The Mature Neighbor Who Wanted to Get Back on Camera

I moved to the Los Robles condominium at the beginning of March, when I was still studying for the entrance exam and my only plan for the summer was to spend the afternoons locked away with my books. My parents left me alone in the house on the corner, the smallest one in the gated neighborhood, while they finished selling the apartment down south. Nineteen years old, a bicycle, and a long street of identical houses with overly perfect gardens. I never imagined those houses were hiding what they were hiding.

The women in the condominium were something else. Mature, married, bored to death with husbands who came home late and fell asleep in front of the TV. I saw them walking toward the club, with those bodies honed by gym sessions and dead hours, and very soon I understood that none of them looked at me like a kid. They looked at me the way you look at something you still haven’t decided whether you’re going to try.

The one who intrigued me most was Mariela. She lived three houses down, married to Bustos, a dry, severe man who led a religious group downtown and prayed out loud before every meal. She was blonde, with full lips and blue eyes that seemed to be apologizing in advance. She had the most generous tits I’d ever seen in my life, two heavy breasts that not even the most modest dress could hide, and a way of moving that was restrained, like someone who learned to hide her body after showing it too much.

I found out by chance one afternoon when I helped her unload the bags from her car.

—Did you know I used to work in films? —she said, out of nowhere, while she was looking for her keys.

—An actress?

—Something like that. —She smiled sideways—. A long time ago. Another life.

That night I searched for her real name online and found nothing. I tried nicknames, pseudonyms, and on the third attempt I found her twenty years younger, on the covers of movies nobody rented anymore. Mariela Rebolledo hadn’t been just any actress. She had been the actress, for a short, ferocious stretch, before marrying Bustos and disappearing from the map forever. On the covers I saw her kneeling with her mouth open, with two cocks pointed at her face, with her ass raised on a table and a smile that said she loved what they were doing to her.

I didn’t say anything. But something changed in the way she greeted me, as if she also knew that I already knew.

Over the following weeks the game became a habit. She lent me a book and left her fingers on mine a second too long. She asked me about the entrance exam in a voice too soft for just any neighbor. One afternoon I ran into her at the club pool, wearing a one-piece black swimsuit that covered everything and suggested more than any bikini, and she held my gaze until I was the one who had to look away. Bustos was waiting for her on a lounger, reading the Bible, not lifting his eyes a single time. I understood that for years he had stopped looking at her, and that neglect was a door thrown wide open.

***

The heat hit all at once at the end of November. One of those mornings when the asphalt was shimmering before eleven, I took Duque, the old Labrador I looked after for the neighbors in the back, and walked him to the park around the church, at the edge of the condominium. At that hour there was no one around. I let go of the leash and the animal went to sniff the roots of the trees while I sat on a bench in the shade, fanning myself with my black T-shirt, already stuck to my back.

—I thought you’d gone farther.

Mariela sat down beside me without leaving any space between us. She was wearing a light summer dress and a pale scarf draped across her shoulders. She smelled sweet and expensive.

—Your husband will miss you —I said.

—I told him I was going to the store. I don’t have much time.

I looked around. The street was empty, mass hadn’t ended yet, the park was ours. I rested my hand on her thigh, almost to test how far my boldness could go, and she didn’t pull it away. I slid it slowly up under her dress, feeling the warm skin, until my fingers brushed the edge of a thin, damp thong. She let out a sharp breath and parted her legs a little.

—You’re wet —I said.

—I came wet from home —she murmured—. I put my fingers in myself before leaving, thinking about this.

—I know who you were —I finally told her.

Mariela let out a slow breath. She didn’t seem surprised. More relieved, like someone putting down a heavy bag they’d carried for too many years.

—I knew it the day you helped me with the bags. The way you looked at me. —She laughed softly—. It had been a long time since anyone looked at me like that. Bustos hasn’t fucked me in fifteen years. Doesn’t even touch me. He crosses himself when he sees me come out of the shower.

—And do you miss it?

—I miss something else. —She bit her lip—. I miss a hard cock in my mouth. I miss being filled. I miss coming without feeling guilty afterward.

I stood up and took her by the wrist. She let herself be led, stumbling, to the biggest tree, the one whose broad shadow covered us from the street. I leaned my back against the trunk and looked at her. Mariela shook her head, disbelieving, a new smile opening on her face, and she sank to her knees on the grass without me asking her to.

—What are you doing? —I asked.

—What I came to do. —She looked up—. Are you going to keep this?

I took out my phone and pointed it at her. Not for any particular reason; I did it because I felt she wanted it, that she needed a camera in front of her to become who she had been again.

—I’m not one of those anymore —she said, looking straight into the lens, with a smile that contradicted every word.

—One of what?

—The ones who record. The ones who let themselves be filmed sucking dick in a park.

—Well, it looks like today you are.

Her fingers went straight to the zipper of my pants. She pulled it down slowly, with a skill you don’t improvise, a memory the body keeps even when the mind promises to forget. She pulled my underwear down to mid-thigh too, and my cock sprang up hard, swollen, almost hitting her in the face. When she saw me like that, her eyes widened and for a second she stopped performing. A real sigh escaped her.

—Twenty years —she murmured, almost to herself—. Twenty years praying before eating. My God, what a delicious cock.

—Suck it —I told her, and gave her a soft tap on the cheek with the tip.

She nodded quickly, like a diligent student, stuck out her tongue, and first ran it over my balls, from bottom to top, long and flat, wetting me completely from the base to the glans. Then she opened her mouth and took me in all at once, all the way down, no gagging, no hesitation. The heat of that mouth shot up my spine and I had to brace myself against the trunk. She held the base firmly while her head moved in circles, unhurried, tasting, her eyes closed at first and then open, fixed on the camera again, as if there were millions of people on the other side and not just me and the Labrador sleeping a few meters away.

—Slowly —I asked, and she obeyed.

She pulled my cock out of her mouth with a wet sound, a thick thread of saliva hanging from her lip to the tip of my glans. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and took a breath. Her cheeks were flushed and her neat hairstyle was already coming apart.

—You have no idea how much I missed this —she said, slapping my face softly with my own cock—. Bustos thinks the body is something to be ashamed of. That the mouth is for praying. I married believing the same thing. I spent fifteen years believing it, swallowing my saliva every time I wanted to swallow semen.

—And now?

—Now I’m kneeling in a park sucking your cock in broad daylight. —She let out a hoarse laugh—. Something broke, I guess.

She undid the first buttons of her dress and pulled out her tits. Two huge tits, white, with pink, hard nipples pointing at the sky. She took my cock with both hands and tucked it between them, squeezing them against me, while her head went back down to lick my tip every time it emerged between the soft flesh of her breasts.

—Fuck my tits —she panted—. Fuck them hard. Bustos never touched my tits like this.

I thrust, pinching her nipples with my thumbs, while she spat on my glans to lubricate everything, and the scene was a complete obscenity: the preacher’s wife on her knees under a tree, tits out and an unfamiliar cock sliding between them, filmed by the condo brat. She lowered her head again. This time it was deeper, more surrendered, swallowing me whole until her nose touched my stomach and her eyes filled with tears. A technique only years can give, and a talent that marriage hadn’t managed to extinguish completely. The blonde who had filled magazine covers twenty years ago was still there, beneath the preacher’s wife, waiting for someone to open the door for her.

—Look at me —I told her, and she lifted her eyes without stopping.

Her blue eyes held mine while her throat worked at the base of my cock, holding her breath, letting me go all the way down. There was something almost sad in that surrender, and at the same time something triumphant, as if she were recovering in one blow everything she had kept locked away. I felt her moan with my cock in her mouth, a purr rising from her chest and vibrating all through my shaft, and I knew she was no longer performing for anyone. She was doing it for herself. With one hand she lifted her dress and slipped her fingers into her pussy, and I heard them squelching, wet, while the other hand squeezed my balls with just the right firmness.

—You’re soaking wet —I panted—. You’re going to come sucking my cock.

She nodded with my cock in her mouth, eyes closed, and suddenly I felt her tremble all over. She came like that, kneeling in the grass, with my cock down her throat and her fingers buried in her cunt, moaning long and muffled, not letting go of me for a second. Saliva dripped from her chin down to her tits and glistened on her nipples.

—I won’t last much longer —I warned her.

She nodded with her eyes. She didn’t pull away. She stuck out her tongue, rested my glans right in the center, and worked it with both hands, staring fixedly at the camera.

—Come in my mouth —she whispered—. Come all over in my mouth, boy. Fill me the way that motherfucker should have for fifteen years.

And she quickened, and took my cock all the way down, and when I hit the edge she held me firm, not letting go, taking the first spurt straight into her throat with the calm of a professional who hadn’t practiced in two decades. She pulled back in time so the second hit her tongue, white, thick, and she left it there, opening her mouth for the camera. Another spurt stained her cheek, another crossed her chin and ran down her neck to her breasts, and the last fell onto her right nipple, where it hung like a thick drop. Only at the very end did she close her eyelids and lick her lips, swallowing everything she still had in her mouth, savoring it, smiling, barely staining the edge of the pale scarf draped over her shoulder.

—And cut —I said, breathless, lowering the phone.

Mariela laughed. A clean, long laugh, one she didn’t seem to have let out in years. She stayed on her knees for a moment, running a finger over her cheek, gathering the semen that was dripping down and bringing it to her mouth, looking at her hand like someone recognizing a lost object.

—God —she murmured, sucking her fingers one by one—. It’s been so long. I’d forgotten the taste.

***

She fixed her hair with the front camera on her own phone, tucked her tits back into her dress, buttoned it up, and took the stained scarf off to hide it in her bag. In less than three minutes she was back to being the discreet lady of the Los Robles condominium, the wife of the man who prayed before eating. Only her eyes still looked different, more alive, and a drop of my load still glistened at the corner of her lips until she wiped it away with her tongue.

—Are you going to upload it somewhere? —I asked, half joking.

—I don’t know. —She glanced at me sideways, teasing—. I have an old account, no name, no face. Nobody would know it’s me. —She bit her lip—. Would that bother you?

—I think it would be a waste if something like this were only seen by the two of us.

I sat on the bench while she recovered and looked at her with different eyes. She wasn’t the submissive wife who greeted people with a little wave from the gate, nor the woman who lowered her gaze when her husband raised his voice. She was someone who had had an entire life before Bustos, a body celebrated by thousands of strangers who had jerked off to her in the dim light of video stores, and who for twenty years had convinced herself that all of that was a sin to be purged. Watching her laugh like that, hair disheveled and the taste of my semen still in her mouth, was like watching a woman step out of a long confinement and breathe for the first time.

Her eyes shone. She was a woman of nearly forty who had just been given back something she thought was buried, and the idea of an invisible audience jerking off to her turned her on more than anything else. In that moment, I understood that I hadn’t given her anything she didn’t already have. I had only held the door open long enough for her to dare to walk through.

—My husband gets back at eight —she said, standing up and brushing the grass off her knees—. Tomorrow will you take the dog out at the same time?

—Every day.

—Good. —She gave me a short kiss on the corner of the mouth, almost chaste compared to everything before, letting me taste the salty flavor of myself on her lips—. Maybe next time I’ll bring a friend. Carla is bored too. And she likes watching while she touches herself.

I watched her walk away down the path toward the houses, her stride recomposed, the stained scarf safely in her bag, waving to a neighbor watering the garden. Duque woke up, stretched, and trotted back to me. I sat down on the bench again, still with the phone warm in my hand and my cock half-soft inside my pants, and I understood that I wasn’t going to spend that summer locked away with my books.

The heat had only just begun, and the Los Robles condominium had many identical houses, with overly perfect gardens, and behind every door a woman who had spent far too long waiting for someone to look at her the way I had looked at Mariela.