My Wife Swears I Didn’t Leave the House That Night

I’ve gone three days without sleeping properly. It’s not because of the back pain, which has almost gone away now, or the violet bruise that appeared on the inside of my thigh and whose origin I can’t determine. It’s because of the question. The question I can’t bring myself to say out loud, not in front of my wife, not in front of my brother, not in front of the doctor they rushed me to that morning. The question that plants itself behind my eyelids every night when I turn out the light: did it happen or didn’t it?

I’m telling it here because I don’t know who else to tell. I’ve changed all the names. If any of the people who appear here ever read this and recognize themselves, I hope they’ll have the good taste not to say so out loud.

My name is Martín, I’m forty-one years old, and I’ve been married to Carolina for thirteen years. I work for a small logistics company and, for almost two years now, part of the team has traveled one Friday a month to a country house near Valencia to finalize orders with a supplier. Those trips started out as dinner, then became dinner with drinks, and from there turned into what anyone who has worked at a small company with a budget for alcohol can imagine.

The important thing is that last Friday I went on one of those trips. Carolina confirms that. My calendar confirms it. The gas charge on my card confirms it. Up to that point, there’s no doubt. What there’s no way to verify is what happened afterward.

***

The memory comes to me whole, without gaps, which is why it’s so hard for me to believe it was a dream. We arrived at the house on Friday at seven in the evening. There were six of us: three couples, really. The three women had planned to spend the weekend drinking wine and watching series while we “worked.” Carolina came with Patricia and Lorena, Rubén’s and Sergio’s wives, my coworkers’ partners. That’s why I remember everything in such detail: because she was there from the beginning; it wasn’t something I could have told her afterward.

We drank. That much is perfectly clear. We drank too much and too quickly. Around midnight, Rubén came out with a remark that changed the night. He said, laughing as if it were a joke, that he’d heard the girls had done something to the guys at Lorena’s bachelorette party—something “no man dares ask for.” He said it while looking at Carolina, and Carolina didn’t laugh. She rested her elbow on the table, lowered her voice, and replied that if we dared let them do whatever they decided, they had something they’d been preparing for months.

None of the three of us said no.

***

This is where my memory begins to behave strangely. I remember every detail, but as if I were remembering it from outside myself, as if it were a movie I’d seen when I was very young and that had stuck with me because of its perversity.

They sent us to separate showers. Rubén with Patricia. Sergio with Lorena. Me with Carolina. The shower lasted an eternity. Carolina undressed me slowly, biting my mouth, and when she had me under the hot stream, she knelt first, water running down the back of her neck, and took my entire cock into her mouth, down to her throat. She hadn’t sucked me like that since our first year together. She sucked me with one hand wrapped around my balls, pulling me out to lick the head with the tip of her tongue and plunging it back in until her eyes watered. She pulled it from her mouth with a wet sound, spat on it, and took it back in, smiling.

“Not yet,” she told me when she felt my thighs tense. “You’re not coming yet.”

She made me stand her up. She turned me against the tiles, made me kneel this time, and spread my legs with her foot. I felt her fingers, soaked in soap, slide down the crack of my ass, searching for me. She pushed one inside first, moving it in circles, and then another. She had never touched me there. Never. And she was doing it with the natural ease of a woman who knew what she was doing, as if she’d been practicing for months with her hand somewhere else.

“Hold on, Martín,” she said, pressed against my ear. “Hold on, because tonight you’re going to have to hold on a lot.”

She stood up. She turned my face toward her, grabbed my wet hair, and slapped my cock against my lips. I sucked it. I sucked my wife’s cock even though it wasn’t a cock, sucked the soap, sucked the fingers that had just been inside me. She looked down at me, mouth open, breathing over me. When she grabbed my cock again with her soapy hand and began pumping it quickly, I held out as long as I could, but I ended up coming against the tiles with a long moan that escaped my throat before I could swallow it. It shot out in streams, dripping down my stomach and thigh, and Carolina gathered it with her finger and put it on my tongue.

“This is so you can hold out later,” she whispered as she dried me with the towel. “Because afterward, you won’t have any choice but to hold out.”

We went down to a room I didn’t remember seeing when we arrived. The three women were dressed in black: leather, corsets, knee-high boots, and lipstick of a red so dark it was almost brown. Patricia was holding a riding crop, and it wasn’t a toy.

They made us put on what they had prepared. They gave Rubén a red lace bodysuit, red stockings, and low shoes. They gave Sergio a tight black satin dress, with a neckline plunging to his navel and stiletto heels I didn’t understand how he managed to stand in. They put me in white panties, white garters, white stockings, and a white padded corset. They sat me in front of the vanity, and Lorena did my makeup: mascara, soft eyeshadow, lipstick that wasn’t too garish. When she finished and told me to look, I didn’t quite recognize myself. But instead of wanting to tear the clothes off, I liked it. That’s what I have the hardest time dealing with. That I liked it. And that I felt my cock swelling inside the white panties until it poked out over the top of the fabric.

“From now on, none of you three has a man’s name,” Patricia said from the doorway. “You”—she pointed at me—“are Victoria. Get used to it.”

***

At two in the morning, the doorbell rang. Two men arrived whom I had never seen in my life. Carolina welcomed them as if they were guests at a company party. One was named Adrián, in his early forties, coldly handsome, with a rectangular smile. The other was named Fernando, older, in his late fifties, with a look that already knew what was going to happen before it happened. Patricia told Adrián that he knew the house, and Adrián laughed.

I sat down beside Fernando. Almost without meaning to. We drank bourbon on the rocks. We talked about Atlético, the absurd price of apartments downtown, and a series none of us had watched all the way through. Meanwhile, Fernando’s hand had traveled up my thigh, beneath the little skirt of the corset, and was squeezing my balls with a calmness that left me unable to breathe.

“What’s your name?” he asked me.

“Martín,” I answered before I could think.

“Not tonight,” Patricia corrected from behind me, the riding crop resting on her shoulder. “Tonight she’s Victoria.”

Fernando forced me to correct myself. He asked me again, his hand still between my legs, and I told him my name was Victoria. I said it without my voice shaking. That’s what’s hardest for me to admit when I go back over the memory: it wasn’t difficult to say. Fernando pulled my panties aside with two fingers, drew my hard cock out to one side, and slowly spat into his palm before taking hold of it.

“Look at yourself, Victoria,” he said, masturbating me in front of everyone. “A perfectly made little slut, with the hardest cock of any man in this room.”

Across the room, Adrián already had Rubén on his knees. Rubén, his red bodysuit bitten at the collar, had Adrián’s cock shoved deep into his mouth and was choking on it, eyes watering, hands gripping Adrián’s thighs to keep from falling. Patricia struck him on the ass with the riding crop, a dry snap every few seconds, and with each blow Rubén moaned around the cock in his mouth while Adrián pushed it deeper. Sergio, on the sofa, had his legs spread, the black dress hiked to his waist, while Lorena, between his thighs, sucked his balls and licked his cock at the same time as she pushed two fingers into him from behind.

Fernando made me stand. He brought me to the center of the room. He knelt me in front of him and pulled his cock from his trousers. It was thick, thicker than it was long, with a red head and a clear drop hanging from the tip. He grabbed my hair, rubbed it over my painted lips, and said:

“Open your mouth, Victoria.”

I opened it. He pushed it all the way in without warning, until I felt the head strike my throat. I gagged, tears sprang to my eyes, and my mascara ran. He pulled back, let me breathe, and shoved it in again. He fucked my mouth with both hands on my head, setting a rhythm that left me unable to think. Every time he pulled out, a strand of drool and spit fell from my chin onto the white corset. Carolina, leaning against the wall, ran her tongue over her lip and watched me the way you watch a movie you like.

“Swallow,” Fernando ordered when he pushed his cock to the back of my throat again. “Swallow it down to the balls, Victoria.”

I obeyed him. In two minutes, I learned to breathe through my nose, relax my throat, and let it settle inside me. I felt his balls striking my chin and his pubic hair against my nose. When he let me go, my face was soaked and my lips swollen. I looked at myself in the reflection of the glass display cabinet, and the person I saw there wasn’t Martín. She was Victoria, her makeup smeared from sucking a stranger’s cock in the parlor of a country house.

***

We went upstairs to a bedroom with an enormous bed and a full-length mirror attached to the wall of the wardrobe. I remember the rest in fragments, but the fragments are sharp. Adrián naked, lying on his back, with Rubén sitting on his cock, facing away from him, riding him in bouncing motions with the red bodysuit still on and his stockings lowered to his knees, while Adrián held his hips and forced him downward whenever Rubén tried to rise. Sergio lying in one corner of the mattress, the black dress ripped open across his chest, with Patricia straddling him and moving slowly on his cock while slapping his chest with her open palm and pinching his nipples until they were red. Carolina leaning against the doorframe, still dressed in leather, with her hand buried inside Lorena to the knuckle, moving it while biting her neck, and Lorena, her panties down around one ankle, spreading her legs wider and moaning against Carolina’s mouth.

Fernando laid me face down on the bed first. He tore off my white panties in one pull, and I heard them rip. He spread my cheeks with both hands, bent down, and ran his entire tongue over my ass. No one had ever done that to me. I screamed. I screamed into the pillow and grabbed the sheets with both hands. He pushed his tongue inside me slowly, wetting me, making circles, sucking me, spitting over me. Then came the fingers: one, two, and finally three, thoroughly soaked in saliva and a cold lubricant he took from the bedside drawer as if he had known beforehand where it was.

“Get on all fours,” he ordered. “In front of the mirror.”

I knelt in front of the large mirror. He grabbed me by my tied-back hair and forced me to look at myself. The face of the woman in the mirror, with smeared mascara and her mouth hanging open, wasn’t my face. But it was my face too. And I, somewhere inside myself, was telling Fernando to keep going, harder, not to stop until he left my back useless for a week.

He entered me slowly. I remember that well, because it surprised me: he didn’t drive it in all at once, as I had expected. He rested the tip against my lubricated hole, waited for me to breathe, pushed and eased off, pushed and eased off, until the head slipped inside with a tug that left me breathless. He stayed still there. Then he pushed a little farther. A little more. I felt him opening me from within, felt a body that had never been there settling inside me, and when I finally felt his balls pressed against me, he let out a long sigh and remained still for one whole second, looking into my eyes through the mirror.

“Take a good look at yourself, Victoria,” he said. “A stranger’s cock buried all the way inside you. And look at your face. You’re drooling.”

It was true. Drool ran from the corner of my mouth. I didn’t have the strength to close it. He began to move with a slow rhythm that gradually accelerated. Each thrust drove him all the way in and pulled him all the way out, and every time he withdrew, I felt my ass remain open for a second before clenching around him again. The bed moved. The springs squeaked. I moaned as I had never moaned before, in a voice that wasn’t mine, high and broken, begging him not to stop. Begging with the word cock. With the word fuck. With words Martín had never said out loud.

“Tell me your name,” Fernando ordered, thrusting harder.

“Victoria,” I answered.

“Louder.”

“Victoria!”

“And what are you, Victoria?”

“A slut,” I said, and I said it myself, without anyone having to prise it out of me. “Your slut.”

He grabbed my hips and began fucking me at a pace that wouldn’t even let me finish my moans. The slap of his thighs against my ass made a continuous, wet, brutal sound. My cock was hard, hanging between my legs, swaying with every thrust, leaking precum that fell in drops onto the wooden floor. No one was touching it. No one had touched it since Fernando began. And I felt myself coming. I felt everything tense, felt my ass tighten on its own around him, felt my balls draw up, and I came without hands, in thick spurts that splashed across the wooden floor and stained the insides of my white stockings along my thighs. I came moaning the name of a woman who was me.

Fernando didn’t stop. He kept thrusting, harder now, taking advantage of how weak I was, until I heard him grunt at the nape of my neck and felt him plunge all the way in and stay there, trembling, emptying himself inside me in hot spurts that I felt one by one. He leaned over the back of my neck, still inside me, and whispered in my ear:

“I want to see you again, Victoria. Tell your wife to invite me back.”

When he pulled out, I felt what he had left inside me run down my thigh. I stayed on my knees, my face pressed against the mirror, breathing through my mouth, unable to move one leg.

***

Later, at some point I can no longer place, the girls brought three bottles of champagne and eight glasses. There were toasts. There was more bourbon. There was a circle on the floor, all of us naked, all sitting down, passing the bottles and talking as if we were old friends. I remember Carolina sitting between Fernando and me. I remember how she kissed my forehead the way she does when I come home from work. I remember the taste of champagne on her lips. I remember her bending down and licking the dried come from my thigh with the ease of someone cleaning a stain off a tablecloth.

I remember Lorena climbing on top of me. She sat down slowly, guiding my cock with her hand, until she took it all in one sitting and stayed still for a second, mouth open. She began moving calmly, hands braced against my chest, rocking back and forth, and my whole body tensed when I felt her squeezing me inside her. Fernando stood behind her, his cock hard as a hammer once again, and spread her cheeks with both hands. He spat on her. He slowly pushed himself into her ass while Lorena let herself fall onto my chest, moaning into my mouth, biting my lip. And then I felt it. I felt Fernando’s cock entering Lorena through an incredibly thin wall of flesh, pushing her against mine, brushing against me through her every time he thrust. Lorena was between us, crushed, moaning with her face pressed against mine, and when Fernando sped up, we both felt her whole body tremble. Carolina’s hand slipped underneath, searched for my balls, searched for Fernando’s balls, and squeezed both of us at once.

Lorena came first, screaming in my ear, squeezing me so tightly inside her that I came right afterward, unable to hold back, emptying myself inside her in spasms, while Fernando finished with a grunt against the back of her neck, his left hand still gripping one of my balls. The three of us stayed joined for a while, panting, unable to move, with Carolina looking down at us and drinking champagne straight from the bottle.

After that, I don’t remember anything else.

***

I woke up in my bed. In my bed, in my house, ninety kilometers from the house near Valencia.

The sheets were wet. My stomach was covered in dried semen, and there was a bite on the back of my neck that showed when I ran a finger over it. My whole body hurt, especially down below, in a way that couldn’t be explained by drunkenly jerking off against a pillow. I had the violet bruise on my thigh and another smaller one, almost black, on my right hip. When I went to the bathroom, I felt an internal burning that I recognized without wanting to recognize it: the burning of having had a cock inside me, really inside me, for a long time. When I wiped myself, the paper came away with a clear, thick trace that wasn’t mine.

Carolina came in with a coffee and an expression I had never seen on her face before.

“Finally awake,” she said. “What a night.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” I replied, and I said it with a smile because I thought it was part of the game. “It was spectacular. Fernando is a beast.”

Carolina set the cup down on the bedside table very slowly. She set it down the way you set down something that could break.

“What was spectacular, Martín?”

I began telling her. I told her about Patricia, Lorena, Rubén, Sergio, Adrián, and Fernando. I told her about the white corset and Victoria. I told her about the house near Valencia, the riding crop, the bedroom with the mirror. The more I talked, the more the color drained from her face.

“Martín,” she said, gripping my hands tightly. “Last night you got home at eleven fifteen after dinner with the people from the office. You came home alone. You didn’t go anywhere. We haven’t set foot in Valencia for three months. I don’t know any Patricia. I don’t know any Adrián. I went to sleep in the other room because you came home disgusting and I couldn’t stand being around you, but I never left here. The people from work are named Gerardo, Beatriz, Tomás, and Hugo. Are you listening to me?”

I was listening. I was listening perfectly. But I also remembered the smell of Patricia’s leather and the weight of Fernando’s balls in my hand. The taste of his come at the back of my throat.

***

My brother came to get me. He took me to a hospital where he had a doctor friend. They drew blood, asked me twenty times whether I had taken anything, and twenty times I told them no. The tests came back clean. Residual alcohol, nothing more. No GHB, no ketamine, nothing to justify what I had inside my head.

When I returned home that afternoon, Carolina had changed the sheets. She was in the kitchen, her back turned, washing a cup I hadn’t used that morning.

I went upstairs to change. And before going in, almost without thinking, I looked through the hallway window, the one overlooking the apartment complex parking lot. There, opening the passenger door of Carolina’s car, was a man.

It was Sergio. Lorena’s husband. My coworker on the trip. The man who, the night before, dressed as a woman with a black satin dress hiked to his waist, had been in that enormous bed with me.

Our eyes met for a second. He smiled. He raised his hand and waved at me. Then he got into the car.

***

I went downstairs. I asked Carolina who the man in the parking lot was. She told me he was no one, that I must have mistaken a new neighbor who had parked in the wrong space, that she hadn’t even gone out.

I didn’t press her. I’m not going to press her anymore. I’ve spent three days turning it over in my mind, and I’ve reached a conclusion I don’t know is the right one or merely the one that lets me sleep for a couple of hours at a time: either the entire night was real and Carolina has decided it wasn’t, or none of the night was real and Carolina has been seeing Sergio for some time, and my mind inserted him into an impossible orgy so I wouldn’t have to look at what was really happening.

Neither option reflects well on me.

That’s why I’m writing it here. In case anyone reading this has experienced something similar and can tell me, hand on heart, whether it’s possible to remember something that never happened. Because when I close my eyes, I can still see myself in that mirror, mascara running and mouth open, feeling Fernando’s hand gripping my hair and his cock opening me from the inside.

And Carolina, standing in the doorway, smiling at me the way she never smiled at me in thirteen years.