When My Wife Appeared in the Middle of the Game

The music kept spinning with that wet cadence the cassette had once it had already been in the deck for two hours. It smelled of lavender and eucalyptus, and beneath it all, of the hot rubber of the spa floor. Mateo Esteban remembered an old Donna Summer record his father kept hidden in a shoebox, and for a second it seemed to him that the singer’s voice was slipping in between the splashes from the jacuzzi.

—Adelina was out of her bathing suit before anyone had even asked her to take it off —he told Ezequiel, his neighbor, without stopping washing the aguardiente glasses—. She tied on the silk blindfold and accepted the Polaroid hanging around her neck with the same calm she would have accepted a coffee. She was a broad woman, with a very good sense of humor, and when she turned to orient herself, her flesh marked a different rhythm from the song. Her big tits swayed out of time, the dark nipples standing hard from the steam, and the hair on her cunt, black and thick, gleamed with moisture every time she spread her legs a little so she wouldn’t lose her balance.

—And where did you place yourself in that first round? —Ezequiel asked, almost sprawled on the sofa, with the bottle of Beluga resting on his thigh.

—I stepped aside, beside the bamboo curtain. Octavio leaned against the edge of the jacuzzi without hiding a thing, almost offering himself, with his cock half-mast bouncing against his thigh every time he moved. Lorena danced in front of the recorder, more watching than playing. The T-shirt I lent her clung to her body and her hard nipples showed through, two proud points under the wet cotton, and below the hem you could see her naked ass, round, with a damp stripe of sweat. Renata walked on tiptoe toward the Turkish bath corner, leaving wet footprints that the rubber swallowed right away, and when she turned, the bikini line showed against her paler skin, a pale triangle right above her shaved cunt.

—And did Adelina capture anyone?

—No one. Three shots into the air. When Octavio’s turn came, he covered his dick with one hand and with the other squeezed the shutter, though his hand couldn’t quite reach: his cock had gone hard from looking so much and was peeking out between his fingers, thick, the red head pointed at the ceiling. He photographed Renata, who was his wife, and Adelina twice. Adelina was the first one punished and went into the Turkish bath to wait, her broad buttocks shifting against each other with every step.

A brief silence settled over the kitchen. Ezequiel sat up to pour himself another drink. Mateo Esteban put away the Madonna LP that was playing softly on the stereo and chose, instead, The Grand Illusion by Styx. He set the needle on the fourth track and went back to the sink as if he hadn’t interrupted the story.

—Renata untied the knot of her robe —he continued— and handed it to her husband like a butterfly returning its chrysalis. Underneath she had on a turquoise floral bikini. When she felt herself being looked at, she crossed her arms over her breasts.

—Well, of course, man —Ezequiel cut in—. A robe in that steam would’ve been torture. And besides, it spared her husband from having to keep playing naked.

—Exactly. Octavio wrapped himself up in that robe with relief, hiding the stiff cock that was already pushing the fabric from the front. Brigitte got the blindfold next. She took two steps forward and the steam parted to let her through, or so it seemed to me. Brigitte was small, with small firm tits, and when the blindfold went on she loosened the pareo knot and ended up completely naked, with a shaved little cunt and her ass sticking out from all the running around. The camera fired almost at once. She stood still for a second, gauging the sound of the mechanism, turned left and moved with slow sensuality, as if she were dancing Fly Robin Fly even though something else was already playing on the recorder. When she bent down she passed near Octavio, who deliberately pulled back the corner of the robe and let the tip of his cock brush her thigh. She didn’t see it, but something in the texture of the air made her press the button. Another click. A knee, a shoulder, who knew.

—And the third photo?

—The third was for Renata. She had hidden behind the bamboo curtain, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh, and Brigitte spun sharply toward that side. Not because of a sound, I swear. Intuition. She took the last picture and removed the blindfold with theatrical slowness. Lorena gathered the three Polaroids and laid them on the table to develop.

—And when was it your turn, man? —Ezequiel leaned forward, wearing that thin smile he already knew so well—. Because up to now I can see you having fun, but it needs a little more heat. How did it feel to take your clothes off without your wife beside you?

—Why deny it if it’s true —Mateo Esteban admitted. He wiped his hands on the cloth and stood for a moment leaning against the counter—. Lorena slid the black silk blindfold down from my forehead. I felt a wet patch, but the silk was scented with something sweet. Suddenly I lost all color and shape. All that remained was the symphony of water, the recorder, some complicit laughter to my right. And the echo of my bare feet on the wet rubber. The Polaroid hung around my neck like a useless mechanical eye, and my cock dangled between my legs like another eye, one that could actually see and that started to get hard almost immediately.

—And you walked?

—I walked slowly, guiding myself by the steam. The air vibrated with the presence of the others. Every breath was a clue. I heard a splash to my left, the slide of a body, and I headed that way with the camera ready. I brushed a wet fabric and knew who it was by the perfume.

—Who? —Ezequiel asked, without raising his voice.

—Lorena. She gave a low, hoarse laugh that made my skin prickle. I felt my own T-shirt stuck to her arm, fuchsia underneath, tied at the waist. But before I could snap the picture, she grabbed my wrist and slowly took it to her breast. She made me squeeze one tit through the fabric, hard, with the tiny nipple digging into my palm. Then she guided my hand downward, over her belly, until I felt the short wet hair of her pubis, and lower still the warm slit, already soaking. “Take the picture and get lost, you cheater,” she whispered in my ear, while I slid two fingers between the lips of her cunt and felt them part on their own. I fired downward. The flash filtered weakly through the blindfold, leaving a purple trail behind my eyelids. That was my first capture.

—And you kept going.

—I kept going, but with fingers smelling of cunt and a hard cock pressing against my stomach. With my heart beating steadily. Darkness was a blank page for the other senses. I moved toward the curtains, extended a hand and touched a thin strip, then warm skin underneath. It was Brigitte. The air around her had a different kind of mischief. She felt along my hip and lowered her hand until she found my dick. She grabbed it all, firmly, and jerked it two, three times, measuring its thickness, while I searched blindly for her small tits with my mouth and sucked a nipple over the fallen blindfold. I fired the second flash without knowing what I was framing. I captured her.

—Ah, I see —Ezequiel cut in, amused—. Your strategy was more like a fortune teller’s than an exhibitionist’s. And then you crossed paths with a more elusive presence.

—Yes. The brush of a minimal piece of fabric. My fingers found naked skin and, right away, arms crossing to cover. Renata was trying to escape. Small, scared, her modesty was a fragile barrier. She hadn’t fully surrendered to the uninhibited atmosphere either, and that made her even more interesting. I ran my hand over her wet back, down to the base of her ass and squeezed one cheek; she shivered and pressed herself back against me, like a cat that first resists and then rubs itself on you. I felt a tremor run from her waist, and her small tits rose and fell with her broken breathing. I captured her from behind, in a consented intrusion. Third time’s the charm. Or so I thought.

—So the demure Renata preferred a bit of controlled exposure over total humiliation —Ezequiel laughed, leaning back on the sofa again—. Go on, man. What showed up in the photos?

—I took off the blindfold. The spa’s dim light was a relief to my eyes. Lorena was already lifting the three Polaroids into the air. In the first, Lorena handing the camera back to the photographer, with that fuchsia fabric tied at her waist and her tits firm enough for one to keep watching them, and a drop sliding between them. In the second, Brigitte with a half-smile and a wet shoulder, her hand out of frame but her wrist suspiciously occupied. In the third...

Mateo Esteban stopped. He set the glass down carefully, and the crystal gave a dry little knock against the counter. Ezequiel said nothing. He waited.

—In the third photograph I felt a blow in my stomach. A dark-skinned woman, barefoot, standing under the spa threshold between two men taller than her. The three of them uninvolved in the game, the three of them in the shot without having planned it. It was my wife.

—No kidding! —Ezequiel sat up on the sofa, laughing—. Catalina? In the middle of your little game? But I thought you’d left her sleeping in the cabin, man.

—That’s what I thought too. All of us turned at once. The silhouette was unmistakably hers. On her right, Fabien, with his usual carefree ladies’ man air. On the left, Iván, solid and carrying white towels under one arm. Behind them, almost like a silent bodyguard, Néstor, with a plastic tray full of cocktails. A new question dug into my head: what were the four of them doing together? Where had they met? And, above all, what had been happening behind my back while I was playing blind man’s buff?

—And did jealousy hit you all at once?

—Not at all. It was intrigue. Catalina was radiant, reigning among those three men, and by the way she had found me there naked with a Polaroid hanging from my neck. To top it off, at that very moment the Turkish bath door opened and out came sweaty but smiling Camilo and Federico, and behind them Adelina, her tits red from the steam and a milky stain running down the inside of her thigh that neither of them had bothered to wipe off.

—Life has a peculiar sense of humor, don’t you think? —Ezequiel commented, getting up to bring Mateo Esteban the empty bottle and the glass—. You were the master of ceremonies of your own “liberation” game, and the most valuable piece made her triumphant entrance. Right when she catches you in the flesh. What did she think of the scene?

—What are you doing here? —I asked her, ridiculously surprised. The shock was such that I didn’t even cover myself. Catalina walked up to me, looked at my cock still half-mast with a proprietary smile, pinched the tip of my nose, and said: “Look at you, babe. Aren’t you happy to see me, little monkey? Because I sure love finding you like this.” And, without stopping smiling, she offered me a sip of her daiquiri.

—Ha, ha, ha! Well of course, man. That was exactly what she wanted. She left you alone on purpose and it worked.

Mateo Esteban didn’t answer right away. The only sign that the comment had landed below the waterline was a slow blink. He poured himself a finger of what was left of the Beluga and drank it down in one gulp.

—You and I both know fate makes us dizzy with so many unexpected turns —he said, setting the glass on the counter—. Some, as you say, find the most expressive way to remind us of that. Catalina is one of those. I didn’t expect it, but I got the point and gave her space. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so doubting her made no sense. We had gone there for that. Her wanting to, and me reluctantly, but I accepted it, and that made me a participant in whatever might happen.

—Very understanding of you —Ezequiel didn’t bother hiding the irony—. And then? Did everyone go their own way?

—Camilo cut the tension right away. He announced the new setup: mixed showers, regrouping, and an open-air barbecue. Everyone had a task. The showers were territory for encounters, not discoveries. What there was to see had already been seen. There was floral soap, water, joking comments about the game and hands that offered to soap backs and then drifted a little lower than necessary. I saw Lorena kneel for a moment in front of Federico under the spray, mouth open and his cock going all the way down her throat, while she squeezed her tits with both hands. Adelina let Camilo lick one nipple against the tiles, with one leg lifted on the wooden bench, and Brigitte had her cunt washed with two fingers by Octavio as if he were doing her a small favor. Nobody came there. It was more of an appetizer. And of course, in everyone’s head, a collection of images and a couple of suspicions.

—You brought me back down to earth, man. I pictured a nighttime orgy, not this division of tasks. Nothing more really happened that afternoon?

Mateo Esteban fell silent, drying a glass that was already dry. In his head, though, all the space was taken up by Catalina’s nap and what had happened while he was playing at finding bodies in the dark.

—When she woke up —he continued, choosing each word—, she stretched out an arm looking for me and her fingers only clawed at the empty sheet. She remembered the game and laughed to herself. She put on a semi-transparent mesh beach dress, gold, with two side slits that almost reached her hips, and a lace bralette underneath. No panties. Flat sandals, gold too. She went out to look for me.

—Of course.

—She didn’t find me. The house was strangely silent. She peered into the dining room, poked around the kitchen. Nothing. When she was heading back to the cabin, Fabien appeared from the side corridor with a beer in his hand. He offered her a seat in the central patio and they started talking about nonsense. At some point they started hearing noises upstairs, on the second floor. Muffled moans, laughter, a steady rhythm of flesh hitting flesh. The curiosity was mutual.

—They went up.

—They went up hand in hand, so close together that the wood of the corridor creaked under both of them at once. There was a half-open door. Behind it, a measured voice could be heard, long phrases, a cadence that wasn’t music. Catalina squeezed Fabien’s hand on purpose, not out of fear, and Fabien invited her to look without speaking.

—And what did they see?

—A room with chains clinking in the dim light. Iván and Néstor, in the middle of it. Iván was in charge, Néstor obeying. Néstor was tied to the wooden horse, ass lifted and legs spread wide, his hard cock hanging down and dripping on the floor. Iván, behind him, naked, solid, with his enormous cock already well lubricated, was sliding it into Néstor little by little, pushing with his hips, and Néstor let out long moans every time the head of the prick forced its way through the ring. Iván had him by the hair with one hand and with the other was landing dry slaps on his ass until it turned red. The sweaty skin, the wooden horse, the whole scene set up so no one could pretend they were there by chance. Catalina felt a rush of heat; a wave of warmth rose through her groin and left her breathing hard. She felt her cunt dripping under the dress, with no panties to hold anything in, and the warm liquid ran down the inside of her thigh. Fabien tried to slip a hand inside the mesh, to find a breast with his fingers. She stopped him cold, without getting angry, but without letting him.

—Didn’t the Frenchman interest her?

—The scene interested her. What she was imagining for herself was something else, and that’s why she stopped him. In the middle of that, Iván saw them at the doorway and, far from being awkward, called her over. He pulled his cock out of Néstor’s ass with a wet snap and asked Catalina to come to the table and choose a metal plug, the biggest one. She walked slowly, her hips swaying beneath the gold dress, and picked up the thickest plug, one she could barely fit in her hand. Iván handed her the bottle of lubricant. Catalina squeezed a long stream into her palm and started coating it with both hands, gripping the cold metal, sliding her fingers over the bulbous tip until it was shiny and slick. Iván nodded toward Néstor. She came up behind him. Néstor’s ass, stretched and red from the fucking before, was still tightening on its own. Catalina set the tip of the plug against the open hole, with that mix of elegance and insolence that defines her, and pushed slowly, her wrist steady. The first resistance gave way with a sigh; the second, the wider one, tore a muffled cry out of Néstor. She didn’t let up. She kept pushing until the metal disappeared completely and only the flat base was left outside. Néstor let out a long vowel that faded away in a shiver running all along his back. His cock, still hard, kept dripping on the floor.

—Ha, ha, ha! Don’t tell me.

—Iván came up behind Catalina, still with his dick stiff and smeared, and put a hand on her hip. He brushed his cock over her ass through the dress, as if asking. When he asked her to keep going, to kneel and suck him, she turned around, looked his cock over calmly from top to bottom, and replied: “Look, man. I’ve already helped you enough. To put what you want in there, you don’t need my help.” She wiped her hands on a cloth, with the same slow deliberation as someone kneading bread, and left the room without waiting for Fabien.

—A classy exit.

—In the hallway, the air was less dense. She drank two long swallows of the beer. She was still soaked in cunt juice and felt the dress sticking between her ass cheeks. When she lifted her head, Fabien was already there, saying nothing, one hand resting on her shoulder. She told him: “I’m going downstairs. I want to keep looking for my husband.” And she went down. But before going down, on the landing of the stairs, she let Fabien corner her against the wooden railing, lift her dress from behind, and run his tongue between her ass cheeks to her cunt, once, long, from bottom to top. Fabien buried his tongue inside her, sucked her swollen lips, pulled it out shining and showed it to her like proof of receipt. She straightened her dress, gave him two taps on the cheek, and went down the stairs without looking back. The tips of her nipples showed through the bralette and she made no attempt to hide it.

—And all that you knew at the time, or did she tell you later?

—At the time, not a word. Later, that same night, I pieced it together like a puzzle. Every gesture of hers, every smile from Fabien or Iván when they came to the barbecue, was a piece. Catalina showed up late, with damp hair and a new cocktail in her hand. She sat near me, gave me a little kiss, and rubbed my forearm. She didn’t ask me anything. I didn’t ask her anything either. But when she sat down, she crossed her legs in a strange way, and I realized the golden dress had a dark, round stain at the crotch that wasn’t water.

—The arrival of the impious! —Ezequiel laughed with a rough, throaty laugh—. A procession of saints, wasn’t it? Greeting like they were coming from a chess match. But tell me, Mateo, did that little kiss come with an exclusivity guarantee, or had you already understood it was the welcome to the new version of your marriage?

—You always look beyond appearances, Ezequiel. Maybe because you make them and imagine them. Let’s say what I saw and what Catalina’s look made me understand were part of the landscape. And as for my marriage, the rules were always clear. Never turn your back on the other. Either both in bed or both on the floor. Trust and respect were the foundation. And it wasn’t the moment to doubt.

But Mateo Esteban was lying to him. He did doubt. Across from the kiosk, he felt as if his own flesh were the one being cooked over the grill. The embers crackled with a rhythm that seemed to bring to light a prophecy that would finally be fulfilled that night, in the rooms upstairs, when the wooden hallways would creak again and the alcohol would finally let the beasts loose.

—Doubt? —Ezequiel knocked the empty glass against the counter—. Man! That’s the most human thing you could have done since you left your T-shirt lying on a chair. And the most honest too. Too bad I’ve run out of Beluga. This is exactly the moment to toast to doubt, mother of all certainties.

Mateo Esteban took off the yellow gloves and dried the glasses with a clean cloth. When he spoke, he did so without looking up from the sink.

—Toasting doubt is funny, yes. But there are doubts that aren’t celebrated. Some lodge themselves like fine splinters, and it doesn’t matter how much you try to dig them out with your nails, or how much alcohol you drink afterward to forget them. They stay there, hidden under the skin, waiting for the right moment to hurt again.

—Uf, how poetic! —Ezequiel laughed, though this time with less mockery—. That sounds more like a confession than a complaint. It’s clear you’ve got splinters stuck in you, but none of them, up to now, are hers. Or am I wrong? Well, enough melancholy and tell me what happened after the barbecue. Don’t tell me you all went to sleep like little angels, man, when the bodies wanted something else.

—To be continued —Mateo Esteban replied, turning off the sink light—. I’ll tell that part with the next bottle.