The Night I Invited a Stranger to My House

I’m home alone, sprawled out on the bed, killing time on my phone because there’s nothing worth watching on TV at this hour. My husband, Damián, has been away on work for three days, and he still has three more to go. People are surprised when I say those trips don’t bother me; on the contrary, I look forward to them. After so many years, a woman needs her space, to breathe away from the routine that clings like dust to the furniture.

I don’t know if the same thing happens to him. I also don’t know if he’s ever slept with someone else in one of those hotels. I never did, even though we’ve been married eighteen years, which sounds quick but is lived slowly. The relationship is good, I can’t complain, and in bed we’ve never lacked anything. Cheating on him had never been part of my plans. But things can go wrong in a second, and that night they did.

I’m forty-one and, without false modesty, I’m in my prime. Age has treated me well. I have a generous chest, chestnut hair to my shoulders, fair skin, and a few extra pounds left over from my two pregnancies. But the curves are still where they should be, and I still know they draw looks when I walk down the street.

That afternoon I was genuinely bored. For months I’d had a fake account on one of those messaging networks, one where people go looking for conversation with strangers, hookups, whatever comes up. I didn’t use it for any specific purpose, just to amuse myself reading filth and closing windows. I was getting flooded with private messages, almost all of them crude, almost all of them the same. I was choosy, answering only a few, and usually I didn’t answer anyone at all.

Until a window popped up in front of me. It was a photo that, I confess, made me stare at the screen longer than I should have. I thought it must be an image taken from the internet, one of those many people use to show off something they don’t have. I was about to close it when the guy wrote: “Do you like what you see? It’s all yours if you want it.”

I didn’t reply. But a few seconds later I got an invitation to accept his camera. I hesitated. I really hesitated. And still I clicked the button.

A man appeared, already well into middle age, about my age or a little older, in some random room, completely naked and stroking himself slowly. He wasn’t handsome. He had a bit of a belly, his chest was covered in spots, and his face did nothing for me. But between his legs he had something that at first seemed impossible, almost like a joke. It wasn’t. And he noticed my look of surprise right away.

“Do you like it?” he wrote, his hand going up and down without hurry.

I forced myself to answer yes, because it was true and because lying would have been ridiculous by then. I felt the heat rising inside me, that wetness that warns you before you even realize what’s happening. He asked me to undress. I didn’t, though I was dying to. I’m not used to that kind of show.

“Only fair,” he insisted. “I show you everything, you show me something.”

He was right, or I wanted to give him that. I took off my shirt and bra and showed him my breasts still stood up on their own. My nipples were hard, sensitive, almost painful.

“You’re smoking hot,” he wrote. “Give me your address and I’ll come get you right now.”

That was when I understood he was serious. My intentions didn’t go that far; I was thinking about looking at each other, coming on our own, and that was it. The guy could have been crazy, a thief, someone Damián knew, anything. In my whole life I’d never done anything half that wild. But it wasn’t me who answered, it was another part of my body, the one that had been asking for too long. And I gave him my address.

He stood up, walked in front of the camera so I could see clearly what was waiting for me, and with some effort stuffed all of that into a pair of boxers.

“Give me an hour,” he wrote, and at once the little “offline” notice appeared.

My heart was about to burst.

What have I just done?

It was nine o’clock. Damián usually called me at ten to say good night, a lovely gesture that at that moment felt like a disaster. I thought I’d tell him I wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed, so I wouldn’t have to explain anything. Then I started imagining all the complications a stranger in my house could bring me. I didn’t know him from Adam. But it was already done.

I washed up, put on a little perfume, and waited. An hour became an hour and a half, and I, a bundle of nerves, was already regretting it when the doorbell rang. I opened just a crack. He smiled at me. I let him in and, before closing the door, looked both ways down the hallway to make sure no one had seen us. When I locked it, I felt my chest about to explode. I’d put on the best lingerie I had and, over it, a sheer robe that outlined every one of my curves.

He looked me up and down like someone evaluating loot and told me I was good enough to eat. I offered him coffee, out of politeness, because I didn’t know what to do with my hands. He hadn’t come for coffee and made that clear. We sat on the sofa and his mouth went straight for mine without beating around the bush. He kissed like a man who has been through many beds: direct, tasty, that play of lips and tongue only an experienced man has.

His hand took possession of one of my breasts over the robe, kneaded it, tried to reach it with his mouth. When he realized what was underneath, that hand slid lower looking for something else. I jerked and a moan escaped me when I felt a finger sink into me, soaked as I was.

***

He lost his patience and his manners at the same time. He yanked the robe off me in one motion and left me in tiny panties and a bra hanging unfastened. Then he took everything else off me and had me at his mercy. I was so hot I only wanted him to split me open with what I had seen on the screen, but he had other plans. He lay me down, spread my legs, and took a moment just to look at me, open and eager.

He knelt and went for it. I didn’t even know his name, and the truth is I didn’t care. The only thing I cared about was what his tongue was doing, tracing every fold, toying with my clit, going down to places no one had ever ventured into that way. It was a new sensation, and I definitely didn’t want it to stop.

I got impatient and asked him to fuck me already.

“You turned out horny as hell,” he said, and by then I didn’t care what he said.

He got to his feet and started unfastening his pants. The bulge distorted his underwear. His body had nothing pretty about it, but I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to touch him. I ran my hand over the fabric, gauging what was hidden beneath it, and when I pulled down the elastic, it sprang free like a slingshot. On the screen it had already impressed me; in person it was something else entirely. I slid my hand along the whole shaft just to convince myself it was real. It was.

I took him by the base and kissed the tip before running my tongue along it. I held him, stroked his heavy balls, and finally took him into my mouth. I couldn’t take in even half of him. He tried to push deeper, but it was impossible, so I focused on what I could do, moving my head in a rhythm that had him moaning. A few minutes later I felt him tense, and amid filthy words that sounded like praise, he came. I turned my face away with a gagging reflex and a jet hit my cheek, leaving me half blind, and then another, and another, until he started to subside.

I couldn’t see anything. I was trying to wipe myself clean with my fingers when the phone rang. It was Damián. He couldn’t have picked a worse moment. I grabbed my T-shirt, cleaned myself as best I could, and hurried to answer the cellphone. I gestured to the stranger, a finger to my lips, not to dare make a sound. He, sitting on the sofa, was still stroking himself as if he hadn’t just come, still hard, smelling my thong that had been left on the floor.

I told Damián I’d gone to bed because I wasn’t feeling well, hoping he’d hang up quickly. But he, sweet as ever, decided I needed some conversation to cheer me up. I didn’t want cheering up. The only thing I wanted was waiting for me on the sofa, erect and demanding attention.

“Honey, really, I’m going to sleep,” I insisted, and at last he got it. He blew me a good-night kiss and hung up.

***

I went back to the stranger. I asked if he’d brought condoms, and he said no. I should have stopped there. Damián has had a vasectomy, so I never worry with him, but this was different, and on top of that I was still on my period. Even so, I was so worked up I trusted to luck, a reckless choice I was going to remember later.

I sat on top of him and guided him in slowly. He came in like an iron bar looking for the bottom. I rose and fell slowly while he sucked my nipples, and little by little I sped up. The sensation was indescribable. He was giving me everything he had and I moved as if I were riding him. He warned me that he was going to make me come like that, but even if I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to stop. I came screaming like a madwoman, me, who is usually quiet, screaming without any shame while he slapped my ass. I felt him throbbing inside me, synchronized with my own orgasm, and I moved aside, exhausted.

I thought that was the end of it. I was sated, full, with a knot of remorse that pleasure barely let show. I apologized and went to the bathroom to clean up. I wanted him to leave. I didn’t want complications. But when I turned to grab the towel, I found him standing again, hard as if nothing had happened.

Doesn’t he ever get tired? I thought, though I didn’t say it.

I didn’t feel like continuing, and yet I couldn’t look away. He brought it close to my face, moved it side to side as if he wanted to hypnotize me, proud of himself.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“I love it,” I answered, because it was the truth.

I grabbed him, spit on him, and started again, mouth and hand in the same rhythm, until he was completely hard once more. Feeling him like that, and hearing the things he said to me, got me turned on again. While I worked him with one hand, I took care of myself with the other, and I was asking for more again like when I was twenty.

He lifted me off the edge of the bathtub and pressed me suddenly against the sink, leaving me facing away, offered up. I felt his open hands on my hips and then, without pause, I felt him enter all the way in. He started moving from slow to hard, the two of us looking at each other in the mirror. I could see his face of pleasure and he could see mine, knowing perfectly well what he was doing to me. My ass must have been red from all the slaps, but at that moment I liked every hit.

“Better than your husband?” he asked.

I had no choice but to admit it. While he drove in and out of me without mercy, my finger found my clit and dragged me into another orgasm that shook me whole. He didn’t let up; quite the opposite, he gripped my hips and hammered into me hard until I felt, again, his heat filling me from within. Little by little the moans faded and he pulled out.

I sat down again to wash up, this time intending it to be the last. I was exhausted and deeply satisfied, with a weight on my conscience that dissolved the moment sleep overtook me.

***

We both fell asleep, something that had never been my intention. I dropped off like I’d been given a sleeping pill, leaning against his chest, without even covering ourselves. When I opened my eyes it wasn’t even five in the morning. I saw myself naked, without makeup, with traces of him all over my body. And then my gaze landed again on his morning erection, and, against all logic, I got wet again.

I woke him up. I asked him to shower and leave before daylight broke and someone could see him come out. He didn’t listen to me. He pulled me toward him, kissed me, climbed on top of me, and drove into me in one thrust. This time I screamed without restraint. I had nothing left but to admit what I was, and he knew it. The thrusts were fast, intense, and in less than five minutes he came inside me again.

This time something’s definitely going to happen, I thought, and the idea gave me a shiver I didn’t know if it was fear or something worse.

After that he got up, showered, dressed. He asked for one last kiss before leaving and I gave it to him, along with a squeeze to the ass. When the door closed, I stayed lying on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling that was beginning to brighten, thinking about everything I had done that night and how little I truly regretted it. Damián was coming back in three days. And I still didn’t know how I was going to look him in the eye.