The Older Neighbor My Husband Couldn’t Stand

My name is Camila, I’m twenty-two years old, and I’ve been married for seven months. To the neighborhood, I have the perfect life: a good husband, a new house, law school halfway done. What nobody knows is that perfection, when there’s too much of it, gets boring too.

Lucas is a civil engineer, handsome, tidy, and so proper that sometimes I look at him while he sleeps and wonder if he’s ever had a bad thought. He treats me like a museum piece. He always was like that, from when we were dating. Decent, patient, predictable. In bed he makes love to me with the lights off, always in the same position, and he finishes before I even start getting really wet. Afterward he asks me if it was good, and I lie, as I’ve been lying for months.

What turns me on are the things you don’t plan. The things that appear out of nowhere and shove you to the edge. Lucas doesn’t even know where that edge is.

We moved three months ago to a quiet neighborhood, the kind where curtains move when you take out the trash. Neighbors who say hello too much and neighbors who don’t say hello at all. My husband got along with almost everyone, except one. Don Ramiro, who lived right next to our house, separated only by a low wall and a dead lemon tree.

—That guy looks at you too much —Lucas told me every time the old man showed up in his garden—. I don’t like the way he looks at you at all.

I smiled and changed the subject, but Lucas was right. Don Ramiro looked at me. He must have been about fifty-eight, broad-shouldered, badly shaved, with big hands like a man who has spent his whole life doing things with them. He wore shirts open two buttons too many and always smelled of tobacco and cheap cologne.

The first time we ran into each other at the entrance, his eyes dragged over me without any shame, from my sandals to my mouth, stopping brazenly on my tits and the curve of my hips. I felt something I didn’t dare name: a hot tingle between my legs, my panties getting wet on their own. Lucas held me like I was made of glass. Don Ramiro looked at me like he wanted to break me, open me up, fuck me against the first wall he found. And although I didn’t like how he looked, his gaze started interesting me more than it should have. That same night I touched myself in the shower thinking about him, about his big hands gripping my hair, and I came biting my lip so Lucas wouldn’t hear me.

***

That Wednesday afternoon was unbearably hot. Lucas was on a job site late. I was wandering barefoot around the house in a skirt that was way too short and a white blouse with thin straps and nothing underneath. I had no one to provoke except myself. Or so I told myself.

At four o’clock the doorbell rang.

I opened it without thinking and there he was. Don Ramiro, at my door, with an empty cup in his hand and his eyes fixed on my nipples, hard and dark beneath the fabric. It took him two seconds to look up at my face. Two eternal seconds in which they got even harder, as if his stare were sucking them from there.

—Sorry to bother you, Camila —he said in that low voice, slowly, like he was savoring my name—. I ran out of sugar and the store closes at five. Do you have some I could borrow?

I could have told him to wait at the door. I could have said a thousand things. Instead I stepped aside.

—Come in. It’s in the kitchen.

I closed the door behind him and regretted it the second the lock clicked.

***

The kitchen seemed smaller with him in it. I walked toward the cabinet trying to keep my back straight, feeling every step he took behind mine. When I reached up to get the jar from the high shelf, I heard his breathing too close. My skirt rode up just enough for him to see the start of my ass, and he didn’t move a single inch to pretend he wasn’t looking.

—You have a beautiful house —he said, but he wasn’t looking at the furniture.

I took down the jar and turned to hand it to him. We were a foot apart. He smelled of tobacco, wood, of a man who spends hours in the sun. My chest rose and fell without my being able to control it. I leaned back against the counter, not because I wanted to run, but because my legs were starting to fail me and I could feel my cunt throbbing under my panties.

He set the cup on the table without taking his eyes off mine, and placed both hands on either side of my waist, on the countertop. He had cornered me without touching me. It was the closest I’d been to a man who wasn’t Lucas in a long time.

—Don Ramiro —I murmured, my voice breaking—. My husband isn’t here.

I said it as a warning, but both of us knew it was something else. It was an invitation.

—I know, beautiful —he answered, lowering his voice even more—. I saw him leave this morning. And you look too pretty to be here alone. Your nipples are showing, Camila. I’ve had them in front of me for ten minutes and I can’t stop thinking about putting them in my mouth.

A gasp escaped me. He lifted one hand and, with a slowness that seemed cruel to me, brushed a lock of hair off my shoulder. His fingers were rough, callused, and they grazed my neck for just an instant. It was like a live wire had been run through me. I closed my eyes without meaning to. His other hand dropped and squeezed one tit through my blouse, pinching my nipple between his thumb and forefinger until I moaned.

He noticed. He smiled.

—I love the way you tremble. I love how hard your tit gets just from being touched.

He brought his mouth to my ear, not kissing me yet, just brushing my skin with dry lips. I felt his breath, his unshaven beard scraping me, and his other hand sliding up under my skirt, palm open over my thigh, moving slowly until it brushed my soaked panties. When his fingers tested me over the wet fabric and felt how drenched I was, he let out a rough laugh.

—Look at you, baby. You’re dripping and I haven’t even kissed you yet.

I had decided without deciding anything.

***

The first kiss wasn’t a kiss. It was a bite, hunger, weeks of held-back urgency. He shoved his tongue deep into my mouth while he pulled my panties aside with two fingers and thrust them into my cunt all at once. I screamed into his mouth. His hands gripped my waist like I’d always belonged to him and lifted me onto the counter. The sugar jar was forgotten beside the sink.

—Let’s go upstairs —he said, and it wasn’t a question—. I want to fuck you in the bed you sleep in with your husband.

We climbed the stairs between clumsy kisses. By the time we reached the bedroom I was almost naked: he’d been stripping me step by step, leaving the skirt on one stair, the blouse on another, the panties hanging from the banister like a flag. Our wedding photo sat on the dresser, facing the bed. Lucas and me smiling, young, neat. A version of me that no longer existed.

Don Ramiro looked at the photo, then at me, and that mix of things lit up his eyes.

—I want to see you in what you were wearing the day you got married —he said, pointing at the closet—. Put it on for me. I want to dirty you up as a bride.

I should have been ashamed. I should have told him to leave. Instead I walked naked to the closet, took the white lace set I’d bought for my wedding night off the shelf, and, without hiding anything, put it on in front of him, looking him straight in the eyes. I changed with the calm of a woman who knows she’s being desired like never before. He, sitting on the edge of the bed, unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock while he watched me. My breath caught. It was big, thick, much bigger than Lucas’s, with prominent veins and a swollen, shiny head. He started stroking it slowly, never taking his eyes off me.

Lucas had never looked at me like that. Lucas had never been that hard for me.

When I fastened the last strap, Don Ramiro swallowed.

—Come here. Come suck me off like you suck your husband off.

—I never suck my husband off —I told him, surprised by my own voice—. Never.

He smiled slowly.

—Even better. Then I’ll be the first.

***

I walked barefoot to the bed, where he was already seated on the edge with his cock out, pointing at me like an accusation. I knelt on the carpet between his legs and ran my tongue all over him, slowly, from bottom to top, tasting him from his balls to the tip. When I reached the top I licked the head in circles, sucking the drop that had gathered there, and he let out a groan. I took him into my mouth. At first just the tip, then more, forcing myself, until I felt him hit the back of my throat and my eyes filled with tears. Without letting up, I started sucking like I had never done with Lucas. With Lucas never, not once. With Don Ramiro, on the other hand, there was nothing I wasn’t capable of doing.

He grabbed my hair, not pulling at first, just guiding me. Then he did. Then he started setting the pace, moving my head up and down over his cock, and I let him. I sucked, swallowed spit, choked, and went back for more. Every time he let me pull away for a second to breathe, a string of saliva dropped from my mouth to my chin. I shoved it back into my mouth myself, hungry.

—You’re a bad girl, Camila —he murmured—. A wife whore. Look how you suck my cock. Look how you swallow.

That sentence soaked me through inside. Without stopping sucking him, I lowered one hand and rubbed my clit over my lace panties. I was drenched. I could have come right there, on my knees, with his cock in my mouth.

He made me stand up before I could. He tore my bra off in one yank, breaking one of the straps, and sucked my tits with hunger, biting my nipples until I screamed. Then he shoved me firmly and threw me onto the bed. He climbed on top of me, but the other way around, with his cock hanging over my face and his face between my legs. He ripped my panties off with a sharp tug. I felt his mouth open over my cunt all at once, without ceremony, sucking me down to the core.

What came next was something else. Something I didn’t know existed. Tongue, fingers, patience, little calculated pauses. Don Ramiro didn’t lick me: he read me. He sucked my clit with his lips wrapped around it, pushed two thick fingers deep inside me and curled them, searching for a spot Lucas didn’t even suspect existed. He knew exactly when to hurry and when to ease off. I had his cock over my face and I took him back into my mouth, sucking him upside down while he devoured me. I came twice like that, with my mouth full, gripping the bedspread with one hand and his balls with the other, trembling all over, biting myself without meaning to and feeling how he kept going, without stopping, sucking me while I convulsed on top of him.

***

When I could barely breathe anymore he put me face down. He lifted my hips with one big hand and left me like that, on all fours, knees apart and face against the pillow. He pried my ass cheeks open with his thumbs and stared at me. I felt his hot breath over my open cunt and my asshole, and I died of shame and desire at the same time. He spit. I felt the thread of saliva land on my ass and run down. Then his tongue, passing over me from top to bottom, missing nothing.

I knew what was coming and offered him my body without reserve. A decent wife doesn’t do that. By that point in the afternoon, I didn’t care about being decent anymore.

He knelt behind me and ran his cock along my wet slit, top to bottom, rubbing his head against my clit until I moaned for him to give it to me. He entered slowly, first a little, then more, giving me time. A long whimper escaped me into the pillow when I felt him all the way in, to the hilt, touching places no one had ever touched. It was more than I was used to. Much more. It hurt and I loved it at the same time.

—Like that, slut —he whispered—. Take all my cock. All of it.

He started moving with a rhythm that admitted no argument. At first slowly, pulling out all the way and thrusting back in hard, tearing a cry from me with every stroke. Then faster. His hips slapped against my ass with a wet sound that filled the room. I moved toward him, pushing my ass back, crashing into him, feeling his firm hands on my hips leaving marks. He yanked my hair back, arching me, and fucked me like that, bent over, with my mouth open and my tits bouncing with every hit. It was the best fuck of my life, and we both knew it.

—Tell me you like it —he panted—. Tell me your husband’s cock is nothing compared to mine.

—I love it —I moaned—. Nothing. It’s nothing. Fuck me harder, please.

He obeyed.

And then I heard the front door.

***

Lucas was coming up the stairs, calling my name. Don Ramiro stopped for a tenth of a second, just long enough to look over his shoulder at me. I didn’t ask him to stop. On the contrary: I pushed my hips back, spearing myself all the way down onto his cock. I told him without words to keep going. He understood and started moving again, now slower, deeper, marking me.

The bedroom door opened.

Lucas stood frozen in the doorway. He still had his briefcase in his hand. His face went white, slowly. I didn’t get down. I didn’t cover myself. I didn’t say a word. I kept my eyes locked on his while Don Ramiro kept fucking me from behind, without hiding it, staking his claim on his wife’s body. Every thrust tore a moan out of me that went straight toward my husband’s face.

—Look at her properly —Don Ramiro said, without stopping, speaking over my back—. Look at how her cunt opens for me. This is what your wife needs.

Lucas didn’t answer. His hand shook around the briefcase. I saw him lower his gaze, saw him look between my legs, saw him stare at the exact place where Don Ramiro’s cock went in and out of me, shining with my juices. I came while looking at him. I came screaming the old man’s name while staring my husband in the eyes, clenching my cunt around the cock that was wrecking me.

Don Ramiro held out for two more thrusts and then finished inside me with a low growl, burying himself to the hilt, gripping my hips hard. I felt the heat of his cum filling me, spurt after spurt, and bit my lip not to cry out with pleasure. When he pulled his cock out, I felt the semen start running down my thigh. I didn’t wipe myself. I didn’t move. He sat on the edge of the bed, sweating, unhurried, like a man in his own home.

Lucas didn’t move from the door. His eyes were full of tears and there was a clear bulge in his pants.

***

I expected a scream. A fight. A suitcase the next day. None of that came.

Lucas went down to the living room and poured himself a whiskey. Don Ramiro got dressed calmly and left through the front door, nodding to my husband as he passed, as if they were old acquaintances. I stayed in bed, in torn bride lingerie, with the old man’s cum slowly running between my legs, staining my husband’s sheets. Waiting.

When Lucas came upstairs, he didn’t say any of what I’d expected. He sat on the edge, looked at me for a long time, stopped on the wet stain between my thighs, and in the end asked me, in a voice I didn’t know:

—Did you like it?

I nodded slowly. I wasn’t going to start lying right now.

—More than with you. A lot more.

He swallowed. A strange sigh escaped him, and in that second I understood something he had never dared tell me. My good, proper, predictable husband wasn’t angry.

He was hard. Rock hard. His cock was straining against his trousers like it never had for me before.

I took his hand and brought it between my legs, so he could feel what the other man had left there. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, we were already two different people.

From that afternoon on, Don Ramiro started coming in whenever he wanted. Sometimes Lucas wasn’t there. Other times he was. Other times, on Wednesdays, my husband would sit in the armchair in the bedroom and watch, his fly open and his hand busy, while the neighbor fucked me in his bed.

But that part is another story.