On Mother’s Day, I Met Up with My Husband’s Business Partner

A few years ago, my husband Andrés partnered with a friend from high school to open a store selling collectible figures and consoles. His partner was named Mauricio, but everyone called him Mau. Short, chubby, dark-skinned, with straight hair combed to one side and a smile that always seemed about to unleash an inappropriate joke. I never thought I’d end up naked on top of him, his entire cock buried inside me, in room 214 of the Los Encinos hotel.

The business did well at first. Andrés handled marketing and worked afternoons; Mau opened in the mornings and took care of technical repairs. I stopped by the store almost every day after picking up my children from school, bringing my husband something to eat. Sometimes I brought enough for both of them when no one had brought Mau anything. That was how we became familiar: over containers of pasta, questions about family, stupid jokes that ended in fifteen minutes of chatting before I went back to get the kids.

He sent me a Facebook friend request one Tuesday in October. I accepted without thinking. He was my husband’s business partner—what was strange about it? It began with good-morning chain messages, then memes he tagged me in, then direct messages asking how my day was going. I answered politely, without any ulterior motive. I didn’t feel as though anything was happening, either.

Until December changed everything.

The messages began arriving more often and at stranger hours. He asked for my number, and I gave it to him, thinking it was practical—that sometimes he might need to tell me something about my husband. But after the first “good night, sleep well,” I understood that wasn’t what this was about anymore.

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

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

I didn’t answer right away. I spent the whole afternoon with the phone weighing on me in my pocket. When I finally replied, I said “thank you” and nothing more. But that night, while Andrés slept beside me, I read and reread the message until it became a habit. And without 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 began inviting me out for coffee. Then lunch. Then for a walk in the park. I told him no, that it was crazy, that he shouldn’t even think about it. And he kept insisting with an ant’s patience, never getting angry, never pressuring me. “Whenever you want,” he’d write. “I’m right here.” He gradually became more explicit, with memes that were first suggestive and then openly sexual. I left those on read. I didn’t dare answer, but I couldn’t bring myself to block him, either. I’d been married for sixteen years and, until then, had never even had a conversation with another man that came close to anything forbidden.

In May they hired a young man to work at the store. The pandemic had everyone shut inside, and Andrés only went there to close out the register. Mauricio stayed mostly at home, like everyone else. But we kept writing to each other. And something had changed.

On the eighth, he invited me out to celebrate Mother’s Day. He said he knew a restaurant at the Los Encinos hotel, outside the city, where no one would see us. I said no. That he was crazy. How could I leave my children on May tenth to go see another man? He didn’t insist that time. I turned off my phone and went to bed convinced that would be enough.

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

You decide.

That phrase worked its way through me all morning. I was in a virtual graduate class and couldn’t concentrate. I thought about breakfast in front of the hotel’s picture window, about the conversation, about what would come afterward. I thought about how I’d spent months, maybe years, feeling invisible in my own home, fucking the same man twice a month in the same position, turning off the light beforehand and cleaning myself afterward. I answered at eleven thirty: “I accept. But only breakfast.” And I added, lying to myself: “Nothing else.”

I told Andrés to use Tuesday to visit his mother with the children. I told him to take them and spoil her for Mother’s Day, and that I’d meet up with them in the afternoon or we could go to the movies. He left happily at eight thirty, the two kids in the back seat and a bouquet of carnations in the passenger seat.

***

As soon as the door closed, I got into the shower. I took longer than usual. I shaved my legs and my entire pussy, leaving only a thin strip above, washed my hair twice, and rubbed on the vanilla-scented lotion I only use when I want to feel pretty. I chose a fitted black dress that fell to my knees, with a V-neck that showed just enough. Underneath, I put on a black lace set I’d had tucked away since our first anniversary and that Andrés had never seen: a balconette bra that pushed my tits up to my cleavage and a thong that barely covered my lips. Black pumps. Perfume on my neck, wrists, behind my knees, and a drop between my breasts.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I no longer recognized myself. I wasn’t the wife who stayed home with two children. I was someone else. Someone about to do something she couldn’t take back. Someone whose thong was already wet just imagining what was going to happen.

I arrived at the Los Encinos hotel at a quarter past nine. Mauricio was waiting for me at the restaurant entrance, leaning against his motorcycle, wearing a white shirt and dark jeans. He smiled at me as if 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.

—Well, believe it, but only for breakfast —I replied, weighing every word.

Breakfast lasted a long time. We talked about the business, Andrés, and the pandemic. I asked him why he’d gotten involved with me, knowing what he stood to lose. He told me he’d been holding himself back for two years, that every time I entered the store with my food containers and my smile, he went back to the workshop to breathe before he could keep working. That he masturbated thinking about me after closing the security gate, with my Facebook profile picture open on his phone. He was willing to give me what Andrés didn’t, 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 my 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 said the hotel rented rooms to restaurant guests and that he’d already checked. I told him he was crazy and got up to go to the bathroom.

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

—You go up first —I told him without sitting down. —I’ll be up in five minutes.

***

The room smelled of clean sheets and the sweet disinfectant hotels use. Mau was already shirtless when I entered, sitting on the edge of the bed, the bulge beneath his jeans clearly marked. I approached slowly. He stood and began unzipping my dress in back, unhurried, kissing the nape of my neck between each button. The dress fell to the floor, leaving me in lace and heels. Mauricio took a step back to look at me.

—Fuck me —he said, swallowing hard. —How have you been keeping all that hidden?

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

—If you change your mind, I’ll take you to your car. But you won’t change your mind.

And he continued.

He kissed my shoulders, my neck, the edge of my bra. With two fingers he pulled down the balconette cups and freed my tits over the lace without removing the garment. He bent down and sucked them one at a time, first one nipple and then the other, biting them carefully and tugging upward with his teeth until they grew hard as rocks. 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 them harder.

He obeyed. He sank his teeth in until I let out a moan, then licked the sting away. He sat me on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of me. He took off my pumps carefully and began kissing my feet, ankles, calves, and knees. He moved up the insides of my thighs until he stopped exactly where the lace pressed against me. He didn’t pull it down. He only kissed me through it, slowly, until I felt the wet fabric against my skin and a moan escaped me that I wasn’t sure belonged to me. Then he stuck out his tongue and licked me through the lace, pressing the tip against my clitoris, soaking my thong with his saliva.

—You’re so wet —he murmured against my pussy. —Your slit shows through.

—Take it off, Mau, please.

He slid the thong down my legs and left it hanging from one ankle. He opened my pussy with two fingers and stared at me for a second, like someone looking at something he’d spent years imagining. Then he went for it. He licked me from top to bottom, burying his nose in my hair, breathing hard, eating me as though he were hungry. He plunged his tongue inside me and pulled it out, drove it into my entrance, moved up to my clitoris, and began sucking it with tightly pursed 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 it, suck my pussy.

He pushed two fingers inside me while he sucked, curling them upward and searching for the spot I didn’t even know exactly where to find. He found it. He began moving them quickly without stopping his mouth, and in less than two minutes he brought me to my first orgasm. I squeezed his ears between my thighs, arched my ass against his face, and came in his mouth with a long moan, forgetting there were walls around us. He kept licking me through every last tremor, swallowing as much as he could.

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

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

He undressed in less than a minute. His cock was dark, not very thick but long, curving slightly upward, the tip already dripping. I sat on the edge of the bed and took it in one hand without taking my eyes off his. I stroked it slowly, watching it tense, then licked it from his balls to the tip, my tongue flat, sucking my own taste from his fingers afterward. I put it in my mouth.

—Goddamn —he moaned. —You suck so well.

I sucked him all the way, tightening my lips and helping myself with one hand at the base. I pulled it out, spit on it, licked underneath, and sucked his balls one at a time while continuing to stroke his wet shaft. I took his cock back into my mouth all the way to the back of my throat, gagging a little, and he held my head with both hands and began 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 come —he said, gently pulling me away by the hair. —And I want to fuck you first.

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

—Slowly —I asked.

He slowed down, but not for long. He kissed my neck as he moved, bit my earlobes, and whispered things in my ear.

—You’re so tight, baby. Such a delicious pussy. I’ve dreamed for two years about putting it inside you.

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

I dug my heels into his buttocks so he wouldn’t pull out, and he took it as an invitation. He folded my legs over his shoulders, straightened up, and thrust all the way inside again, looking into my eyes as if he wanted to make sure I was there, that this was really happening. From that angle I felt him touch me high inside, pounding me and pulling an “ah” from me with every thrust. My tits shook with every blow, and he stared at them, spellbound, squeezing them with one hand.

—Who fucks better? —he asked without slowing. —Andrés or me?

I didn’t answer. I closed my eyes. The question boiled inside me and, at the same time, finally set me free.

—Answer me —he insisted, thrusting harder. —Who puts it in you better?

—You —I whispered, embarrassed and aroused. —You, Mau. You put it in me better.

—Say it again.

—You fuck me better. You.

I felt my second orgasm approaching from far away, like a wave I couldn’t stop. I came biting my lip to keep from screaming, squeezing his cock with the walls of my pussy until he had to stop for a moment to keep from coming right then.

When he stopped, he stayed inside me for a moment, breathing. He pulled out, kissed my navel, and lay on his back, his hard cock pointing at the ceiling, the condom gleaming with my fluid. I looked at him, still breathless, 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 entirely inside me. I began to move. He squeezed my breasts with those small hands that could barely contain them, bit them, told me they were huge, while I simply closed my eyes and moved faster and faster, up and down, feeling my ass smack against his thighs.

—Ride me —he panted. —That’s it, baby, ride me all the way.

I leaned back, bracing my hands on his knees so he could see him sliding in and out. He lowered one hand and began rubbing my clitoris with his thumb while I bounced on top of him. I switched to rolling my hips, grinding against him without pulling him out, squeezing him inside with every turn.

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

I obeyed. I turned my back to him, putting my pumps on again because he asked me to, and let him grab my hair. He mounted me from behind and drove into me in one thrust, drawing a long moan from me. He spanked me once, then again, and again, until I felt the sting. He said things no man had ever said to me before.

—Just look at how you swallow it, slut. Look how your pussy opens for me.

—Yes —I answered against the pillow, surprised that I liked it. —I’m your slut. Today I’m your slut.

—Say it louder.

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

And instead of stopping him, I asked for more.

—That’s it, give it to me —I whispered into the pillow. —Harder. Don’t stop. Break me.

—I never imagined you were like this.

—Neither did I.

He grabbed my hips with both hands and began fucking me at a brutal pace, slamming his pelvis against my buttocks and making the bed squeak. He ran a finger along the crack of my ass, wet with pussy, and pressed it against my other hole without putting it in.

—Here too? —he asked.

—Another day —I answered, trembling. —Finish me like this today.

He came before I did. I felt his rhythm run wild for a second, then he went still, pressed against my back, panting, his cock throbbing inside me. He left me with my orgasm halfway there. When he pulled away, he removed the knotted condom, showed it to me full, and tossed it into the trash beside the bed.

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

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

He settled beside me. He pushed two fingers inside me and worked my clitoris with his thumb in quick circles while sucking one of my nipples. It took only a minute. I came for the third time, squeezing his hand between my thighs, arched back, biting the back of my own wrist to keep from screaming. 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 home with the kids.

I got up and dressed without showering—with the condom’s semen still discernible inside me, his scent clinging to my skin—fixed my hair in front of the mirror, and reapplied my lipstick. Mauricio watched me from the bed without saying anything, still naked, his cock halfway soft, his expression half satisfaction and half fear. When I approached the door, he sat up.

—Will I see you again?

—I don’t know.

—Thank you —he said.

—Thank you.

***

I got home fifteen minutes before my husband. I got into the shower, washed myself as if I’d been rolling around in mud, scrubbed my swollen pussy with soap to remove every trace, put on the same clothes except for my underwear—the lace thong I hid 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 children and the already-wilted carnations, I smiled and hugged him. He noticed nothing. He never noticed anything. Not even that night, when he climbed on top of me in bed and shoved it inside without foreplay as usual; I closed my eyes and remembered Mau’s voice asking who fucked better, and I came before him for the first time in years.

Mauricio never wrote to me in the same way again. Once, months later, when I was rear-ended on an avenue and posted a photo of the damage to my 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. During that time, the only things that kept me going were my own memories—my fingers buried deep while Andrés snored—and, every now and then, nights with Diego, the doctor from the office next door, whom I’ll tell you about another day.

Only one certainty remained from that Tuesday: the woman in the mirror, the one who put on black lace on May tenth and went out to be fucked until she screamed, was never going away.