The Secret Affair Her Husband Never Imagined

The phone vibrated on the nightstand with a stubborn insistence, out of place in that room. Marga ignored it through the first few rings and let the buzzing mingle with her own ragged breathing as she moved atop the body holding her up. She knew perfectly well who it was. Quique, with his usual panic at silence, with that need to make sure she was still revolving around his dull routine.

—Tell me, Quique —she answered at last, her voice thick, without stopping her movements over the body supporting her.

—I’m home already. The game ended a while ago, and here I am, waiting for you to get back so we can eat something.

Marga looked at Bruno. The young man, twenty-two years old, with taut skin and a gym-built body, lay beneath her, offering her a hardness she had not found in her own bed for a very long time.

—I told you I was going out for a walk. Be patient, I’m not going to melt —she lied, enjoying the contrast between her mature, still-firm skin and the boy’s almost insolent youthfulness.

She hung up without waiting for an answer and tossed the phone toward the pillow as though brushing aside a bad memory. She returned her attention to what was before her. Bruno didn’t talk much; he didn’t need to. He was pure impulse, a vigorous replacement for a husband who, a decade earlier, had decided that dominoes and his armchair were retirement enough for his desires. Marga, on the other hand, felt as though her body were a pot about to boil over.

She settled herself over him again. She wasn’t looking for tenderness; she wanted the impact, the friction that would remind her that her nerves still knew how to burn. She threw her head back and let her breasts sway with the motion. Bruno gripped her hips, sinking his fingers into her flesh, and she growled softly.

This wasn’t a romantic choreography; it was an assault. Marga sought in him the hunger that time had torn from her marriage. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew every angle of her own pleasure, chasing the exact friction, the deep pressure that clouded her vision. Every time Bruno raised his pelvis a little, she answered with a more brutal descent, a surrender that had nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with need.

The boy gripped her waist harder, forcing her to set the rhythm against him, and Marga let herself go with a crooked smile, knowing she was driving him to the limit with that slow rocking at first, increasingly filthy afterward. The sound of skin against skin filled with wetness, broken breaths, and little moans that clung to the room like steam.

—More —she murmured, her mouth almost against his—. Give me more. Don’t play nice now.

Bruno answered with a harder, deeper thrust, and Marga let out a gasp that escaped between her teeth. There was no tenderness in that collision, only raw need. She arched her back, offering him better access, and the boy ran his hands along her waist before moving up her torso, squeezing her breasts with desperate devotion. Marga lowered her gaze and saw his fingers sinking into the flesh, marking it, claiming it, and that turned her on even more.

The phone rang again. Once, twice, three times. Quique was a shadow determined to force its way into that room of sweat and rumpled sheets. Marga clenched her teeth but did not stop. On the contrary: every ring increased her urgency. Every call was a reminder of the mediocrity waiting for her at home, and every thrust of the boy was her rebellion against that fate. She bent over Bruno and bit his neck hard enough to leave the red imprint of her teeth, enjoying the small shudder she drew from him.

—Don’t stop —she ordered, looking him in the eye.

She bent to his mouth and stole his breath while their bodies collided in a wet rhythm, increasingly clumsy and animalistic. Bruno answered by sliding his hands to her buttocks and lifting her slightly to gain a better angle, and Marga let him because that was exactly what she wanted: to feel him opening her, filling her, taking her to that edge where pleasure was no longer pleasant but unbearable. The friction became unbearably precise, a pressure that tightened her belly and made her legs tremble.

She began moving in small, sharp strokes, trapping the boy’s body between her thighs and pressing herself against him with an avidity that forgave nothing. Bruno breathed heavily, his jaw clenched, looking at her as if he were seeing something he didn’t entirely understand but didn’t want to let go of either. Marga reached out, took him by the nape, and forced him to kiss her again—with tongue, teeth, saliva, and the disorder of two hungry mouths. The room filled with the obscene sounds of wet bodies, the bed being pounded, and breaths growing more broken by the second.

—That’s it, fuck —she gasped, already without a filter—. That’s how I like it. Don’t let me have a second’s peace.

Bruno lifted her a little higher and made her fall back onto him with an impact that tore an open cry from her, the kind that couldn’t be held back even if one wanted to. Marga felt the orgasm coming like a furious discharge, first in her pubic bone, then climbing through her belly and exploding in her lower back. She went rigid, dug her fingers into his shoulders, and remained captive for several seconds in that convulsion that left her breathless. The trembling did not make her stop; on the contrary, it made her hungrier, more disjointed, wilder. Driven by her spasm and by the friction that kept building, Bruno stiffened beneath her weight and let out a deep moan before emptying himself in a shudder that ran through his whole body.

Marga remained on top, breathing in great gulps, her skin pearled with sweat and her lips swollen from pressing them so hard against his. The phone had stopped ringing. Quique, on the other side of life, must have given up for the time being.

***

Fridays carried a clandestine scent of freedom for Marga. While Quique put on his comfortable shoes and picked up the little leather case containing his dominoes—the only contact he had with excitement—she could already feel an electric tingling at the base of her spine. The ritual was precise: a distracted kiss on her husband’s forehead and the promise of “a long walk, my legs are numb.”

Bruno’s apartment was a sanctuary of youthful disorder. Stacks of notes, a pizza box from the night before, and the blessed silence of roommates who, at that hour, pretended to be paying attention in class. But the only subject that truly mattered there was studied in his bedroom.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, Marga did not wait for pleasantries. She took off her trench coat in such a hurry that a button flew off, revealing that beneath the clothes of a “respectable woman” she wore nothing but black lace and skin begging to be set alight. Bruno waited for her sitting on the bed, watching her with that mixture of adoration and desire that only a twenty-two-year-old boy can feel for a woman twice his age and with many times his experience.

—You’re five minutes late —he said, his voice already laden with desire.

—Quique couldn’t find his lucky handkerchief. If he knew my luck was here… —she replied, kneeling between his legs without another word.

Marga freed his sex from his sweatpants with the avidity of someone finding water in the desert. It wasn’t just sex; it was a transfusion of life. She began running her tongue over him from base to tip, slowly, savoring the first drop already beading there. Bruno leaned back, braced his elbows against the unmade mattress, and let her take command.

She knew how to do it. She wrapped her hand around him and created a vacuum with her lips as she worked him in a hypnotic rhythm. Her half-lidded eyes never left his, delighting in the way the boy lost his composure, in the way his abdomen tightened and his breathing became a broken whistle. Marga alternated tongue and suction with almost cruel precision, squeezing at the base with her fingers to hold back the pressure and then releasing him, letting him slide a little deeper into her mouth each time.

—All of it… —he begged in a thread of voice.

Marga obeyed, sinking her face until her nose brushed the boy’s skin, fitting his full length into her throat with a ease none of the girls her age could even imitate. She had no scruples. She didn’t care about the effort or the mess. She cared only about that power, about having him at her mercy. She drew air through her nose, wetting everything with obscene calm, then rose slowly to begin again, teasing him with that mixture of control and surrender that drove him crazy. Bruno took hold of her hair, first carefully, then anxiously, and she let herself be guided just enough, enjoying the tug at her scalp as if it were another form of obedience.

When she pulled away, it was only for a second, just long enough to look at him and smile with an insolence that almost resembled tenderness.

—Don’t go soft on me now, because I haven’t really started yet.

Bruno gave a brief, hoarse laugh and pulled her back with one hand on her nape. Marga responded by opening herself even further to his will, taking what he offered her avidly, letting the thick, salty taste of his skin fill her mouth. The boy moaned intermittently, completely undone by then, and she continued, methodical and obscene, without losing the rhythm until she felt Bruno’s body tense like a bow about to break.

Then she pulled away just enough to stand and begin undressing completely, slowly this time, as though she wanted to punish him with the wait. She removed the rest of her clothes and stood before him with her belly still heaving, her tits heavy, her nipples hard, her pussy wet and open, gleaming beneath the room’s yellowish light. Bruno stared at her with almost reverent hunger.

—Come here —she said, turning to show him her back—. Today I want you to leave me wearing the mark of exhaustion.

***

When she felt sufficiently aroused, Marga rose and turned around, offering him her back. She leaned over the desk and swept aside some half-drawn plans with one slap of her hand. Her broad, firm buttocks were at the perfect height.

Bruno needed no encouragement. He pressed himself against her, feeling the heat radiating from her body, and sought her without preamble, sinking into her in a single thrust that made the wood creak. Marga let out a guttural moan, a sound that came from somewhere deep inside, while her hands searched for support among the papers.

—As if you wanted to hurt me —she asked, arching her back to make the way easier for him.

He took her by the waist, marking her skin with his fingers, and launched into a savage rhythm. The penetration was deep, total, bone against bone. Marga felt every nerve ending vibrate, the walls of her sex closing around him in a struggle to hold him there. The pleasure was so intense that the edge of every blow became fuel. The repeated friction drew little shameless moans from her, while Bruno answered with increasingly heavy breaths, driving the rhythm as if determined to prove something.

The study desk, mute witness to exams and assignments, became the altar of that sacrilege. With her chest crushed against the cold wood and her face buried among the notes, Marga felt sweat varnishing her back. Her voracity always demanded one step further. Bruno spread her legs wider with one hand while the other slid around the front to seek the center of her pleasure, rubbing her insistently and without restraint as he continued pounding her from behind.

—Not there, Bruno… find the other way —she gasped, moving her hips in a sway that was pure provocation.

He understood the order. He withdrew from her with a wet sound and carefully sought the other entrance, the one Marga reserved for her most uninhibited mornings. She tensed, gripping the edge of the desk until her knuckles turned white. There was no unnecessary haste; her own desire was enough. Bruno lubricated her with his saliva and fingers, feeling out the entrance, applying pressure, letting her breathe against the back of his neck so she would not lose her rhythm. Marga released a rough sigh when she felt the first insistent pressure, then a deeper burning, and finally the firm push that slowly opened her before filling her completely.

With a firm thrust, Bruno invaded her. Marga muffled a scream against the paper, a cry that mixed the initial burn with a discharge that shot all the way up her spine. The boy paused for a second, letting her dilate, savoring the fierce pressure squeezing him.

—God, you’re going to make me come too soon like this —he whispered in her ear, biting her earlobe while his hand moved down the front to find the center of her pleasure.

Once her body accepted the intrusion, the rhythm became frantic. Every thrust drove her against the desk and sent books crashing to the floor with a clatter neither of them cared about. Marga, far from retreating, returned every thrust of his hips with almost animal force. The collision of their bodies filled the room with a rhythmic echo, accompanied by the obscene slapping of wetness and the moans of both of them, increasingly less human.

The double caress—the pressure from behind and the precise massage of her own fingers—sent her into a trance. Her vision blurred. She was no longer Quique’s wife or the neighbor who greeted people in the entrance hall; she was pure woman in her fullness, devouring the energy of a man who had barely begun to live. Bruno held her by the waist and kept driving into her with the brutal patience of someone who knew disaster was near and pressed harder anyway.

—Deeper, don’t stop —she begged, losing every trace of composure.

Climax came in a series of spasms that bent her over the desk. Unable to withstand the embrace squeezing him without respite, he gripped her by the shoulders and emptied himself with a muffled growl. Marga felt the heat of the discharge and collapsed onto the wood, trembling, her heart hammering against her ribs. There was still a remnant of movement in her hips, a small involuntary rocking, as if her body refused to release the inertia of pleasure completely.

***

She straightened with the slowness of someone emerging from a shipwreck. Sweat pasted strands of hair to her temples, and her cheeks burned. She granted herself not even a second of rest. Her eyes sought Bruno again; although exhausted, he was still ready, the proof of his youth still hard.

She turned on the desk, swept aside a manual that no longer had anything to teach her, and sat on the edge with her legs hanging open. She pulled the boy toward her by the waist. She wanted dessert, and she wanted it with the urgency of someone who knew Quique’s clock was drawing near.

—Come here, you’ve still got some fire left for me —she murmured, her gaze charged with something between the maternal and the predatory.

She wrapped her mouth around him again, but this time without subtlety. She used her tongue skillfully, running over him from end to end and provoking a sound that echoed through the empty room. The boy, exhausted but spurred on by that woman’s insatiability, felt the tension gathering once more. Marga knew it; she could feel it in the hardness striking her palate. She gripped his hips to keep him from escaping and set the rhythm with short strokes, alternating long sucks with cruel pauses that made him tremble in anticipation.

When she sensed Bruno’s body beginning to tremble again, she withdrew just enough. She remained on her knees before him, face raised defiantly, hands on her own breasts.

—Give me all of it. Mark me well before I leave —she ordered in a broken whisper.

Bruno could take no more. With a moan that released all the morning’s tension, he came over her, and Marga closed her eyes, receiving the boy’s warmth on her heated skin. She slowly ran her fingers over her face, savoring the triumph of her desire over time. She was ready to return to the monotony of her home.

She cleaned herself with a wet wipe, looked at the boy—spent and empty on the mattress—and winked at him.

—Until next Friday. Study your lesson well.

***

The contrast between the cold asphalt beneath her feet and the heat still throbbing between her thighs was the only proof that she was still alive. She walked home with a firm step, feeling a slight soreness like an invisible medal and the skin of her face still tight.

Meanwhile, in one of the faculty’s large classrooms, Bruno tried to concentrate on a structures lecture that seemed like a cruel joke. His friends took notes with monotonous diligence, whispering about exams and girls their own age who pretended to be difficult over a simple kiss.

These guys are worried about whether the blonde in the third row will text them back, and I’ve just been left completely drained. Marga isn’t a woman; she’s a fire wearing heels. None of these little girls would know what to ask for, or how. She scares me a little, and at the same time I can’t give her up.

Bruno shifted in the hard wooden seat, noticing the friction of his own clothes, still permeated with her scent. He looked at his friends and felt a quiet superiority.

***

Marga opened the door to her apartment. The smell of instant soup hit her in the face. Quique was in the hallway, putting away the dominoes with exasperating slowness. He seemed smaller, grayer, as though the air in the house were slowly swallowing him.

—About time. The group finished twenty minutes ago. Where have you been? —he asked without raising his eyes, in that weak reproachful tone that was his only way of speaking.

—You know where. Out on my long walk —she replied, taking off her jacket.

She moved closer to put down her keys and, for an instant, was only a few inches from his face. Quique looked at her with his tired eyes, blurred by age.

Look at you, Quique. Complaining about being ten minutes late while I’m still carrying another man’s taste on me. If you knew that an hour ago I was spread open on a study desk, taking what you forgot to give me twenty years ago. You ask me for explanations and don’t even notice a thing. You’re just another piece of furniture in this house. While you arrange your dominoes, I make sure my blood is still boiling.

—Your face is flushed, woman. Did you get a lot of wind? —Quique said, stretching out a trembling hand to touch her cheek.

Marga drew away with icy gentleness, pretending to look for something in her purse.

—Yes, the wind —she replied sarcastically—. It was blowing like the devil.

***

At the faculty, the professor closed his folder, and Bruno’s classmates rose amid laughter. One of them slapped him on the shoulder.

—What’s with you today? You’re miles away. Did you fall asleep or what?

Bruno sketched a crooked smile and put the blank notebook away.

Studying, yes. I’ve reviewed every curve of a woman who could be any of your mothers and who knows more than all your fantasies put together. She’ll come back for what’s hers on Friday. I don’t know how long I’ll last at this pace, but bless the fire.

In the kitchen, Marga began preparing lunch with her back to her husband. She felt a residual pang of pleasure in her belly and smiled inwardly. Quique kept talking about a brilliant play he had made at the club, but she was no longer listening. She was only counting the days until Friday came around again.