My Wife’s Friend Waited for Me in the Kitchen

I met Beatriz through my wife. They had been schoolmates in Mendoza and ran into each other years later in an office downtown, where they both ended up working for different companies in the same building. Carolina, my wife, had been bringing her home on Fridays for months.

The arrangement was simple. Beatriz got off work after nine, lived almost an hour away by bus, and the transit system in that area became a risk after a certain hour. We had a guest room sitting empty since my mother-in-law had moved south. Carolina offered for her to stay over on the nights she ran late, and Beatriz accepted without hesitation.

I had no say in that decision, nor did I ask for one. I liked Beatriz. She was direct, laughed with her whole mouth open, and brought bottles of wine that cost more than I spent in a week on lunches. The first three times she slept at our place, I barely crossed paths with her at breakfast.

Everything changed when Carolina started taking bank shifts.

She had been offered a new, better-paid position, on the condition that she cover month-end closing the last Thursday of each month. Those nights she stayed until after two in the morning and got home when the sky was already lightening. Beatriz, as it happened, also worked late on Thursdays.

The first night they coincided like that, Beatriz arrived at eleven. I was in the living room with a beer and a muted match. She poured herself a glass of water, sat at the far end of the sofa, and took off her shoes. The dress fit snugly across her shoulders, and you could tell she’d had a long day.

“Did Carolina say when she’ll be back?” she asked.

“After three. Closing the books.”

She nodded. She stared at the screen without speaking for a while. I was trying not to look at her, but I could feel her breathing beside me, and the smell of her perfume mixed with the day’s exhaustion had something about it that made it impossible for me to focus.

“Do you mind if I pour myself something stronger?” she said after a while.

I pointed to the whiskey cabinet. She came back with two glasses.

We didn’t talk about anything important that night. Her job, mine, Carolina, the vacation none of the three of us could ever manage to coordinate. At midnight she went to bed. I stayed in the living room a while longer, pretending to watch the end of the match when in reality I was counting the floor tiles so I wouldn’t think about what I was already thinking: whether she was wearing panties under that dress or not, how her tits moved when she laughed without a bra.

***

Three more Thursdays passed before she said anything.

It was an early morning at the end of March. I’d come down to the kitchen for a glass of water, barefoot, in a T-shirt and shorts. I thought the house was asleep. When I switched on the laundry-room light, she was sitting on the high stool at the counter, her back against the cupboard, watching me.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

She was wearing a short robe and underneath, from what I could tell, a tank top and nothing else. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun. No makeup. More beautiful like that than on any Friday I’d seen her all done up to go out.

“I’ll get you some water,” I said, just to say something.

I poured her a glass and handed it to her. When she took it, her fingers brushed mine and stayed there longer than necessary.

“I need to ask you something,” she said softly. “And I need you not to get angry.”

I braced myself against the counter. My heart was pounding like I’d run up the stairs.

“Go on.”

She drew a breath. Closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, she held my gaze.

“The walls in this house are made of paper. When Carolina’s here, I hear everything. Everything you do to her with your mouth, everything she says while you’re doing it. I hear her begging you to eat her pussy slower, or faster, or deeper. I hear her swallowing your dick. I hear her coming on your face. I’ve been listening to that from the next room for months, months finger-fucking myself while you two fuck on the other side of the wall. And I need to know what it feels like.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t answer. I barely even breathed for several seconds.

“I’m not asking you to leave Carolina,” she went on. “I’m not asking you for anything with consequences tomorrow. I’m asking you for one night. Tonight. And if you don’t want to, I’ll move out of the guest room tomorrow and we’ll never speak of it again.”

“Beatriz,” I said, and my voice came out rough, “this is serious.”

“I know it’s serious. That’s why I’m asking you with the lights on and not in the dark hallway.”

It took me three heartbeats to decide. Then I walked over to where she was sitting, grabbed the back of her neck with one hand, and kissed her. She tasted like wine and something cleaner, like green apple. She kissed me back as if she’d been calculating it for weeks, pushing her tongue deep into my mouth, biting my lower lip when I pulled away for a second to breathe. I grabbed one breast through the robe and she let out a short moan against my mouth, and I realized her nipple was already hard, pressing into my palm.

***

I lifted her off the stool and sat her on the kitchen counter. I opened her robe slowly. Under the tank top there was no bra, and her nipples showed through the fabric like two dark points. I pulled the shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor.

Her breasts were smaller than Carolina’s, but her nipples were darker and more pronounced, with a big, wrinkled areola from the cold. I kissed her neck, her collarbone, the groove between her breasts. When I took one in my mouth and sucked her nipple hard, she let out a low sound that wasn’t quite a moan yet. It was something before that, like she was only just convincing herself this was happening. I bit down slowly, then harder, until her nipple was throbbing against my tongue. I switched to the other one. She grabbed the back of my neck with both hands and pressed my face into her tits.

“Suck them,” she whispered. “Hard, you won’t break me.”

I did as she said. I ate both her tits while with one hand I opened her knees and slid my palm up the inside of her thigh. When I reached her panties, the fabric was soaked. I pulled them aside and ran two fingers through her cunt, from bottom to top, slowly, feeling it open for me on its own. She was hot and wet and slippery. When I brushed her clit with my thumb, a longer moan escaped her and she had to cover her mouth with her wrist.

“Get down,” I whispered.

She obeyed. She slid off the counter and stood in front of me. I pulled her panties down to her ankles. She held onto my shoulders to get them off completely. Then she looked at me with a mix of shame and hunger, bent down, and yanked my shorts down. I’d been hard for a while and it bounced against her face when it came free of the waistband. She gave a soft laugh, took it in her hand, looked at it for a second as if weighing it, and took the whole thing into her mouth.

“Fuck,” I said, gripping the edge of the counter.

She sucked me right there, kneeling on the cold kitchen tiles, unhurried, taking me deep with her whole mouth and then only the tip, pulling back to drag her tongue from my balls to the head, spitting on it so it would glide better and then sinking me back into her throat. She looked up at me with wet eyes, calculating every grimace on my face. When she felt I was close, she pulled me out of her mouth, squeezed the base with her hand, and blew gently on the tip.

“Not yet,” she said. “I want you to eat me first.”

I turned her around. I leaned her against the counter. I kissed her back from the nape of her neck to her waist and went lower. I knelt behind her and spread her ass with both hands. And I did to her what I’d spent months hearing myself do to Carolina.

I ran my tongue over her pussy from behind, long and flat, from bottom to top, ending each pass at the asshole and starting again. She opened her legs wider, rested her forearms on the counter, and lowered her head. I buried my tongue inside her cunt and swallowed her juice. It was sweet and thick and ran down my chin. I licked her lips one by one, stretched them with my mouth, bit her slowly right where no one ever bites.

“Higher,” she gasped. “Eat my clit, please, eat it.”

I turned her around again. I sat her on the edge of the counter, put her legs over my shoulders, and buried my mouth in her clit. I sucked it like it was candy, closing my lips around it and tugging gently while I slid two fingers into her and moved them inside, pointing them toward the ceiling. It wasn’t fast. I didn’t want it fast. I wanted her to feel every second, to understand why I’d been imagining this for months. I held her hip with my other hand so she wouldn’t move. She clutched the edge of the counter and bit her forearm to keep from screaming.

When she came the first time, she climaxed against my face in a series of spasms that bent her forward, crushing my head between her thighs, pissing a warm stream into my mouth that dripped down my chin. Her legs shook so badly I had to hold her up so she wouldn’t fall off the counter.

“The room,” she said between breaths, trying to catch air. “Let’s go to the room.”

“Which one?”

“The guest room. Not yours.”

She was right. We went upstairs in silence, holding hands like teenagers. She locked the door and pushed me against it. This time it was her who knelt and took me back into her mouth, with the door at my back and the sleeping hallway on the other side.

***

We fucked three times before the sky started to lighten. The first was urgent, almost violent, like releasing months of built-up pressure. She sucked me for two minutes and then stood up, pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top of me, and took me in one stroke. A cry escaped her, which she muffled against my shoulder. She stayed still for a few seconds, mouth open, feeling me fill her completely. Then she started moving, bracing herself on my chest, riding me hard, bouncing up and down with her tits jumping in my face. I grabbed her ass with both hands and helped drive her down harder each time, until I could feel my balls slapping her ass with every thrust. She came on top of me, biting her knuckles, squeezing me so tightly inside her I almost finished with her. I threw her onto her back, lifted her legs to my shoulders, and finished fucking her folded in half, driving in all the way until I emptied the first load inside her. I felt it dripping out of her pussy when I pulled out.

The second was slow, almost tender, looking into each other’s eyes, speaking softly. I settled her on her side, lay behind her, lifted one leg, and slid into her slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until I was all the way in. I pushed without hurry, in long strokes, while I stroked one breast and bit her shoulder. She turned her head to kiss me and said things in my ear, things Carolina never said to me.

“Fuck me like I’m yours,” she whispered. “Tell me I’m yours tonight.”

“You’re mine,” I said against the nape of her neck. “All fucking night.”

“Again.”

“You’re mine. This cunt is mine.”

She came like that, with my hand on her clit and my cock inside her, in a long orgasm that made her shake all over for almost a minute. I held out. I pulled out and told her to turn over.

The third was different. She was face down, I was on top, and she asked me for something Carolina hadn’t asked for in years.

“Not there,” she said, guiding my hand elsewhere, steering my thumb between her ass cheeks. “Here.”

I looked at her without moving.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded into the pillow.

“I’ve never dared with anyone. But with you I will. Tonight I will.”

I went down to get oil from the bathroom. When I came back, she had arranged herself, knees apart, a pillow under her hips, her ass pointing at me. I poured oil along the crease and slid a finger slowly over her hole, circling it until she started to relax. I put one finger in first, halfway, leaving it still so she could get used to it. Then all the way. I put in two. She clutched the sheets and breathed deeply.

“Now,” she said. “Put it in, please, I can’t take it anymore.”

I rubbed more oil on my cock and rested it against her open hole. I pushed slowly. At first it wouldn’t give. Then the head slipped in and she let out a long moan, between pain and relief, biting the pillow. We did it slowly, until it stopped hurting and became something else. I entered her all the way, centimeter by centimeter, pausing between each push, feeling her grip me like nothing had ever gripped me before. When I was all the way inside, I stayed still for a second.

“Move,” she gasped. “Fuck my ass, please.”

I started moving. Short at first, then longer. She put one hand down and touched her clit while I drove into her from behind. I heard her panting into the pillow, faster and faster, raspier and raspier. I leaned over her, grabbed the hair in her loose bun, and tugged gently upward. I bit her shoulder. I fucked her harder, into the pillow, feeling her ass clench around me every time she came with her fingers, and she came twice like that, back to back, without letting me catch my breath. When I finished inside her, spilling my load deep in her ass, she grabbed my arm and squeezed it so hard I had marks for two days afterward.

I stayed on top of her for a few seconds, breathing into her neck, still inside. When I withdrew slowly, my cum ran down my groin and stained the pillow.

There was less than an hour left before Carolina got back. I went downstairs to the bathroom, showered quickly, rinsed my mouth twice. When I came up, Beatriz was lying in the guest bed pretending to sleep, the sheet pulled up to her neck. I kissed her on the forehead and left the room.

Carolina got home twenty minutes later. She found me in the kitchen washing the whiskey glasses. She hugged me from behind, exhausted, and told me closing had been hell.

“Did Beatriz sleep?” she asked.

“A while ago.”

She kissed my neck. She didn’t notice a thing.

***

It went on like that for six months. The last Thursdays of each month, when Carolina covered month-end closing, and sometimes a Wednesday when the chance came up. Beatriz was surgically careful: she changed the sheets herself the next morning, aired out the room, left everything as if nothing had happened that night.

We learned to move in silence. I learned where I could bite her without leaving a mark. She learned the difference between the creaks of the wooden floor. We also learned how to fuck without making noise: she bit the back of her hand when she came, I swallowed my groans against her hair. She learned to suck me off in silence, mouth full and breathing through her nose only when her throat tightened. I learned to eat her pussy slowly, measuring every movement of my tongue so the bed wouldn’t creak. Once Carolina came home earlier than expected and we crossed paths in the hallway: Beatriz was coming out of the bathroom in her robe, I was going downstairs for water. Carolina kissed us both hello and went to bed. She never suspected a thing.

What I didn’t expect was to fall in love. And it wasn’t love in the clean sense. It was something more tangled, dirtier. I still loved Carolina. But on Thursdays I counted the minutes until she left for the bank. And on Friday mornings, when I came down to breakfast and saw Beatriz sitting in the kitchen with Carolina, the two of them laughing about something that had happened at the office, it took everything in me not to betray myself with a look.

How does she not realize, I thought. How does she not smell us.

***

It ended in September. Without warning.

Beatriz’s mother had a stroke and was left with aftereffects. She lived alone in Tandil. Beatriz took leave from work and moved there to take care of her. She came to the house one last time, that same night, to pick up the things she had in the guest room.

Carolina helped her pack. I was in the living room, pretending to read. Before leaving, Beatriz came over and gave me a long hug, the kind of hug that is far too long to be innocent, but Carolina wasn’t looking.

“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered in my ear.

“Me too.”

She kissed me on the cheek, very close to the corner of my mouth, and left.

I saw her again a year later, at the wedding of a mutual friend. She showed up with a guy taller than me, younger, a lawyer at some firm that sounded important. Carolina hugged her for two minutes. I shook her hand and told her I was glad to see her. We talked about the weather and her mother, who was doing better.

Before she went back to the table, I asked her in a low voice whether she had ever regretted it.

She looked at me and that same smile she’d had the first night slipped out, the one from the high stool in the kitchen.

“Not for a single day,” she said.

And she went back to the table where her boyfriend was waiting for her.