What Happened with the Masseuse While My Husband Was Working

A couple of months before the world shut itself away, Martín had to go to an engineering conference in Santa Marta. His company sent him with everything covered: flights, hotel, per diem. When he told me that night in bed, he said it almost in passing, as if it were nothing. But it was enough for me to picture the sea and decide to go with him. I only had to pay for my ticket; everything else was already sorted.

We didn’t stay at the hotel where the event was being held, but at another one a few blocks away, smaller and much prettier. It had a long pool surrounded by palm trees, and from the room’s balcony you could see the Caribbean opening out until it disappeared. We arrived on a Tuesday, shortly after noon, and dropped our bags to run off and have lunch in the historic center.

We spent the whole afternoon walking through the old quarter, among colorful façades and wooden balconies. We ate fried fish at a hole-in-the-wall stand that turned out to be the best meal of the trip. Martín held my hand and pointed things out to me, and I laughed at any old nonsense. It had been a long time since I’d seen him so loose, so far from screens and meetings.

That night, barely had we closed the room door when Martín cornered me against the wall and kissed me hungrily. He lifted my dress and yanked off my thong in one pull. I knelt in front of him and pulled down his pants. I yanked his cock out and took it all into my mouth. I sucked him slowly, salivating it well, while he grabbed my hair and set the pace. I licked his balls one by one and took him back into my throat, until tears filled my eyes.

“Come here,” he panted, lifting me up.

He threw me face up on the bed and spread my legs. He buried his face in my cunt and licked me mercilessly, sucking my clit until I dug my heels into his back. He shoved it in at once, all the way, and started fucking me hard, his hands squeezing my tits. I had a real orgasm, no faking, something I’d lately found harder than I liked to admit. I felt him finish inside me when he emptied himself with a hoarse growl. I fell asleep right away, pressed against his back, semen dripping between my thighs and that warm feeling that the trip had been a brilliant idea.

When I woke up, Martín was already dressed and groomed, checking his conference badge in the mirror.

“Are you going down to breakfast or should I bring you something?” he asked.

“I’ll go down with you,” I replied, still half asleep.

I put on shorts and a thin blouse, no bra, because the heat already clung to the morning. We went down together to the dining room, a huge buffet with fruits I didn’t even know the names of. Martín barely had time for a coffee and a bite of toast; he had to leave before eight. He kissed me on the forehead and left me alone in front of a full plate.

***

I was eating slowly, looking out at the sea through the glass wall, when I noticed him. A tall man, broad-backed, dressed all in white: linen trousers and a polo shirt stretched over his arms. His skin was very dark, shining in the morning light, and something in the way he moved among the tables made me keep watching him longer than I should have. In Santiago, where I come from, you hardly ever see men like that. I felt ashamed to realize I was staring at him like an idiot, and that, without meaning to, my eyes had drifted to the bulge outlined between his legs.

I finished, left the napkin on the table, and got up to go back to the room. Just as I crossed the lobby, he caught up with me.

“Good morning, ma’am. Would you be interested in a massage?” he said, in a deep voice and with a coastal accent that drew the words out. “I work here at the hotel. For fifty dollars I’ll give you a full one, an hour long, and I’ll throw in fifteen extra minutes.”

I froze for a second, not knowing what to say. The idea of his hands on my body flashed through me before I could stop it. I thought about the day ahead, alone, with nothing to do until Martín came back at night.

“All right,” I said, and my own voice sounded strange to me. “Room 304.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes to settle in and I’ll come up with my things,” he answered, and walked away without waiting for a reply.

I went up almost running. I brushed my teeth, let my hair down, tidied up the clothes strewn around. I got massages often in Santiago, but always from women. Never from a man. And no matter how much I told myself it was a hotel service, that there was nothing strange about it, my heart was beating as if I were doing something forbidden.

He knocked on the door. I opened it. He was carrying a rolled-up mat under one arm and a bag of oils. He spread it out on the bed, with that hollow in the middle to rest your face, and smoothed it with his palm.

“Stay in your underwear and lie face down, ma’am. I’ll turn around while you get undressed.”

For an instant I hesitated. I thought about the previous night with my husband, about how that morning I hadn’t even managed to shower properly. I felt a silly shame, and was about to tell him we should just leave it, that I’d pay him something for the trouble. But I bit my lip and convinced myself it was his job, that he’d surely touched many women, that I was no one to judge myself.

I stayed in my thong and lay down on the mat, my face sunk into the opening. I heard him rubbing his hands together with oil.

***

He started with my head, pressing his thumbs into the base of my skull, and slowly worked down to my neck and shoulders. His hands were enormous, warm, and strong in a way that seemed measured to the millimeter. Every time he pressed on a knot, I let out my breath at once. When he reached my back, months of tension began to melt away. He moved down my sides, brushing the edges of my breasts flattened against the mat as he went, then along my waist and buttocks over my thong. At some point, without realizing it, I fell asleep.

I woke with a different sensation. I didn’t know how much time had passed. He had taken off my thong without me noticing, spread my legs apart, and was stroking me very softly, barely touching, between my buttocks and lower down. All of it without asking permission. One finger slid from my asshole to the lips of my cunt and back up again, slick, soaked in oil and in my own juices. I was so relaxed that my body had gotten there on its own, and it was exactly that caress that brought me back, already burning, my cunt swollen and throbbing.

Feeling his thick fingers moving down there was too much. I wanted to say something, turn over, stop him, but all that came out was a sigh. He noticed I had woken, that I was hesitating. And in that exact instant of hesitation, he slid a finger in up to the knuckle. I moaned without being able to help it, and then he slipped in the second one and began to pump them slowly, curling them upward, searching for a spot that made me grit my teeth.

“Mrs. Carolina,” he murmured, close to my ear, “for fifty dollars more you can try what you’ve never tried.”

Never in my life had I paid a man. I had paid for dinners, for hotels, for drinks on the occasional outing; but paying for this, never. And yet there I was, naked, face down on the bed I shared with my husband, with a stranger working his fingers inside my cunt and about to agree.

“Yes,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’ll pay you. Fuck me.”

He pulled his fingers out and, before I could react, lifted me by the waist as if I weighed nothing and slid two pillows beneath me. I was left face down, hips raised and ass on offer. I heard him undo his pants and tear open the condom wrapper with his teeth.

He got himself onto his knees behind me and slid his cock between my buttocks, up and down, without putting it in yet. Just that was enough for me to understand how big he was, and my breathing caught. It was thick, long, hot. He took hold of it with his hand, put the condom on unhurriedly, and rested the tip at the entrance of my cunt. He pushed slowly, forcing his way in, and I gripped the sheets, biting the pillow. He worked it into me little by little, centimeter by centimeter, until I felt his balls bumping against my clit.

“Feel the difference, ma’am,” he said in my ear, not stopping his motion. “Feel how I take it all the way in.”

“I feel it,” I panted. “You’re too big, you’re splitting me….”

“Last night with your husband, today with me. This little cunt is mine now.”

“Yes... and I’m paying you for this on top of it, you son of a bitch...”

“Do you like how the Black man fucks you?”

“Too much... don’t stop, don’t stop...”

He spoke softly, with that drawn-out voice, and every word turned me on more than the last. He started pounding me harder, one hand on my waist and the other on my nape, crushing me into the mattress. The sound of his hips slapping against my ass filled the room, along with the wet smack of his cock entering and leaving me. I had my first orgasm almost right away, long, brutal, leaving me shaking and my legs like jelly. I felt my cunt clench around his dick in spasms and he let out a rough laugh.

“That’s one, ma’am. More are coming.”

He didn’t stop. He kept driving in with a patient rhythm, pulling almost all the way out and plunging back to the hilt, until the second one hit me, and by then I had already lost any shame. I begged him for more, begged him to put it deeper, not to stop. He slid a finger wet with saliva into my ass while he kept fucking my cunt and I thought I was going to die.

He stood up, took me by the hip, and turned me over like I was a toy. He arranged me at the edge of the bed, folded my legs against my chest, so much that my knees almost touched my tits, and, standing in front of me, he grabbed his cock and rammed it into me again at once. From there I could see his face, his thick lips, his forehead shining with sweat, his broad chest rising and falling, and the Black dick going in and out between my pink lips, smeared with my juices. Watching him excited me as much as feeling him.

“Do you like it like this, looking at me?” he asked, without stopping his thrusts. “Look at me properly while I split you open.”

“I love it,” I answered without thinking, my eyes wet. “I love you, put all that dick in me, leave nothing out...”

He leaned down, sucked one nipple, then the other, biting them with his teeth. He spat between my breasts and squeezed them together while he kept fucking me. He took my neck with one hand, not squeezing, just holding me, and with the other he rubbed my clit with his thumb in time with his thrusts.

“Worth the hundred dollars?”

“More than worth it... worth everything, you son of a bitch, worth everything...”

And then came the third. I arched all the way, screamed into his hand, felt myself come in jets around his cock. I didn’t lose consciousness, I was still there, but I lost any sense of where I was, of who I was, of what I was doing. He moved me however he wanted: on my side, one leg over his shoulder, fucking me from the side and watching his dick disappear inside me; on all fours, grabbing my hair and spanking my ass until it burned; on top of him, riding him, his hands squeezing my tits and him watching from below as my cunt swallowed every last inch. I rode his cock with my eyes closed, moving my hips in circles, until another orgasm hit me and dropped me collapsing against his chest.

He took me off him, laid me on my back, and put it in me again missionary-style, now very slowly, looking into my eyes, almost tenderly, until I started shaking again. I stopped counting orgasms. I surrendered to his hands and his strength until, at some point, I felt him tense, drive faster, and with a deep groan he came inside the condom, his cock buried to the hilt and his balls crushed against my ass. Almost at the same time, his phone alarm went off on the nightstand.

“Time’s up,” he said, almost amused, pulling out of me slowly. I saw the condom bulging, full of semen. “I have to go, ma’am.”

He went into the bathroom and showered in two minutes. I stayed on the tangled sheets, still agitated, legs spread and my cunt throbbing, feeling the mixture of oil, saliva, and my own fluids dripping between my thighs, staring at the ceiling. When he came out, already dressed in white and once again impeccable, as if nothing had happened, I looked through my purse for the hundred dollars Martín had left me for my shopping and put it in his hand.

“Thank you,” I said, not quite sure why.

He looked at me, smiled faintly, and closed the door behind him as he left. I stayed alone in the room, with the hum of the air conditioning and the sea in the distance beyond the balcony, with my husband’s semen from the night before mingling with the sweat and fluids of the morning between my legs, knowing that tonight I’d have to look my husband in the eye and pretend the day had been boring.