The Secret Affair Her Husband Never Imagined

The phone vibrated on the bedside table with stubborn insistence, out of place in that room. Marga ignored it through the first few rings and let the buzzing blend with her own ragged breathing. She knew perfectly well who it was. It was Quique, with his usual panic at silence, with that need to check that she was still revolving around his dim little routine.

—Tell me, Quique —she answered at last, thick-voiced, without stopping moving on the body beneath her.

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

Marga looked at Bruno. The boy, twenty-two, taut-skinned and gym-built, was lying beneath her, offering her a hardness she hadn’t 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 away —she lied, enjoying the contrast between her mature skin, still firm, and the boy’s almost insolent freshness.

She hung up without waiting for a reply and flung the phone toward the pillow as one would brush away a bad memory. She focused again on what she had in front of her. Bruno spoke little; he didn’t need to. He was pure impulse, a vigorous replacement for a husband who, ten years ago, had decided that dominoes and the armchair were retirement enough for his desires. Marga, by contrast, felt her body like a pot about to burst.

She settled herself again on top of him. She wasn’t looking for gentleness; she wanted impact, the friction that reminded her nerves they still knew how to burn. She threw her head back and let her breasts sway with the motion. Bruno held her by the hips, fingers digging into her flesh, and she growled under her breath.

It wasn’t a romantic choreography, it was an assault. Marga sought in him the hunger time had stolen from her marriage. She moved with the confidence of someone who knows every angle of her own pleasure, chasing the exact rub, the deep pressure that blurred her vision.

The phone rang again. Once, twice, three times. Quique was a shadow intent on sneaking into that room of sweat and rumpled sheets. Marga clenched her teeth, but she didn’t stop. On the contrary: each ring increased her urgency. Each call was a reminder of the mediocrity waiting for her at home, and each thrust from the boy was her rebellion against that fate.

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

She leaned toward his mouth and stole his breath as their bodies collided in a wet rhythm. Pleasure hit her like a wave breaking all at once, a jolt born in her belly and rising all the way to the tips of her fingers, wrenching a cry from her that probably woke half the building. Bruno, driven by her tremor, tightened beneath her and emptied himself with a force that left her vibrating.

***

Fridays carried, for Marga, a clandestine scent of freedom. While Quique slipped on his comfortable shoes and grabbed the little leather case with the domino tiles —his only contact with excitement—, she was already feeling 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 stiff.”

Bruno’s apartment was a sanctuary of youthful disorder. Stacked notes, a pizza box from the night before, and the blessed silence of classmates who at that hour were pretending to pay attention in class. But the only subject that truly mattered there was studied in his bedroom.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, Marga didn’t expect courtesies. She yanked off her trench coat so quickly that a button popped, revealing that beneath her “respectable lady” clothes she was wearing nothing but black lace and skin begging to be set alight. Bruno was waiting, seated on the bed, watching her with that mix of adoration and desire that only a twenty-two-year-old boy can feel before a woman who doubles his age and multiplies his experience.

—You took five minutes too long —he said, already thick-voiced.

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

Marga freed her sex from the tracksuit pants with the greed of someone finding water in the desert. It wasn’t just sex; it was a transfusion of life. She began to work him with her tongue from bottom to top, slowly, savoring the first drop already beading there. Bruno leaned back, propped his elbows on the rumpled mattress, and let her take the lead.

She knew how to do it. She wrapped him with her hand and created a vacuum with her lips while running over him with hypnotic rhythm. Her half-lidded eyes never left his, delighting in the way the boy lost his composure, in how his abdomen tightened and his breathing turned into a broken whistle.

—All of it… —he asked in a whisper.

Marga obeyed, sinking her face down until her nose brushed the boy’s skin, taking in his full length in her throat with an ease no girl her age could even begin to imitate. She had no inhibitions. She didn’t care about the effort or the mess. She cared only about that power, having him at her mercy.

***

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

Bruno didn’t need asking twice. He pressed himself to her, feeling the heat her body gave off, and sought her out without preamble, sinking into her with a single thrust that made the wood creak. Marga let out a guttural moan, a sound from very deep inside, while her hands searched for support among the papers.

—Like you want to hurt me —she asked him, arching her back to make the way easier.

He took her by the waist, marking her skin with his fingers, and tore 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 battle to hold him. Pleasure was so intense that the edge of each удар turned into fuel.

The study table, mute witness to exams and assignments, became the altar of that sacrilege. With her chest flattened against the cold wood and her face buried among the notes, Marga felt the sweat varnish her back. Her voraciousness always demanded one more step.

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

He understood the order. He slipped out of her with a wet sound and, carefully, sought the other entrance, the one Marga reserved for her most unrestrained mornings. She tensed, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. There was no need for unnecessary haste; her own desire was enough.

With a firm push, Bruno entered her. Marga stifled a cry against the paper, a cry mixing the burn of the first moment with a surge that raced up her entire spine. The boy stopped for a second, letting her open to him, savoring the ferocious pressure squeezing him.

—God, you’re going to make me finish too soon —he whispered in her ear, biting her earlobe while his hand slid around to the front to find the center of her pleasure.

When her body accepted the intrusion, the rhythm became frantic. Each thrust shoved her against the table and sent books crashing to the floor with a clatter neither of them cared about. Marga, far from pulling back, answered every hip удар with an almost animal force. The collision of bodies filled the room with rhythmic echo.

The double caress —the pressure from behind and the precise massage of her own fingers— led her into a trance. Her vision blurred. She was no longer Quique’s wife, nor the neighbor who said hello in the lobby; she was pure womanhood in full bloom, devouring the energy of a man barely beginning to live.

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

The climax came in a series of spasms that folded her over the table. He, unable to hold back against that embrace squeezing him without mercy, gripped her by the shoulders and emptied himself with a muffled growl. Marga felt the heat of his release and collapsed onto the wood, trembling, her heart pounding against her ribs.

***

She rose slowly, as one emerges from a shipwreck. Sweat glued strands to her temples and her cheeks were burning. She didn’t allow herself even a second’s rest. Her eyes found Bruno again, and though exhausted he was still ready, the test of his youth still hard in him.

She turned on the table, swept away with a smack 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 haste of someone who knows Quique’s clock is approaching.

—Come here, you’ve still got fire left for me —she murmured, with a look charged with something between maternal and predatory.

She wrapped him again with her mouth, but this time without subtlety. She used her tongue with skill, running over him in full, provoking a sound that echoed in the empty room. The boy, exhausted but driven by that woman’s insatiability, felt the tension building again. Marga knew it: she could feel it in the hardness knocking against her palate.

When she sensed Bruno’s body beginning to tremble again, she drew back just enough. She stayed on her knees before him, face lifted, defiant, hands on her own breasts.

—Give it all to me. Mark me properly before I go —she ordered in a broken whisper.

Bruno couldn’t take any more. With a groan that released all the morning’s tension, he finished on her, and Marga closed her eyes, receiving the boy’s heat on her burning skin. She ran her fingers over her face slowly, savoring the triumph of her desire over time. She was ready to face the monotony of her home again.

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

—Until next Friday. Study the 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 sting like an invisible medal and her face skin still taut.

Meanwhile, in one of the large lecture halls at the faculty, Bruno was trying to focus on a structures class that felt like a cruel joke. His friends were taking notes with monotonous diligence, whispering about exams and girls their own age who played hard to get over a simple kiss.

These guys are worried about whether the blonde in the third row will answer their texts, and I’ve just been left bone-dry. Marga isn’t a woman, she’s a fire with heels. None of these girls would know what to ask for, or how. She scares me a little and at the same time I can’t stop.

Bruno shifted on the hard wooden seat, noticing the brush of his own clothes, still soaked in 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 domino tiles with exasperating slowness. He looked smaller, grayer, as if the air in the house were slowly swallowing him.

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

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

She came closer to set down the keys and, for an instant, stood a bare few inches from his face. Quique looked at her with his tired eyes, blurred by age.

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

—Your face is flushed, woman. Did you get too much air? —Quique said, reaching out a trembling hand to touch her cheek.

Marga drew back with icy softness, pretending to look for something in her bag.

—Yes, the air —she said sardonically—. It was blowing like the devil.

***

In the faculty, the professor closed his folder and Bruno’s classmates stood up laughing. One of them clapped him on the shoulder.

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

Bruno gave a crooked smile and shoved his blank notebook into his bag.

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

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