When He Came Back from His Trip, I Already Had a Plan

Andrés came back from the hunting trip on a Thursday afternoon, with the pickup truck covered in mud and that smile of a man who had gone five days without seeing his wife. I waited for him in the living room, leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a black lace set and the glass of whiskey with ice that I know he likes. I saw him brake hard before coming in. He looked me up and down, slowly, and almost dropped the bag from his hand.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Welcome home,” I said, and handed him the glass.

That night we had sex three times. The first was almost immediate, against the hallway wall before we even made it to the bedroom. He lifted me by the hips, pressed me against the cold plaster, and pulled the lace aside with the urgency of an animal that no longer wanted to waste time. I unzipped his pants, took his hard, hot cock in my hand, and he slipped two fingers inside me before pushing in with the head, opening me slowly and then driving into me all at once, with a muffled groan that shook my whole body. The second time was slower, on the bed, with the lights on because we both like looking at each other. He spread my legs, ate my cunt until I was trembling, sliding his tongue over my clit with filthy precision, and when he asked me to turn over I showed him my ass and let him come in from behind, firm, deep, holding my waist while he fucked me with that cadence that made me clutch the sheets with my fingers. The third was in the middle of the night, when he woke up and found me reading, and he simply took the book out of my hands without saying a word. He laid me back on the pillow, spread my legs with his knees, and fucked me slowly at first, until the rhythm turned harder, more desperate, and he came inside with a hot load that filled me up while he kissed my mouth, swallowing my gasps.

But I had a plan that went beyond that night.

***

Andrés has a fantasy we’d been circling for years without ever quite making real: meeting as strangers, pretending we don’t know each other, starting from zero. Sometimes we do it in bars, sometimes in the lobby of some hotel when we travel. I like that game because I see him through different eyes, because I feel something like the nerves of the first time, that mix of desire and uncertainty you think will never come back.

That week I decided to keep him in that state of constant tension. Not out of cruelty, but because I knew what I wanted to ask him in the end, and I needed him to get there with his desire built up, without defenses.

On Friday I showed up at his office unannounced. I went in as if I were there to drop off a document, leaned over his desk to sign it, and when no one was looking I slipped my thong into his hand and walked out without saying a word. He sent me a message ten minutes later. It just said: You’re going to pay for this.

On Saturday I sent him photos from the bathroom while he was mowing the lawn in the garden. I took them slowly, choosing the angles, looking for what I knew he liked to see. It took him exactly four minutes to come into the house.

On Sunday I called him on video from the bedroom. I masturbated slowly in front of the camera, looking him in the eyes, not rushing, not letting anything finish. I slid two fingers into my cunt while I showed him how my vulva glistened with wetness, how my clit swelled under the pressure of my thumb, and I let him see the exact moment I tensed without coming, just keeping him on the edge. When he hung up, he sent me a voice note that didn’t have any words, just two seconds of silence and then the sound of a door closing.

On Monday I told him a fantasy I’d been keeping to myself for a long time, with specific details, with invented names, with a situation I knew would turn him on. On Tuesday I asked him to tell me something he had never told me before. He talked to me for an hour.

It all had a purpose.

I wanted him to agree to something I’d proposed before and he had dodged: having sex with another couple. Not with strangers from the internet or people we didn’t know, but with people we trusted, with someone we could share something with without it becoming a problem the next day.

The previous Saturday, while Andrés was away, I’d already had a first session with Sebastián and Valentina. Just the two of them, a rehearsal for what I wanted to become something more. Sebastián had asked me to be submissive, to let him set the pace, and I had discovered that I liked that more than I expected. I had gotten down on my knees, sucked his cock like I meant it, swallowing the wet, heavy head while Valentina held my hair and whispered in my ear to open my mouth wider. Then Sebastián had turned me around, grabbed my ass with both hands, and fucked me with a cruel rhythm, driving his dick into me until he brought tears of pleasure to my eyes, while Valentina played with my tits and slipped her fingers between the swollen lips of my cunt. But what I wanted was for Andrés to be there. I wanted to see him, for him to see me, for the two of us to be part of something at the same time.

***

Marcos worked in the same building as my husband. The two of them knew each other by sight, the kind of elevator greetings that never amount to anything. His partner was named Lorena; she had short hair and a way of looking you in the eye when she spoke that made you want to know exactly what she was thinking.

One Monday morning, Marcos stopped by Andrés’s desk and invited both of them to a small dinner for his birthday. It was the following Tuesday, at his apartment, something unpretentious: drinks, some food, an excuse to get to know each other better.

We went.

When we arrived there were more people than we expected: Marcos’s family, a couple of childhood friends, two coworkers of Lorena’s. The conversation revolved around the usual topics, everything was normal at first. But I started noticing how Andrés was beginning to relax, how he found his rhythm with Marcos, and especially how his eyes lingered a few seconds longer than necessary on Lorena every time she spoke or laughed.

I saw it and thought: good.

I liked Lorena right away. She was straightforward without trying to be, had a sense of humor without needing anyone to laugh at her jokes, and at some point during the night she asked me questions a normal person doesn’t ask at a first dinner. Not in an uncomfortable way, but with a frankness I understood perfectly, because I did exactly the same thing when I wanted to really get to know someone.

Before we left, Lorena and Andrés exchanged numbers. She suggested setting up a group chat for the four of us to coordinate a hangout. She made it while we were still in the elevator going down from her floor, phone in hand, without asking anyone if that was okay.

When we closed the car doors and were left alone, Andrés looked at me.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Yes,” I said, even though I already knew what was coming.

He didn’t finish saying it. I moved closer first. I turned off the car’s overhead light and leaned toward him. I did it slowly, unhurriedly, in the dark parking lot with the windows fogging up little by little. I unbuttoned his pants, pulled his cock out of his underwear, and ran my tongue over the tip while he let out a rough groan, his hands buried in my hair. Then he settled me on top of him and fucked me in the seat, sinking into my wet cunt in short, hard thrusts, breathing heavily against my neck while I moved on top of him until I could feel him filling me completely. He came with his hands tangled in my hair and his breathing broken. When we got home he took me to the bedroom without letting go of my hand, and that night was different, more intense, as if something had opened between us without either of us naming it yet.

***

The next day I was at work when the group chat started moving. The first message was from Lorena, something innocent about a movie they’d mentioned at dinner. Then the conversation went on naturally through the morning.

Midmorning I got a separate message, just from her.

She said her car had ended up near Andrés’s office, that it wouldn’t start, that if he could stop by and see what was wrong. At the same time she wrote to him directly.

Andrés went. He tried to fix the car problem and couldn’t. He offered to drive her home and she said they’d be better off waiting together for the tow truck to arrive. They got into his car and chatted for a while. Lorena sent me a short clip, no audio, just so I’d know they were there.

Then she called me with him there.

She asked me directly, with Andrés listening, if I wanted the four of us to get together. Not for dinner. Something else.

I told her that if he wanted to, I wanted to too.

There was a silence on the line.

Lorena told him to go, to think about it. Andrés got out of the car confused, or at least that’s what he told me later, though when he got home I didn’t see confusion on his face but something else I knew well: it was the same expression he wore when he sent me the Saturday photos, when I called him from the bathroom and masturbated in front of the camera.

It was desire mixed with something he still didn’t know how to name.

That afternoon we talked for a long time. No detours, no games, sitting in the kitchen with the coffee going cold on the table. I asked him what he wanted. He told me he wanted to go to their house the following Saturday, if I was sure.

I told him I had been sure for weeks.

***

Five days passed.

I was calmer than I expected. I didn’t feel jealous or that anxiety that sometimes shows up when you get close to a new line. What I felt was something like the anticipation of going to the airport to pick up someone you missed: nerves, yes, but the kind you choose.

On Wednesday night, while we were having dinner, Andrés asked me if I was afraid.

“No,” I said.

“Are you?” I asked him.

It took him a moment. He put the fork down on the plate and looked at me.

“A little,” he admitted. “But the good kind.”

I understood perfectly. It was the same fear I had felt the first time I proposed something like this, when I still didn’t know whether it was something we could share without changing what we had. And what I discovered over time was that it didn’t just not change it: it opened it up.

On Thursday I spoke to Lorena alone, without Andrés or Marcos involved. Not about logistics or rules. Just talking, the way two people talk when they’re deciding whether they trust each other enough for something that has no turning back. She told me things about herself, about how she and Marcos had gotten to this point, what they had learned along the way, what had brought them closer and what had tested them. I told her things about me. At the end of the call she said she was glad it was us.

I felt the same.

On Friday Andrés got home early. He brought wine, cooked dinner himself, we put on music, and we didn’t talk about Saturday all night. It was one of those quiet nights when you are completely present, not thinking about what’s coming or what has been.

On Saturday we showered together in the morning. Andrés washed my hair, I ran the sponge over his back. It was a still moment, one of those you remember later not for what happened but for how the air felt, for the calm between the two of us.

At eight at night we left the house.

I was wearing the same black set I had waited for him in on the Thursday of the previous week, when he came back from the hunting trip with the pickup truck covered in mud and almost dropped the bag from his hand when he saw me at the door.

He noticed it as soon as I came out of the bedroom.

“Is that the same one?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He didn’t say anything else. He took my hand while he drove and held it the whole way, not letting go, until we arrived.