My Husband Encouraged Me to Accept the Millionaire’s Offer

I had been hosting the channel’s late-night magazine show for eight years, and I thought I’d seen everything. Producers making advances during commercial breaks, politicians leaving me notes with their private phone numbers, businessmen inviting me to dinners where there were no other guests but us. I had learned to smile, to decline gracefully, to stay in control. What I hadn’t learned was how to say no to my own husband.

That October night, the studio smelled of burnt coffee from the machine in the hallway. I was touching up my lipstick when an assistant came in with an envelope in his hand and his eyes lowered.

“They left this at reception ten minutes ago, Marina,” he said. “They insisted I hand it to you personally.”

The envelope was made of thick ivory paper, with no return address. My name was written in black ink, in an old-fashioned fountain-pen hand. Something made me put it away unopened until I was alone in my dressing room, with the door closed and the bolt thrown.

I broke the red seal with a fingernail. The paper inside had the same silky texture and contained only three lines.

“My son has seen you on screen and wants no other woman. I offer you one night with him in exchange for a sum that will change your life. Discretion guaranteed. Rodrigo Vallejo.”

Below it, written in pencil, was a number. I looked at the figure three times, four, to make sure I wasn’t adding zeros in my head. I wasn’t. It was the mortgage on our house. It was an entire year of my salary multiplied by five.

Rodrigo Vallejo was the man behind half the buildings downtown. His son, Nicolás, appeared every two weeks in the gossip pages with a different model hanging from his arm. Two names anyone would have recognized instantly.

I put the note in my purse with trembling fingers. I didn’t know whether it was from fear or something else I refused to name. When I left the dressing room, my panties were wet, and I hated myself a little for it.

***

I got home after one. Tomás was on the living-room sofa, still wearing his suit trousers and his shirt open at the collar, reading a report with his glasses slipping down his nose. We had known each other since university. We had been together for twelve years, married for nine. There wasn’t a single corner of my life he hadn’t seen.

I sat beside him without saying a word and placed the note on his lap.

Tomás read it slowly. Then he set it on the coffee table, removed his glasses, and looked at me. There was no anger in his eyes. There was something harder to identify, a kind of bright curiosity, as though someone had just posed an interesting mathematical problem to him.

“What a son of a bitch, that Vallejo,” he said with half a smile.

“Tomorrow I’ll tell security not to accept any more envelopes without a return address,” I replied.

“Wait.”

Tomás’s hand settled on my thigh, over the fabric of my dress pants. He didn’t move it. He simply left it there, warm and firm.

“Wait,” he repeated. “We don’t have to answer him today.”

I looked at him. I had spent years knowing every expression on his face, and I had never seen exactly that one. It was the same expression he wore when negotiating difficult contracts, but accompanied by something intimate, almost dirty.

“Are you listening to what you’re saying?” I asked quietly.

“Marina, listen to me.” He brushed a lock of hair away from my face with his index finger. “We love each other. No one disputes that. But we’ve spent nine years in the same bed, and some nights, when I see you on TV, I wonder what the rest of the country thinks when they look at you. How many of them are jerking off thinking about you. With that money, we can buy the country house and have enough left over for ten years.”

“Tomás…”

“And then you come back,” he continued, moving closer. “You come back and tell me everything. Absolutely everything. What he smelled like, how he fucked you, whether you came, how many times, whether you swallowed his cum or spat it onto your tits. And I’ll fuck you while you tell me, and it will never happen again.”

I felt a hot tug between my legs, instant and shameful. My pussy clenched on its own, as though it had already decided. My mouth wanted to refuse. My body had decided before I did.

“What if I like it?” I whispered.

“That’s why I’m asking you to do it.”

He ran his hand up my thigh to my crotch, over the fabric. He pressed two fingers right over my clitoris and felt the dampness soaking through my pants. He smiled.

“Look at you already, just from thinking about it, my little slut.”

He had never called me that before. A short moan escaped me. He unfastened my pants right there on the sofa, slipped his hand inside my panties, and found my pussy soaked. He pushed two fingers all the way in and moved them slowly, watching my face.

“You’re dripping, Marina.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re dripping thinking about another man’s cock.”

He made me come right there, with my clothes half off and Vallejo’s note still on the table. I came biting his shoulder, squeezing his wrist between my thighs, and when I was done he pulled out his glistening fingers and put them in my mouth so I could suck my own juices off them.

“You’re going,” he said. “And you’re going to tell me everything.”

***

Three nights later, I looked at myself in the dressing-room mirror in the black dress Tomás had chosen. Cold silk, open at the back down to the point where decency ended. Underneath, I wore a red lace set I had bought without showing him, hidden at the back of a drawer for two years with no reason to wear it. Minimal panties, a bra that barely covered my nipples.

Tomás appeared behind me with a glass of wine in each hand. He gave me one. He brushed his lips over my neck, smelling me the way you smell something before eating it.

“You look gorgeous,” he said. “Call me if anything gets weird. Otherwise, don’t call me.”

“You’re not jealous?”

“Extremely,” he replied, kissing my neck. “That’s what makes it so exciting.”

He slipped his hand under my dress, moved my red panties aside, and touched my pussy without warning. I was already wet.

“I want you to come back like this,” he murmured against my ear. “With his cum inside you. Don’t wash yourself. Let me taste it.”

“Tomás, fuck…”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

***

The hotel stood across from the park, one of those buildings where the doorman pretends not to know you while calling you by your last name. I rode up alone in the elevator. The suite occupied the entire top floor.

Nicolás opened the door before I could knock. He was younger than he looked in the photographs, barely twenty-six, with the golden skin of someone who spent winters skiing and summers sailing. He wore a white linen shirt rolled up to the elbows and was barefoot. He smelled of something citrusy and expensive.

“Come in,” he said, looking me over from head to toe without the slightest modesty. “I’ve been watching you on my screen for three months. You’re even prettier here.”

“You’re more polite than I expected,” I replied.

“Don’t trust me.”

He closed the door with a click. The suite had a panoramic window, a bottle of champagne in ice, and a huge bed at the far end. There was no attempt to pretend we had come there to talk.

He handed me a glass. His hand brushed mine for a second longer than necessary.

“My father told me what he paid,” he said without preamble. “I don’t care. I would have paid twice as much.”

“You’re a spoiled kid who’s used to getting whatever he asks for.”

“And you’re a woman who’s used to being watched without being touched.” He moved a step closer. “Today I’m going to touch you. Today I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.”

He took the glass from my hand and set it on the table. He grabbed me by the waist and kissed me without asking. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was the kiss of a man who knew he had been given permission for everything. He thrust his tongue into my throat, bit my lower lip, and sucked my tongue until I gasped.

I bit his lip without thinking. He smiled against my mouth.

“I thought the presenter would be shyer.”

“The presenter is in the studio.”

He lowered the zipper of my dress with one hand. The silk fell to the floor. I stood in the middle of the suite in red lace and heels, and watched his breath catch. He stared at my tits beneath the sheer bra, the curve of my belly, the tiny panties already dark between my legs.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, you’re soaked. Did you come here soaked from home, Marina?”

“I came this way because of my husband,” I replied without thinking. “He touched me before I left.”

His eyes lit up. He liked it. He liked it more than he had expected.

“Tell me how he touched you.”

“When I’m sucking you off.”

I gently pushed him toward the velvet sofa facing the window. He let himself fall onto it. I knelt between his legs, undid his belt, and pulled his trousers and underwear down in one motion to his ankles. His cock sprang hard against his stomach, thick, its tip already glistening. He was bigger than I had imagined, and seeing it made me even wetter.

I took it in my hand first. I held it at the base and looked at it the way you look at something before deciding where to begin. I looked him in the eyes as I brought my mouth closer. I wanted to see him lose control from the start.

I licked him first from the base to the tip, slowly, my tongue flat, leaving a trail of saliva. I kissed the head. I licked in a circle around the crown. He breathed through his mouth, eyes half closed.

“Stop playing,” he moaned. “Put it in your mouth.”

When I closed my lips around him, he threw his head back and let out a deep moan. He grabbed my hair without pulling it, simply holding it, as though he wanted to guide me but didn’t dare. I lowered myself slowly, inch by inch, feeling him open my throat, listening to his breathing break apart. I came back up. I went down again. I sucked his entire cock until I felt the tip hitting the back of my throat, and stayed there, swallowing around him. I set the pace, as though I were the one who had paid.

I took his cock out of my mouth just to speak, continuing to stroke it with my hand slick with saliva.

“He put two fingers in me,” I told him. “On the sofa at home. He made me come before I came here.”

“Jesus, Marina.”

“And he asked me to come back with your cum inside me.”

“Holy fucking shit.”

I put it back in my mouth all the way. This time he grabbed my hair hard and began fucking my mouth from below, lifting his hips, thrusting in and out. I let him. I let him use my mouth like a pussy. My eyes filled with tears and my chin with drool, and every time he pulled his cock out to let me breathe, I opened my mouth, asking for more.

“Stop,” he panted after a while, pushing my head away with both hands. “Stop or I’ll come in your mouth and this will be over before it starts.”

I stood calmly, removed my bra, then my thong. I left my heels on. I lay down on the bed and opened my legs without saying a word, showing him everything: my shaved pussy, glistening and throbbing.

Nicolás stripped completely before coming closer. He had the body of someone who spent too many hours at the gym out of boredom, not necessity. He climbed onto the bed slowly and positioned himself between my legs.

“Before I go inside,” he said with his mouth against my navel, “I want to eat you until you beg me to stop.”

He lowered his head. His tongue was precise, practiced, without a hint of clumsiness. He started slowly at my thighs, biting the inner skin, getting close without touching. When he finally licked my pussy from bottom to top, my whole body arched. He drew slow circles over my clitoris, sucked it, released it, slid his tongue inside me and pulled it out, then licked me again. He increased the intensity as my breathing changed. I gripped his hair with both hands. I closed my eyes. I thought of Tomás sitting in our living room, waiting for me, imagining exactly this, his cock in his hand.

Nicolás slipped two fingers inside me while continuing to suck me, curling them upward in search of the exact spot. He found it. The thought and his fingers pushed me over the edge together.

“Don’t stop,” I begged him. “Please, don’t stop, there, there, fuck.”

I came with a long moan, my hips lifting off the bed, my thighs closing around his head, my pussy clenching his fingers. He didn’t stop. He kept sucking me while I trembled, sucking my hypersensitive clitoris until I came again over his mouth, shorter and more electric, shouting at him to stop, enough, that I was going to explode.

Then he moved up my body, kissing my sternum, sucking my nipples one at a time until I bit them to make him stop, then my neck and my mouth. He let me taste myself on his tongue. My mouth filled with the taste of me and him.

“Now,” he said.

He gripped his cock, ran it up and down my pussy, wetting the head, and teased my clitoris with the tip. He was driving me crazy.

“Put it in me now,” I growled.

He thrust in all at once. I screamed. It wasn’t pain, but surprise—my body remembering that it had been years since anyone had taken me like that, since anyone had shoved himself all the way in without asking permission. He stretched me completely. Nicolás stayed still for a second, looking at me with his cock buried to the balls, then began to move. At first his rhythm was measured, pulling almost all the way out and sliding back in slowly so I could feel every inch. Then he stopped taking any care.

The headboard pounded against the wall. I dug my nails into his back. I left marks. I felt every thrust pass through my entire body, his balls slapping against my ass, grunts escaping through his nose.

He grabbed my tits with both hands, pinched my nipples, and twisted them right to the boundary between pleasure and pain.

“Tell me you like it,” he demanded in my ear. “Tell me.”

“I like it.”

“Louder.”

“I love it, fuck, I love your cock, don’t stop.”

“Tell me I fuck you better than he does.”

I hesitated for one second. Only one second. And that hesitation made him thrust harder.

“You fuck me differently,” I panted. “You fuck me like you don’t know me.”

“Because I don’t know you. And I don’t care if I break you.”

He changed positions without pulling out. He turned me onto my stomach and entered me from behind, gripping my hips and lifting me toward him, forcing me to arch my ass. I rested my forehead on the sheet. I let him do whatever he wanted. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t have to decide anything.

He slapped one cheek. Hard. Then the other. I moaned into the pillow.

“Spread your ass for me,” he ordered.

I opened myself with my hands. He spat and pushed his cock back into my pussy, deeper from that angle, touching places no one had touched in years. He ran his wet thumb over my other hole, pressing without entering, playing.

“Another day,” he said. “Another day I’ll fuck you there too.”

There was no other day. But the threat made me clench all around him.

He slipped one hand underneath me, found my clitoris with his fingers, and began rubbing it while fucking me from behind. I came again, harder, with a scream that sounded foreign to me, biting the sheet so I wouldn’t wake the whole hotel. My pussy squeezed him so tightly that a surprised grunt escaped him.

“I’m going to come,” he panted. “Tell me where.”

“Inside,” I told him without thinking. “Come inside me. He asked me to.”

He emptied every last drop into my pussy with a long groan, thrusting into me three, four, five times as he came, gripping my hips so tightly that his fingerprints would be visible the next day.

We lay there without moving for a while, him on top of me, his cock still inside, breathing against the nape of my neck. When he finally pulled out, I felt the warm stream of semen running down the inside of my thigh. I rolled onto my back so I wouldn’t lose it. I was taking it home to Tomás.

Nicolás lay beside me, staring at the ceiling, his cock still glistening against his stomach.

“Is someone waiting for you at home?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You could stay. I can still go twice more.”

“I couldn’t.”

He smiled without turning toward me.

“I already knew the answer.”

I got up carefully, pressing my thighs together so I wouldn’t drip on the carpet. I pulled my red panties back on over everything, so they would act as a plug. I dressed in silence. He watched me from the bed, one hand behind his head and the other stroking his cock again.

“Tell your husband it was a pleasure fucking you.”

I didn’t answer him. But I was smiling when I left.

***

It was dawn when I opened the front door. Tomás hadn’t gone to bed. He was on the sofa in an old T-shirt, his feet bare, the same half-full glass of wine from ten hours earlier in his hand. The hard bulge of his erection showed against his underwear.

He looked up at me from below. He didn’t ask anything.

I dropped my purse, took off my heels, and walked over. I knelt in front of him, between his legs, just as I had knelt eight hours earlier in front of another man.

“Tell me,” Tomás said in a broken voice. “Everything.”

I spoke with my mouth close to his. I told him how Nicolás had opened the door, how he had looked at me, how he had taken my dress off in the middle of the room. I told him I had knelt down, pulled his cock from his trousers, that it was thicker than his and I had struggled to take it all in. I told him I had sucked him all the way down, swallowed him until my eyes filled with tears.

Tomás was rock hard. I pulled his cock from his underwear and gripped it, not sucking him yet, squeezing him while I continued speaking.

I told him how Nicolás had eaten me for I didn’t know how long, how he had made me come twice with his tongue and fingers. I told him he had taken me from the front and then from behind, that there hadn’t been a single question or a single please. I told him he had slapped my ass. I told him he had threatened to put it in my other hole.

“Did you like it more than when I do it?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“It was different,” I replied. “He wasn’t afraid of hurting me. He treated me like a whore, Tomás.”

“And did you like it?”

“I loved it.”

I lowered my mouth to his cock and sucked it with my tongue still full of the words I had just told him. I licked him from his balls to the tip, took him all the way into my mouth, and sucked him the way I had sucked the other man. Tomás grabbed my hair and shoved himself down my throat.

“Did he come inside you?” he asked.

I took his cock out of my mouth just to answer.

“He came inside me. I still have him inside me.”

Tomás grabbed me by the nape and kissed me the way he hadn’t kissed me in years. He led me to the bedroom without letting go of my hand. He lay me on the bed, tore off my soaked red panties, and spread my legs with both hands. He stared at my swollen, glistening pussy, with the other man’s white stream still leaking from it.

He lowered his head without saying a word and licked me. He ate my pussy with another man’s cum still inside me. He licked me slowly, savoring it, moaning against me. He had never done that before; I had never asked him to; we had never gone so far. When he lifted his face, his mouth was shining, his chin sticky, his eyes like an animal’s.

“You taste like both of us,” he said.

He climbed on top of me and entered me without preamble, as the other man had, sliding in through how wet everything was. He thrust all the way in at once and tore a broken moan from me.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he ordered.

“You.”

“Tell me what you told him.”

“Take me and enjoy it.”

“Tell me now.”

“Take me and enjoy it, fuck, take me.”

He fucked me the way he hadn’t since the beginning, when everything was new. He pinned my hands above my head, nailed me to the bed, and thrust into me with his face buried in my neck, growling, biting me, marking me as though he had to erase the other man by forcing himself inside me. I moaned without stopping, my pussy overflowing with both of them, feeling used twice over and not wanting him to ever stop.

“Come inside me,” I begged him. “Mix with him. I want you both in there.”

He came with an animal groan, his face buried in my neck, muttering something I couldn’t understand. I came with him, again—the fourth time in one night—clenching around him, screaming in his ear that I was his, only his, always his.

He stayed inside me for a while, soft and slowly slipping out. When he finally withdrew, a warm stream spattered both our bellies. Neither of us did anything to clean it up.

We stayed wrapped in each other’s arms as dawn broke completely. He brushed the damp hair off my forehead.

“Would you do it again?” he asked.

It took me a while to answer. I thought of Nicolás, the suite, the money that would appear in an account tomorrow. I thought of my husband, this body he knew by heart, the twelve years we had spent writing our story together.

“If you ask me to,” I said.

Tomás laughed softly against my shoulder. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

We both knew the answer now.