What My Husband Wrote on the Screen That Night

I’m a woman in my forties, more or less. I won’t say exactly how many so as not to give away clues, but youth is already a little behind me. I consider myself average in many ways: neither thin nor overweight, maybe a couple of kilos I never quite manage to lose. Brown-haired, with hair halfway down my back that I almost always wear tied back in a ponytail, dark eyes, a university education, and a perfectly ordinary public-facing job.

I live with my husband and our daughters in a village of about five thousand people not far from Zaragoza, one of those places where almost everyone knows one another and greets each other in the street. Nothing like a big city, where a woman can be invisible.

I’ve been married to Marcos for more than twenty years and have never been unfaithful to him, except every now and then in my head, as I imagine everyone does and no one admits.

I take care of myself. I go to the gym and swim three or four times a week, I watch what I eat, and I have good genes. Even so, I don’t think I’m especially beautiful, although Marcos is always flattering me, repeating that he finds me sexy, hot, and desirable. I don’t see myself the way he sees me, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like hearing it. What woman doesn’t like feeling desired, especially when the mirror starts counting the years?

Marcos is a little older than I am and quite a bit more passionate. He has a lot of imagination and, for some time now, has been sharing his biggest fantasy with me when we make love. At first it seemed almost perverse to me, the way he would whisper it in my ear in obsessive detail. Then, by hearing it over and over while we were together, it stopped being only his. It ended up becoming mine too.

According to him, his fantasy is to see me in bed with another man while he watches from a corner, in silence, as I give that stranger pleasure and he gives it to me. He’d like to see me kneeling, blindfolded, with only black lingerie on, waiting to hear the sound of a door opening.

I, who in real life am fairly conventional in sex, used to shiver just imagining the scene. Being on my knees, almost naked, blind, with my mouth slightly open and wet, waiting to feel something different from what I know. Feeling like an object of desire, truly desired, while the man I love watches everything. I confess that more than once that image took me to orgasm without anyone even touching me.

I always thought it would never go beyond imagination. First, because I didn’t believe I was capable of taking that step. And second, because even if we wanted to, we wouldn’t know who to do it with, or how, for fear of disease and of the consequences of something like that in a village where everyone talks.

***

The thing is, not long ago we went away for a few days, just the two of us, without the girls. And I suppose the peace and quiet, and having no responsibilities weighing on us, loosened us up. We had more sex that week than we had in a long time, fantasies included, with me taking part almost more eagerly than he did.

What was strange is that, once we were back home and back to routine, with the emotional dip that comes at the end of a vacation, my desire didn’t go away. Marcos noticed it right away. He saw me more cheerful than ever, and that confirmed something we sometimes forget: that in a couple, love and respect are the foundation, yes, but desire holds things up too.

One day he told me, half serious and half joking, that if we ever wanted to fulfill one of our fantasies, it wasn’t a good idea to wait too long, because we weren’t kids anymore.

—What we don’t do in this life, we won’t do in the next —he kept saying. And he was right.

Last Friday, when I was leaving for work, I confessed that I was in the mood. He looked at me with a strange smile, amused and mysterious at once.

—When you get back, there’ll be a surprise waiting for you —he said—. Trust me.

No matter how much I pressed him, he wouldn’t give anything away. He only told me that when I arrived I’d find a text written on the computer screen, describing what he hoped would happen that night.

***

That night, when I got home, Marcos wasn’t there. I went straight to the desk. Next to the keyboard, with the screen on, there was a glass of white wine and a black blindfold, the kind they hand out on planes so you can sleep.

I sat down. I wet my lips with the wine and read, calmly, what he had prepared for me. Every line left me more aroused, with a wetness that grew without my being able to stop it.

The text described one of his usual fantasies, but with a difference: this time it sounded like a plan, not a game. It said he had found someone willing to take part. Someone I knew, but whom, out of embarrassment, he didn’t want me to know. That was why he wouldn’t speak at any point, so as not to be recognized, and why he asked me to keep the blindfold on no matter what.

Following the instructions, I went to the bedroom and chose a black set with a bra that unfastens in front, the one Marcos likes so much because it lets him run his hands over me without having to take it off completely. I poured myself a little more wine and, dressed only in that lingerie and with the blindfold covering my eyes, sat on the living-room sofa, exactly as the paper said.

Marcos had lit the fireplace. The heat enveloped the room, the logs crackled, and the air smelled of smoke and white wine. Even though I couldn’t see anything, I could feel the firelight shifting behind the blindfold. This is serious, I thought. This time it’s serious.

I waited, reclined, taking slow sips. I assumed Marcos was hiding somewhere in the house, ready to step into the scene. Suddenly I heard the living-room door.

—Who’s there? —I asked in a low voice, playing along.

No one answered. Of course, I remembered, the guest can’t speak.

I felt footsteps approaching slowly and caught the trace of a soft cologne I didn’t recognize. Without a word, someone began kissing and nipping at my neck and earlobe, while caressing my face and back. The mouth moved down to my breasts, kissing them through the fabric, and then a hand slipped under the bra and brushed my nipples, which hardened immediately.

He gently pushed me back and undid the front clasp. When his mouth closed over one of my breasts, a thought flashed through my mind and took my breath away: that mouth was not Marcos’s. Meanwhile, fingers moved my panties aside and slowly slid inside me, tracing slow circles over my increasingly wet sex.

The stranger kissed me on the mouth, unhurriedly, with restrained passion. He smelled clean, if that can be called a smell. His tongue sought mine and played with it before going back down to my breasts. He did it the way the boys I was with when I was young did, long before Marcos, in another life.

***

He kept going lower. He carefully moved my panties aside and began to lick, first very slowly, then more hungrily, plunging his tongue in and pulling it out, up and down. I was burning. My skin felt on fire. I knew that Marcos, this time for real, had decided to turn desire into something real.

I also knew, because I had read it on the screen, that the arrangement included one condition: the guest would not penetrate me. All the pleasure would be with hands and mouth, to reduce the risks. Knowing how cautious my husband is, I had no doubt he would have made sure that man was healthy before letting him into our house.

At some point I felt him topping up my glass. I heard the wine pouring and a hand brought it to me. I took it blindly, brushing those unfamiliar fingers, and drank while he kept licking me with a skill that made me bite my lip to keep from crying out. Part of me was certain Marcos was watching everything, from a corner or behind a camera, as aroused as I was.

When I was about to come, the guest lay on his back and guided my body with his hands until he placed me on top of him, in the sixty-nine position. I writhed with pleasure, feeling like a slut, flooded with a lust I didn’t remember. And I loved being that way.

I took his cock, thicker than Marcos’s, hard as a rock, and guided it slowly to the back of my mouth. I could feel it throbbing between my lips, hot. I took it all the way to my throat, as I know drives my husband insane, and then pulled it out to run my tongue over all of it, like an ice cream about to melt. Every so often I let it go to stroke it with my hand and play with his balls, before starting over again.

I had never felt like that. It was as if I’d suddenly grown twenty years younger, overflowing with desire, thanks to a stranger and, above all, thanks to Marcos, who had orchestrated everything.

***

After a while I wouldn’t know how to measure, hands that this time I did recognize grabbed my hips and, without words, asked me to get on all fours on the sofa. Marcos.

The guest knelt in front of me and thrust his cock back into my mouth, while my husband took me from behind, holding me hard. The stranger, by contrast, stroked my face, my hair, and my back with a tenderness that contrasted with everything else, and soft moans escaped him that he tried to swallow so I wouldn’t notice.

The two of them matched their rhythm for several minutes in which I can only say I was outside the world. What I had imagined a thousand times had become flesh. Being desired and possessed at the same time by two men, with my husband enjoying every second, is probably one of many women’s secret fantasies. In that moment I understood why.

I could tell the guest wouldn’t last much longer. His thrusts into my mouth became more urgent, his moans harder to hold back. I wanted to give Marcos the image he had told me so many times would drive him crazy. When my husband buried himself to the hilt and emptied himself with groans, I also felt the other man’s climax approaching. I took him all the way in while gently stroking him, and felt several thick spurts, with a taste different from Marcos’s, filling my mouth.

I think the three of us came almost at the same time, fused in an orgasm that raced up my spine like a jolt, spreading through every inch of my body until I trembled with pure pleasure.

Without taking that cock out of my mouth yet, I swallowed almost all of it. Then the guest, now finally, let out a full, unmasked groan. And in that sound, to my immense surprise, I thought I recognized him.

He was someone I would never have imagined, someone with whom I probably would never have agreed to anything if Marcos had suggested it to me openly. Not ugly or old, but neither was he a man who ever caught my attention. And yet, the pleasure he had given me, helped by the situation, was among the most intense of my life.

Without wasting any time, he got up and left, leaving us alone. I still had another man’s taste on my tongue, the corners of my mouth stained, and the inside of my thighs turned into a path where part of my husband slowly slipped away.

I don’t know whether we’ll do it again. But I do know Marcos was right: what we didn’t do that night, maybe we would never have done.