The Building Manager Who Changed My Nights

I’m going to tell this without filters, because if I edit it I’ll end up not believing it myself. I’m still married, I still am on paper and in my husband’s eyes, but for several months now I’ve been carrying a secret that gets me wet between the legs every time I close my eyes on the bus. I’m seated there, purse in my lap, and without meaning to I squeeze my thighs and feel my panties stick to me, feel my cunt throb on its own, feel my nipples harden under my blouse. And all because I remembered a woman.

Before we moved to the house we have now, I lived for a little over a year in an old downtown building. Three floors, a narrow staircase, cold tiles, and a building manager named Mariana. Thirty-two years old, hair always loose, nails painted dark red, and a way of looking at women that seemed like a greeting and a question at the same time.

Mariana didn’t flirt with the men in the building. She dealt with them efficiently, signed their receipts, held onto their packages, and spoke to them as little as possible. With the women, though, it was different. She lingered a second too long on the greeting, touched your elbow when she explained something, ran her eyes over your body as if she were reading a menu.

“How you doing today, gorgeous?” she’d say every morning, leaning on the frame of her door.

And I, coming back from the market with two heavy bags, would smile at her like an idiot.

At first it was that kind of game a woman allows herself because she knows nothing’s going to happen. I was a married woman, with two little girls, with a good husband who came home tired from work and fell asleep before eleven. Mariana was the manager, a stranger with a ring of keys. Between us there was an entire universe of things we were never going to do.

Or so I thought.

It started with the bags. Every time she saw me loaded down, she’d come running, snatch them out of my hands, and climb the three floors with me. She’d do it pressed up against me, brushing my shoulder, my arm, my hip. On the last curve of the stairs, where nobody could see us, she’d put her hand on my waist to “help me not slip.” Her palm always slid a little lower than necessary. Until one afternoon she covered my whole ass and squeezed it like she was measuring me.

“You’ve got a gorgeous ass, I’m serious,” she murmured near my ear. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you wear underwear. I’d have you walking around all day with your cunt out inside your pants, so I could stick my fingers in whenever I felt like it.”

I laughed, nervous. I didn’t answer. But that night, while my husband snored, I pulled my panties down under the sheets and touched myself thinking of her hand. I imagined it sliding between my butt cheeks, squeezing me, opening me. I came with my face buried in the pillow, so hard my vision went blurry.

After that day, things escalated fast. Mariana would pull my pants down when we climbed the stairs, supposedly to “admire the model” of the thong I had on. If I wore a dress, she’d lift it for a second, just enough to let out a theatrical sigh. I never asked her to stop. I also never told her to keep going. I let her do it like someone closing their eyes on a roller coaster.

This is nothing, I told myself. These games don’t count.

Of course they counted.

***

The night what was going to happen eventually happened, it was eight o’clock. My husband had taken the girls to my mother-in-law’s place and I was coming back alone from a work meeting, with that light-headed feeling two badly measured glasses of wine give you. I stuck my hand in my purse to look for my keys and they weren’t there. I’d left them on the kitchen table that morning. I remembered it in the exact second my fingers touched the empty lining.

I went down to the first floor and knocked on Mariana’s door.

“Sorry, I left my keys upstairs. Do you have the spare?”

She looked me up and down slowly. She was wearing a black tank top with no bra and short cotton shorts. The yellow hallway light outlined everything: the hard nipples under the fabric, the line of her pubic mound against the shorts.

“I do,” she said. “I’ll go up with you.”

We went up in silence. I walked ahead, she behind me, and I could feel her gaze nailed to my back like a finger. On the landing of the second floor, she grabbed my wrist and made me turn.

“Wait.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I wanted to see your face.”

She held my gaze for three seconds longer than normal. Then she let go of my wrist and kept going up as if nothing had happened.

When we reached my door, she took out the key ring, found the copy, and put it in the lock. But before turning the key, she turned to me.

“Want me to come in with you? Just in case someone’s there.”

“Nobody’s there.”

“Just in case.”

She opened the door, gave me a gentle push in the back, and came in behind me. I still had my purse hanging from my shoulder when I heard the bolt close. I turned around and there was Mariana, leaning against the door, with the smile of someone who’d been waiting for months.

“And now what?” I asked, and my voice came out lower than I expected.

“And now let me do what I’ve been wanting to do since the first time I saw you. Let me eat your cunt until your legs give out.”

She walked toward me, took my face in both hands, and kissed me. It wasn’t a shy or tentative kiss. It was a kiss with tongue, with teeth, with plans. She sucked my bottom lip until I moaned, shoved her tongue all the way into my mouth, and bit it slowly, tasting me. She pressed me against the hallway wall and slid her thigh between my legs. I felt the heat of her leg through my pants and, without realizing it, started grinding against her, rubbing my cunt against her thigh like a bitch in heat.

“Look at you,” she whispered in my ear. “You’re already soaking my shorts and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

She shoved her hand inside my pants, no permission, no preamble. Her fingers found my soaked thong and pushed it aside. She touched my clit with the pad of her middle finger, two slow circles, and I let out a gasp so sharp it startled me. She shoved two fingers in at once, to the knuckles, and pulled them out shining.

“Suck,” she said, putting them in my mouth.

I sucked my own juices like an obedient little girl. I tasted myself on her skin, salty, thick, acidic, and I couldn’t believe how arousing that was.

Don’t think about it, I told myself. If you think about it, you’ll stop.

And I didn’t want to stop.

She dragged me toward the bedroom. The bedroom where I slept with my husband, with the bed made and the girls’ photo on the nightstand. That should have stopped me. It should have been a warning. But it was the opposite: the family room, the smell of my normal life, made everything that was happening feel a hundred times more forbidden and a hundred times more exciting.

“Take everything off except the thong,” she ordered, while yanking off her tank top.

She had nothing on underneath. Small breasts, dark big nipples, hard as stones, an old scar over her navel. I stared at her as if I had never seen another woman’s body, and in a way I hadn’t: not like this, not to touch it, not to bite it, not to lick it.

I took off my blouse, bra, and pants. I was left in a black lace thong my husband had given me for an anniversary and almost never saw, because I kept it for “special occasions.” That night, the special occasion was something else.

Mariana took hers off too: a little red panty, almost childish, contrasting with everything else about her. The crotch had a dark, round, obvious wet spot.

“We’re not taking them off,” she said, pushing me onto the bed. “I like it better like this. Fucking you with your thong pushed aside is sluttier.”

***

She threw me onto my back on the quilt of my marital home and climbed on top of me. She started with my mouth again, eating my lips, but soon went down to my neck, licked behind my ear, bit my shoulder. She sucked my nipples one by one, first softly, then rolling them between her teeth until I arched my back from the delicious pain it gave me. She ran her tongue between my tits, went down my sternum, put her tongue in my navel, and kept going lower.

When she reached the elastic of the thong, she stopped. She looked at me from down there, eyes shining, and smiled.

“Look at me while I pull it aside.”

She hooked the lace with one finger and moved it to the side. My cunt was left exposed, shiny, swollen, lips parted with desire. She opened me with two fingers, blew gently, and I trembled all over. Then she lowered her face and licked me from bottom to top, long and slowly, holding my hips so I couldn’t get away. Her tongue slipped between my lips, climbed to my clit, circled it, sucked it, left it, went back down. She repeated the same circuit over and over until I was so wet I could hear it, that wet, obscene sound of a mouth eating someone else’s cunt in my husband’s bed.

I bit my palm so I wouldn’t scream, because even though no one was home, screaming embarrassed me.

“Don’t hold back,” she said, lifting her face, her mouth shining with me. “I want to hear you. I want you to scream like a guy’s fucking you. Better yet, I want you to scream things you never screamed at him.”

But I couldn’t. Not the first time. What I could do was ask her for more, in whispers, with my face buried in my husband’s pillow. More, more, don’t stop, there, there. She slid two fingers into me while still sucking my clit, curling them upward, and found a spot that made my vision go dark. She finger-fucked me, in and out, faster and faster, while her tongue never let me go. I felt something huge coming over me, impossible to hold back, and I came shaking, crushing her head between my thighs, soaking her face.

She kept licking while I trembled, swallowing everything that came out in a rush.

“Tasty,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re tasty inside. I was right.”

Then it was my turn. She told me to get on top, that it was the only way I was going to learn. I rode her as best I could, with my knees on either side of her face, and she grabbed my ass cheeks and lowered me onto her mouth. But before I let her lick me, I looked down at her cunt from above: her red panties had slipped down on their own, she had a little triangle of black hair on her mound, big dark lips, parted, gleaming with juice. I had never had another cunt in front of my face in my life. And suddenly I wanted the whole thing in my mouth.

I lowered my head and gave her the first lick like someone trying something unknown. She tasted of metal, of sea, of hot skin. I ran my tongue flat from bottom to top, the way she’d done to me, and felt her thighs tighten at the sides of my head. I found her clit with the tip of my tongue, found it standing up, tiny and hard, and started sucking it with hunger, not knowing whether I was doing it right but hungry for more. I slid one finger in, first one, then two. She was so wet they went in effortlessly.

“Like that, like that, don’t stop,” she panted above me, pressing my head into her crotch. “Put them all the way in. Finger-fuck my pussy while you’re licking me.”

I returned the favor with my tongue and fingers, copying what she had done to me, adding things as they came to mind. I didn’t know if I was doing it well, but from the way she pressed my head into her crotch and the hoarse moans that came out of her, I figured I couldn’t be too far off. She came with her arms wrapped around my legs, squeezing me so hard I could barely breathe, and flooded my mouth with a warm, thick flow that I swallowed without thinking.

At one point she got up, went to her bag — I don’t remember when she’d brought it to the bedroom — and took out a purple silicone vibrator. She set it on the nightstand like someone leaving a spare key.

“We brought it just in case,” she said, smiling.

“We brought it?”

“Me and my desire.”

She used it on me first, lying down. She spread my legs, moistened the tip of the toy with her tongue, and slid it into me slowly, looking at my face as it went in. It was thick, thicker than my husband, and stretched me in a way that made me moan involuntarily. She started moving it inside me while sucking my tits, and with her free hand she gave my cunt soft little smacks, a tap tap that made me jump. Then she turned it on. The buzzing filled the room. She pressed it to my clit while twisting the handle, searching for the exact angle, and I came a second time in less than an hour, finally screaming, screaming hard, screaming her name.

Then she put me on top of her. She wedged the vibrator between us, one end inside me, the other inside her, and made me ride her. Our cunts bumped with each thrust, the toy moving between us, our breasts bouncing, her mouth glued to mine. She turned on music from her cell phone, some old, slow reggaeton that pulsed just like we did. I wasn’t the kind of person who listened to that music. That night I was. I moved to the beat, up and down, holding onto her tits so I wouldn’t lose my balance, while she pinched my nipples and whispered filthy things in my ear.

“That’s it, slut, fuck me with the machine, fuck yourself with me, come on, you’re going to come again, feel how I give it to you, feel how it fills you.”

I came a third time, wrecked, and collapsed on top of her, soaked in sweat and fluids.

***

We finished at five in the morning. Both of us sweaty, with fingerprints and bite marks in places you can’t see with clothes on. The sheets were a disaster: dark stains in the middle, wrinkled down to the mattress, smelling like sex everywhere. Mariana got dressed, kissed my shoulder, and told me to sleep. Before closing the door, she turned around.

“Tomorrow it’s your turn to come up. Come get the keys you forgot.”

I hadn’t forgotten any keys. They were on the kitchen table, exactly where I’d left them in the morning. But the next day, at eight at night, I went down to her door.

And the next. And the next.

***

For months, whenever my husband was traveling or the girls slept at their grandmother’s, Mariana came up to my bed. Always to ours, never to the couch or the kitchen. She said she liked imagining I was the one who had officially invited her, that she was occupying a borrowed place. I liked that idea too, even though I felt guilty thinking about it the next morning, when I changed the sheets in a hurry before my family arrived.

She bought me lingerie. String thongs, panties with bows, lace sets no man would ever have bought me. I modeled them for her in my own bedroom, in front of the closet mirror, while she watched from the bed, a cigarette between her fingers that she never actually lit.

“Turn around,” she’d say. “Lean over. Now lower your head. Open your ass cheeks with your hands. Like that. That’s how I like you.”

And I obeyed, as if that part of me had always known how to obey and had only now found whom to obey. When she had me spread open wide, she’d come up behind me, spit between my ass cheeks, and put her tongue in my ass while she finger-fucked my cunt with three fingers. I’d end up with my face against the mirror, leaving breath marks, coming standing up with my legs shaking.

***

We moved a couple of months ago. The new house is twenty blocks from the old building. My husband thinks I left the neighborhood, the noise, the nosy manager behind. He doesn’t know Mariana has my new phone number, or that she visits me once a week when he goes to play soccer on Wednesdays.

The new bed isn’t as sturdy as the old one. It creaks. The first time I was afraid it would break, because Mariana showed up with a new harness, a black leather one with a thick dildo, and fucked me face down, pushing my face into the mattress. Every thrust made the bed jump and I gripped the headboard bars, moaning, biting my lip, feeling myself opened and filled with something that wasn’t my husband or his fingers or the vibrator. Mariana laughed and told me, between strokes, that I’d hold up, that beds always hold up more than a woman imagines, just like married women do. When she finished fucking me, she turned me over, took off the harness, and sat on my face so I’d make her come with my tongue. She came with my mouth pressed against her soaked pussy, both hands on the new headboard, moaning so loudly the neighbors must have heard.

I don’t know how long this is going to last. Sometimes I promise myself I’ll stop, I block her number for a day and unblock it at night. Other times I fantasize about telling my husband everything, not to ask for forgiveness but to see the look on his face. Most of the time, though, I don’t fantasize about anything. I wait for Wednesday. I put clean sheets on. I shower. I shave everything. I put on the thong she gave me last time and touch myself a little before she arrives, to have it ready, so that the second she walks through the door she can get on her knees and put her tongue in me without asking.

I adore being an unfaithful woman. I say it with all the letters and without apologizing. I adore the double life, the Thursday guilt, the stupid Thursday-night smile when my husband touches me and I let myself be touched thinking of someone else, of another woman’s mouth on my cunt, of another woman’s fingers in my ass, of another woman’s voice calling me a slut in my ear. I adore knowing that my body has a place to return to and another place to run to.

And if Mariana ever stops climbing the stairs, I’ll look for someone else. There’s no going back from here.