How I Became a Neighbor's Whore

That morning I did not return home. I was scared to meet my neighbor again in the elevator. He had to end all of this. It was one thing to have found a point of excitement, knowing that he was listening on the other side of the wall, and another, it was to have raised my skirt. But that night when my husband lay down next to me and started kissing me, all the excitement that I had felt that morning came out of the blue.
I needed his cock in the depths of my sex. At that time I was happily married to my first husband, I was twenty-eight years old, and the eldest of my two children had already been born. Like many couples, we were starting a new stage full of hope, in which we had just bought a flat. We had been living in our new home for so few days that I still didn't know any of my neighbors. Until one morning, when I returned from dropping off my son at kindergarten, I ran into a man in his fifties in the elevator.
As the elevator door closed and we started moving, I could see through the mirror in the back that the unsympathetic character was brazenly keeping an eye on me. That made me really uncomfortable, I even instinctively pulled my short skirt down, failing to cover a wider area of my exposed legs. He must have noticed my failed attempt.