The Driver Who Seduced the Cop's Wife

That morning, Marcela got up before the sun had finished climbing over the neighborhood rooftops. The kitchen smelled of hot oil and toast. She fried the eggs, heated the milk, served chocolate milk for the kids and strong coffee for Ramiro, who was already at the table in his blue uniform, his pistol resting beside the plate.

—This week I’m on the operation in the south zone —he said, without looking up from his phone.

—Take care of yourself.

—Behave yourself.

He said it like someone reciting a worn-out formula. He kissed her on the forehead, adjusted his cap, and went out to the door where the patrol car was waiting for him. Marcela watched him from the threshold, with that mixture of habit and weariness she no longer knew how to name. A man who had slept in her bed for fourteen years. A man who hadn’t touched her in two.

Then she dressed the kids, combed their hair, checked their backpacks, and kissed each one before sending them off to school. At eight o’clock sharp, the house was empty. She locked the door and, for the first time all day, took a deep breath.

Then she took off the old T-shirt she had slept in.

Her body was still that of a woman who had given birth three times, but who had not given up. Heavy breasts, still firm; a soft belly marked by history; a plump, high ass that barely spilled out of her shorts. She looked at herself in the hallway mirror and smiled in a way she hadn’t for a long time.

Mom by day. Something else in the morning.

She took a quick shower, shaved carefully, perfumed her inner thighs and nipples, and chose clothes meant for one thing only. A red thong, one of those that split an ass in two. A short black slip that barely covered her dark nipples. Nothing else. She lingered in front of the mirror, tracing her eyeliner, lengthening her gaze, until she liked what she saw.

***

Damián had been a short ride, two weeks earlier. A dark-skinned, broad-shouldered driver, one of those who pin you with his eyes in the rearview mirror without the slightest pretense. Marcela had gotten into his car on a sticky afternoon, wearing a white shirt without a bra that clung to her with sweat. Every brake made her breasts tremble like two badly tied promises.

He noticed right away. She noticed that he noticed. And she liked it.

—Do you always dress like that when you go shopping? —he asked, never taking his eyes off the traffic light.

—Like what?

—Like that. So dangerous. If you get a driver with less patience, you’ll be getting out of the car late.

She let out a soft laugh, like a little girl caught doing something bad.

—Is it hard for you?

—Very. You have no idea what those marked nipples are doing back there.

Her belly trembled. She hadn’t felt that in a long time. The way that stranger spoke to her, without asking permission, without hiding it, stripped her naked without even touching her.

—I’m married —she said, as if that were a low barrier.

—I saw the ring. That doesn’t change anything.

—To a cop.

Damián laughed silently.

—Worse for him.

—Aren’t you afraid?

—It turns me on. Imagining myself fucking a cop’s wife while he patrols the city… tell me that doesn’t turn you on too.

She bit her lip. She didn’t answer. By the time she got out of the car, she had already typed his number into her phone with a slightly trembling hand.

***

The following weeks were a silent fire over WhatsApp. Marcela sent him everything: her breasts in backlight, her ass framed against the bathroom mirror, her fingers opening her cunt over the washing machine. Once she recorded a video from the kitchen chair, with a thick dildo Ramiro had given her years ago and she had never quite known what to use for. She knew. She pushed it in slowly, looking at the camera, biting her lower lip with a feigned meekness.

Damián replied with photos of his hard cock, the veins swollen, pointed at the lens as if it could go right through it. Marcela got wet just looking at it. She got wetter imagining it up close.

And that morning, at nine thirty, the doorbell rang.

She opened the door without a bra, without hiding anything. Damián came in, looked her over without greeting her, and shut the door behind him.

—So this is the cop’s little house, the poor cuck.

Marcela’s panties were soaked instantly. She swallowed.

—Shut up. Come here.

He shoved her against the hallway wall, lifted her slip with one hand, and slid the other between her legs, straight in. His hands were rough, like a man who works for a living, thick fingers that fit inside her as if they had been there for years.

—You’re dripping. You thought about me all night, didn’t you?

—I touched myself three times… —she panted as he bit her neck—. I needed you here.

—And your husband?

—He falls asleep before touching me. When he does give me anything, it feels like he’s afraid of breaking me.

—I’m not afraid of you, mama.

He yanked her slip down and lunged at her breasts. He didn’t caress them. He devoured them. Her dark nipples pressed long, hard, shining with saliva against his mouth. He sucked them noisily, bit them lightly, sucked them again. She clung to his hair, spread her legs on her own, felt every suck as a jolt going straight to her cunt.

—These tits are made for me to suck them all day long —he said against her skin.

She arched her back. Offered him more.

Damián shoved his hand back in. Two fingers inside her, thumb on her clit, the exact rhythm, as if he had already studied her body. Marcela rested the back of her head against the hallway tiles, let her jaw go slack, and came with a hoarse cry she made no effort to contain. Alone in the house, she could scream. For the first time in years, she could scream.

***

He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the bedroom. With his free hand he groped her ass as they went, spanking her buttocks with slaps that hurt and heated her at the same time.

The room was the same one where she had shared years of routine with Ramiro. The same bed where she had given birth to her three children. The same nightstand with the wedding photo. Damián looked at all of it without hiding it and smiled crookedly.

—Is this where you put the uniform idiot to sleep?

He shoved her onto the mattress. The impact made the old bed creak. Marcela slowly lifted her slip, almost like an offering, and let it fall to the floor. She stood naked, gleaming with sweat, her nipples still wet, her cunt swollen and throbbing.

She climbed on top of him like a beast. She grabbed his cock with a trembling hand and rammed it inside herself in one motion, to the hilt, letting out a roar that seemed to come from another woman.

—This, fuck. This is what I needed.

She started moving. She wasn’t fucking. She was fucking him. She bounced, rode him, dug her nails into his chest, her thighs slipping with sweat. The bed trembled, the walls shook, the ceiling fan buzzed over their two bodies like a disinterested witness.

Damián grabbed her tits as if he needed them to hold himself up. He squeezed them without tenderness, sucked them, bit them. She ran her hands through his hair and pulled it back, screaming without restraint.

—No one ever fucked me like this! No one!

—Look at the way you’re fucking yourself, you little slut! You’re cock-crazy.

—I’m crazy for you!

One deeper thrust bent her over him. She felt that flesh reaching a place no one had ever reached before. And then, in the middle of the vertigo, she realized something that chilled her and heated her at the same time.

—You’re fucking me without a condom, you animal.

—That’s how you fuck, mama. Bare. Feel my skin against yours.

—My God…

He didn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. She kept riding him with the frantic desperation of a woman who had spent years putting something off. Every wet slap was a small revenge against fourteen years of waiting, against the pistol on the nightstand, against the immaculate caps, against forehead kisses.

—Fuck me until I can’t sit down tomorrow —she panted.

—You like it like that?

—More.

He grabbed her ass and spread it open with both hands. Marcela felt a finger come down, feel around lower, press softly on a place no one had ever touched. She stopped for a second.

—Not there.

—Never?

—Never. Not even my husband.

—Ass virgin?

He said it like a discovery, almost like he’d won a prize. He insisted again, spit on his finger and pushed it back in, slowly, without asking permission. Marcela trembled. She didn’t stop him.

—It’s going to hurt.

—It’s going to hurt and you’re going to like it. And tomorrow you won’t be able to look at your husband without getting wet again.

She closed her eyes. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no.

***

—Get on all fours.

It wasn’t a request. It was an order in a low, rough voice. Marcela took a second to obey. Her lips were parted, her breathing in pieces, her whole body burning. A brutal slap on her ass made her arch her back.

—On all fours, I said. Like a bitch.

She lowered herself slowly, almost without strength. It wasn’t fear. It was the vertigo of crossing a line she had never crossed in her life. She braced her hands on the edge of the bed, spread her knees over the rug, and left her ass up, exposed without shame.

Damián stood behind her. He looked at her closed little hole, at her body shining with sweat, at her thighs still soaked from the previous fucking. He reached out and picked up the photo frame from the nightstand. The wedding picture. Her, in the white dress. Ramiro, in dress uniform.

—Is this the cuck who kisses you on the forehead every morning?

Marcela didn’t answer. She buried her face in the mattress. Damián set the photo on the edge of the bed, facing her, so she couldn’t get away from it.

—Look at him. I want you to look at him while I open you up.

He spit into her hole. Once. Again. The warm saliva ran down between her buttocks. Then he smeared his cock with that same spit, slowly, almost in a ritual gesture.

—You’re going to feel it go all the way to the base. Little by little. No rush.

He pushed. The head forced its way into the tight opening and Marcela screamed. It wasn’t just pain. It was something else, something she herself didn’t know how to name.

—Stop, stop, stop!

—I’m not stopping. Look at the photo.

—Damián!

—Look. At. The. Photo.

She lifted her gaze halfway. She saw the pressed uniform, Ramiro’s rehearsed smile, the white bouquet in her own hand frozen in that day. A tear ran down her cheek. She bit the mattress. Damián pushed deeper.

—It’s going in now. Look how it’s swallowing half of it.

—It won’t all fit!

—It’s going in already, you little slut.

He drove in to the base with a hard thrust that shook her whole body. Marcela went rigid for a second, trembling, her mouth open without a sound. Damián held her by the hips, waited, stroked one buttock.

—I’ve got it all inside you. All the way to where no one’s ever reached you.

And he started moving. Slow at first, almost testing. Then harder, more frantic. Every thrust made the bed vibrate and the photo in its frame shake. She had stopped resisting. She moaned into the mattress, soaked the sheet with spit, tears, and everything that fell out of her without her being able to hold it in.

—It hurts. But I love it.

—I’m giving you what no one ever gave you. And your husband watching you from the nightstand.

Marcela squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she saw the photo again. A shiver ran through her that she couldn’t tell was humiliation or pleasure. It was everything at once. It was that dirty adrenaline she hadn’t felt in fourteen years of marriage.

The orgasm hit her like a collapse. Long, deep, filthy. It shook her thighs, tightened her feet, stole her breath. Damián kept pumping until he came inside her, gripping her hips, leaving her full.

—There —he said, letting go of her—. Now you’re complete.

Marcela fell onto her side on the bed. Soaked, marked, trembling. The photo was still there, propped on the edge, untouched. Ramiro smiled at her from the frame in his pressed uniform, oblivious to everything.

But she was no longer the same woman who had married that uniform.

This is going to be hard to give back, she thought, still breathless, looking at the photo and unable to tear her eyes away.