The Message from My Therapy Partner’s Wife

It was Sunday night when the phone buzzed on the kitchen table. A number I didn’t have saved, no profile photo, no signature. I let it sit for a few seconds, thinking it was probably spam or a mistake, but the message preview stopped me cold: “Read to the end.”

Beneath it was an attached file, a text document, and a second line, almost like a farewell. I was alone. My partner had gone to bed early and the only light on was the dining-room lamp. Curiosity beat me to it before I even thought. I opened the attachment.

What I’m going to transcribe from here on is the literal contents of that file, exactly as I read it that night, not changing a comma.

***

“Quite an experience on Saturday. I imagine that by now, as you’re reading me, you’ll already have put two and two together. I’m Marina. Yes, the one you’re thinking of. Andrés’s wife, the one you met at the cinema entrance with that face that looked like you didn’t quite understand what you were doing there.”

“Andrés had mentioned you to me once or twice, but the truth is I hadn’t paid much attention. I knew you both overlapped at the therapy sessions he’s been going to for the past few months to deal with work stress, and that on some occasion you’d stayed for a beer afterward. Little else. To me you were a name and a vague reference.”

“That’s why I was so surprised when he went up to say hello just as we were already queueing in the lobby. He hugged you like you’d been friends forever, and when he told me your name, everything clicked. The Monday companion. The one who suddenly showed up on a Saturday in November, coat in hand, with no idea that night was going to end the way it did.”

“The three of us went in together. Andrés was determined that I sit in the middle, I’m not really sure why, and you got the seat to my right. I was surprised he didn’t sit beside you so you could chat, but I assumed it was a matter of seats. During the trailers, while there was still some light, it felt like a game of tennis: you said something, he answered over me, I tried to follow along without much success and smiled at the ceiling.”

“I have to confess something you couldn’t have known then. Andrés and I had talked earlier that same afternoon about going to the movies the way we used to at the start of our relationship. Little games and groping in the dark, that sort of thing we hadn’t dared to repeat in years. I’d put on a short summer dress, light, with a very thin thong underneath, so thin it barely covered my cunt. I hadn’t even fully shaved that morning thinking of him: I’d shaved my pubic hair until my lips were completely smooth, and I was wearing mid-thigh stockings that stayed up without a garter belt. I was geared up for fucking, let’s say, even if I would have denied saying it out loud.”

“When they turned the lights off, it didn’t take Andrés a minute to rest his hand on my leg. He started stroking slowly, over the fabric, with that tenderness of his I know by heart. I don’t know if you noticed. I felt a little odd, knowing you were on my right, but I turned my head discreetly and saw you absolutely focused on the screen, eyes fixed, not blinking. I thought you were busy with something else. I decided to ignore you.”

“His hand kept going up. First the knee, then the thigh, then the hem of the dress. He wrinkled the fabric up carefully and started stroking my groin over the thong, with the pad of his middle finger tracing my cunt slit over the silk, pressing just where I could already feel the swollen lump of my clit. I’m a woman, and when a woman is touched like that, things happen. My nipples hardened under the dress until they stood out against the fabric, my breathing caught, my hips started lifting on their own looking for the finger, and I felt the thong sticking more and more soaked to my lips. When he shifted the fabric aside and brushed my clit directly with the naked fingertip, sliding in my own wetness, I knew the movie was going to matter to me fuck all.”

“Andrés knows how to touch me. He knows exactly where my little bud is, with what pressure, in what circle. He started rubbing it with two fingers, one on each side, pinching it like he was masturbating me in miniature, and then he slid the middle finger down to the entrance and pushed it in without warning, right to the knuckles. A moan slipped out of me and I smothered it by biting the inside of my lip. He started fucking me with that finger slowly, drawing it out shiny and pushing it back in all the way, while his thumb kept circling my clit. After a while he slipped in the second finger and I could feel my cunt opening around them, how I clenched inside every time he reached the bottom.”

“I forgot about you, yes. That you were beside me, your name, Andrés’s hand on my neck half an hour earlier. You saw that already, I suppose, better than I did.”

“I don’t know how many minutes passed. I lose track of time when I’m like that, with two fingers inside me and my cunt dripping. I lowered my hand to his fly, opened his trousers patiently so as not to make a sound, pulled his boxers down a little and took his cock out, hard, hot, with a drop of fluid already shining at the tip. I wrapped my hand around it and started stroking him slowly, working the skin up and down, running my thumb over the crown every time I got to the top. Andrés clenched his jaw and arched his hips against my hand. Then I leaned over his lap, lowering my head until I was in profile over his legs.”

“I took him into my mouth all at once, until he hit the back of my throat and I had to hold back my gag reflex. I pulled him out with a strand of saliva hanging, and went back down, slower now, sucking with my lips tight, letting my tongue curl under him, on the frenulum, where I know it drives him crazy. I started giving him a proper blow job, with rhythm, my hand helping where my mouth didn’t reach, sucking in a steady up-and-down motion, licking the crown in circles every time I came up, and driving him back down to the base with a real desire to make him come in my mouth. Saliva was running from the corner of my lips and soaking his balls. Then I felt something I absolutely wasn’t expecting.”

“A hand that wasn’t his lifted the back of my dress and stroked my bare ass, slowly, as if asking permission.”

“Your hand.”

“The first thing I did was look at Andrés, almost by instinct, without taking the cock out of my mouth. His head was tipped back against the seat, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, breathing hard. He was enjoying himself. He wasn’t looking, he had no idea about anything. In that second I made a quick decision, without thinking about what was right or wrong, without thinking about anything other than the pleasure running through my entire body, the two sources of heat hitting me at once: my husband’s hard cock in my throat and your stranger’s hand finding my ass under the dress.”

“I pushed my ass a little farther back, toward the aisle, toward you, giving you silent permission to keep going. I spread my knees as much as the seat would allow, so you’d have room, so you’d know yes.”

“And you kept going. Did you ever keep going. You pulled my thong aside with one finger, and I felt the cold air of the theater hitting my open, soaked cunt directly. Your fingers slipped between my thighs with a skill that surprised me, as if you knew exactly what you were doing. You went over everything in your path: the swollen lips, the entire slit from bottom to top, the clit bud that was hard as a marble, the entrance to my cunt from which a thread was dripping onto the seat. I was so wet your fingers slipped. There was no way you couldn’t have noticed.”

“You put one in first, all the way, and I felt my cunt contract around it. Then the second, and you curved both of them upward until you found the exact spot inside me, the one Andrés sometimes misses. You started fucking me with your fingers at the same rhythm I was sucking him, pulling them out and pushing them back in with a wet little sound that, luckily, was drowned out by the movie’s soundtrack. With the thumb of your other hand you found my clit and started rubbing it in circles, and I felt my legs go weak right there. I wanted to tell you so many things in that moment that I couldn’t say, with my mouth occupied by cock down to my throat. I’ll say them now, since I’ve got the chance. Harder. Deeper. Faster. Like that. Take them to the knuckles. Tear my cunt apart in the cinema. Fuck my fingers like you’re fucking me with your cock.”

“At some point I felt one of your fingers, the smallest one, sliding away from my cunt and seeking out my other hole. You moistened it with my own wetness and set it there, at my ass entrance, pressing only a little, just enough for me to feel the tip sink in a centimeter. I’ve never let Andrés put a finger in my ass like that, so suddenly, in a public place, without warning. I let you. A shiver escaped through my hips and I pushed back so you’d understand yes. That too.”

“When Andrés came in my mouth, with two deep thrusts and a tight groan, my body broke too. I felt the hot spurts hitting the back of my palate, the salty taste running over my tongue, and at the same time your fingers touched the exact spot inside me and the thumb pressed my clit at precisely the right moment. I don’t know if it was him or you, probably both at once. I came over your fingers unable to stop a long tremor that rose from the backs of my knees to the nape of my neck. I felt my cunt closing in spasms around your fingers, squeezing them, milking them, while I swallowed what Andrés had emptied into my mouth because I had no choice. I soaked your hand up to the wrist. A thread of my fluids slipped down the inside of my thigh. I felt you pull away for a moment and then go back to the original position, very slowly, without hurry, as if you hadn’t done anything.”

“Each of us went back to our own thing as if the auditorium were empty. Andrés still with his eyes closed, breathing deeply, a half-smile on his face and his cock still out of his trousers, shiny with my saliva. I sat up slowly, my mouth still full of him, and before swallowing I turned my head toward you. You had your fingers in your mouth and a look that said everything. You were sucking them one by one, tasting how I’d come on them, without taking your eyes off me. You made a tiny gesture, almost imperceptible, as if confirming that yes, what had just happened had really happened. I swallowed what I had in my mouth then, staring straight at you, so you’d see it.”

“What happened after that in the movie I don’t remember. I don’t even know if I actually watched it. I spent the rest of the session with my thong shifted aside, my cunt soaked, and knowing that if you tried again I’d spread my legs right there even if Andrés woke up.”

***

The file ended there, nothing more. I reread the last paragraphs twice, my throat dry, feeling again the pressure of that dark theater, the brush of that fabric under my fingers, the heat of her cunt tightening around me, the taste of her juices that had settled somewhere inside me and made themselves at home. I went back to the chat. There was one last message waiting for me.

“I’ve found your number in Andrés’s contacts and here I am, writing to you from a phone that isn’t mine. My proposal is simple. I want to do it again. You and me, alone, without him, without anyone to interrupt us. Everything from the cinema, and everything we couldn’t do at the cinema: your cock inside my cunt to the hilt, my mouth on your balls, and that finger you rested against my ass turned into something more. As far as you want to go. I await your reply.”

I stayed staring at the screen for a long while, long enough for the brightness to dim automatically and the kitchen to fall dark again. I turned it back on. Read it again. The idea of Andrés sitting beside me on Mondays in the waiting room, telling me about his work problems, suspecting nothing, churned me inside for a moment. Just a moment.

This is wrong and you know it.

Then I thought of her. The curve of her neck when she bent over her husband’s lap, the smell of her hair when she turned her head at the end, the taste she herself had described when talking about my fingers. I thought of how her cunt had clenched around my hand when she came, of the puckered opening of her ass pressing against the tip of my pinky. I thought of how close I’d been to that body and how little I’d actually managed to fuck her. I thought of what was missing: my cock buried to the hilt in her, her tits out of the dress, her mouth open sucking me the way she had sucked him.

I typed my reply without getting up from the chair, before I could regret it, before I could think twice.

“I’ll skip therapy on Monday. Send me the address. We have seven to nine in the evening with a guarantee of being alone, right? Let me know if anything changes. One more thing: on Saturday I improvised. On Monday you improvise. Don’t put on any underwear. I want to open the door and find your cunt already ready, no panties under the dress, and fuck you against the hallway wall before I even know the name of your perfume.”

The reply came almost instantly. An address, a building number, an apartment, no further comment. And underneath, a single word.

“Done.”

I switched off the phone and went upstairs trying not to make any noise. Exactly twenty-four hours were left. I passed the bedroom where my partner was sleeping on her side, hugging her pillow, and went on to the bathroom. I washed my hands slowly, looking at myself in the mirror, searching my face for any sign that would betray what I’d just promised. I saw nothing. The same face as always, the same Sunday shadows under my eyes. Only my cock, hard against the fabric of my pajama pants, stubbornly reminding me of what I’d just written.

I thought of Andrés. I pictured him in his living room, watching some TV show, unaware of the conversation his wife was having at that very moment from the next room. I pictured him the following Monday, in the waiting room, patting my back with that easy confidence of his, asking how my weekend had gone, not suspecting that that very noon I had already made the plan to skip the session and fuck his wife in his own bed.

And, despite everything, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt something else, something closer to vertigo, to that feeling of standing on the edge of a very high diving board and having already decided to jump. Guilt, I thought, would come later. Or maybe it would never come. Maybe what was going to happen on Monday was one of those things that happen, that stay inside you and never appear in any conversation.

I went back to the bedroom, got into bed carefully, and left the phone face down on the nightstand. Marina didn’t write again that night. I wasn’t expecting her to.

I closed my eyes knowing I wasn’t going to sleep. And I didn’t sleep. I spent the night going over, hour by hour, what remained until Monday at seven, imagining the building she’d sent me, the staircase, the buzzer, the exact moment the door would open and I would see, for the second time in my life, my therapy partner’s wife in a short dress and nothing underneath. This time without Andrés in the middle. This time without a screen to look at. This time with hands, mouth, cock and cunt free, and two hours ahead of us to spend them.”