Mother’s Day, I met up with my husband’s partner

My husband Andrés teamed up a few years ago with a high school friend to open a shop selling collectible figures and consoles. The partner’s name was Mauricio, but everyone called him Mau. Short, chubby, dark-skinned, with straight hair combed to one side and a smile that always looked like it was about to break into an inappropriate joke. I never thought I’d end up naked on top of him, with his whole dick buried inside me, in room 214 at the Los Encinos hotel.

The business went well at first. Andrés handled the marketing and worked the afternoons; Mau opened in the mornings and took care of technical repairs. I stopped by the shop almost every day after my kids’ school, leaving my husband something to eat. Sometimes enough for both of them, when no one had brought Mau anything. That’s how the trust started: with Tupperwares of pasta, with questions about family, with silly jokes that turned into fifteen-minute chats before I went back to pick up the kids.

He sent me a friend request on Facebook on a Tuesday in October. I accepted without thinking. He was my husband’s partner, what was strange about that? It started with chain good-morning messages, then memes where he tagged me, then direct messages asking how my day was going. I replied politely, without any malice. I didn’t feel like anything was happening either.

Until December changed.

The messages started coming more often and at stranger hours. He asked for my number and I gave it to him, thinking it was practical, that sometimes he needed to let me know something about my husband. But after the first “good night, sleep well,” I understood it was no longer about that.

In April of the following year, just before the pandemic broke out in my city, I arrived at the shop at noon with a seafood cocktail for the two of them. I was wearing a short white dress and low-heeled sandals. My children came with me, so I only stayed long enough to say hello. When I got back to the car, I already had two messages on my phone. Andrés told me it was delicious. Mau wrote: “the cocktail is as good as you are.”

—Did he really write that? —I muttered to myself, staring at the screen as if I expected the words to rearrange themselves.

I didn’t reply right away. I spent the whole afternoon with the phone weighing on my pocket. When I finally answered, I said “thanks” and nothing else. But that night, while Andrés slept beside me, I read and reread that message until it became a habit. And without even realizing it, I slipped my hand inside my pajama pants, two fingers playing over my pussy until I soaked the waistband, imagining Mau saying it to my face.

Mau started inviting me for coffee. Then to lunch. Then to a park for a walk. I told him no, that it was crazy, that he shouldn’t even think about it. And he kept insisting with ant-like patience, never getting angry, never pushing. “Whenever you want,” he’d text. “I’m here.” He gradually raised the tone, with memes that were first suggestive and then openly sexual. I left those on read. I didn’t dare reply, but I didn’t dare block him either. I’d been married sixteen years and, up to that point, I had never even had a conversation that came close to forbidden with another man.

In May they hired a guy to run the shop. The pandemic had everyone locked up already and Andrés only came by to do the cash closing. Mauricio stayed home almost entirely, like the rest of us. But we kept writing each other. And something had changed.

On the 8th he invited me out to celebrate Mother’s Day. He told me he knew a restaurant in the Los Encinos hotel, on the outskirts of the city, where no one would see us. I said no. That he was crazy. How could I leave my kids on May 10 to go see another man? He didn’t insist that time. I turned off my phone and went to sleep convinced that would be enough.

The next day I turned it on at seven in the morning. I had a message from him: “the invitation still stands. You decide.”

You decide.

That phrase worked on me from the inside all morning. I was in an online master’s class and couldn’t focus. I kept thinking about breakfast in front of the hotel’s window wall, about the conversation, about what would come after. I kept thinking that for months, maybe years, I’d felt invisible in my own home, fucking twice a month with the same man in the same position, turning off the light before and cleaning up after. I replied at eleven thirty: “I accept. But only for breakfast.” And I added, lying to myself: “nothing more.”

I told Andrés to take advantage of Tuesday to visit his mother with the kids. That he should take them and spoil her for Mother’s Day, and I’d meet him later or we’d go to the movies. He left happily at eight-thirty, with the two boys in the back seat and a bunch of carnations in the passenger seat.

***

As soon as he shut the door, I got in the shower. I took longer than usual. I shaved my legs and my entire pussy, leaving only a thin strip on top, washed my hair twice, and rubbed on the vanilla-scented cream I only use when I want to feel pretty. I chose a fitted black dress that hit me at the knees, with a V-neck that showed just enough. Under it I put on a black lace set I’d kept since our first anniversary and that Andrés had never seen: a balconette bra that pushed my tits up into the neckline and a thong that barely covered my lips. Black heels. Perfume on my neck, wrists, behind my knees, and a drop between my tits.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I wasn’t the wife who stayed home with two children. I was someone else. Someone who was about to do something she couldn’t regret on the way back. Someone who already had a wet thong just from imagining what was going to happen.

I arrived at the Los Encinos hotel at nine fifteen. Mauricio was waiting at the restaurant entrance, leaning on his motorcycle, wearing a white shirt and dark jeans. He smiled at me like he’d been waiting for months, and the truth was that he had.

—Wow —he said softly, opening the restaurant door for me—. I still can’t believe it.

—Believe it then, but only for breakfast —I replied, weighing every word.

Breakfast was long. We talked about the business, about Andrés, about the pandemic. I asked him why he’d gotten into this with me knowing what was at stake. He told me he’d been holding back for two years, that every time I walked into the shop with my Tupperwares and my smile, he’d go back to the workshop and breathe before he could keep working. That he’d jerk off thinking about me after closing the shutter, with my Facebook profile photo open on his phone. That he was willing to give me what Andrés wasn’t giving me, if I let him.

—You’re very intense, Mau.

—I’m honest. And I’ve had a hard-on for you for two years.

And he kissed me. Right there, in the middle of the dining room, with coffee half-finished and two waiters looking the other way. I pulled back a little, looked around, and told him it wasn’t the place. He answered that the hotel rented rooms for restaurant guests and he’d already checked. I told him he was crazy and got up to go to the bathroom.

In front of the mirror, with both hands on the sink, I looked at my flushed face. You’re here because you want him to fuck you. Stop pretending. I fixed my lipstick, let my hair down, took a deep breath, slipped my hand under my dress to confirm what I already knew —the soaked thong, the swollen lips— and went back to the table.

—Go up first —I told him without sitting down—. I’ll come up in five minutes.

***

The room smelled like clean sheets and that sweet hotel disinfectant. Mau was already shirtless when I walked in, sitting on the edge of the bed, with a bulge marked under his jeans. I approached slowly. He stood up and started unzipping my dress from the back, unhurried, kissing the nape of my neck between each button. The dress fell to the floor and I was left in lace and heels. Mauricio stepped back to look at me.

—Holy shit —he said, swallowing hard—. You’ve really been hiding that.

—If I change my mind, you stop —I told him.

—If you change your mind, I’ll take you to your car. But you’re not going to change your mind.

And he kept going.

He kissed my shoulders, my neck, the neckline of my bra. With two fingers he pulled down the cups of the balconette and pulled my tits out over the lace, without taking off the garment. He bent down to suck on them one by one, first one nipple and then the other, biting them carefully, tugging upward with his teeth until they hardened like stones. I rested my hands on the back of his neck, pushing him against me, and felt his hot tongue circling my areola.

—Like that —I whispered—. Bite harder.

He obeyed me. He sank his teeth in until I let out a moan, then licked them to soothe them. He sat me on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of me. He took off my heels carefully and started kissing my feet, my ankles, my calves, my knees. He moved up the inside of my thighs until he stopped right where the lace was tight against me. He didn’t pull it down. He just kissed over it, slowly, until I felt the fabric go wet against my skin and a moan slipped out of me, I wasn’t sure whose. Then he stuck out his tongue and licked over the lace, pressing the tip against my clit, soaking my thong with his saliva.

—You’re completely wet —he murmured against my pussy—. Your slit’s showing through.

—Take it off already, Mau, please.

He slid my thong down my legs and left it hanging from one ankle. He spread my pussy open with two fingers and looked at me for a second, like someone looking at something he’d spent years imagining. Then he dove in. He licked me from top to bottom, burying his nose in the mound, breathing hard, devouring me like he was starving. He slipped his whole tongue inside and pulled it out, drove it into my entrance, went up to my clit and started sucking it with tight lips, moving his head in small circles. My back arched on its own.

—Oh, Mau, like that, like that, don’t stop —I begged, grabbing his hair—. Suck me, suck my pussy.

He put two fingers inside me while he ate me out, curling them upward, searching for that spot even I didn’t quite know where it was. He found it. He started moving them fast, never stopping sucking me, and in less than two minutes he pulled my first orgasm out of me. I squeezed his ears with my thighs, arched my ass against his face, and came in his mouth with a long moan, forgetting there were walls. He kept sucking me until the last tremor, swallowing what fit.

—We still have time —he said, looking up at me, chin shining.

—Not anymore —I answered—. Now it’s your turn. Come here.

He got naked in less than a minute. His dick was dark, not very thick but long, curved slightly upward, the tip already dripping. I sat on the edge of the bed and took it in one hand, never taking my eyes off his. I stroked it slowly, watching it tense, then licked it from balls to tip, tongue flat, then sucked my own taste off his fingers. I took it into my mouth.

—Fuck —he groaned—. You suck dick so good.

I sucked him all the way down, tightening my lips, helping with my hand at the base. I pulled off, spat on it, licked underneath, sucked his balls one by one while I kept stroking his wet shaft. I took his cock back in to the hilt, gagging a little, and he grabbed my head with both hands and started fucking my mouth slowly, never hurting me, giving me time to breathe between thrusts.

—If you keep sucking me like that I’m going to cum —he said, tugging me back gently by the hair—. And I want to fuck you first.

He put on the condom without taking his eyes off me. He laid me back on the bed, parted my legs with his knee, and entered in one motion. I let out a choked cry against his shoulder. For years I’d only felt one man. This one felt different, more urgent, less patient, bigger inside.

—Slow —I asked him.

He slowed down, but not by much. He kissed my neck as he moved, bit my earlobes, told me things in my ear.

—You’re so tight, baby. Such a good pussy. I’ve been dreaming for two years about putting it in you.

—Shut up and fuck me —I answered, surprised by my own voice.

I dug my heels into his ass so he wouldn’t slip out and he understood it as an invitation. He bent my legs over his shoulders, lifted himself, and shoved it all the way back in, looking me in the eyes as if he wanted to confirm I was there, that this was really happening. From that angle I felt him touch me all the way up, pounding inside me, pulling an “ah” out of me with every thrust. My tits shook with every удар and he watched them like a fool, squeezing them with one hand.

—Who fucks better? —he asked, never slowing—. Andrés or me?

I didn’t answer him. I closed my eyes. The question burned through me and, at the same time, it finally let me go.

—Answer me —he insisted, thrusting harder—. Who fucks you better?

—You —I whispered, ashamed and turned on—. You, Mau, you fuck me better.

—Say it again.

—You fuck me better. You.

I felt the second orgasm coming from far away, like a wave I couldn’t stop. I came biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream, squeezing his dick with the walls of my pussy until he had to stop for a moment so he wouldn’t cum right there.

When he stopped, he stayed inside me for a moment, breathing. He pulled out, kissed my navel, and lay on his back, his dick pointing at the ceiling and the condom shining with my fluids. I looked at him, still shaking, and understood it was my turn. I took off my bra and panties completely, climbed on top of him in a squat, and lowered myself slowly until he was all the way inside me. I started moving. He squeezed my breasts with those small hands that barely fit around them, bit them, told me they were huge, and I just closed my eyes and moved faster and faster, up and down, feeling my ass smack against his thighs.

—Ride me —he panted—. Like that, baby, ride me all the way.

I leaned back, bracing myself with my hands on his knees, so he could see it going in and out. He brought one hand down and started rubbing my clit with his thumb while I bounced on top. I changed to a hip roll, grinding, never taking him out, squeezing him inside me with every turn.

—Get on all fours —he ordered, his voice already hoarse.

I did as he said. I got on my hands and knees, with the heels on again because he asked me to, and let him grab my hair. He mounted me from behind and rammed into me in one brutal stroke, tearing a long moan out of me. He slapped my ass once, then again, and again, until I felt the burn. He said things no man had ever said to me before.

—Just look at how you’re swallowing it, whore. Look how your pussy opens for me.

—Yes —I answered into the pillow, surprised I liked it—. I’m your whore, today I’m your whore.

—Say it louder.

—I’m your whore, Mau. Fuck me like your whore.

And instead of stopping him, I asked for more.

—Like that, go on —I whispered into the pillow—. Harder. Don’t stop. Break me.

—I never imagined you were like this.

—Me neither.

He grabbed my hips with both hands and started fucking me at a savage pace, slamming his pelvis into my ass, making the bed creak. He ran one finger along the slit of my ass, wet from my pussy, and pressed it against my other hole without actually going in.

—Here too? —he asked.

—Another day —I answered, trembling—. Today just finish me like this.

He came before I did. I felt the pace go wild for a second and then he froze, pressed against my back, panting, his dick throbbing inside me. He left me halfway to orgasm. When he pulled away, he took off the tied condom, showed it to me full, and threw it into the bin beside the bed.

—Forgive me —he said, still breathless—. I held out as long as I could.

—Finish me with your hand —I asked, lying on my back and opening my legs for him.

He settled beside me. He slid two fingers inside and worked my clit in quick circles with his thumb while he sucked one nipple. It took a minute. I came a third time, squeezing his hand with my thighs, arched, biting the back of my own wrist so I wouldn’t scream. I pulled the covers up to my neck, more out of reflex than modesty, and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was past noon.

—I have to go —I told him.

—Stay. One more hour. I’ll get it hard again in five minutes.

—I can’t. Andrés is coming with the kids.

I got up, dressed without showering —with the condom’s cum still faintly inside me, with his smell clinging to my skin—, fixed my hair in the mirror and reapplied my lipstick. Mauricio watched me from the bed without saying anything, still naked, his dick halfway softening, with an expression that was half satisfaction and half fear. When I reached the door, he sat up.

—Will we see each other again?

—I don’t know.

—Thank you —he said.

—Thank you.

***

I got home fifteen minutes before my husband. I got in the shower, washed myself as if I’d rolled in mud, scrubbed my swollen pussy with soap to remove any trace, put back on the same clothes except for the underwear —I hid the lace thong at the bottom of an old shoebox— and went downstairs to the kitchen to pretend I’d been there all morning. When Andrés came in with the kids and the now wilted carnations, I smiled and hugged him. He noticed nothing. He never noticed anything. Not even that night, in bed, when he climbed on top of me and shoved it in without foreplay as always; I closed my eyes and remembered Mau’s voice asking me who fucked better, and I came before he did for the first time in years.

Mauricio never wrote to me the same way again. Once, months later, when someone hit me from behind on an avenue and I posted a picture of the dent in a story, he messaged to ask how Doña Marina was. My husband read the message without blinking. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Almost two years passed before we could cross paths again. In that time, the only thing that sustained me were my own memories —the fingers buried all the way inside while Andrés snored— and, once in a while, the nights with Diego, the doctor from the clinic next door, about whom I’ll tell you another day.

From that Tuesday, all I was left with was one certainty: that woman in the mirror, the one who put on black lace on May 10 and went out to get fucked until she screamed, was never going away again.