What Happened with the DJ After the Club Closed

Some encounters happen only once and remain inside you like an ember that never quite goes out. This is one of those. It wasn’t planned, it never happened again, and even now, whenever I pass that street, something inside me crackles and my pussy suddenly grows wet, as if the body had a memory of its own.

I left home that night with permission. That’s how things work in my marriage: it isn’t asking permission in the literal sense, it’s telling him where we’ll be, just in case. My husband knew it was karaoke night with the girls and wished me luck with that tired smile he wears when he’s already thinking about going to bed early.

I met Mariana, Lucía, and Carla at our usual bar. It had been months since the four of us had managed to get together, and the night looked like it would be a good release. We ordered a first round and sat at the back table, the one facing the little stage where they set up karaoke on Fridays.

“Are we singing, or are we going to pretend to have some dignity?” Mariana asked, looking through the song catalog.

“We’re singing tonight,” I said.

Twenty minutes later we were already on our second beer, and some guys at the next table tried to send us a complimentary bottle of wine. The four of us waved it back with a thank-you-but-no smile. One of them, tall and thin, wearing glasses and a yellow T-shirt, wouldn’t take his eyes off me. His face looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it, and amid the noise and lights I decided to let it go.

At one in the morning, the bar began pulling down its shutter. We went outside and saw that half the karaoke crowd was walking toward the club half a block away. We decided to follow.

The club was packed. We made our way to a table near the dance floor and ordered something stronger. Mariana was already dancing by herself among us, Carla was laughing at everything, and Lucía squeezed my arm whenever a song she liked came on. We danced through four or five songs until the DJ’s voice came over the microphone:

“For table seventeen, this one is dedicated to you.”

That was our table. All four of us looked up, shouted a “Thank you!” without knowing who had sent it, and kept dancing. During the break, the DJ came down from the booth and approached us. That was when I recognized him.

It was Damián. We had worked together four years earlier at the company I’d been with before my current one. Short, plump, with a full beard and green eyes that stood out more when he smiled. He had never been magazine-model handsome, but there was something about him that had always made me look twice. At the office we used to flirt in the cafeteria, though it never went beyond lingering looks and double entendres.

“Don’t tell me it’s you,” he said, opening his arms.

“I’m not telling you, but it is me.”

We hugged like two people reuniting after a long time, and I noticed that he kept his hand on my waist for a second too long, squeezing me as if he were taking my measure. We talked for five minutes about the old company, who was still there and who had left, about life. Then he went back up to his booth, pointed a finger at me, and said over the microphone:

“For my rediscovered friend at table seventeen: come up here and dance with the DJ.”

He did the same with two other tables so the dedication wouldn’t be too obvious, but I felt it. The four of us went up, stood behind the booth, and began moving to the music. Damián came up behind me without touching me, leaving a centimeter between his body and mine—just enough for me to notice his hot breath on my nape and, lower down, the hard bulge of his pants barely brushing my ass whenever the music dropped. When I turned my head, his face was level with mine and his green eyes shone with the intensity brought on by alcohol and the certainty that something was going to happen. He ran his hand over my hip, very quickly, very discreetly, and whispered in my ear:

“You look good enough to eat whole.”

I went back down to the table with warm legs, my nipples hard and showing beneath my dress, and my panties soaked with thick wetness sliding down the inside of my thigh. I don’t know if the girls noticed. I felt as if it must be obvious from yards away, as if I smelled like wet pussy and need.

The guy in the yellow T-shirt was still watching me from his table. When we reached ours, he stood up and came straight over. He invited me to dance, and I accepted out of politeness. We danced one song at a respectable distance, he thanked me, and went back to his place. From the booth, Damián kept throwing me looks whenever the other man came near.

At four in the morning they began turning on the lights. The customers asked for extra time, and the club set a condition: a minimum consumption of three hundred pesos per table if we wanted to stay another hour. We paid. Carla already had her head resting on her purse. Lucía was discreetly yawning. Mariana was still dancing by herself.

That was when the guy in the yellow shirt came back.

“I rented a private room. Come and talk for a while, that’s all.”

I knew perfectly well that “that’s all” meant everything else. But I agreed, carefully picking up my purse. I wanted to see how far the game would go. In the private room he sat across from me, poured two drinks, and told me his name:

“Sebastián. But everyone calls me Seba.”

The name still didn’t mean much to me until he added the next sentence.

“I’m your husband’s cousin. Your mother-in-law’s first cousin’s son. We met at your wedding.”

I felt the tequila go down like a sharp blow. I stared at him wide-eyed, trying to remember. Yes. The wedding. A photograph with the cousins. That face, five years younger and without glasses. It was him.

“I’ve wanted you since that day,” he said. “And ever since, whenever we’ve run into each other, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about fucking you. I get hard just remembering you dressed as a bride.”

He leaned forward and tried to kiss me. I turned my head. I put my hand on his chest, gently pushed him away, and told him no, absolutely not, that I didn’t want trouble. He nodded, leaned back, and said he respected my decision, but if I was leaving, he would accompany me. I told him no, not yet. We left the private room and sat back down at the table. I took a sip from my glass. My pulse was racing, my skin was burning, and a horrible mixture of fear and arousal pressed my clitoris against the seam of my panties.

Because I hadn’t liked Sebastián. But the idea that a forbidden family possibility existed and that I had let it pass me by had set my body alight in a way I hadn’t expected. For a second I imagined what it would have been like to let him put his cock inside me right there in the private room, with the door unlocked, and a sigh escaped me that the girls didn’t hear over the music.

And up in the booth, Damián was still watching me.

***

At quarter to five, Damián announced the last song and came down. He went straight to our table.

“I’ll take you girls home. Give me ten minutes and we’ll go.”

Carla could barely walk on her own. Lucía squeezed my arm gratefully. Mariana climbed into the front seat without asking. From his table, Sebastián watched me get into the car with the girls and Damián, and he didn’t look away until we closed the doors.

We dropped them off one by one. Carla first, then Lucía, then Mariana. I was in the back, and every time we stopped I felt the car emptying and the silence filling it. When we left Mariana at her building, Damián looked at me in the rearview mirror.

“Come up front.”

I moved to the front. The scare with Sebastián had sobered me up all at once, and I was more lucid than was good for me. Damián drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gearshift, brushing my knee whenever he shifted into third. On a straight stretch, that hand climbed up the inside of my thigh, slipped beneath my dress, and squeezed me over my panties. When he felt how soaked they were, he chuckled softly.

“You little bitch. You’re dripping.”

I didn’t answer. I opened my legs a little wider.

“I left my jacket at the bar,” he said when we were two blocks from my house. “Do you mind if we stop for it?”

I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind anything.

The karaoke bar was closed, but he had a key. He opened up with a “Told you, it’s only for my jacket” smile, switched on the low light over the bar, and went behind it. The music was off, the chairs were upside down on the tables, and the place smelled of old alcohol and a long night.

“One last tequila,” he said. “My treat.”

I sat on one of the tall stools. He poured one for himself too and stayed on the other side of the bar. For fifteen minutes we talked about trivial things: the boss we’d once shared, the coworker who had gotten married, a trip we never took. I kept looking at the clock on the wall. It was almost six.

“I have to go,” I said at last. “The conversation was great, but I’m leaving.”

He slowly walked around the bar without answering and stopped a foot from my stool.

“Are you sure?”

Before I could answer, he kissed me. Open mouth, tongue taking permission for granted, both hands on my waist. I kissed him back half a second after he started, and we stayed that way, devouring each other, until I had to breathe.

“I’m married,” I said, still pressed against his mouth, out of the same automatic reflex as always.

“I know. I see you when your husband picks you up from work. I don’t care. Tonight I’m going to fuck you.”

And he kissed me again. This time I said nothing.

He pulled the straps of my dress down without stopping the kiss, dragged it down to my waist in one tug, and tore off my bra by yanking open the back clasp. He crouched and sucked one nipple, then the other, biting them with the tips of his teeth until they turned red and hard as stones. He squeezed my breasts with both hands, pressed them together, buried his face in my cleavage, and blew. He bit my lower lip. I ran my hand over his pants and felt what was waiting for me: a short but thick bulge like a clenched fist, pulsing beneath the fabric. Just feeling it made everything tighten inside me, and I felt another little stream of wetness escape into my panties. He pulled off his shirt and pants in one motion. I took off my dress and remained in my panties, sitting on the cold wood of the bar, my tits bare and my nipples so stiff they hurt.

“Spread your legs,” he told me.

I spread them. He looked at my pussy through the fabric and ran his tongue over his lips.

He knelt between my legs, moved my panties aside, and started with his mouth. He licked me slowly, from bottom to top, with his broad tongue, gathering everything I had spilled. Then the tip of his tongue slipped in to play with my entrance, and from there moved up to trace circles around my clitoris without quite touching it, until I begged him. Only then did he suck it, catch it between his lips, release it, and suck it again. Then he did something no one had ever done to me: he took an ice cube from the bar bucket and put it in his mouth. His warm tongue with the freezing ice on it, alternating, while two fingers went in and out in a curve, searching for that spot inside me that swells when I’m about to come. The contrast made me scream. The ice melted in his mouth and cold water ran down my slit, over my ass and thighs, while he licked everything behind it. I closed my eyes and gripped the edge of the bar with both hands so I wouldn’t fall backward. I grabbed his head with my legs, squeezed it against my pussy, and rode his face while a long moan escaped me. It took me three minutes to reach the edge, with my legs trembling, and the son of a bitch withdrew just before I came. The main event hadn’t even begun.

“Not yet,” he told me, his face wet and his beard gleaming with saliva and juices. “You’re not going to come yet.”

I told him to stand up. I climbed down from the stool on shaky legs, pushed him against the bar, and yanked down his boxers.

What appeared made me let out a small nervous laugh. It was incredibly short. And at the same time, it was the thickest thing I had ever held in my life. A small, shiny head, purple with pooled blood, and below it a shaft crisscrossed with thick veins that barely fit inside my closed fist. I grabbed it, squeezed it, and began slowly sliding the skin up and down. A thick drop appeared at the tip, which I gathered with my thumb and put in my mouth. It tasted salty; it tasted like him. I knelt, opened my mouth as wide as I could, and began slowly, gauging it. The head fit easily; the shaft stretched my jaw. I ran my tongue over the frenulum, curled it around the base, sucked his balls one at a time, taking each fully into my mouth, and went back up. He let me see that not even half of him fit inside me. He took hold of my hair with both hands, not pulling, only guiding me, and began setting the rhythm by thrusting his hips. I let him. My eyes watered, saliva escaped the corner of my mouth, and he looked down at me with the satisfied smile of an asshole. When I gagged and let it slide out, leaving a strand of saliva hanging between my mouth and his tip, he gently slapped my cheek with his cock, first one side, then the other.

“Do you like this cock?”

“I love it,” I said, my voice hoarse from having him down my throat.

“Say it properly.”

“I love your cock. It’s so fucking thick. I want to take all of it.”

He smiled. He put the tip against my lips again and ran it across them, painting them with wetness.

I took a condom from my purse. I surprised myself by having remembered to put two in there that night. I tried to put it on him. It wouldn’t go on. I rolled it down and the rubber opened at the sides. We tried a couple more times until, between the two of us, spitting on the tip and stretching it, we managed to force it down to the base. Damián turned me around, left me leaning back against the bar, tore off my panties, and I put one leg up on the stool. He spat into his hand, ran it over my open pussy to make it good and wet, positioned the tip at my entrance, and slowly pushed in from behind.

I felt a mixture of pain and pleasure that made me close my eyes and arch my back until the wood dug into my tits. His thickness squeezed places I hadn’t known existed. I felt every vein carving into my walls from the inside. I spread my legs as far as I could to let him enter completely, and even so, because he was so short, he didn’t reach as deep as I wanted. He pulled all the way out and shoved back in, and with every entry I let out an “ah” that echoed off the empty walls of the bar. He grabbed my hips with both hands and began pounding me quickly, so quickly that the flesh of my ass shook with every blow and the sound of our bodies colliding filled the place.

“You’re so tight, you little bitch,” he told me. “Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this.”

“No,” I answered without thinking. “Fuck me, then.”

We switched. I lay him on the floor, on the clothes we had thrown down, and squatted over him, still wearing my heels, holding on to his pecs so I wouldn’t lose my balance. From above, I watched him stare at my breasts bouncing and my face with that mixture of disbelief and hunger. I lowered myself slowly until he was completely inside me, and from there I moved, setting the rhythm, braced against him, riding him as if he were a toy. I put my hands on my breasts, pinched my nipples in front of his eyes, licked one finger, and rubbed it over my clitoris while I rode him. He watched my hand, my mouth, my breasts bouncing, and moaned under his breath. Every time I rose, I could see his cock completely coated in my white juices; every time I came down, I buried him in one stroke and he let out a growl. I kept going until my thighs began to ache.

I took off my heels. I got on all fours on the floor, over his jacket and my dress, my tits hanging and my ass spread wide for him. He knelt behind me, spat into his hand, ran it over his cock, and drove it into me with a thrust that made me cry out. That was the best position, without a doubt. The angle made the tip strike exactly where it needed to. He pulled my hair, forcing my head back, gave me little slaps that left my flesh hot and red, and I begged him for more. My voice came out broken.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, like that, harder, asshole, harder.”

He bent over my back, took one breast in one hand, and reached my clitoris with the other. He began rubbing it in circles while he pounded me from behind, and I felt myself beginning to climb. It rose through my legs, rose through my belly, squeezed my lungs. I was one step away.

We changed to the last position. He lay me on my back over the clothes, brought my legs together, rested them on his right shoulder, and thrust. With my legs closed, my pussy squeezed even tighter, and he entered me against even greater resistance. He touched my clitoris with his thumb while moving in short, rapid strokes. I moaned without holding back because there was no one around who cared, screamed the way I hadn’t screamed in years, telling him yes, there, more. His face reddened, sweat fell onto my face and my tits, mixing with mine, and suddenly he went rigid, groaned loudly, gripped my hip, buried his cock as deeply as he could, and came. I watched his face collapse, his mouth open, his eyes squeezed shut. Even through the condom, I felt him shudder inside me, lashing out in spasms.

I didn’t. I was two thrusts away. Two fucking thrusts.

He pulled out, lay beside me with his cock still hard inside the full condom, and looked at me with the tired smile of a man who had already finished. I smiled back, hiding the frustration throbbing between my legs, told him I was going to the bathroom, grabbed the clothes from the floor, and got dressed.

When I came out, he was already dressed. He switched off the light over the bar, locked up, and drove me home. We barely spoke in the car. Only when we reached my street, before I got out, did he tell me:

“I work every weekend. Whenever you want.”

“Thanks for tonight.”

“Did you enjoy it as much as I did?”

“Everything was great. Except I didn’t come.”

He laughed, kissed the corner of my mouth, and left me at the door.

***

I went into the apartment carrying my heels in my hand. My husband was snoring in bed. I went into the bathroom, removed what was left of my makeup, washed myself superficially—not completely; I wanted to keep some of his scent clinging to me—and went back to the bedroom. I took the vibrator from the drawer, locked myself in the bathroom again, and sat on the toilet lid.

I opened my robe, licked two fingers, and ran them over my nipples. I switched the vibrator on at medium power, pressed it first against my swollen, still-sensitive clitoris, and closed my eyes. I went back to the bar. Back to the ice melting between my legs, the hair being pulled, the doggy-style position on the bar floor, the thick shaft entering slowly, Damián telling me, “You little bitch, you’re dripping.” I pushed the vibrator into my pussy, still open from him, and with my other hand squeezed my clitoris between two fingers. I also imagined, though I didn’t want to admit it, Sebastián pushing me against the wall of the private room, hiking up my dress, fucking me without a condom while whispering that I was his cousin’s wife. In less than three minutes I came too, the vibrator buried inside me and my clitoris throbbing so hard that I bit the back of my free hand to keep quiet, though a hoarse whimper still escaped me. I felt the orgasm run down my legs, rise through my stomach, and squeeze my pussy around the toy in waves that wouldn’t end. I stayed sitting there, trembling, my breath cut short and wearing a foolish smile.

I showered. I made breakfast. When my husband got up two hours later, he asked me how the night had been.

“Fine,” I said. “Karaoke, dancing, the usual.”

He kissed my forehead, poured himself coffee, and sat down to read the newspaper.

I never went back to that club while Damián was the DJ. Sebastián, the cousin, never appeared at another family gathering without looking at me differently, without seeking my eyes over the heads of the aunts. And whenever I pass the street where the bar is, I still feel the cold of the ice on my tongue, the warmth of the wood beneath my thighs, and that thick shaft opening me from within as if it were the first time.