The Proposal My Husband Wanted Me to Accept

The envelope arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, just as I was about to close up the office.

I’ve been working at the same luxury interior-design firm for twelve years, and in that time I’ve learned to read people by their objects. The upholstery they choose, the weight of the paper they use, the handwriting with which they sign their contracts. So when the receptionist brought me that letter, I knew before opening it that it came from someone accustomed to getting what he wanted.

There was no return address. Only my name, handwritten in fountain pen. The script was precise, slanting to the right, without a single hesitation.

I waited until I was alone in my office before breaking the burgundy wax seal.

“Mrs. Montero: my son Rodrigo has expressed a particular interest in meeting you in a more private setting. I would like to offer you an evening with him, with the discretion and financial compensation befitting a woman of your position. If you are interested, reply to this number before Thursday. Sincerely, Enrique Salas.”

I knew the name. Enrique Salas was the man behind several five-star hotels on the coast and two resorts in the islands. His son Rodrigo appeared from time to time in the society pages: thirty years old, square-jawed, with the smile of someone who had never needed to ask for anything twice.

I folded the letter carefully and put it in my purse. I turned back to my screen, pretended to work for twenty minutes, and ended up leaving earlier than usual.

The drive home was strange. Not uncomfortable, just strange, like when I was a child and found a banknote on the ground and didn’t know whether to keep it or look for its owner. I’m thirty-eight years old, with a solid marriage to Pablo, an emergency-room doctor, with whom I’ve spent eleven years sharing the same bed, the same sofa, and more arguments about whose turn it is to take out the trash than about anything else. I’m not unhappy. But that letter had opened something in my chest that I hadn’t known was closed. And lower than my chest too, in a place that hadn’t asked for anything out loud in months.

Pablo was in the kitchen when I arrived, wearing an apron and holding a wooden spoon, stirring something that smelled of garlic and red wine. I left my purse on the counter, took out the letter, and placed it on the table without saying a word.

He read it. I watched him.

There was no jealousy. No outrage either. Just a long pause, that silence of his I know so well, until Pablo calmly folded the paper and left it where it was.

“Well?” I asked.

“Well what?” he said, looking at me with that expression of his, like a doctor who has just read a result and already made a decision.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Pablo rested the spoon on the rim of the pot and came closer. He took me by the waist with both hands, as he always does, and looked at me from very close by.

“I think you should go,” he said.

I felt the floor shift an inch beneath my feet.

“What?”

“I’ve thought about a lot of things in the last two minutes,” he continued, with a calm that bewildered me. “And none of them is that you shouldn’t go.”

We ended up eating dinner almost in silence. It wasn’t a tense silence, but the silence of two people processing something at the same time. While we cleaned up, our hands brushed more often than usual, as if the body knew before the mind what was happening.

That night, while we turned out the lights, Pablo explained quietly what he wanted. For me to go. To let that guy fuck me without restraint or apologies, as much as I wanted. And to come home and tell him everything, word for word, without sparing myself a single filthy detail, lying beside him in that same bed.

“Why?” I asked him in the darkness.

“Because I trust you,” he said. “And because you haven’t been entirely yourself for a while. And because, fuck, it turns me on. Imagining you with someone else turns me on like an animal, did you know that?”

I hadn’t known. I turned toward him in the darkness and slipped my hand inside his pajama pants without saying anything. He was hard as a rock, throbbing against my palm. A moan escaped him when I closed my fingers around his cock and began moving them slowly, up and down, feeling the skin tighten and a drop escape from the tip.

“You’re soaked,” I murmured against his ear. “Just from thinking about it.”

“Just from thinking about it,” he repeated in a broken voice.

I pulled his pants down to mid-thigh and slid beneath the sheets. I took his cock all the way into my mouth, until the tip touched my throat, and he let out a growl I hadn’t heard from him in months. I sucked him slowly, using my whole tongue, letting the thread of saliva run down over his balls. I licked him from top to bottom, sucked the tip with my lips closed, and when I had him on the edge, I pulled him from my mouth and climbed on top. I was so wet that he slid inside in a single thrust, and a long moan escaped me when I felt him reach all the way in.

“Come inside me,” I told him, riding him with my hands braced on his chest. “Come while you’re thinking about him. Think about him fucking me while you come.”

Pablo gripped my hips and thrust up from below, seeking the deepest point, and he couldn’t hold out for another minute. He came with a muffled roar, spilling inside me, and I collapsed onto his chest, feeling his cock still twitching inside me.

I didn’t sleep well that night. But on Thursday morning, I replied to the number.

***

The suite was on the top floor of the most expensive hotel in the city.

It took me two hours to get ready, and not because I didn’t know what to wear, but because every garment I pulled from the closet forced me to ask myself a different question about who I was in all this. In the end I chose a burgundy crepe dress that reached my knees, with a V-neck and a back that was practically bare. Underneath, a black lace set I had bought that very afternoon without thinking too much about it. When I finished putting on my makeup, I looked at myself in the mirror longer than necessary.

In the hotel elevator, I looked at myself again in the mirrored door.

What are you doing, Sofía?

The answer came before I could look for it: exactly what I wanted to do.

I knocked on the door of 1204. Rodrigo Salas opened it in less than five seconds, as if he had been waiting right on the other side. He was taller than he looked in the magazine photos, with the kind of body that isn’t inherited but built, broad in the shoulders and narrow at the waist. He wore a navy-blue shirt without a tie, the first button undone.

“Sofía,” he said. Not “Mrs. Montero,” not “good evening.” Just my name, as if we had known each other for years.

“Rodrigo,” I replied.

He stepped aside and I went in.

The room smelled of wood and something citrusy, lemon perhaps. The lights were dimmed, enough to make the atmosphere intimate without becoming artificial. There was an open bottle of champagne on the nightstand, two glasses, and a view of the city that looked like a map of constellations from up there.

“Champagne?” he offered.

“Please.”

I remained standing beside the window while he poured. I wondered if I should say something, break the silence with some polite small talk. But Rodrigo approached with the glasses and looked at me in a way that made any courteous conversation unnecessary.

“My father told me you were brilliant,” he said, handing me the glass. “But he didn’t tell me you were like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this,” he repeated, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to my eyes.

I took a sip. The champagne was cold and dry, and I felt it slide slowly down my throat.

“Do you do this often? Have your father buy companionship for you?”

Rodrigo smiled. It wasn’t a defensive smile, but a genuine one, almost amused.

“Never. But when I told him I couldn’t get you out of my head, I suppose he took matters into his own hands.”

“And that seems normal to you?”

“What seems normal to me is that you’re here,” he said. “So maybe it doesn’t matter that much whether it’s normal or not.”

I set the glass on the windowsill. The space between us was becoming increasingly aware of itself.

I was the one who took the first step.

I kissed him slowly at first, exploring, gauging. Rodrigo responded with the same restraint, one hand on my cheek, the other still, as if he wanted to give me time. But when I deepened the kiss, he released something he had been holding in since I entered, and his hands found my waist and pulled me toward him with a force that left me breathless. His cock was already hard against my belly, outlined beneath his pants, and I rubbed my hips against it without the slightest embarrassment.

We barely separated.

“You’re the first person,” I murmured against his lips, “who waits for me to start.”

“I wanted to make sure you wanted it,” he said.

“I do. I want everything you can think of doing to me.”

Rodrigo led me toward the bed slowly, his hands following the line of my bare back. He found the zipper of the dress without having to search for it and pulled it down, and the burgundy fabric fell to the floor without resistance. He stepped back to look at me, standing in the middle of the room in black lace panties and bra, my nipples already hard and visible beneath the fabric.

“God,” he said, with a simplicity more arousing than any elaborate compliment. “Turn around.”

I turned slowly, letting him look. I felt his hands wrap around me from behind, moving up my stomach, finding my tits beneath the lace and squeezing them with a firmness that tore a moan from me. He pinched my nipples between his thumb and forefinger, and I let my head fall back against his shoulder.

“You must have one fine cunt beneath those panties,” he murmured against my neck. “I’ve been imagining it for three weeks.”

“Find out for yourself.”

His hand moved down my stomach, slipped beneath the lace, and found me already soaked. It drew a moan from him before it did from me. He ran two fingers along my slit, from top to bottom, coating them in my wetness, and then brought them to his mouth without taking his eyes off me over my shoulder.

“Fuck,” he said. “You taste like heaven.”

I turned, grabbed his shirt by the tails, and pulled it over his head without fully unbuttoning it. I undid his belt, lowered his pants to his knees, and gripped his cock through his boxers. It was enormous, hard, curving upward against his stomach. I pulled down his underwear and left him naked, then dropped to my knees on the carpet without giving him time to say anything.

I licked his entire cock from balls to tip in one long stroke, and he let out a restrained growl. I wrapped my hand around the base and took him into my mouth, first just the head, sucking it slowly, savoring the salty drop already beading at the tip. Then I swallowed him farther and farther until I felt the glans pressing against my throat.

“Shit, Sofía,” he gasped, both hands buried in my hair without quite pushing. “Like that, fuck, like that.”

I sucked his cock eagerly, moving my head up and down at a steady rhythm, letting saliva spill over him and drip onto his balls. I sucked his balls one by one while giving him a slow hand job with the hand coated in my wetness. When I took him into my mouth again, I did it while looking him in the eyes, and he let out a tight “I’m going to come” through clenched teeth.

I pulled away. Not like that, not yet.

“To the bed,” I said.

He laid me across the coverlet and tore off my panties in one clean motion. He spread my legs himself, both hands on the insides of my thighs, and bent down between them. The first sweep of his tongue tore a moan from me so loud it must have carried into the hallway. He licked my cunt from top to bottom, his tongue flat, unhurried, savoring me. He sucked my lips one by one, pushed his tongue inside as deeply as he could, then moved up to my clitoris and stayed there, drawing precise circles with the tip of his tongue while he slid two fingers inside me and curled them upward, searching for the exact spot.

“There,” I said in a broken voice. “Right there, don’t stop.”

And he didn’t stop. He worked me as if he had spent years studying how to make me come. His fingers moved in and out with an obscene squelch, finding that place inside me again and again, while his tongue never left my clitoris for even a second. I clutched his hair with both hands and arched my back off the bed. I felt the orgasm rise from the soles of my feet, gather in my stomach, and explode, and I screamed without any control as my hips bucked against his mouth. Rodrigo didn’t let me go. He kept licking me throughout the trembling, drawing it out, until I had to push his head away because I couldn’t take any more.

“Wait, wait,” I gasped. “Too much.”

He came up with his mouth shining with my release and kissed me, passing my own taste across my tongue. I pushed him away and rolled him onto his back.

“Your turn,” I said, straddling him.

I took his cock, positioned it at my entrance, and lowered myself onto it very slowly, inch by inch, letting him stretch me open. I closed my eyes. He was thick, thicker than I was used to, and filled me in a way that made me let out a sharp breath when I finally sat down, his entire cock inside me, his balls resting against my ass.

“My God,” I murmured. “You’re all the way inside.”

“You’re so tight,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m going to last two minutes like this.”

“Hold it.”

I began to move. At first slowly, rolling my hips, letting his cock rub against me without pulling all the way out. Then I lifted myself higher and began to ride him in earnest, bracing my hands on his chest, letting my tits bounce in front of his face. Rodrigo watched me with his mouth open, his hands gripping my hips, helping me fall harder each time.

“Suck my tits,” I asked, leaning over him.

He took one nipple into his mouth and bit it with his lips, tugging slightly. I gripped the back of his neck and pressed him against me while I continued riding him. The sound of skin striking skin filled the room, and beneath it, the wet squelch of his cock sliding in and out of my drenched cunt.

“Get on all fours,” he said, his voice reduced to a growl. “I need to fuck you like that.”

I climbed off him and got onto my knees on the bed, my face against the pillow and my ass raised. Rodrigo positioned himself behind me, grabbed my hips, and sank into me in one full thrust. I screamed into the pillow. He began fucking me hard, driving all the way in each time, and a moan escaped me with every impact.

“Yes, fuck,” I gasped. “Fuck me like that, hard.”

“Do you like it like this, Sofía? Do you like me shoving it all the way up inside you?”

“I love it, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He grabbed my hair, not violently but firmly, and pulled my head back a little. He put his other hand on my ass and slapped me, the sound ringing through the room. It tore a sharp moan from me that surprised even me.

“Again,” I murmured.

He slapped me again, and again, alternating between my ass and his thrusts, and I was beside myself. He dipped his thumb into my own wetness and ran it over my other hole, barely pressing, drawing a circle. He didn’t put it in, just stayed there, and that threat alone almost made me come again.

“On your back,” he said, pulling out of me.

He turned me over and laid me on my back. He took one ankle and rested it on his shoulder, opened my other thigh, and entered me again. In that position he reached even deeper. I could see his face, the muscles of his chest tense, sweat shining on his forehead, and he could see me, my tits bouncing with every thrust and my mouth open as I searched for air.

“Touch yourself,” he said. “I want to watch you touch yourself while I fuck you.”

I lowered my hand and found my clitoris. I began rubbing it in quick circles, and with him inside me at that pace, I didn’t last more than a minute. The second orgasm hit me hard. I felt my cunt clench in spasms around his cock, squeezing him from inside, and he let out a long moan when he felt it.

“I’m going to come,” he gasped. “Where do you want it?”

“With you,” I said. “Inside. Come inside me.”

Rodrigo drove into me the last few times and surrendered at the same time, his forehead pressed to mine, trembling, and I felt his cock throb inside me as he filled me in hot waves. At last he lay still, breathing against my neck.

We stayed silent for a while, the white ceiling above us and the city blinking beyond the window. When he pulled out of me, I felt his come run between my thighs, warm, and I didn’t bother cleaning it off right away. Then he got up, went to the bathroom, and returned with a towel. Neither of us said anything momentous. It wasn’t necessary.

***

At two in the morning I called a taxi from the hotel reception desk.

On the way home, with the city still outside and the cold leather seat against my back, I thought about Pablo. Not with guilt, but with something like anticipation. Something new and old at the same time. I still had some of Rodrigo’s come inside me, could feel the dampness sticking my panties to my cunt, and just thinking about getting into bed with Pablo like that made my pulse race.

The house lights were on when I arrived.

Pablo wasn’t asleep. He was lying on our bed with the bedside lamp on and a closed book on his chest, staring at the ceiling. When I entered, he sat up slowly and looked at me in that direct way of his, without intermediaries.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Very fine?”

I smiled.

“Very fine.”

I got into bed without changing. I moved close to him and Pablo wrapped an arm around me, pulling me against his chest, and I noticed that he was already awake in every sense. He was hard beneath his pajama pants, and when I put my hand over him, he let out a low moan.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, his hand beginning to move slowly over my back. “Don’t leave anything out. Everything.”

And I told him.

I told him about the suite, the champagne, the charged silences of the first few minutes. I told him that I had been the one to make the first move, and that Rodrigo had waited, and about the strange, wonderful surprise that had given me. I told him how I had knelt on the carpet and swallowed his cock down to my throat, how enormous it was, and how his come had leaked from the tip while I licked his balls.

Pablo swallowed. I gripped his cock beneath his pajamas and began giving him a slow hand job while I continued telling him.

“And then he ate me out,” I whispered in his ear. “He ripped off my panties and put his tongue in my cunt as if he’d been starving for weeks. He made me come in his mouth, Pablo. I screamed so loudly it must have carried into the hallway.”

“God,” he gasped, moving his hips against my hand. “Keep going.”

“I climbed on top of him. He was thick. Very thick. It was hard to take all of him the first time.”

“Thicker than mine?”

“Thicker,” I said, squeezing his cock in my hand. “But not better. Different.”

Pablo moaned against my neck.

“And then?”

“Then he put me on all fours and fucked me like an animal. He pulled my hair. He slapped my ass. He put his thumb against my hole. And I, Pablo, I was screaming for him not to stop. I was asking him for it.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he murmured, his breathing already ragged.

“And I came again. And I told him to come inside me. And he did. He filled me, Pablo. I can still feel him inside me.”

That was what finally broke him. He turned me toward him and kissed me with an intensity I hadn’t felt from him in a long time. His hands were urgent, recognizing me, reclaiming something that had never stopped being his and that tonight came charged with something more. He tore off my still-damp panties and buried his fingers between my thighs.

“You’re soaked,” he said thickly. “You’re full of him.”

“Come clean me,” I challenged him.

Pablo moved down my body and opened my legs. He paused for a second, looking at the mess between my thighs, then plunged into it. He licked my cunt full of another man’s come as if he had never been more aroused in his life. He sucked my lips, slid his tongue inside, swallowed everything he found. I screamed and grabbed his hair, pushing his head against me.

“My God, Pablo, my God.”

When he came back up, his mouth was shining and his eyes were dark. He positioned himself between my legs and thrust into me. I was so wet, so open from everything that had come before, that he sank all the way in at once.

“I love you,” he said through his teeth, fucking me at a desperate rhythm.

“I know,” I replied, gripping his ass with both hands and pushing him into me. “Fuck me, Pablo. Reclaim me.”

He fucked me as he hadn’t in years. He put me on top of him, put me on my side with one leg raised, put me on all fours and entered me from behind while biting the nape of my neck. And in every position I kept telling him, gasping between thrusts, what it had been like, what Rodrigo had done to me, what I had liked, until I could no longer tell which of the two men I was feeling inside me at any given moment and everything became one dense, hot thing.

I came twice more before he surrendered inside me with a tight moan, mixing with what they had already left me hours earlier.

We lay collapsed, sweaty, our legs tangled. While Pablo stroked my stomach and his breathing slowly returned to normal, I thought that there are things you learn only by letting them happen. That certain desires need room to exist without destroying you, and that real trust is not the absence of temptation, but knowing the other person is waiting for you on the other side of it. And waiting there with his cock hard and eager to hear everything.

“Would you do it again?” he asked afterward, in the voice of someone who already knew the answer.

I thought for a second.

“Ask me tomorrow,” I said.

And we both fell silent, with the gentle weight of the night above us, knowing that tomorrow would come and that the answer wasn’t going to be no.