What I Found in That Tourist’s Closet

On the island where I grew up, stories about husbands who watch circulate like legends. Old men tell them in the harbor bars, over lukewarm beer and smoke, whenever some female tourist gets tired of her man and comes downstairs looking for what she cannot find at home. I listened to them without ever quite believing them. I thought they were fishermen’s boasts, until the night I met Helena.

I was never much of a student. I left school early and learned the rest on the streets, watching my elders, listening to how they talked about the foreign women who came to spend their holidays looking for exactly what they themselves did not dare name. That night I was with a couple of friends at the bar of the big hotel, the one facing the sea, killing time and sizing up the women coming in, hoping to get lucky before closing time.

Then I saw her.

She was a mature woman, slim, with deliberate movements. She wore her hair short and blond, almost platinum, and a black suit that fit her as if she had been sewn into it. Heeled ankle boots, dark lips, an elegance that did not belong in the rest of the place. She came over to the bar right where I was leaning, and when she turned, she looked at me without pretending otherwise.

“Would you recommend a good island drink?” she asked.

It took me a second to react. I asked whether she preferred it sweet or dry, and when she said sweet, I suggested a spiced-rum-and-fruit cocktail they served only there. She ordered two. One for her and one for me.

I watched her drink as discreetly as I could, although she made a point of letting me look. Her ears were pierced with a row of small hoops climbing up the cartilage, several on each side, asymmetrical.

“I have seven in one and six in the other,” she said when she noticed me looking. “I hate symmetry.”

I laughed. Thirteen had always been my number, I told her, and she raised an eyebrow as if I had just confirmed something she already suspected. I learned later that it was no coincidence. Helena had been watching me before she approached. She had chosen me. And, as she would confess that very night, I fit perfectly into a plan she and her husband had drawn up long before setting foot on the island.

After a few minutes of conversation, she placed two fingers on my forearm and told me she felt a little dizzy, and asked me to accompany her to her room. She did not have to ask twice.

***

The room was almost dark, with a single lamp lit in one corner. Helena pressed a button on a small stereo, and an old-fashioned voice, one of those orchestral voices with trumpets, filled the room. Through the window, the moon could be seen splitting the sea in two.

I took her hand and pulled her toward me. We swayed slowly, without hurrying, her whole body fitting itself against mine as if we had been dancing that way for years. She smelled of something expensive and sweet rum. I placed my hands on her waist, over the cool fabric of her satin trousers, and felt her press her hips against me in response, rubbing herself shamelessly against the bulge already showing in my pants.

Helena was not shy. She kissed my neck, my lips, my jaw, biting with an intensity bordering on pain, while one of her hands moved down and grabbed my cock through the fabric, squeezing it as if she were measuring it. I was already rock-hard, and she noticed immediately. She lowered my zipper without stopping her kisses, slipped her hand inside, and pulled out my cock with a slow smile that left no doubt about what she intended to do with it.

“That’s what I came to this island looking for,” she murmured against my ear, working me up and down with her hand, squeezing the tip until she drew a moan from me. “A hard cock and a man who knows how to fuck me properly.”

She knelt right there, between the door and the bed, and took my entire cock into her mouth without preliminaries. She sucked deep and hungrily, letting saliva run down her chin and soak the lace of her bra. She looked up at me with shining eyes, pulling my cock from her mouth only to lick my balls one by one before swallowing me down to the throat again. I grabbed her short hair and set the pace. She moaned with her mouth full, pleased to be used that way.

She began speaking softly between sucks, without shame, telling me everything she wanted me to do to her. To fuck her hard. To come in her mouth, on her tits, in her pussy. Not to show her any mercy. Every word raised the temperature in the room. I undid her blouse and let the fabric fall from her shoulders. Beneath it, thin black lace supported her breasts. She had class even there. I tore off her bra in one pull and bit her nipples, one and then the other, until they were hard as stones. She arched her back and begged for more.

I laid her back on the bed and removed her ankle boots one by one. I kissed the instep, the ankle, then moved up her leg as her breathing grew heavier and heavier. I lowered her pants slowly, savoring the anticipation, and discovered she was wearing nothing underneath. She was shaved, soaked, her pussy swollen and gleaming with the desire she had brought with her from the bar. I buried myself between her legs and ran my tongue all the way up her, stopping at her clitoris until she screamed.

I ate her out without hurrying. I opened her lips with my fingers, thrust my tongue inside, pulled it out, and pushed it back in while circling her clitoris with my thumb. I slipped two fingers inside her and curled them, searching for the spot, and when I found it she began moving her hips against my face, riding my mouth. Her sighs became sharp, broken cries that bounced off the walls and mingled with the music. I lifted her legs and put them over my shoulders, held her hips, and did not let go until I felt her whole body tense like a string about to snap and she squeezed my face with her thighs while she came, soaking my chin.

And then I heard it.

A sneeze. Muffled, clumsy, followed by a desperate attempt to swallow the next one. It came from somewhere in the room that was not the bed.

I went still, my fingers still inside her. Helena suddenly grabbed my arm.

“No, wait,” she said, but it was already too late.

I moved her aside gently, stood up with my hard cock pointing straight ahead, and yanked open the closet door.

***

Inside, on his knees, fully dressed and red-faced with embarrassment, was a man of about fifty. Helena’s husband.

I took him by the arm and pulled him into the light. He did not resist. He stared at the floor, hunched over, while I demanded an explanation from her. His eyes kept drifting, unable to avoid my cock, wet with saliva and his wife’s pussy.

Helena did not flinch. She sat up in bed, barely covering herself with the sheet, and told me everything with a calmness that disarmed me. She loved humiliating her husband. He had not satisfied her for years, had not gotten her hard, had not made her come. At some point, they had both accepted things as they were: he liked watching. Sometimes he took part, if she allowed him. He liked cleaning her afterward, sucking the other man’s semen from her pussy after another man had finished inside her, but he was never allowed to touch her for real, much less fuck her.

“We booked this vacation for this,” Helena said without lowering her voice, making sure he heard every word. “To find someone like you. A young, hard cock that would fill me properly. He knew it from the plane.”

The man remained silent, kneeling on the carpet, nodding slowly.

I considered it for a moment. I had been with women who were accompanied before, but never with an audience evaluating my performance from inside a closet. The situation was absurd and, at the same time, electric. I had no intention of letting Helena get away. So I decided to adapt the night to my advantage.

“Pour yourself a drink,” I told her husband, pointing toward the minibar. “And make one for me.”

He obeyed without a word.

***

“You’ve just bought the best seat in the house,” I told him when he came back with the glasses. “But admission costs extra.”

The interruption had taken some of the edge off my arousal. I made him understand, without much delicacy, that he would be responsible for bringing it back if he wanted to keep watching the show. He protested quietly and stammered something, but Helena cut him off with a dry laugh from the bed.

“Suck it,” she ordered him. “That’s why you came. Get him hard again so he can fuck me.”

I had never let a man take care of me before, and the sensation of power over that cowering man was more intense than I expected. He knelt between my legs, took my cock in both hands—still only half-hard—and put it in his mouth. He sucked carefully, clumsily at first, until Helena barked from the bed that he should stop pretending and eat it the way he used to eat hers when they were dating. Then he swallowed deeper, closing his eyes, and worked me with his tongue until I was hard as a rock again.

It was not the act itself; it was the total surrender with which he accepted his place. Attentive, submissive, watching my every gesture as if his only reason for existing was to prepare my cock so another man could fuck his wife. I grabbed his head and pushed him down to the base a few times, listening to him swallow and choke, while Helena stroked her pussy in bed, enjoying the spectacle.

When I had fully recovered my hardness, I shoved him aside and went back to Helena. I put her on all fours in the middle of the bed, spread her ass cheeks with both hands, and looked at her open pussy, still shiny and throbbing to be filled. I ran the head of my cock over her lips several times, rubbing it against her clitoris until she began cursing, then drove into her in a single thrust, all the way to the balls. She cried out and clenched the sheets in her fists. I set a slow rhythm, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in to the hilt, while her husband remained kneeling at the edge of the mattress, not daring to come any closer than he was allowed.

“Come closer,” I told him. “Lie on your back underneath us. I want you to see up close how my cock goes in and out. Look how wet your wife’s pussy is.”

The man slid beneath us until he was lying under our bodies, his face inches from where they met. From down there he could see my cock entering and leaving Helena, coated in her juices, gleaming beneath the lamplight. She moaned and, between moans, insulted him. She reminded him that he would never fuck her like this, that he should settle for watching another man put it in her, that he should finally learn what a real cock was. Every word aroused her more, and me too, I admit it. I grabbed one of her tits from behind and squeezed it hard, pinching the nipple while I kept thrusting.

The strange thing about that scene—a humiliated stranger witnessing everything—instead of making me uncomfortable, multiplied the tension. I began moving harder, the sound of my balls slapping against her ass filling the room. At some point I felt her husband’s tongue timidly seeking out my testicles, licking them carefully whenever they passed near his face, as if he wanted to take part without anyone having asked him to. Helena laughed between gasps when she noticed.

“Look what your husband is doing,” she told me, turning her head over her shoulder. “He’s licking the juices off your balls. That’s his place.”

I did not want to waste any of that night. I pulled out for a moment, knelt over her husband’s chest, and put my cock in his mouth again so he could clean it of his wife’s pussy. He sucked with his eyes closed, swallowing every drop. Then I ordered him to prepare Helena for me, to leave her ready, while she kept her back arched and her head resting on the pillow. He obeyed with an almost pitiful devotion. He ran his tongue over her pussy and clitoris, and even dared to move up toward her other hole with a timidity that made me laugh.

“Hold her. Guide it yourself,” I told him. “Put it inside your wife.”

And he did it, with his own hands, taking my cock and aiming it at Helena’s pussy, opening the way for another man while biting his lips. I entered slowly, feeling her push backward to take all of me, and he left his hand there for a few seconds, feeling the other man's cock disappear inside his wife.

“Don’t stop,” Helena gasped. “Harder. Tear my pussy apart.”

I held her by the hips and fucked her relentlessly, her body lifted and her back curved. We changed positions several times: I put her on her side, one leg raised, and drove my cock into her from that angle while her husband stared fixedly at it going in and out. Then I had her straddle me, letting her ride me, her tits bouncing in front of my face as she moved like a madwoman. I bit her nipples and dug my nails into her ass. Her husband circled us from one side to the other, not knowing where to look.

I put her on her back against the mattress again, lifted her legs, and rested them on my shoulders, then fucked her folded up like that until I felt I was about to burst. She came twice more, squeezing my cock with her pussy during every tremor, screaming things that could barely be understood.

“Inside,” she begged me. “Come inside me. Let him suck it out afterward.”

One more thrust was all it took. I burst inside her with a roar, emptying myself to the last drop, feeling her pussy milk me with spasms that would not stop. We collapsed into a heap of tangled sheets and broken breaths.

We stayed like that for a long while, pressed together, letting our hearts settle back into place. When I finally pulled away, my cock dripping semen mixed with her juices, I gave her husband one last signal.

“Come here,” I whispered. “Clean it. All of it.”

There was no need to repeat myself. He was completely submissive, attentive to every one of my desires. He settled between his wife’s spread legs and licked her pussy full of the semen I had just left inside her, swallowing it slowly, as if that were the part of the night he had been waiting for most. Then he cleaned my cock with his mouth, licking it all over without leaving a trace. He performed his task in silence, grateful.

***

I was too tired to go home, so I decided to stay. Helena and I slept in the bed; her husband slept on the floor, curled up on the carpet, without a single complaint.

I woke in the middle of the night when she got up to go to the bathroom. When she came back, before slipping beneath the sheets again, she looked at me with a conspiratorial smile and leaned for a moment over her husband’s sleeping face, whispering something in his ear that made him nod without fully opening his eyes. That woman never rested.

Watching her take control in that way woke me up completely all over again. I pulled her toward the bed, laid her on her back, and spread her legs. She was still open and soft, and I put it inside her in a single thrust, all the way to the bottom. I gave her one last session, slow and long, propped on my elbows, looking into her eyes as I fucked her slowly. I licked her neck and tits and bit her shoulder. She dug her nails into my back and whispered obscenities against my ear. I held out as long as I could, moving deeper and deeper, until she came again, squeezing my cock with her pussy, and I emptied myself inside her for the second time that night, leaving her exhausted and smiling, her body limp, her legs spread, her gaze lost on the ceiling.

In the morning I said goodbye to them both. I promised Helena I would come back that night and bring company: a couple of friends from the island who were eager to meet her, and one in particular, someone who greatly enjoyed putting husbands like hers in their place.

She smiled and squeezed my hand. Her husband, standing in the doorway, was smiling too.

The harbor legends, after all, were true.