What I Did in the Bar Bathroom with My Husband Nearby

Sex with my husband is a choreography I know by heart. I can't remember the last time I truly came with him. Usually I fake it, sigh at just the right moment, and let him fall asleep convinced that he satisfied me. And that's fine. It is what it is. A long time ago, I stopped expecting anything else from that bed.

Mateo and I fuck on Tuesdays and Saturdays. On Tuesdays, when the kids finally fall asleep, we get under the sheets. He touches me halfheartedly, we kiss, and I take off my underwear. If I'm lucky, he licks me and nibbles my nipples for a while, which is the only thing that really turns me on, even when he's the one doing it. Then I get on all fours, he gets my pussy a little wet with his fingers, puts his cock in, and has his two minutes of glory. If Tuesday is generous, it lasts three. If it's a Tuesday blessed by heaven, four—and with a little faith, I might even feel something.

Saturdays are another story, a little better. We go out to dinner somewhere nice. Afterward we stop for a couple of drinks at one of the bars he likes, which, over the years, I ended up liking too. We get home half-tipsy, with the kids already asleep. In bed, the script is the same as always, but the alcohol makes it a little more bearable.

Last night, Saturday, was almost like any other. Almost. Because it was different and, in its own way, perfect. We went to a bar we'd never been to before, a place with dim lighting and a long counter, the kind that seem designed for conversations one shouldn't be having.

From the moment we sat down, a man older than me, around fifty, didn't take his eyes off me. Mateo is naturally absentminded; someone could have stripped naked beside him and he would have gone on studying the cocktail menu.

I felt good. I think it happens to almost all of us: it makes us happy to know we're being watched, desired, interesting to someone. My husband had stopped looking at me that way long ago, as if I were something worth discovering.

When I finished my first drink, I got up to go to the bathroom. The man intercepted me in the hallway, near the door. He smelled of expensive cologne and had the calm confidence of someone accustomed to getting what he wants.

—You're a very attractive woman —he said to me, without beating around the bush—. And very interesting.

—I came with my husband —I replied, pointing toward the table with my chin.

—That's the most exciting part of all —he answered, a half smile appearing on his face.

I didn't know what to say. I went into the bathroom with my heart pounding against my ribs. When I came out, he was still there, leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand.

—If you go back in —he said, lowering his voice—, I'll understand that you want a quick fuck.

I held his gaze a second too long, smiled, and went back to the table with Mateo. The man returned to the bar.

His words left me burning. The situation struck me as insanely filthy. There I was, like every Saturday, having a drink with my husband, while at the same time I had a sexual proposition waiting for me ten yards away. I felt that emptiness in my lower belly, that insistent tingling in my pussy, my panties already wet and clinging to my flesh, the urge to seize the opportunity and, for once after so long, have a sexually fulfilling Saturday.

—Should I order another round? —Mateo asked, oblivious to everything.

—Order me a martini —I said.

He raised an eyebrow. A martini is a drink I find incredibly strong and almost never choose, but that night I needed something to push me forward. He ordered his second drink of the night, as always, without attaching any importance to anything. I drank slowly, feeling the alcohol and adrenaline mingle in a single hot current that ran straight down between my legs.

A few minutes later, the urge to go back to the bathroom was unbearable, and it had nothing to do with my bladder. I looked toward the bar. The man was still there, alone, swirling the ice in his glass. It seemed like a scene from a movie, and my mind flew off without permission. Our eyes met. I stood up.

—I'll be right back —I murmured.

I walked toward the back of the place. I didn't look behind me, but I heard his chair scrape against the floor. I knew he was following me.

Beside the women's bathroom was another one, a single-occupancy men's room. I pushed the door open and went in. He came in behind me and slid the bolt shut. There were no preliminaries, no kisses, no sweet words. I didn't need them. We'd said everything that needed saying in that hallway.

—You know we don't have much time —he said, looking me in the eyes.

—I know —I replied.

The bathroom was tiny, barely containing a sink, a toilet, and a spotted mirror beneath a yellowish light. He didn't waste a second. He pushed me against the wall, one hand on my waist and the other going straight between my legs over my jeans. He pressed his open palm against my pussy, and I felt the heat of his hand even through the fabric. He let go for a second, undid my pants himself with quick fingers, and slipped his hand inside my panties. He found me soaked through.

—You're dripping —he murmured, and plunged two fingers inside me at once.

A moan escaped me, which I muffled against his shoulder. He moved his fingers inside me with confidence, searching for the spot Mateo had never learned to find, while his thumb rubbed my clitoris in slow circles. I ground myself against his hand, almost riding his fingers, feeling pleasure rise up my back in short, hot waves.

—Pull your pants down —he ordered, withdrawing his hand gleaming with my juices.

He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them without taking his eyes off mine. I almost came just from that.

He put the toilet seat down and sat. He calmly unbuttoned his pants, lowered his boxers, and revealed a thick cock—not too long, but broad in a way that made me bite my lip. His cock was rock-hard, a shining drop at the tip, the veins standing out along the shaft. It had been years since anything had provoked that immediate reaction in me, that physical hunger that requires no thought.

I dropped to my knees without thinking. The bathroom floor was dirty, and I didn't care. I grabbed his cock with one hand, squeezed the base, and shoved it into my mouth, all the way down, until it lodged in my throat and brought tears to my eyes. He let out a low growl and put one hand on the back of my head. I began sucking him hungrily, moving up and down, letting saliva run down and wet his balls. I licked the tip, circled it with my tongue, then swallowed him whole again. Hearing his ragged breathing, feeling his cock pulse against my palate, knowing I was the one pulling those sounds from him, had me on the edge without him even touching me.

—Come here —he said, gently pulling me upward by my hair.

I unbuttoned my jeans with fingers clumsy from haste. I pulled them down along with my panties to my thighs, just enough. I moved closer, turned my back for a moment so we could see both of us in the mirror, and then sat on him, astride him, facing forward. With my hand I positioned his cock between my legs and lowered myself slowly, feeling it stretch me open inch by inch. I let out a sharp breath. I was so wet that his cock slid all the way in without resistance, to the hilt, and I felt the tip strike a spot inside me that made me see white for a second.

I leaned slightly forward, bracing my hands on his shoulders, and began to move. He gripped my hips firmly, setting the pace, fucking me from underneath with an intention my husband had forgotten long ago. Every thrust drove him all the way into me, accompanied by an obscene wet sound that bounced off the tiles. We didn't speak. The only sounds were my ragged breathing, the squelch of my soaked pussy swallowing his cock, and the faint creak of the toilet every time I dropped down onto him.

One of his hands traveled up my back to my nape and held me by the hair, not violently, but with authority, forcing me to look at him. The other slipped beneath my blouse, pulled down one cup of my bra, and found a nipple already hard. He squeezed it between two fingers right on the boundary between pleasure and pain, pinched it, and twisted it slightly. A moan escaped me, which I muffled against his neck.

—Shut up and keep riding me —he whispered against my ear—. Fuck yourself on my cock as if your husband didn't exist.

Those words pierced me. I sped up, rising and falling like a madwoman, feeling his cock enter and leave me at a rhythm I no longer controlled. He bent down, caught my other nipple in his mouth, and sucked it hard, tugging with his teeth, and I had to bite my lip to keep from howling. He smelled of clean sweat and that expensive cologne, and I impaled myself on him while thinking about the absurdity of it all: the muffled music from the bar on the other side of the door, people drinking a few yards away, my husband stirring the ice in his drink without suspecting that his wife had a stranger's cock buried to the hilt in her pussy. Every detail of the situation pushed me closer to the edge.

Two or three minutes later, someone pounded on the door. I froze, his cock still inside me, feeling it pulse within me.

—Occupied —the man said, in a voice so firm it sounded bored.

The footsteps receded. And that interruption, instead of frightening me, set me on fire. The thought that we were one bolt away from being discovered, that my husband was still at the table waiting for me with his drink, pushed me to the edge faster than I had ever thought possible. I sped up. I impaled myself on him again and again, searching for that exact spot, pursuing it with a desperation I hadn't felt in years. He grabbed my ass with both hands, spread my cheeks, and rammed into me from below with hard, dry thrusts that tore a moan from me with every blow.

My orgasm struck from the inside, long and deep, the kind you can't fake because it can't be faked. I had to bite the back of my hand to keep from screaming. I shook all over on top of him, feeling my pussy clench in waves around his cock, squeezing him, dripping down my thighs and over his balls. Every muscle contracted and released, and I kept moving slightly, prolonging the trembling for as long as I could.

He held on. He didn't come. He let me finish and held me while I fell apart, and when I'd recovered a little of my breath, he gripped me by the waist.

—Get up —he said.

I obeyed without thinking. I stood with my legs still weak, feeling his cock slide out of me and a hot stream run down the inside of my thigh. He rose from the toilet with his cock still hard, glistening, soaked with me.

—Get dressed and go back to your husband —he said, pulling up his pants without taking his eyes off me.

—You haven't finished yet —I replied, hardly understanding why I was giving him that information.

—Don't worry —he answered, and for the first time he smiled for real—. The night is young. And that mouth of yours is going to finish emptying me another day.

I pulled up my soaked panties and jeans, straightened my blouse in front of the mirror, and tried to erase any trace of what had just happened from my face. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright, my hair only slightly disheveled, and I could still feel his cock throbbing between my legs like a ghost. I hoped Mateo, true to his habits, wouldn't notice anything.

The man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed me a business card. I took it without reading it and put it in my purse.

He cracked the door open, checked that no one was nearby in the hallway, and nodded at me. I went out first. I walked back to the table with a calm I didn't feel inside, still feeling the pulse between my legs and his sticky wetness running down my thigh inside my jeans.

—You took your time —Mateo said, barely looking up from his glass.

—There was a line —I lied, and smiled at him.

We finished our drinks, paid, and went home. That night, in bed, he didn't touch me, and I silently thanked him for it. I stayed awake for quite a while, staring at the ceiling, my thighs still sticky and the card tucked in my purse on the other side of the room.

I don't know how he ended his night, whether he left alone or with someone, whether he looked at another woman at that bar, whether someone else sucked the cock I'd left hard. But on Monday, when the kids are at school and the house is quiet, I'm going to take out that card and write to him. I've made up my mind.

After all, one always gets, outside oneself, the pleasure one believes one deserves. And last night, I remembered exactly how much I deserve. I owe it to myself, and I intend to collect it to the very last drop.