I’ll settle for you lending her to me in your head.”

I should have left. I really considered it. But then she grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me.

It was a wet, direct kiss, her tongue impatient. She didn’t test the waters; she invaded my mouth as if she wanted to swallow my doubt before I could speak. I squeezed her waist almost by reflex and felt the heat of her body through the fabric. She moaned, bit my lip, and squeezed my package with her open palm.

“That’s what I like,” she whispered. “Less thinking and more fucking.”

Her fingers went down to the button of my pants and opened it without looking away. Then she undid my belt and zipper with obscene ease, as if she had been imagining this moment for years. I helped her pull off my shirt, and it fell to the floor. She ran her hands slowly over my torso, savoring the sight.

“You’re hard as a rock,” she said.

“Look at yourself and ask why.”

She laughed. The sound came out low and satisfied.

“Good. I like men who arrive ready.”

She knelt in front of me without ceremony. Seeing a mature, confident, shameless woman lowering herself until her face was level with my cock sent a brutal jolt through my belly. She pulled my penis from my boxers and held it with a firmness that made me let out a breath through my mouth. She looked at it like someone assessing a tool she intended to put to full use.

“I want to hear you say her name,” she murmured.

“Don’t fuck around.”

She kissed the tip and smiled when she felt me shudder.

“Say your wife’s name while I suck you.”

“Marina...”

The word had barely left my mouth when she opened hers and took me all the way in. The heat of her tongue drew a moan from me. She didn’t suck me delicately or with false shyness; she swallowed and rose, came back down, squeezing with her wet lips while one hand massaged my balls and the other held my hip to set the rhythm.

“Fuck...” I growled.

She looked up without letting me go. Her eyes shone. She kept sucking me with a mixture of urgency and skill that was anything but improvised. Saliva ran from the corner of her mouth and dripped onto her chin. She pulled me out for a moment to spit on my shaft and spread it with her hand before taking me back into her mouth as deeply as she could.

“That’s how you suck her, isn’t it?” she said in a broken voice. “That’s how you suck your wife.”

I gripped the headboard because my legs were beginning to weaken. She licked me from base to tip, circling her tongue, then sucked hard, speeding up. Her nightgown had fallen open between her knees, and I caught sight of her pussy: swollen, wet, neatly trimmed, shining with sheer desire.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

I looked at her.

“Tell me you’re thinking about her.”

“I’m thinking about her.”

She moaned as if that lie fed her. She let me go just when she realized I was getting too close to orgasm.

“Not yet,” she said, standing up. “I want to feel you inside me.”

She pushed me toward the bed and made me sit on the edge. Then she pulled the nightgown over her head. She stood naked in front of me, hiding nothing. She had the body of a very experienced woman: full breasts, a soft belly, broad hips, a generous ass. None of it took away a single ounce of sex appeal. Quite the opposite. There was a brutal confidence in the way she offered herself.

She took one of my hands and brought it to a breast.

“Squeeze.”

I did. Her nipple hardened between my fingers.

“Harder.”

I pinched it, and she closed her eyes, panting. Then she guided my hand between her legs. Her pussy was soaked, open, hot. When I touched her clitoris, her knees buckled slightly.

“See?” she said. “That’s what imagining it does to me.”

I slid in one finger. She clutched my wrist with a desperation she could no longer hide. I added another and began fucking her with my hand, feeling her open and grow wetter. She spread her legs farther.

“Fuck me with your fingers. Hard.”

I obeyed. The wet sound filled the room. She brought one hand to her mouth, sucked two fingers, and then slipped them between her buttocks, barely caressing herself while I pumped inside her pussy. The sight pushed me to the edge again.

“Jesus, Estela...”

“Don’t stop. Like that. Like that.” Her breathing had become a ragged pant. “Tell me you’re doing it to her. Tell me your hand is inside Marina.”

I said it. The moment I got the words out, she came.

It was quick and filthy. She pressed herself against my hand, convulsing, soaking my fingers, with a low moan that rose until it became one long cry. When she finished, she looked at me with her pupils wide and a kind of fierce gratitude.

“Now,” she whispered. “I want your cock.”

I lay her down on the bed and positioned myself between her legs. She grabbed her thighs herself and opened wider. I saw her swollen, shining pussy, begging for action. I ran the head of my cock over her entrance, and her abdomen trembled.

“Put it in,” she blurted impatiently. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

I buried it in her with one thrust. The moan she let out was almost a scream. She dug her nails into my shoulders and arched her back, taking me to the hilt. She was tight and slippery, hot in an obscene way. I stayed inside her for a second, feeling her squeeze me.

“Fuck... what a pussy...” I murmured.

“Move,” she ordered. “Fuck me for real.”

I started slowly, pulling out almost to the tip and driving back in hard. The bed struck the wall with every thrust. Her heavy breasts bounced, and she held them, offering them to me, making me look at them, making me understand how much she was enjoying herself.

“Harder,” she panted. “You didn’t come here to treat me gently.”

I pressed her legs against my waist and pounded her harder. The sound of my cock entering and leaving her wet pussy became scandalously loud. She took everything I gave her. Every thrust made her open her mouth wider, close her eyes, and spit out stray words and increasingly filthy orders.

“Like that... like that, you bastard... imagine it’s her... imagine you’re splitting her open in my bed...”

I grabbed one breast and squeezed it while I kept driving into her. With my other hand I found her clitoris and began rubbing it in firm circles. Estela let out a shriek and locked her legs around me.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop... fuck me and touch me there... fuck, that feels so good...”

I kissed her on the mouth to silence her, and she answered with a bite. We were sweaty, pressed together, colliding furiously. There was no romance in that moment, only shared hunger and a twisted fantasy that turned us on more the more we named it.

“Say it again,” she asked in my ear. “Tell me it’s Marina.”

“I’m fucking you while thinking about Marina.”

Estela moaned so loudly she nearly made me lose my rhythm.

“Yes... yes... her name, give me her name while you open my pussy with that cock...”

I kept thrusting. I lifted her by the hips to enter at another angle, higher and deeper. Her eyes flew open, and she cursed. I slapped her ass. Then again. The sharp sound drew a new, raspier moan from her.

“Is that what you wanted?” I asked.

“Yes. Yes, you son of a bitch. Treat me as if you’d wanted me your whole life.”

I put two fingers in her mouth, and she sucked them greedily while I kept fucking her. Then I pulled them out and turned her face to kiss her neck. Her whole body was waiting for the next thrust of my hips. I felt her squeezing me harder with every second.

“I’m going to come,” she said. “Don’t slow down now. Don’t you dare slow down.”

I rubbed her clitoris faster, and she came again, this time beneath me, her thighs trembling and her pussy clenching around my cock. I kept thrusting through her orgasm, making use of every spasm, every squeeze, every uncontrolled moan that rose from her chest.

“Fuck, Estela, you’re going to make me come.”

“No. Not yet. Turn around.”

It took me a second to understand her. She pushed me in the chest until I fell onto my back on the bed. Then she sat up, her hair tousled and her face red with arousal, and straddled me. She grabbed my cock, still hard and glistening, and placed it at her pussy. She lowered herself slowly, gritting her teeth as she took all of me inside her again.

“Look at me,” she said.

I looked at her.

She began riding me slowly at first, savoring it. Her breasts bounced in front of me. I grabbed them with both hands and kneaded them hard, feeling their hot weight and the texture of her sweaty skin. She let her head fall back, offering me her throat.

“Bite them.”

I caught one nipple in my mouth, and she gave a delicious start without stopping her movement. Then she sped up. She rose and fell on my cock with almost savage determination, sinking all the way down and pulling me almost completely out before sitting back down. The wet sound between our pelvises mingled with her ragged breathing.

“Like that... like that... I love the way you fill me...”

I grabbed her hips and began thrusting too, making her drop harder. Her ass struck my thighs. Every time she came down, a different moan escaped her. Sometimes it was a “yes,” sometimes a profanity, sometimes my wife’s name murmured like an addict lost in her own fantasy.

“Marina... fuck... Marina...”

That threw me off and aroused me even more. I watched her lost in her delirium, using me to create a scene that existed only in her head. And then it happened.

Just as she began moving faster, on the verge of another orgasm, she looked at me without really seeing me and screamed another name.

“Rafael!”

I went rigid beneath her, not from arousal but from surprise. Rafael was her dead husband.

But Estela didn’t stop. She kept riding me furiously, squeezing her pussy around my cock while her face was pure disarray. She screamed it again.

“Rafael, yes! That’s how you fucked me, you bastard!”

I felt a strange pang in my chest. I wanted to stop her, push her away, ask her what the fuck was happening. But the sensation of her body riding me, her muscles squeezing me while she mixed the name of her dead husband with my wife’s, trapped me in a mixture of kink, confusion, and raw desire.

“Estela...”

“Don’t stop,” she blurted, almost desperately. “Don’t talk. Just fuck me.”

I grabbed her by the waist, sat up slightly, and began driving into her from below with sharp thrusts, matching her movement. She screamed again, louder this time. The mattress creaked. Her nails scratched my chest. She was coming on top of me, and it showed in everything: the way she trembled, the way her pussy closed around me, the way she clenched her jaw to keep from breaking apart.

“Rafael! Fuck, Rafael!”

She came with a brutal spasm, squeezing me so tightly that she drew a growl from me. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I dug my fingers into her hips and came inside her, pumping in several bursts while she continued convulsing, still riding me, still lost in that mixture of present, fantasy, and memory.

She collapsed onto my chest. We were both panting, drenched. The room smelled of fresh sex, sweat, saliva, and hot sheets. I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to put in order what had just happened.

She was the first to speak.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t sound embarrassed. She sounded exhausted.

“You said his name.”

She nodded against my chest. Then she raised her head.

“And before that I said your wife’s name. I warned you: I didn’t just want to fuck. I wanted to feel borrowed things.” She pushed herself up slightly, with my cock still inside her, growing softer. “I wanted to mix the desire of now with what I no longer have.”

I didn’t know what to say. She slowly climbed off me, and a thread of semen trickled down her thigh. She made no attempt to clean it. She sat on the edge of the bed with her back to me for a moment, then turned around.

“If you want to leave, I’ll understand.”

I should have gotten dressed right there. Instead, I moved closer and brushed her hair away from her neck. Her skin was goosefleshed. I kissed behind her ear and felt her let out her breath, tense again.

“I don’t want to leave yet,” I said.

She looked at me as if she hadn’t expected that answer. Then she opened her legs slightly and brought two fingers to her pussy, scooping up a mixture of her juices and my come. She examined it on her fingertip, then offered it to me.

“Then get me wet again.”

I sucked her fingers without taking my eyes off her face. The moan I drew from her was low, almost shy this time. I soon moved down her neck, gently bit one breast, and licked her hardened nipple. She stroked my hair and spread her legs farther.

I knelt between her thighs and opened her pussy with my thumbs. She was sensitive, swollen, still wet, with traces of my semen showing. I ran my tongue from bottom to top and took it all into my mouth. Estela let out a hoarse whimper.

“Fuck... you’re rough.”

I kept eating her slowly at first, focused on her clitoris, alternating long sucks with firm licks. Then I pushed my tongue in as far as I could, savoring how quickly she grew wet again. She writhed on the bed, grabbed my head, and guided me without shame.

“There... no, higher... yes... yes, don’t stop...”

I slipped two fingers inside her while sucking her clitoris, and she began panting again. Her hips sought my face hungrily. She no longer said anyone’s name. Only insults, pants, and pleas. I liked that. It made me feel that, at least in that instant, she was present with me.

“I’m going to come again,” she warned in a trembling voice. “Don’t let go of me now.”

I didn’t let go. I made her come in my mouth, squeezing her thigh with one hand and fucking her with my fingers with the other. She finished trembling, breathing in gasps, pressing my face against her pussy while she emptied herself in short, repeated spasms.

When I raised my head, she looked at me with a different expression. Softer. Less of a pose.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me as if I did you a favor.”

“What if you did?”

We stayed silent for a few seconds. Then I lay down beside her. The silence was no longer uncomfortable, only heavy. Outside, somewhere in a nearby apartment, a vacuum cleaner started up. An ordinary, absurd noise that made that confinement filled with fluids and other people’s names seem even stranger.

“Marina is going to want to know everything, isn’t she?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell her everything. Even this.”

“The part about your husband too?”

She closed her eyes for a moment.

“Especially that.”

I dressed unhurriedly. She didn’t cover herself. She remained seated on the bed watching me gather my clothes, her pussy still reddened and her hair tousled, like a tired queen after a private battle. Before I left, she came over and hugged me naked. I felt her breasts against my chest, her breath on my neck.

“I don’t know whether I wanted to sleep with you,” she whispered, “or with what you represented.”

“Maybe both.”

“Maybe.”

She gave me a short kiss, different from the first. Less hungry, more human.

I left her apartment with my legs still weak and my head full of noise. In the hallway it was still daytime, doors still slammed, neighbors still passed by as if the world hadn’t shifted even an inch. But I carried the scent of a mature woman who had used me to sleep with her memory and her fantasy at the same time.

And the worst part, or the best, was that I was already thinking about how I was going to tell my wife about it when I got home.