I Asked My Wife to Accept the Invitation

My name is Martín and I work from home, designing things on a screen for clients I never see in person. I’m a normal guy, thin, nothing about me would make anyone look twice on the street. My wife is called Camila. We met at university and have been married a couple of years, with no big fights and no big drama. The kind of marriage anyone would envy from the outside.

But I carried a secret. Long before I met her, I’d been obsessed with stories about men who share their wives. I read them in secret, fantasizing that Camila was the protagonist. I was never jealous: I was the one who asked her to dress provocatively, the one who loved watching her flirt at a party. But admitting the full fantasy to her seemed impossible. I was afraid of how she’d look at me afterward.

For weeks she had been showing me messages from a coworker. The guy was throwing out hints, inviting her to his apartment, and she always laughed and kept her distance.

—It’s obvious what he’s inviting me for —she told me once—. If it were just to talk, I’d go without a problem. But that’s not it.

And inside, I was burning with desire for her to accept.

***

That afternoon she was at a café with her friends when her message came in.

—He’s insisting again about his apartment. He never gives up —she wrote, with a screenshot attached.

I don’t know where I found the nerve. My heart was beating like a drum when I typed my reply.

—Then accept.

There was a silence that felt eternal.

—What? Do you know he wants to take me to bed? —she answered.

—I know.

—Do you actually want someone else to touch me?

—What if I said yes?

Another silence. Then her message came through, longer.

—I would never let you be with another woman, Martín.

—I’m not asking that. I’m only telling you that it would turn me on if you were with another man. I never told you, but it’s one of my biggest fantasies. I was ashamed.

—Ashamed, with me? —she replied—. I never would’ve imagined that. Would it really not bother you?

—Really. I’ve been thinking about it for years.

It took her a while to answer.

—Look, let’s do this. I’ll try it, because you know I never close the door on an idea. But if I don’t like it, I’m out and it won’t happen again. And I don’t want this to bring us problems later. Remember: the idea was yours.

—I know. Don’t worry, I’ve thought it through more than enough.

—All right. I’m going to accept the invitation.

I sat staring at the screen, incredulous and trembling. Years of fantasy were about to become real.

***

—He’s coming to pick me up now. I’ll text you when we get there —she wrote a while later.

Fifteen minutes passed. “I’m at his apartment now,” she told me. Then nothing. Half an hour. An hour. An hour and a half of total silence, with the phone burning in my hand and my imagination racing at full speed. Just when I was starting to get seriously worried, her message arrived.

—I’m heading home, he’s driving me.

—What happened? —I replied, desperate.

—I’ll tell you at home.

Twenty minutes later she walked in, kissed me, and we sat down on the sofa. I couldn’t stand the curiosity.

—Tell me, tell me. What happened?

—Exactly what we both knew was going to happen.

—Did you have sex with him?

—Wasn’t that what you wanted? —she said, and from her smile I knew she was enjoying my reaction.

I took her hand and placed it over my crotch, hard as a rock. Camila laughed.

—You’re so weird. Do you really like knowing I was with another man?

—I love it. Tell me everything, in detail.

And she did. How they talked for a while, how he moved closer without rushing, with that filthy confidence guys have when they’re already walking around with a hard cock in their head, how he brushed her knee under the table until her skin prickled, how she first only turned her face away a little when he stole a kiss and then opened her mouth and gave him her tongue without pretending anymore that she didn’t want it. She described how he slipped a hand under her skirt the moment they crossed the apartment door, how he yanked down her panties with impatient fingers, how he sat her on the edge of the table while he spread her legs and licked her pussy hungrily, burying his face between her thighs until he made her moan for real, shamelessly, her hands buried in his hair. She told me he fingered her first, hard, setting the rhythm, and then stood her up, turned her around, and bent her over the back of the armchair, her skirt hiked up over her waist and her ass wide open so he could take her from behind. I listened with my breath shattered, feeling every word like a shove in my blood. Her hand, meanwhile, was rubbing me over my pants, slow at first, then firmer, until I was trembling.

—He grabbed me like this —she said, opening her legs a little as if he were right there in front of her—. He sucked my nipples until they felt hard as stones, then he turned me around, pressed me against the table and shoved it all the way in, in one go, right to the hilt. I felt him go in and out, in and out, hard, hot, and I was soaked. I couldn’t stop moving.

—God —I muttered, swallowing.

—Yeah, God didn’t do anything there. The one who did the work was him.

She showed me with her fingers how he’d held her hips, how he’d slapped her ass, how he’d told her to lean over more, more, to show that pussy wide open, because he wanted to see her surrender. She told me he didn’t last too long, that he’d had her get on top to finish her off once and for all and that she, seated on that heavy cock, had laughed when she noticed how his voice slipped away in his gasps. I couldn’t take it anymore. I came with an intensity I hadn’t felt in years, emptying myself completely over my hand, with a muffled groan that left me dizzy.

—God, thank you —I murmured, laughing at my own wreckage.

—You’re so weird, my love —she replied, kissing my forehead—. And where did you get this idea?

Then I showed her the stories I read, the tales of open couples, of men who enjoyed watching their wives with others. Camila skimmed them, fascinated.

—So this is what you like —she said.

—There’s something even dirtier —I worked up the nerve—. I don’t just like imagining you with another man. I also like being humiliated. Having you tell me you prefer other men, that I’m worthless, that I’m pathetic. It’s a game, I don’t take it seriously, but it turns me on a lot.

She looked at me and burst out laughing.

—You’re completely insane. But I love that you opened up to me. It can’t be easy to say something like that.

—It isn’t.

—I love you, Martín. I want you to be calm: even if I’m with other men, I’m never leaving you. You’re my man.

—I love you more. Thanks for trusting me.

***

For a couple of weeks she didn’t go out with anyone else. She spent her time tidying the house and turned a room we had full of boxes into a guest room that came out beautiful. I thought maybe it had been a one-time thing. Until one Saturday she surprised me.

—Remember the room I fixed up? —she said—. It’s actually going to be the sex room.

—How?

—I thought it would be hotter for you to hear the action live, not have me tell you afterward. And I get turned on by the idea of you listening. I put in a hidden camera; I only turn it on when I want you to watch.

—I like it when you give orders.

—Then you’d better get used to it —she laughed—. I’m going to shower, I’ve got a visitor.

That night she dressed up like never before, put on a short silk robe, and waited. At ten, a car horn sounded outside.

—Right on time —she said—. Tonight you only get to listen.

—All right. Let yourself go.

I locked myself in our bedroom, ear pressed to the wall. At first there were muffled voices, then silence, and then the unmistakable sounds. I heard a door close, heard her let out a low little laugh, heard a glass barely clink against the table. Then came the first kiss, wet and long, followed by the rustle of fabric as he opened her robe and let it fall to the floor. Camila’s moans started soft and grew until they filled the whole house. I heard her gasping while they tore off her underwear, heard the sound of her breath when he lowered his head to suck her tits, heard the short thud of the bed when he threw her onto the mattress. The mattress creaked with every thrust, and to that noise were added the dry slaps on her ass, her increasingly unhinged moans, the wild sway of two bodies bouncing against the wood and the headboard.

I was already drenched in sweat, my cock harder than ever. When I heard her tell him to fill her more, not to stop, to hit her harder, I grabbed myself as best I could and came listening to them on the other side of the wall, my imagination set on fire by every blow, every moan, every dirty word that slipped between them. And I stayed hard. I don’t know how much time passed between one shudder and another, between one silence and the next, but it was hours. I lost count of how many times I finished hearing her on the other side of the hallway, sometimes choking, sometimes screaming filthy things, sometimes laughing while they asked her to spread her legs wider, to show her pussy dripping, to stop acting so proper. Around four in the morning I heard the door, the car starting up, and then she came into our room and found me awake.

—What are you doing awake? —she asked, laughing.

—With those screams, nobody on the whole block was sleeping.

—Was I that loud?

—Yeah. And I loved it.

—Finally a man treated me the way I like, while my little husband listened from the next room —she said, and the rawness of her words lit a fire in me—. Did you like it?

—I’m obsessed. I want to be with you, though you must be exhausted.

—I’m never too tired for you. Besides, I want you to feel what he left inside me.

I laid her down on top of me. She tasted like another man and I didn’t care. I pulled the silk robe up around her waist, spread her legs with trembling hands, and kissed her hungrily, as if the taste of the other man were still stuck on her tongue. She kissed me back with a low laugh, grabbed my face and made me open my mouth wider. She lowered one hand to my waist, found my cock and squeezed it slowly, enjoying how hard it was. I took her hips and entered her in one thrust. She was warm inside in a way that set me on fire beyond belief, and within a few minutes I was done, pounding her with such anxiety that I could barely keep the rhythm. She moved beneath me, digging her nails into my back, squeezing me with her legs, begging me not to stop, to fill her, to give her more. When I came, she came with me in a broken moan and left me shaking over her body. We collapsed, spent, both of us laughing.

—You’re as weird as I am —she said—. And I love it.

***

From then on, everything changed. Camila discovered she liked the game as much as I did. She took to choosing, to knowing she could have whoever she wanted. A couple of days later, while I was working in my upstairs office, she appeared in a miniskirt and left me her phone with the camera on. This time I didn’t just listen: I watched.

Seeing her on the screen receiving another man, kissing him, kneeling in front of him, was like watching a movie in which the lead was my wife. The guy took her by the hair, spun her around, bent her over the bed, and she responded to everything by asking for more. He lifted her skirt to her waist, shifted her panties to one side and shoved his fingers into her hard enough to arch her back. Then he put her face down, opened her ass with his hand and started entering her from behind with that brutality only men have when they already know she’s lost. Camila was moaning without restraint, her tits bouncing against the mattress, drooling onto the pillow while she begged him not to ease up. When he finished, I had already emptied myself just from watching, gripping the phone with white knuckles. A few minutes later she came upstairs, wearing that feral smile I was beginning to know.

—So? Did you like it? —she said.

—Too much.

—I still can’t believe you like this. By the way, this one was due at ten tonight. The one just now was someone else.

—Two in one day?

—You gave me freedom and I’m using it —she laughed—. Knowing I can choose who I sleep with gives me a kind of filthy thrill you can’t imagine.

—As far as I’m concerned, don’t stop.

—Your wife, the bad one —she said.

—And your husband, the one who enjoys it —I answered.

***

That night the second one arrived. I listened from the room, but this time she ended up letting me watch in person. After hours, when the guy left, Camila came into the room naked, leaned over the dresser with a look that brooked no argument.

—You filthy freak, come here —she ordered.

I didn’t think twice. I knelt behind her and did everything she asked, while she told me in my ear how little I was worth and how much she liked that I accepted my place. She made me look at how her fingers still glistened wet, forced me to suck her mouth so I’d clean the taste of the other man from it, grabbed me by the nape and guided me to her pussy, still sensitive, still hot, so I’d lick her properly. I followed every instruction with my tongue trembling, burying myself between her legs, hearing her breathe deeply when I ran the tip over her clit and moaning when I slid in two fingers and opened her to my liking. It was the game I had imagined so many times, made real down to the last detail, and I had never been so turned on in my life.

—Now finish what’s yours —she said at the end.

I entered her and, from so much built-up tension, I didn’t last ten minutes. I sat her against the edge of the bed, held her hips tightly, and fucked her with an almost savage urgency until I heard her voice break. She managed to come with me, squeezing my waist with her legs and digging her nails into my back. We fell onto the bed, wrecked.

—I’m dead —she laughed.

—I’m in heaven.

—I’m as weird as you are —she said, curling up beside me—. I love all this.

***

The following weeks were a spiral neither of us wanted to get out of. Camila became more confident, freer, more in command of her desire. Sometimes she let me watch, sometimes only listen, sometimes she told me everything afterward in exquisite detail, and every version had its own filthy appeal. I discovered that I liked it all: being the spectator, being the last one of the night, being the one who collected whatever she decided to give me. And every time she came back with trembling legs, with a mouth swollen from other people’s kisses and her skin still hot, I welcomed her hungrily, smelling the trace of other bodies on her and going crazy with sheer pleasure.

One of those nights, while she was getting ready in front of the mirror for a new date, I hugged her from behind.

—Are you happy? —I asked seriously, for the first time.

—Very —she answered, looking into my eyes in the reflection—. I’ve never felt so desired. And I’ve never loved you as much as now that you’re no longer hiding from me.

—Me neither.

—Stay awake for me —she said, taking her purse—. I’ve got a surprise ready for when I get back. Something I know is going to drive you crazy.

—I already want to see it.

I opened the door for her, watched her get into the car and disappear into the night. I went back inside, sank onto the sofa, and smiled to myself with the phone in my hand, waiting for the camera to light up at any moment. What had started with two words typed in secret had turned into the life neither of us would ever admit out loud. And for nothing in the world would I want it any different.