My Wife Waxed Herself Knowing What Was Going to Happen

My name is Tomás, I’m thirty-nine years old, and I’m an architect. I’ve spent almost ten years at the same construction company, the last fourteen months sitting in a wheelchair I never asked for. A truck ran a red light, and ever since then my life has been measured in rehabilitation sessions, in steps I no longer climb, and in my wife’s patience.

My wife’s name is Camila. She’s thirty-three, with brown hair down to her shoulders and eyes anyone would describe as warm. I’m not exaggerating when I say her body disrupts traffic on the avenue: long legs, a narrow waist, hips that seem deliberately drawn to drive someone crazy. Before the accident, we had a sex life our friends envied. Afterward, she was left with nothing, and she never reproached me for a single night.

What happened with Esteban began the day I returned to the office. Forty-nine years old, nearly six foot three, the kind of man who treats his diet like a religion and his employees like extras in his movie. He’s my boss. He’s the reason I’m still collecting a paycheck despite the months I spent away. I’m afraid of him, and I respect him—in that order.

Camila wanted to come with me that first morning. She came downstairs from the bedroom wearing a short black dress, a V-neck, and heels that clicked against the parquet like a warning. I told her she looked gorgeous. She smiled, kissed my forehead, and pushed my chair to the elevator.

Esteban was waiting for us in the parking lot. When he saw Camila, something shifted in his face, a microexpression you only notice if you’ve been married long enough to recognize it in other men. He helped me out of the car with a courtesy he’d never shown me, and he kissed her hand for a couple of seconds longer than politeness allowed.

—A pleasure, ma’am —he said, without quite letting go—. Your husband never told me he was married to a woman like you.

Camila laughed. I did too, out of habit.

***

That same afternoon, Esteban sent for me in his office. I thought he was going to fire me. Instead, he invited us to his birthday party the following Saturday, at his house outside the city.

—You know I don’t mix work and private life —he said, twirling a pen between his fingers—. But your wife deserves a night out, Tomás. She’s a warrior. Bring her.

He handed me a rose wrapped in cellophane. A long, perfect red rose.

—For her. Tell her I won’t take no for an answer.

I left his office with the rose on my lap and a strange sensation, as if something had been set in motion without my permission.

Camila was thrilled with the flower. She put it in a vase in the dining room and kissed me as if I had bought it.

—Come on, chubby —she said—. We haven’t gone out in months. And if your boss has gone to the trouble of inviting us, there’s a reason.

—I can’t dance.

—I’ll stay with you.

***

At seven on Saturday evening, I saw her come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I was in my chair at the foot of the bed, reading an email on my phone. She took off the towel with the naturalness of someone who no longer feels watched, and that’s when I noticed.

She had waxed herself.

Not completely, but much more than she had since I came home from the hospital. Her pussy was almost hairless, with only a thin strip barely visible above it, the skin of her lips smooth, shiny, freshly moisturized. Her nipples had hardened in the cool air of the room, and her tits, her chest thrust slightly forward, seemed to be asking for hands. She smelled of a perfume she saved for important occasions.

—You waxed yourself —I said.

—You never know —she replied.

Four words. You never know. They hung between us while she put on a short cobalt-blue dress, braless, with a tiny strip underneath. Thin heels. Long earrings. Painted lips.

—What if I turn your boss and his friends on? —she asked, looking at herself in the mirror, in a tone meant as a joke.

I laughed. I told her I hoped I’d have that problem. And for the first time in a long while, I felt something like jealousy: sharp, ancient, alive.

***

The company chauffeur came to pick us up. He was a young, quiet man who helped me into the back seat with professional efficiency. Camila sat beside me. When the chauffeur closed his door and turned his neck to look at her, I saw him swallow.

The party was at an enormous two-story house, with a pool in the garden and forty guests who looked as if they had stepped out of a magazine. Esteban greeted us at the entrance. He gave Camila a second rose, kissed her hand, and whispered something in her ear that made her blush and burst out laughing.

—Tomás, come on —he said to me, without taking his eyes off her—. Tonight you’ll be my guests of honor.

Except we weren’t guests of honor. We were his excuse for keeping her close.

He sat next to Camila at the long dining-room table. He refilled her glass before it was empty. He murmured things in her ear between courses. She smiled, looked at the ceiling, and tapped his forearm with two fingers whenever he went too far. I was on the other side, in my chair, trying and failing to make conversation with the accountant.

—Camila —I said at one point—. Are you all right?

—Of course, chubby. It’s his birthday. We have to be nice.

—He keeps whispering in your ear.

—They’re jokes. He’s attentive. Don’t be jealous.

At two in the morning, I saw Esteban’s hand resting on my wife’s thigh, exactly where the dress ended. She didn’t move it away. She smiled and let it stay there, as if it were the chair’s armrest. I saw his fingers move up an inch, then two, slip beneath the fabric, and I saw her face change for a second, her lips part, her grip tighten around her glass.

—Let’s go —I told her.

—A little longer.

***

When the dining room began to empty, Esteban didn’t want to say goodbye. He insisted we stop by his other apartment downtown, “for a quick drink.” Camila accepted before I could answer.

—Tomás, I’ve always wanted to go inside a place like this —she whispered—. Look how big it is.

It happened in the car. The chauffeur had left me in the passenger seat, folding my chair into the trunk. The two of them were in the back. I couldn’t turn easily, and even so I heard them. The first laughs, a silence, the creak of leather as someone shifted position. Then Esteban’s low whisper, and my wife’s breathing, which I’ve known for twelve years, changing into a rhythm I wasn’t causing.

I heard the fabric of her dress being pushed up her thighs. I heard his fingers slip into her waxed pussy and the short, stifled moan Camila let out when he penetrated her with two fingers. A tiny, wet, indecent sloshing sound. I heard her swallow. I heard her squeeze her thighs around my boss’s hand and then open them again, yielding, while he spoke softly into her ear, things I couldn’t make out but whose tone I knew very well: the voice of a man telling a woman what he was going to do to her.

—Camila —I said from the front, without daring to turn my head—. Are you all right?

—Yes, chubby —she answered, her voice breaking—. I’m fine.

The chauffeur glanced at me from the corner of his eye. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

***

The apartment was all dark wood and low lighting. Esteban immediately went into a bedroom, as if he had something to prepare. Camila sat down beside me on an enormous sofa. Her legs were shining, her breathing short, and there was a wet mark on the inside of her right thigh that she made no effort to hide. She smelled of pussy sweat mixed with men’s cologne.

—Tomás —she said, looking at me with a mixture of guilt and shamelessness I had never seen in her—. I need to ask you something. Don’t get angry.

I asked her to tell me.

—Your boss turned me on. A lot. In the car, he put his fingers inside me and I almost came in front of you, chubby. I’m soaked. —She put a hand to her dress and lifted it two fingers, just enough for me to see the minimal fabric of her thong, darkened and stuck to her—. And I… —she drew a deep breath—. I haven’t felt like this in more than a year. I love you, chubby. I really do. But tonight I’m asking you to let me. Just tonight. I need a cock. I need to be fucked.

She came closer. She kissed me on the mouth as if asking forgiveness, her tongue still tasting of champagne.

—Please —she said—. Wait for me here.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t scream. I didn’t say no. I turned my face away and stared at the wooden floor. That was enough of an answer for both of us.

She stood up. She walked to the bedroom door, her heels striking slowly against the wood. Before going in, she turned, looked at me for a second, and disappeared.

***

Ten minutes passed while I sat still. Then I pushed the wheels with my hands and reached the hallway. The door was ajar. A slit of warm light, a couple of voices, the unmistakable sound of a belt hitting the floor.

I wasn’t going to go in. But I didn’t leave either.

I saw her on her knees in front of Esteban, still wearing her dress, wrinkled up around her waist, her heels kicked off to one side. He already had his pants lowered halfway down his thighs, and hanging between his legs was a thick, long cock, much bigger around than mine even before the accident, the swollen, glistening tip crowned by a prominent vein running along the underside. Camila stared up at it as if she had never seen anything like it.

—Open up —he said.

She opened her mouth without arguing. She stuck out her tongue, flat and soft, and he placed the tip of his glans right at the edge and pushed slowly until he had buried himself all the way down her throat. Camila closed her eyes and gagged for barely a second, and a thread of saliva ran from the corner of her mouth and stained her blue dress. He grabbed her hair with one hand and moved her head in a slow, authoritative rhythm, without needing words. Camila sucked his cock as if breathing were difficult and she didn’t care: she pulled it out with a wet sound, licked his balls with her broad tongue, ran her lips over the tip, and sank it back down her throat. Her jaw was relaxed in a way I had never seen before. She was another woman, a version of Camila that had been locked away in a drawer for a very long time.

—Look at me while you suck it —Esteban told her.

She raised her watery eyes, and he rewarded her with a thrust into her mouth that made her moan around his cock.

—Get up —he said after a while.

She climbed onto the bed, still dressed. Esteban lifted her dress to her waist, removed the tiny strip of fabric with a single finger, and stared at her waxed pussy for a few seconds, like a man appraising an object. Camila’s lips were swollen and shiny, opening on their own with wetness. He ran two fingers over them from bottom to top, brought them to his mouth, sucked them slowly, and lowered his face again.

He leaned over and began to eat her. He opened her legs with his forearms, buried his tongue between her lips, and licked her pussy from top to bottom with calculated slowness. He sucked her clitoris, nibbled it, pushed his tongue inside her, and drew it out at a rhythm that made Camila lift her hips from the bed. She arched. She grabbed his head with both hands and pressed him against her pussy, moving herself against his mouth without shame, rubbing herself against it like a bitch in heat. Her voice broke into a long moan that carried through the wall like a current.

—Yes, yes, don’t stop —she panted—, don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop.

When she came in his mouth, she did so with a shudder that traveled up her legs and made her crush her thighs against Esteban’s ears. I should have backed away. I didn’t.

***

When he straightened and got on top of her, I saw for the first time what my wife saw. The difference. Esteban was big, not just tall. He placed his cock at the entrance to her pussy, rubbed it up and down, soaking her, and began to push it in. Camila opened her mouth without making a sound, her eyes wide, and only when he had buried himself entirely did she greet him with a word she had never said to me in twelve years: “Please.” She repeated it three times, each time more softly, until it turned into a shapeless sound.

—All of it, my love, put it all the way inside me —she whispered—. Break me.

The thrusts were slow at first. Esteban drove into her all the way and stayed pressed against her for a second, grinding his hips into her, then withdrew almost to the tip before thrusting back in with a hard push. Camila had her legs raised against his shoulders, her hands gripping the sheets, her back arched. Every blow tore a moan from her throat and shook her tits beneath the rumpled dress. I was in the hallway, my hands on the wheels and my heart in my throat. It wasn’t anger I felt. It was a strange mixture of humiliation, fascination, and a desire I couldn’t explain, much less act on.

He sped up. He seized her wrists and pinned them above her head. He began fucking her hard, with a wet, obscene smack that filled the room. He bit her neck. He pulled her hair. He whispered things in her ear I wasn’t supposed to hear and heard anyway.

—Do you like your husband’s boss’s cock? —he asked her—. Say it. Say it, slut.

—I love it —she answered, her voice broken—. I love your cock. Fuck me, fuck me, don’t stop.

Then she got on top. She pulled the dress over her head and threw it on the floor. She was completely naked, her nipples hard, her skin red from the friction, a sheen of sweat between her tits. Esteban gripped her hips and let her lower herself slowly, guiding his cock with his other hand until she fitted herself onto it again. Camila rode him with her eyes closed, biting her lip, both hands braced against his chest for leverage. She rose until his cock was almost out, then dropped all the way down in one motion, moaning each time, whispering to herself things I could only guess at. He squeezed her tits, groped them, took one into his mouth and sucked her nipple until she screamed.

—Come on my cock —he told her—. Come on, come.

When she came, she did it with a long, clear cry, without shame, just as she had when we were young and the house was empty. She collapsed against him, trembling, and still kept moving her hips in small circles, squeezing every last bit of pleasure from her orgasm. Then he turned her face down, lifted her ass with both hands, and mounted her from behind again. I heard his hips striking my wife’s ass, hard and fast, until Esteban gave a deep grunt and went still on top of her. Camila moaned once more, muffled against the pillow, when she felt his hot cum filling her inside.

I backed away slowly before they had finished composing themselves. I returned to the sofa. I turned off my phone. I waited.

***

She came out half an hour later. Freshly showered, her hair wet, wearing different clothes I don’t know where she had gotten. She smelled of expensive soap, man, and the end of something.

—We’re leaving —she said, without looking at me—. Are you tired?

The chauffeur drove us home in silence. In the elevator of our building, Camila rested her head on my shoulder as she did any other night.

We slept. Or she slept. I stared at the ceiling until the sky grew light.

***

In the morning, she sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand.

—Let’s talk —she said.

I asked her the only thing I needed to ask.

—Did you wax yourself for him?

She took a while to answer. She didn’t look away.

—Yes —she said—. I knew it might happen. And it did. And I liked it, Tomás. I liked it a lot. He fucked me like I hadn’t been fucked in years. You can’t, and I love you, but I’d be lying if I told you that this is enough for me.

Then she brought my hand to her breast, leaned down, and let me kiss it. I felt her nipple hard against my palm, and beneath her nightgown, the faint smell of another man’s semen, which even the shower hadn’t completely washed away. She was hot again. She was thinking about him. I knew it, and still I let her do what she wanted.

—I want to see him again —she said softly against my temple—. And I want you to be there when I do.

I didn’t answer. But I didn’t say no.

That word, no, hasn’t come out of my mouth in a long time.