I Went Out for Five Minutes: The Adventure We’ll Never Forget

My wife Daniela has the kind of presence that changes the temperature of a room when she walks in. At thirty-three, with that generously curvy body, dark hair falling in waves to her shoulders, and brown eyes that look at you as if they already know where everything will end, it’s impossible not to notice her. She likes to dress well—not outrageously, but with that calculated elegance that consists of showing just enough for the imagination to do the rest.

My name is Camilo. I’m thirty-eight, I work as an architect, and I’ve been married to her for twelve years. We met at a work gathering, started dating three weeks later, and there was never a moment when I doubted that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with that woman. What nobody told me was that sharing a life can also mean, in certain very specific circumstances, sharing the person.

It had been eighteen months since we’d had our first experience. A former coworker of mine, on a night that began as dinner for the three of us and ended with Daniela on her knees in the living room, sucking our cocks by turns and swallowing both our loads with an eagerness we discovered she had. It had been so good that the conversation continued afterward, in bed, for weeks: me fucking her while she told me in lavish detail how it had felt to have the other cock entering her wet pussy, how much she had liked being used by two men at the same time. The question wasn’t whether we wanted to do it again; it was when and with whom.

The answer came in the form of Tomás.

***

Tomás is thirty and has been tattooing for almost a decade at that small downtown studio with his name in black letters over the door. Daniela was his first client: a minimalist design on her ankle that took only one session. Then I went in for a couple of pieces on my right side. Over time, we became the kind of friends who get together for dinner without needing an excuse, who text each other for no particular reason, who appear in each other’s lives without anyone having planned it.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a short beard and forearms covered in ink. Daniela found him attractive; I knew because I’d seen it on her face the first time she greeted him. And it had never bothered me. Quite the opposite.

One afternoon, after a dinner where the three of us had drunk too much wine and the conversation had drifted into territory people don’t usually visit, I started thinking about it seriously. A week later I wrote to Tomás.

I didn’t beat around the bush: I explained the situation, told him Daniela knew about it and was on board, and asked whether he was interested. His reply arrived before I’d even put my phone away.

“You’ve been with that woman a long time. Yes. Of course I am,” he replied.

We worked out the details in two more messages. The following Thursday, Daniela would go to the studio on the pretext of finalizing a design she had pending for her forearm. I would go with her. At some point I would go out to get something and leave them alone.

Simple. No unnecessary complications.

***

That Thursday, Daniela took almost an hour to get dressed.

She chose a tight black skirt that ended halfway down her thighs, a sand-colored silk blouse with a V-neck, and high-heeled sandals that changed the way she walked. She put perfume on her neck and wrists and looked at herself in the bedroom mirror with the expression of someone who knows exactly what effect she’s going to have. Under the skirt she wore nothing but a tiny black lace thong, which she showed me by lifting her skirt for a moment before lowering it again with a smile.

“How do I look?” she asked, though it wasn’t a real question.

“Like you want to ruin someone’s concentration,” I told her.

She laughed. It was that laugh she has when she’s nervous and excited at the same time, that combination I recognize without needing her to explain it.

We reached the studio shortly before seven. Tomás opened the door before we could knock. He looked her up and down at the exact second she crossed the threshold, a brief, controlled glance that said everything without saying anything. Daniela greeted him with a kiss on the cheek that lasted an instant longer than usual.

We went inside. The studio smelled of ink and something faintly antiseptic, with music playing in the background that nobody had chosen with much care but that wasn’t annoying either. Tomás took out the folder of sketches and spread them across the counter. Daniela leaned over to look at them, her skirt riding up a little in that position, while I stayed by the window watching.

I let them talk for about fifteen minutes. Then I stood up.

“I’m going to the corner to get some coffee. Do you want anything?”

Daniela looked up. That second of contact between the two of them needed no words.

“No, we’re fine,” Tomás said.

I went out.

***

The street was cool for a Thursday in October. I stood on the sidewalk, about forty feet from the entrance, without going anywhere. I didn’t get the coffee. I leaned against the wall with my phone in my hand, looking at nothing, doing absolutely nothing.

Had he already put his hand under her skirt? Had he discovered her thong? Was he sucking her pussy on the tattoo table?

Three minutes passed. Four. At five, I moved.

I opened the studio door without making a sound. The reception area was in semidarkness; only the light in back was on. There was no one at the counter. I walked farther inside slowly, without announcing myself.

I heard them before I saw them.

A low, wet sound. A broken moan I recognized without effort. I stopped a yard from the hallway and cautiously looked around the corner.

Tomás had Daniela braced against the worktable. Her blouse was still on, but unbuttoned almost to her navel, and he had pulled down one cup of her bra, leaving a breast exposed, its nipple hard and dark. Her skirt was pushed up to her hips. He had one hand on her thigh, the other tangled in her hair, and they were kissing with an urgency that couldn’t be faked, their tongues thrusting into each other’s mouths without the slightest decorum.

I stood motionless.

Daniela’s eyes were closed. Her hands clutched Tomás’s shirt across his chest, pulling him toward her. When he lowered his mouth to her neck and then to the nipple she already had exposed, she threw her head back and let out a long sigh that reached me where I stood. Tomás took her whole breast into his mouth, bit it slowly, and with his free hand ripped off her lace thong in one sharp pull. I heard it tear. I saw the piece of black fabric fall to the floor beside her sandals.

“You’re soaking wet,” he told her, his hand buried between her legs.

“I’ve been like this for an hour, dumbass,” she replied thickly. “Since I was getting dressed.”

Tomás slipped two fingers inside her and she let out a guttural moan, gripping his shoulders. He pulled them out gleaming, showed them to her, and then brought them to his mouth without taking his eyes off her. Daniela watched him do it and bit her lip with an expression I had seen only a few times in twelve years.

***

Tomás helped her climb onto the table and knelt in front of her. He opened her legs with both hands, without ceremony, and buried his face between her thighs. The sound Daniela made at that moment—a dry gasp followed by a moan she didn’t try to suppress—made me brace my hand against the wall to keep from moving.

She clung to the edge of the table with both hands. Her lips were parted and her eyes half closed, staring at the ceiling. Tomás wasn’t in a hurry: he licked her pussy from bottom to top with his flat tongue, then sucked her clitoris with closed lips, then pushed his whole tongue inside and pulled it out, gauging her reactions with the patience of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. From the hallway I could see the short beard glistening with moisture and Daniela pushing his head against herself with her left hand while squeezing the breast he had left exposed with her right.

“There, there, there,” she panted, her voice rising. “Don’t move from there, Tomás, please.”

He drove two fingers into her while continuing to suck her clitoris, curling them and searching for that spot I knew by heart. Daniela arched her entire body. She trembled all over, her thighs tightening around Tomás’s head, and let out a hoarse cry from deep in her chest as she came against his mouth. Tomás didn’t pull away; he kept licking her slowly, more gently, until she tugged his hair and asked him to stop.

“Tomás,” she whispered tensely. “Now. Fuck me now. Please.”

He stood up, yanked off his shirt, and opened his belt with both hands. He pulled his pants down to his knees, and his cock sprang free, thick and hard, pointing straight at Daniela’s face. She didn’t think twice: still seated on the table, she leaned forward, took it in her hand, and swallowed it whole in a single movement. Tomás threw his head back and let out a growl.

“Jesus Christ, Daniela,” he muttered through his teeth.

She sucked him deep, both hands braced on his thighs, sticking out her tongue to lick his balls between sucks. I watched her take that cock all the way down her throat and gag a little, saliva running from her chin, then put it back in without complaining. Tomás grabbed her head with both hands and pushed her face against his pelvis, forcing it a little farther. Daniela didn’t resist. She let him use her mouth for a long minute, her eyes glassy as she looked up at him, until he let her go.

He slowly turned her around, bent her over the table face down, her skirt still rolled up around her waist and her legs spread, feet on the floor. He adjusted her hips upward, spit on her pussy, grabbed his cock, and at that moment they both saw me at the same time.

Daniela didn’t startle. She looked at me over her shoulder and smiled—slowly, conspiratorially, without a trace of apology.

“Stay,” she said. “Watch him properly.”

It wasn’t a question.

***

Tomás penetrated her slowly at first, easing himself in bit by bit and letting her get used to his girth. Daniela received him with a prolonged moan that echoed off the studio walls, one of those long moans she makes when something enters her bigger than she expected. He gradually picked up the pace, gripping her hips with both hands and digging his fingers into her flesh, while she pushed her ass backward with every thrust as if she couldn’t keep still.

“What a sweet pussy, Daniela,” he told her between thrusts. “What a fucking sweet pussy you’ve got.”

“Fuck me hard,” she answered through clenched teeth. “Break it open.”

I watched them from the hallway without moving, but I was hard as a rock, my hand on top of my pants before I even realized it. Daniela sought my eyes several times. Not to ask permission: to include me. To make me part of it even though I was standing ten feet away, watching my friend thrust in and out of my wife’s dripping pussy.

Tomás delivered a sharp slap to her right buttock, leaving the red imprint of his hand on her skin. Daniela cried out, but it was a cry of pleasure. She asked for another. He gave her one. And another. Then he grabbed her hair with his right hand, wrapped it around his fist, and pulled her head back while continuing to fuck her from behind, forcing her to arch her back.

At some point he changed the angle, aiming lower, going deeper. She let out a cry she made no effort to contain, followed by a chain of short, sharp sounds that seemed to escape her without permission. Her legs visibly trembled. Her fingers squeezed the edges of the table until they turned white.

“Like that!” she said, her voice completely broken. “Like that—don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

She came again. Her whole body contracted, her ass shook on Tomás’s cock, and she let out a long howl that ended in a breathless laugh, her cheek resting against the wooden table.

Tomás clenched his teeth. He gripped her hips harder and finished with six or seven long, brutal thrusts that nearly lifted her off the table. On the last one he buried himself to the hilt, stayed there, and I watched his entire back tense as he emptied inside her. Daniela felt it: she made a little sound in her throat, almost surprised, and collapsed forward with her arms outstretched, still breathing hard. He withdrew slowly, inch by inch. I saw the white strand run down Daniela’s thigh. Tomás looked at me. He nodded.

***

I approached, unbuttoning my pants as I came.

Daniela was still leaning against the table when I reached her side, her legs still spread and Tomás’s semen running down her. I placed my hand on her back and slowly moved it up to her nape, and she looked up. Her hair was tousled, her mouth swollen from all the sucking, and she had that afterglow I already knew from the previous time: emptied out, satisfied, still present.

“Hi,” she said, as if it had been a long time since we’d seen each other.

“Hi,” I replied, laughing despite myself.

I penetrated her in that same position, with a single thrust all the way to the hilt. The heat I found, the mixture of her with what Tomás had left behind, the slight resistance of a pussy already used and still tight, was a sensation that drove me out of any rational place I might still have been occupying. Daniela arched her back and sought the angle, bracing herself on her forearms and pushing her ass against my pelvis.

“Do you like fucking me like this?” she asked without turning around. “Fucking me with Tomás’s cum inside me?”

“Very much,” I said, and I meant it.

I grabbed her by the waist and pounded her hard, without care, with that mixture of rage and adoration only someone who has lived it can understand. She asked me to go faster. I obeyed. I could feel the other man’s semen smearing across my cock with every thrust, how the wet noise was different from usual, how Daniela squeezed the walls of her pussy around me, trying to milk me. I came a few minutes later, buried to the hilt, adding my own to what was already inside her. Nothing more was needed.

***

Tomás made coffee. The three of us stood in the reception area, drinking in silence, with that strange complicity only a moment like that can leave behind. Daniela had adjusted her skirt but hadn’t asked for anything to clean herself with; I knew she was still dripping down the inside of her thigh, and she knew it too. Nobody spoke about what had happened. Nobody needed to.

We said goodbye at the door. Two kisses on the cheek, as always. As if nothing had happened. As if everything had.

***

In the car, on the way home, Daniela took off her sandals and put her feet on the dashboard. She had that post-sex calm I already knew from the previous time, her knees apart and her skirt hiked up without the slightest modesty.

“Tell me,” I said.

“What do you want to know?”

“How it started. When I went out.”

She settled back into her seat. She looked out the window for a moment before speaking.

She told me that as soon as I closed the door, Tomás shut the sketch folder without saying a word. He approached her, took her by the waist with both hands, and kissed her. At first carefully, testing the waters. When she responded by slipping her tongue into his mouth, something in him changed: he lifted her bodily, sat her on the table, and put his hand under her skirt immediately.

“He found me practically naked underneath,” Daniela said with a laugh. “Just that thong, soaking wet. He told me he’d been thinking about this for months. That he’d always held it all back out of respect for you, because of the friendship you two have. But that this afternoon, when I came in dressed like that, he couldn’t keep pretending nothing was happening. That he’d been jerking off in the studio bathroom thinking about me ever since I confirmed the appointment.”

Hearing that turned me on again, though it made no logical sense. Knowing my friend had masturbated thinking about my wife for months, and that tonight he had finally fucked her on his tattoo table, was the perfect conclusion.

“And what did you say to him?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said, with that small smile of hers. “I pulled down his zipper and grabbed his cock. Nothing more was needed.”

We continued driving in silence. The traffic light was red. The city stretched outside. We both still had our heads in the studio, the smell of the three of us still mingled over her.

“When are we finishing the design?” she asked after a while.

I laughed.

“Next Thursday, if you want.”