My neighbor is sleeping with my wife

We moved into this house in May. It's a two-story building with four apartments, a small courtyard, and parking for two cars. Ours is on the far left, on the ground floor. The neighbor on the right is a man of about forty, lives alone. His name is simple, Sergey. He works from home, does something with computers. I've seen him a couple of times: going out for the mail, taking out the trash, sometimes smoking on the porch. An ordinary guy. Not fat, not thin, short, dark hair. Strong hands. For some reason, I noticed this right away—his hands. The first few weeks, we just said hello. "Good morning," "Good evening." Nothing more. His wife greeted him too, but casually, without stopping. Then one day, I came home from work, and she was standing next to him at the gate, laughing. He was telling her something, and she was listening. I walked over and said hello. Sergey nodded, saying that we had a nice yard, that it was quiet. I agreed. We went home. In the evening she asked: — Did you notice what kind of hands he has? “No,” I said. “I didn’t notice.” "Powerful," she said. "And he looks at me as if he's undressing me with his gaze." I didn't answer. There was nothing to answer. A week later, he invited us to dinner. Just like that, like neighbors. Barbecue, beer, conversation. We went. We sat until late at night, drinking, laughing. Sergey turned out to be a normal guy. Not intrusive, not talkative, but not silent either. As we were leaving, he said to his wife: — Come by sometime during the day if you're bored. I have good coffee. She said: - I'll come in. I heard this and said nothing. I just went home. Went to bed. In the morning, I left for work. And when I returned in the evening, she was sitting in the kitchen and silent. She was wearing a robe, although it was early. Her hair was damp. Just out of the shower. “Well, how is it?” I asked. — What “how”? — Did you drink coffee? She looked at me. For a long time. Then she said: — Saw. And she didn't say anything else. But I understood everything. The next morning she got up before me. I woke up to hear her bustling about in the kitchen. Coffee, toast, the radio. The usual sounds. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her to say something. She said nothing. We ate breakfast in silence. I left for work. I came back at seven. She wasn't there. I called, but she didn't pick up. I texted, but she didn't answer. I sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, staring at the wall. The wall behind which he lived. I couldn't hear anything. The house was old, the walls were thick. But I still listened. She arrived at nine. In the same robe she was wearing this morning. That means she hadn't gone anywhere. That means she was with him. I knew it right away, even before she opened her mouth. By the smell. She smelled alien. Again. I already knew that smell. “Where have you been?” I asked. — At Sergey's. - For what? — He asked me to come in. To help with something. - With which one? — With the computer. He doesn't understand one program. - And that's it? - And that's all. She took off her robe and threw it on a chair. There was nothing under it. I saw it. She wasn't hiding. She went to take a shower. I stayed in the kitchen. My penis was hard, but I didn't touch it. I waited. She stepped out of the shower and sat down opposite him. Wet, clean, odorless. Now she smelled only of soap. “Do you want to know?” she asked. - Yes. - Then listen. She pulled her legs up onto the chair and hugged her knees. Like a girl. As if she was about to say something embarrassing. — I came. He opened the door. He said he was glad. He took me to the kitchen, poured coffee. We sat and talked. About nothing. About the house, about the renovations, about the bad roads in the city. Then he stood up, came up from behind, put his hands on my shoulders. I didn’t move. He started stroking. On my neck, on my shoulders, lower. Then he unbuttoned my robe. I didn’t stop him. He pulled it off my shoulders. I was left naked. He said, “Get up.” I got up. He led me to the bedroom. It was dark there, the curtains were drawn. He laid me on the bed, spread my legs. He looked for a long time. Then he started touching me. With his fingers. First outside, then inside. I was wet. He saw it and smirked. He said, “I knew it.” I asked, “What did you know?” He said, “That you would come and give it.” I didn’t answer. He climbed on top of me and entered. Without a condom. I didn't have time to say anything. He entered and started moving. Slowly. Deeply. I felt him hitting the very bottom. I felt good. Then he turned me over onto my stomach and put me on my knees. He entered from behind. Into my pussy. Then he pulled out, spat on my anus, and entered into my ass. I didn't resist. I didn't even squeal. He fucked me in the ass for about ten minutes. Almost silently. I just whined. Then he came. In my ass. He pulled out and lay down next to me. He said, "Come tomorrow." I said, "Okay." She fell silent. She looked at me. I looked at her. “You didn’t ask how much he paid,” she said. - How many? — Nothing yet. He said he'll pay tomorrow. And that tomorrow it will be more expensive. Because tomorrow he wants more than just anal. She got up and went to the bedroom. I stayed in the kitchen. I sat and looked at her robe on the chair. Then I got up and followed her. She was lying on the bed with her legs spread and looking at me. “Come here,” she said. “I want you to come too. Right now. While I still remember him.” I walked over. Lay down. Entered. She was stretched out, slippery, from another man. I moved and thought about him sitting behind the wall. And that tomorrow she would go there again. And that I would not stop her.