What Happened with the DJ After the Club Closed

There are encounters that happen only once and stay inside you like an ember that never quite goes out. This is one of those. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t repeated, and even today, every time I pass that street, something inside me creaks and my cunt gets wet all at once, as if the body had a memory of its own.

I left home that night with permission. In my marriage, that’s how we do things: not asking permission in the literal sense, just saying where we’ll be in case anything comes up. My husband knew it was karaoke night with the girls and wished me luck with that tired smile he gets when he’s already thinking about going to sleep early.

I met Mariana, Lucía, and Carla at the usual bar. We had gone months without the four of us lining up together, and the night looked like it was going to be a release. We ordered a first round and sat at the back table, the one that faces the small stage where they set up karaoke on Fridays.

—Are we singing or pretending to be above it? —Mariana asked, looking at the song catalog.

—Tonight we sing —I said.

Twenty minutes later we were on our second beer, and a few guys from the next table tried to send us a complimentary bottle of wine. The four of us sent it back with our hands raised and a thank-you-but-no smile. One of them, tall, skinny, with glasses and a yellow T-shirt, kept staring at me. His face sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite place him, and between the noise and the lights I decided to let it go.

At one in the morning the bar was pulling down the shutter. We stepped out into the street 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 pushed 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 anything and everything, Lucía squeezed my arm every time a song she liked came on. We danced four or five songs in a row until the DJ’s voice came over the microphone:

—For table seventeen, this next one is dedicated.

It 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 walked over. And then I recognized him.

It was Damián. We had worked together four years earlier at the company where I’d been before my current one. Short, chubby, full beard, green eyes that stood out even more when he smiled. He had never been magazine-model handsome, but there was something about him that had always made me look twice. In the office we flirted in the cafeteria without it ever going beyond long looks and double-entendre jokes.

—Don’t tell me that’s you —he said, opening his arms.

—I’m not telling you, but yes, it’s me.

We hugged like two people meeting again after a long time, and I noticed he kept his hand on my waist a second too long, squeezing me as if he were measuring me. 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 at me with one finger, and said into the microphone:

—For my reunited friend, table seventeen: come up and dance here 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 started moving to the music. Damián came up behind me, not touching me, leaving a centimeter between his body and mine, just enough for me to feel his hot breath at the nape of my neck and, lower down, the hard bulge in his pants brushing my ass ever so slightly whenever the music dipped. When I turned my head, his face was level with mine and his green eyes were shining with that intensity you get from alcohol and the certainty that something is going to happen. He ran his hand over my hip, very quickly, very discreetly, and whispered in my ear:

—You’re good enough to eat whole.

I went back down to the table with warm legs, nipples hard and outlined under the dress, and panties soaked through with a thick wetness that was sliding down the inside of my thigh. I don’t know whether the girls noticed. I felt like it was obvious from meters away, like I smelled of wet cunt and desire.

The guy in the yellow T-shirt was still watching me from his table. When we got back to ours, he got up and came straight over. He asked me to dance and I accepted out of courtesy. We danced one song at a polite distance, he thanked me, and went back to his seat. Damián, from the booth, kept shooting me looks every time the other one came near.

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

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

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

I knew perfectly well that “that’s all” meant everything else. But I agreed, carefully, taking 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 until he added the next sentence.

—I’m your husband’s cousin. The son of your mother-in-law’s first cousin. We met at your wedding.

I felt the tequila drop through me like a blunt удар. I looked at him wide-eyed, trying to remember. Yes. The wedding. A photo with the cousins. This face, five years younger and without glasses. It was him.

—I liked you from that day —he said—. And ever since then, every time we’ve crossed paths, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about fucking you. I get hard just remembering you in your wedding dress.

He leaned forward and tried to kiss me. I turned my head away. I put my hand on his chest, pushed him back slowly, and told him no, absolutely not, that I didn’t want trouble. He nodded, leaned back, and told me he respected my decision, but that if I was leaving he would take me. I told him no, later. We left the private room and sat back at the table. I took a drink from my glass. My pulse was racing, my skin burning, and I had this horrible mix of fear and excitement pressing my clit against the seam of my panties.

Because I hadn’t liked Sebastián. But the idea that there was a forbidden family possibility and that I had let it pass had lit my body up in a way I hadn’t expected. For a second I imagined what it would have been like to let him shove his cock into me right there in the private room, with the door unlocked, and a sigh slipped out of me that the girls didn’t hear over the music.

And up there, in the booth, Damián kept looking at me.

***

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

—I’ll take you home. Wait 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. Sebastián, from his table, 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. First Carla, then Lucía, then Mariana. I was in the back, and every time we stopped I felt the car empty out and the silence fill up. When we left Mariana at her building, Damián looked at me through the rearview mirror.

—Come up front.

I moved up front. The scare with Sebastián had sobered me up in an instant and I was more lucid than was good for me. Damián was driving with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gearshift, brushing my knee every time he shifted into third. On a straight stretch, that hand slid up the inside of my thigh all by itself, slipped under my dress, and squeezed me over my panties. When he felt how soaked they were, he gave a low laugh.

—Damn, you’re dripping.

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

—I forgot my jacket at the bar —he said when we were two blocks from my house—. 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 it with a “see, I told you it was just for the jacket” smile, switched on the low bar light, and went behind it. The music off, the chairs upside down on the tables, the smell of old liquor and a long night.

—One last tequila —he said—. My treat.

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

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

He came around the bar slowly, without answering, and stopped a breath away from my stool.

—Are you sure?

Before I could answer, he kissed me. Mouth open, tongue in without asking, both hands on my waist. I kissed him back half a second after it started and we stayed like that, devouring each other, until I had to breathe.

—I’m married —I said, still pressed against his mouth, on the usual automatic reflex.

—I know. I see you when your husband picks you up from work. I don’t care. Today I’m the one fucking you.

And he kissed me again. This time I didn’t say anything.

He pulled the straps of my dress down without stopping kissing me, yanked it down to my waist, and tore off my bra by pulling at the back clasp. He crouched and licked one nipple, then the other, biting them with the tip 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 the top of his pants and felt what was waiting for me: a short but thick bulge, throbbing under the fabric. Just feeling it made everything inside me tighten and I felt another trickle of wetness escape into my panties. He yanked off his T-shirt and pants. I took off my dress and stayed in my panties, sitting on the cold wood of the bar, tits out and nipples so rigid they hurt.

—Open your legs —he told me.

I opened them. He looked at my cunt over the fabric and ran his tongue over his lips.

He knelt between my legs, slid my panties to one side, and went in with his mouth. He licked me slowly, from bottom to top, with a broad tongue, gathering up everything I had leaking out. Then the tip of his tongue played at the opening, and from there he moved up to circle my clit without quite touching it, until I asked him please. Only then did he suck it, trap it between his lips, release it, suck it again. And then he did something nobody had ever done to me: he grabbed an ice cube from the bar bucket and put it in his mouth. The warm tongue with the cold ice on top, alternating, and two fingers going in and out in a curve, searching for that spot deep inside that swells when I’m close. The contrast made me scream. The ice melted in his mouth and cold water dripped down my slit, my ass, my thighs, and he licked it all up behind it. I closed my eyes and gripped the edge of the bar with both hands so I wouldn’t fall backward. I caught his head between my legs, squeezed it against my cunt, and rode his face while a long moan slipped out of me. It took me three minutes to get to the edge, my legs shaking, and he, son of a bitch, pulled back just before. He hadn’t even started the main event yet.

—Not yet —he told me, face wet and beard shining with saliva and my slick—. You’re not coming yet.

I told him to stand up. I got down off the stool with weak legs, shoved him against the bar, and yanked down his boxer briefs in one motion.

What appeared made me give a small nervous laugh. It was very short. And at the same time, the thickest thing I had ever held in my life. A small head, shiny, dark purple with pooled blood, and from there a trunk of thick veins that barely fit in my closed fist. I grabbed it, squeezed it, started sliding the skin up and down very slowly, and a thick drop came out of the tip. I caught it with my thumb and took it to my mouth. It tasted salty, it tasted like him. I knelt, opened my mouth as wide as I could, and started slowly, measuring it. The head went in fine; the shaft spread my jaw. I ran my tongue over the frenulum, wrapped my tongue around the base, sucked his balls one by one, taking them fully into my mouth, and went back up. He let me see that not even half of him would fit. He grabbed my hair with both hands, not pulling, just guiding me, and started setting the rhythm by pushing his hips. I let him. My eyes watered, saliva slipped from the corner of my mouth, and he looked down at me with a bastard’s satisfied smile. When I gagged and let him out with a string of saliva hanging between my mouth and his tip, he gently tapped 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 all the way to my throat.

—Say it right.

—I love your cock. It’s huge. I want to take all of it.

He smiled. He put the tip back on my lips and dragged it over them, painting them with wetness.

I took a condom out of my purse. I surprised myself by having remembered to put two in that night. I tried to put it on. It wouldn’t fit. I’d get it down and the rubber would spread at the sides. We tried a couple more times until, between the two of us, spitting on the tip and stretching, we managed to force it down to the base. Damián turned me around, made me lean back on the bar, yanked my panties off in one pull, and I raised one leg onto the stool. He spit into his hand, ran it over my open cunt to make it well lubricated, lined the tip up at the entrance, and pushed in slowly from behind.

I felt a mix of pain and pleasure that made me close my eyes and arch my back until the wood dug into my tits. The thickness was pressing into places I didn’t know existed. I could feel every vein carving my walls from inside. I spread my legs as wide as I could to let him in all the way, and even so, because he was so short, he still didn’t reach as deep as I wanted. He pulled all the way out and slammed back in, and with every thrust I let out an “ah” that bounced off the empty bar walls. He grabbed my hips with both hands and started hammering me fast, so fast that the flesh of my ass trembled with every hit and the sound of our skin crashing together filled the place.

—You’re so tight, bitch —he said—. Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this.

—No —I answered without thinking—. You fuck me.

We switched. I laid him on the floor, over the clothes we’d thrown down, and sat on top of him in a squat, still wearing my heels, gripping his pecs so I wouldn’t lose my balance. From above I watched him looking at my bouncing tits and my face with that mix of disbelief and hunger. I lowered myself slowly until he was all the way inside, and from there I moved on my own, setting the rhythm, leaning on him, riding him like he was 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 clit while I rode him. He watched my hand, watched my mouth, watched my tits bounce, and groaned under his breath. Every time I came up, his cock was visible, fully coated in my white slick; every time I came down, I buried it in one hard shove and he let out a grunt. It lasted until my thighs started to hurt.

I took off my heels. I got on all fours on the floor, over his jacket and my dress, tits hanging and ass wide open for him. He knelt behind me, spit into his hand, rubbed it over his cock, and drove into me with one thrust that tore a scream out of me. That was the best position, without question. That angle made the tip hit exactly where it had to hit. He pulled my hair, throwing my head back, gave me little spanks that left my flesh hot and red, and I begged for more. My voice came out broken.

—Don’t stop, don’t stop, like that, harder, motherfucker, harder.

He leaned over my back, grabbed one breast with one hand and reached my clit with the other. He started rubbing it in circles while he fucked me from behind, and I felt it starting to build. It climbed up my legs, up my belly, squeezed my lungs. I was one step away.

We changed to the last position. He laid me on my back over the clothes, pressed my legs together, rested them on his right shoulder, and pushed in. With my legs closed my cunt got even tighter and he entered me with more resistance. He touched my clit with one thumb while he moved in short, fast strokes. I moaned without holding back because there was no one around who cared, I screamed like I hadn’t screamed in years, told him yes, there, more. He turned red, sweat dripped onto my face, onto my tits, mingled with mine, and suddenly he went rigid, gave a rough groan, gripped my hip hard, drove his cock in as far as it would go, and came. I saw his face break apart, his mouth open, his eyes squeezed shut. Even through the condom I felt him shaking inside with those whipping spasms.

I didn’t. I was left two thrusts short. Two fucking thrusts.

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

When I came out, he was already dressed. He turned off the bar light, locked the bar, and took me home. In the car we barely spoke. Only when we reached my street, before I got out, did he say:

—I work every weekend. Whenever you want.

—Thanks for tonight.

—Did you enjoy it as much as I did?

—It was all good. Except I didn’t finish.

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

***

I walked into the apartment with my heels in my hand. My husband was snoring in bed. I went into the bathroom, took off what was left of my makeup, washed myself lightly —not completely; I wanted to keep some of his smell on me— and went back to the bedroom. I took the vibrator out of the drawer, locked myself back in the bathroom, and sat on the toilet lid.

I opened my robe, licked two fingers, and ran them over my nipples. I turned the vibrator on to medium power, pressed it first against my swollen, still sensitive clit, and closed my eyes. I went back to the bar. I went back to the ice melting between my legs, to my hair being pulled, to the doggy position on the floor of the bar, to the thick shaft going in slowly, to Damián telling me “bitch, you’re dripping.” I slid the vibrator into my cunt, still open from him, and with my other hand I squeezed my clit between two fingers. I imagined, too, even if 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, with the vibrator buried inside me and my clit throbbing so hard I bit the back of my free hand to keep quiet and still a rough whimper escaped me. I felt the orgasm run down my legs, climb up my stomach, and tighten my cunt around the toy in waves that never ended. I stayed seated, trembling, breathing in broken gasps and wearing a stupid smile.

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

—Good —I said—. Karaoke, dancing, the usual.

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

I never went back to that club while Damián was DJ. Sebastián, the cousin, never showed up at a family gathering again without looking at me differently, without seeking my eyes above the heads of the aunts. And I, every time I pass the street where the bar is, still feel that cold of ice on my tongue, that warmth of the wood under my thighs, and that thick shaft opening me from the inside as if it were the first time.