My Mature Neighbor Was Waiting for Me With the Taxi Driver Outside

Back then I was just over twenty and had a very clear idea of what I wanted: nothing serious. I’d go out, meet someone, spend a few weeks together, and the moment the conversation drifted toward future plans, I’d disappear. It worked. Until a couple moved into the house next to mine, and my whole catalog of girls my age lost its appeal all at once.

Her name was Marisol. Her husband was a taxi driver named Damián, though I barely saw him: he worked endless shifts and lived more inside the car than in his own house. Marisol, on the other hand, was always there, and from the very first day I knew she was going to make my life complicated.

She wasn’t conventionally perfect. Short, very pale-skinned, with black curly hair that she wore badly twisted into a bun, with strands always escaping. But she had a body that scrambled my brain: wide hips you could grab, thick legs that filled out any dress, and big tits that bounced with every step when she walked to the corner shop. I watched her from my window like an idiot, with a hard cock under my pants.

I’m going to fuck that woman no matter what, I thought that first day. And I meant it.

I was never the best-looking guy on the block, but I didn’t exactly have complexes to spare either. I’d been training at home since I was a teenager, so although I was slim, I had defined arms and a firm stomach, the kind of body some older women find more attractive than gym muscles. All I needed was an excuse to get close.

For the first few weeks, we just said hello. A “good morning” at the door, a crossing at the shop. She was kind but slippery: she’d answer with a polite smile and leave right away, as if she knew exactly what I was up to. Then I remembered the tree.

In my yard grew an old loquat tree whose branches went over the wall and dropped into Marisol’s lot. It was neglected, huge, perfect. I told my mother the neighbor had asked me to prune it, and my mother, a little surprised, let me go.

***

The day I went into her house with the saw and the ladder, Damián was still there. I barely got a glimpse of her before climbing up to the highest branch, cursing my luck. But ten minutes later they called him out on a fare and he left. And I was left alone with her.

—Aren’t you going to fall up there? —she asked from below, one hand over her eyes to block the sun.

—I’ve been doing this since I was a kid —I lied—. Stay and keep me company, this is boring.

She stayed. We talked about everything while I cut branches: the neighborhood, how expensive rent was, how she had studied nursing but had never actually worked as a nurse. She told me that every now and then she gave injections at home to make a little money. Up in the tree, I nodded and watched her: she was wearing a long dress with a neckline that, every time she bent over, opened up over her tits and lost me inside those two white round mounds.

When I was done, I climbed down, took off my shirt under the pretext of the heat, and started gathering the leaves. She didn’t say anything about my body, but I felt her eyes run over my back more than once, and when I turned around I caught her looking straight at my stomach. It was a start.

***

Fate, sometimes, does its part. That very night I came down with a fever: a bad flu, the kind that knocks you flat for three days. As soon as I could stand, I turned my illness into an opportunity. I asked Marisol to give me the treatment shots. For the first few days my mother went with me, and although I barely exchanged a word with the neighbor, at least I could be near her.

On the third day I went alone. And before I even reached the door, I heard the fight.

It was Damián. He was yelling at her, she was answering back with a broken voice, and through all the noise I caught one word that changed everything: he was cheating on her and didn’t even bother denying it. When the car door slammed and the taxi pulled away, I waited a minute and knocked.

She opened the door with red eyes.

—Are you okay? —I asked, though I knew she wasn’t.

—It’s nothing —she said, and her voice cracked halfway through.

—I heard it from my house, Marisol. The walls are thin.

Then she fell apart. She started crying, saying that now the whole neighborhood would know her husband was cheating on her, that it was humiliating, that what was she going to do. And I, on impulse, without thinking it through, hugged her. I thought she’d pull away. She held me tighter, her tits crushed against my chest, and I realized I was getting hard right there, with her crying in my arms.

***

I held her until she stopped shaking. I spoke softly to her, got a smile out of her by telling her something stupid, and when she lifted her face to laugh, something in the air changed. We were too close.

—Thank you —she said—. It’s been a long time since anyone made me laugh.

—Your husband’s an asshole —I blurted out—. A woman like you shouldn’t cry over anyone.

She went very still. I moved a little closer, brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and before I could think better of it, I kissed her. It lasted a second. Marisol pulled away as if I’d burned her.

—Are you crazy? What are you doing? —she said, suddenly standing up.

—I like you. If he doesn’t fuck you, that’s his problem.

—Leave. Get out of my house.

I left. But I came back the next day.

***

It took me a week of apologies before she opened the door for me again. I swore it had been a mistake, that it wouldn’t happen again, that I just wanted to finish the treatment. She gave in reluctantly, on the condition that as soon as she gave me the shot I’d leave.

I lay face down on the sofa, with my pants lowered to mid-thigh, and felt her soft fingers rest on the skin of my ass to find the spot. She lingered a second too long. My face was turned into the backrest and I couldn’t see her, but her breathing had slowed and I knew she was looking. The needle went in with a dry sting and then her thumb pressed and massaged slowly, in circles, far more than was necessary.

When I sat up to leave, I took her by the wrist. I kissed her again. She pushed me away, her open hand against my chest, but without force. I kissed her again, deeper, slipping my tongue between her lips. And then, slowly, she stopped pushing.

Her hands moved from my chest to the back of my neck. The kiss turned slow, wet, the kind you feel in your cock. I laid her back against the sofa while I bit her neck, and she kept repeating “no, no,” a lie betrayed by her fingers digging into my back.

—How long has it been since anyone really touched you? —I asked against her skin, while I slid one strap of her dress down her shoulder.

—More than a year —she admitted, and that confession was all I needed.

I unfastened her dress slowly, button by button, kissing every inch of skin that was revealed. Underneath she was wearing a tight blue bra that lifted her tits almost to her chin. I unclasped it and they sprang free, heavy against my face, white, with the pink nipples already hard as stones. I took one into my mouth and sucked until she let out a hoarse moan she couldn’t hide.

—Shhh —I whispered—, the neighbors might hear you.

—Shut up and keep going —she answered, grabbing my hair to press me closer to her chest.

I ate her tits one by one, biting her nipples without care while I hiked her dress up her thighs. When I slid my hand between her legs and pulled her panties aside, she was already soaked. Her cunt was dripping onto my fingers. I shoved two inside, all the way, and Marisol arched against the sofa with a long gasp.

—You’re dripping wet —I said in her ear—. A year, and look how your cunt gets with a neighbor.

—Don’t talk —she panted—, don’t talk to me like that.

—You like it when I talk to you like that.

She didn’t answer. She opened her legs wider for me.

I knelt on the rug, ripped her blue panties off in one tug, and buried my face between her thighs. She had a pink cunt, swollen, the lips shining from how wet she was. I ran my tongue all the way from bottom to top and she let out a cry she had to cover with her hand. I licked her clit, pushed my tongue inside her, ate her slowly and then fast, until I felt her legs start trembling against my ears. She came in my mouth, holding on to the back of the sofa, biting the back of her hand so she wouldn’t howl.

—Jesus Christ —she murmured when she could speak—, Jesus Christ, what have I done.

—We haven’t done anything yet —I answered, and pulled my pants down.

When she saw my cock, hard, stiff against my stomach, her eyes widened. She looked at it for a long second, biting her lip, and without saying a word she bent down and took it into her mouth. Marisol sucked like a woman starved from the delay. She licked the whole thing, from the balls to the tip, shoved it to the back of her throat and drew it out leaving a thread of saliva between her lips and my glans. I grabbed her head with both hands and started fucking her mouth slowly, watching her black hair come loose from the bun.

—Stop —I said suddenly—, stop, or I’m going to come.

I pulled her up by the hair, laid her on her back on the sofa, and spread her legs wide open. I ran the tip of my cock over her soaked cunt a couple of times, rubbing it against her clit, and she dug her heels into my ass.

—Put it in already —she begged, her voice rough—, put it in once and for all.

I shoved it into her in one thrust, all the way. Marisol arched her back and drove her nails into my shoulders. She was so tight and so wet that I was on the verge of coming right then. I held still for a second, breathing, and then I started fucking her slowly, deep, feeling her cunt clamp down on my cock with every thrust.

—Harder —she panted—, harder, fuck.

I grabbed her under the knees, spread her legs until her tits were pressed against mine, and gave it to her hard. The sofa creaked with every shove, her tits shook from side to side, and her mouth hung open against my neck, biting without biting, moaning “yes, yes, like that, like that” and driving me insane. I fucked her on her back, then put her on all fours and ate her ass with my hands while I fucked her from behind, watching her cunt open around my cock every time I pulled out. I slapped her ass, then again, and left her pale cheek marked red.

—Whore —I said softly—, look how it takes it.

—Yes —she answered, biting the cushion—, yes, I’m your whore, but shut your mouth.

I climbed on top of her, grabbed her hair, pulled, and kept thrusting into her cunt until I felt my release rise inside me. Pulling out and coming outside wasn’t an option; she’d already locked her legs around me so I couldn’t move.

—Inside —she panted, gripping the backrest—, come inside, I don’t care, come inside.

And I came. A long, thick rope, while I bit her shoulder so I wouldn’t shout. I felt my semen fill her cunt and spill out along the edges, sliding down her thigh. I stayed on top of her for a long while, my face buried in her neck, breathing into her hair.

***

Then came the regret. Marisol covered herself with her dress and started crying again, with my semen still dripping between her legs, saying she was married, that she was a bad woman. I let her vent and then, with all the calm in the world, I asked her why she had to be faithful to a man who was fucking someone else without even trying to hide it.

I saw the answer change her face. Her regret began to fade and, in its place, something else surfaced: anger, desire, a kind of revenge. She stopped crying. And she kissed me instead.

—Never let him find out —she warned me, holding my face with both hands.

—He won’t have to —I promised her.

***

From then on, my life revolved around a taxi’s schedule. Every morning, when Damián’s car pulled away down the street, I already had one eye on the window. Some days Marisol opened the door before I even knocked, already in a robe and with nothing underneath. Other days she texted me from bed, with her husband sleeping beside her, a single word: “tomorrow.”

I learned her body like I’d never learned the body of any girl my own age. Marisol didn’t have the rush of twenty-year-olds or their insecurity; she knew exactly what she liked and, once she got comfortable, she had no shame in asking for it. She’d wait for me in the lingerie she knew drove me crazy —a black lace set, garter stockings, panties that opened in the middle— and greet me on her knees in the entryway, pulling my cock out of my pants before I’d even closed the door.

—I’ve been thinking about this all morning —she’d say, with the tip of my cock brushing her lips.

And she’d suck me off right there, with the door barely shut, kneeling on the tiles while I braced one hand against the wall so I wouldn’t fall. Marisol sucked better than any woman I’d ever been with. She took my cock all the way in, played with my balls with her tongue, pulled it out and looked up at me from below with her lips shining with spit.

After that I’d take her to bed —the bed she slept in with her husband, a detail not to be overlooked— and fuck her between the sheets he’d wrinkled that morning. She liked it on top, riding me slowly, her tits hanging close to my face so I could suck them. She liked it on her side, one leg raised and my hand on her clit. She liked it on all fours, holding onto the headboard, looking at herself in the wardrobe mirror to watch my cock sink into her.

—Am I better than him? —I asked her one afternoon, unable to stop myself, with my cock buried to the balls in her cunt.

—Don’t you dare mention him when you’re inside me —she replied, and covered my mouth with a kiss while she rode me harder.

We came together that time, biting each other’s mouths so we wouldn’t shout, with our hands intertwined against the husband’s pillow.

***

The day the gossip reached Damián’s ears, I thought it was over. Marisol texted me, scared, saying someone had told her husband that a neighbor was coming into her house too often, and that it was better if we didn’t see each other anymore.

I didn’t last two days. One morning, as soon as the taxi disappeared around the corner, I didn’t knock on the door: I jumped the wall separating our yards. I landed on the other side among the plants, peeked through the window, and saw her jump in fright.

—Are you insane? —she said when she opened the door, torn between fear and laughter—. What if someone sees you?

—That’s why I jumped the wall. Nobody saw me come in.

She laughed. And she kissed me. And in the hallway itself, without even reaching the bed, she ripped off my belt, lowered my pants, and turned around, bracing her hands against the wall. She hiked her dress up to her waist. She wasn’t wearing panties.

—Quick —she said over her shoulder—, quick and hard, we don’t have much time.

I grabbed her hips and drove into her in one thrust. Marisol threw her head back and muffled a moan against her arm. I fucked her cunt standing up, against the hallway wall, with her tits shaking inside the dress and my balls slapping against her clit. I covered her mouth with one hand when she started to scream. I came inside, again, watching my semen run down her thigh to the hollow of her knee.

And that’s how, without planning it, we found the formula that kept us together for months: I stopped using the door. Every time Damián went out to work, I jumped the wall like a cat, landed in her yard, and slipped into a house that smelled like her.

***

There was everything in those months. Whole afternoons in her rumpled bed, the sun beating down full force and her drenched in sweat beneath me. Quick mornings, racing the clock, sucking me off in the kitchen while the water for mate boiled, spitting my load into the sink a minute before the taxi turned the corner. One dawn when I couldn’t hold back, jumped the wall at three in the morning, and took her into a back room, in the dark, in silence, with her husband asleep at the other end of the house.

That time was different. I pinned her against the wall of the room, covered her mouth with one hand, and fucked her cunt without making a sound, with short, deep thrusts, while she dug her nails into my back and bit my palm so she wouldn’t cry out. We could hear the husband snoring on the other side of the house. Every time he snored louder, she pressed herself harder against me, her cunt streaming down her thighs. She came three times that night, silently, her eyes locked on mine. I came in her mouth, kneeling against the wall, and she swallowed every drop without spilling a thing.

The danger lit something in her that I’d never seen in bed. The closer Damián was, the sluttier she got.

We texted at all hours, messages we would have died of embarrassment over if anyone had read them. She sent me photos: her tits squeezed into a bra, her cunt spread with two fingers inside, her ass perked up in the bathroom mirror. I answered with mine: my cock hard in my fist, a short video of me jerking off thinking about her. We made up excuses to see each other for a little while, even if it was only ten minutes, even if it was just so she could suck me off against the door and I could leave.

—Someday this is going to get out of hand —she said once, her head resting on my chest and my semen still drying between her tits.

—It already has —I replied, and we both laughed.

***

What we had ended the way these things end: without an ending, just fading out. Almost half a year later, Damián found a cheaper rental on the other side of the city and they moved. I visited her at her new place a couple of times —once I fucked her against the washing machine while he was on the taxi, another time on the new sofa with the door unlocked— but it wasn’t the same anymore: there was no wall to jump, no taxi schedule to memorize, no feeling that I was stealing something from someone. The thrill lived, in part, in the risk.

Little by little we stopped writing to each other. She went back to her life, I went back to mine. But even today, when I pass down a street and see a tree whose branches reach over a wall, I get hard and I remember Marisol, her curly hair escaping her bun, her cunt clamping down on my cock against the hallway wall, and the first time I discovered that women who already know what they want are the ones truly worth it.