My Wife Shaved, Knowing What Was Going to Happen

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

My wife is called Camila. She’s thirty-three, with chestnut 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 look like they were drawn on purpose to drive someone insane. Before the accident we had a sex life our friends envied. Afterward, she was left with nothing, and she never once threw a night in my face.

What happened with Esteban began the day I went back to the office. Forty-nine years old, almost six and a half feet tall, the kind of man who treats his diet like a religion and his employees like we’re extras in his movie. He’s my boss. He’s the reason I’ve kept getting a salary despite the months I was away. I’m afraid of him and I respect him, in that order.

Camila wanted to come with me that first morning. She came down from the bedroom in a short black dress, plunging neckline, heels clicking 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 micro-expression 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 had never shown me, and he kissed her hand a couple of seconds longer than was proper.

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

Camila laughed. So did I, out of habit.

***

That same afternoon Esteban called me into his office. I thought he was going to fire me. What he did was invite us to his birthday party the following Saturday, at his house outside the city.

“You know I never mix work and private life,” he told me, 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 red rose, long-stemmed, perfect.

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

I left his office with the rose across my lap and a strange feeling, as if something had started moving without my permission.

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

“Come on, chubby,” she said. “It’s been months since we went out. And if your boss goes to the trouble of inviting us, there’s a reason.”

“I can’t dance.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

***

On Saturday at seven in the 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 the towel off with the natural ease of someone who no longer feels looked at, and then I noticed it.

She had shaved.

Not completely, but much more than she had since I’d come back from the hospital. Her pussy was almost bare, with only a thin strip left just above it, the skin of her lips smooth, glossy, freshly moisturized. Her nipples had gone hard in the cold air of the room and her tits, with her chest pushed a little outward, seemed to be asking for hands. She smelled of a perfume she reserved for important occasions.

“You shaved,” I said.

“One never knows,” she answered.

Four words. One never knows. They hung between us while she put on a cobalt-blue dress, short, without a bra, with a tiny strap underneath. Thin heels. Long earrings. Painted mouth.

“What if I get your boss and his friends all hot and bothered?” she asked, looking at herself in the mirror, in a tone meant to sound like a joke.

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

***

The company driver 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 driver closed his door and turned his head to look at her, I saw him swallow.

The party was at an enormous house, two floors, a garden with a pool, forty guests who looked as if they’d 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 laugh.

“Tomás, come,” he said to me, without taking his eyes off her. “Tonight you’re both my honored guests.”

Except we weren’t honored guests. We were his excuse to keep 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, tapped his forearm with two fingers when he went too far. I was on the other side, in my chair, trying to make conversation with the accountant and failing.

“Camila,” I said at one point, “are you okay?”

“Of course, chubby. It’s his birthday, we have to be polite.”

“He’s talking to you in your ear.”

“It’s jokes. He’s attentive. Don’t be jealous.”

At two in the morning I saw Esteban’s hand resting on my wife’s thigh, right where the dress ended. She didn’t move it away. She was smiling, letting it stay there, as if it were the armrest of a chair. I saw his fingers rise an inch, then two, slip under the fabric, and I saw her face change for a second, lips parting, tightening around the glass.

“Let’s go,” I told her.

“A little longer.”

***

When the dining room started to clear, Esteban refused to say goodbye. He insisted we stop by his other apartment downtown, “for a quick drink.” Camila agreed before I could answer.

“Tomás, I’ve always wanted to get into a place like this,” she whispered to me. “Look how big it is.”

It happened in the car. The driver had left me in the front passenger seat after folding my wheelchair into the trunk. The two of them were in the back. I couldn’t turn around easily, and still I heard them. The first laughter, a silence, the creak of leather when someone changes position. Then Esteban’s deep whisper, and my wife’s breathing, which I’ve known for twelve years, changing into a rhythm I wasn’t causing.

I heard the dress fabric being pushed up over her thighs. I heard his fingers slipping into her shaved pussy and the short moan, crushed against her teeth, that Camila let out when he penetrated her with two fingers. A wet little squelch, tiny, obscene. I heard her swallow. I heard her press her thighs together against my boss’s hand and then open them again, yielding, while he spoke in a low voice in her ear, saying things I couldn’t make out but whose tone I knew very well: the voice of a man telling a woman what he’s going to do to her.

“Camila,” I said to the front, not daring to turn my head. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, chubby,” she answered, her voice breaking. “I’m okay.”

The driver glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He said nothing. No need.

***

The apartment was all dark wood and low lights. Esteban disappeared into a room at once, as if he had something to set up. Camila sat beside me on a huge sofa. Her legs were glossy, her breathing short, and there was a wet stain on the inside of her right thigh that she didn’t bother to hide. She smelled of cunt sweat and men’s cologne mixed together.

“Tomás,” she said, looking at me with a mix of guilt and shamelessness I had never seen on her before. “I need to ask you something. Don’t get angry.”

I told her to say it.

“Your boss got me worked up. A lot. In the car he put his fingers in me and I almost came in front of you, chubby. I’m soaked.” She lifted a hand to her dress and pulled it up two fingers, enough for me to see the tiny fabric of her thong darkened, stuck to her. “And I… I’ve gone more than a year without feeling like this. I love you, chubby. I really do. But today I’m asking you to let me. Just tonight. I need a cock. I need to get 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 shout. I didn’t say no. I turned my face away and looked at the wood floor. That was enough of an answer for both of us.

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

***

I sat still for ten minutes. Then I pushed the wheels with my hands until I reached the hallway. The door was ajar. A sliver 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 the dress, wrinkled at the 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 thicker than mine even before the accident, with a swollen, gleaming tip and a pronounced vein running down the underside. Camila looked at it from below 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, soft, and he rested the tip of his glans right at the edge and pushed, slowly, until he drove it all the way into her throat. Camila closed her eyes and choked for just 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, commanding rhythm, without needing words. Camila sucked his cock as if breathing were hard 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 took it back down her throat. Her jaw relaxed in a way I had never seen before. She was another woman, a version of Camila that had been stored away in a drawer for a long time.

“Look at me while you suck me,” Esteban told her.

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

“Get on the bed,” he said after a while.

She climbed onto the bed, still dressed. Esteban lifted her dress to her waist, pulled away the tiny strip of fabric with one finger, and stood looking at her shaved pussy for a few seconds, like someone appraising a piece. Camila’s lips were swollen, glossy, opening on their own with the wetness. He slid in two fingers, ran them from bottom to top, took them to his mouth, sucked them slowly, and lowered his face again.

He bent down and started eating her out. He spread her legs with his forearms, buried his tongue between her lips, and licked her cunt from top to bottom with calculated slowness. He sucked her clit, nibbled it, slid his tongue inside her and pulled it out in 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 cunt, moving on her own against his mouth, shamelessly, rubbing herself like a bitch in heat. Her voice broke into a long moan that passed through the other side of the wall like a current.

“Like that, like that, don’t stop,” she panted. “Don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop.”

When she came in his mouth, she came with a tremor that ran 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 put his cock at the entrance to her cunt, rubbed it up and down, soaking it, and started to push in. Camila opened her mouth without making a sound, eyes wide, and only when he was all the way inside did she give him the one word she had never given me in twelve years: “Please.” She repeated it three times, softer each time, until it turned into a shapeless sound.

“All of it, my love, put it all in,” she whispered. “Break me.”

The thrusts were slow at first. Esteban drove himself all the way in and stayed there a second, pressed against her, grinding her hips, then came almost all the way out before pushing back in with a hard jolt. Camila had her legs lifted against his shoulders, her hands clutching the sheets, her back bent. Every удар pulled a moan from her throat and shook her tits beneath the wrinkled dress. I, in the hallway, had my hands on the wheels and my heart in my throat. It wasn’t rage I felt. It was a strange mix of humiliation, fascination, and a desire I couldn’t explain and much less act on.

He sped up. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head. He started fucking her hard, with a wet, obscene slap that filled the room. He bit her neck. He tugged her hair. He told her things in her ear I shouldn’t have heard, and I heard them anyway.

“Do you like your husband’s boss’s cock?” he said. “Say it. Say it, slut.”

“I love it,” she answered, her voice shattered. “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 to the floor. She was completely naked, nipples pointed, skin red from the friction, a sheen of sweat between her tits. Esteban grabbed her hips and let her lower herself slowly, guiding his cock with his other hand until she seated him again. Camila rode him with her eyes closed, biting her lip, both hands braced on his chest for leverage. She’d rise until his cock was almost out and then drop down all at once, moaning every time, talking to herself in whispers I could only guess at. He squeezed her tits, kneaded 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 like when we were young and the house was empty. She crushed herself against him, trembling, and still kept moving her hips in tiny circles, milking the orgasm. Then he turned her face down, lifted her ass with both hands, and took her from behind again. I heard the blows of his hips against my wife’s ass, sharp, fast, until Esteban let out a deep grunt and went still on top of her. Camila moaned once more, muffled against the pillow, when she felt the hot cum filling her inside.

I backed away slowly before they finished putting themselves back together. I returned to the sofa. I switched off my phone. I waited.

***

She came out half an hour later. Freshly showered, wet hair, different clothes from somewhere I don’t know. She smelled of expensive soap, of man, of the end of something.

“We’re leaving,” she said, not looking at me. “Are you tired?”

The driver took us home in silence. In the elevator of our building, Camila rested her head on my shoulder like any other night.

We slept. Or she slept. I stayed staring at the ceiling until the sky brightened.

***

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 shave 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 this was enough for me.”

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

“I want to see him again,” she said quietly 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 me for a long time.