My Wife’s Friend Heard Me Say Her Name

Who hasn’t, at some point, had a slip-up that ends up becoming something halfway between embarrassment and arousal? That happened to me last summer, when a friend of my wife came to spend a few days at our house on the coast. Her name was Marisol, and at forty-eight she was still one of those women who walk into a place and make everyone turn their heads.

She was short and slim, with a fine-boned face that didn’t match the reputation she carried around. She had lively eyes, always on the verge of laughing, a big mouth, and a small upturned nose that gave her a much younger look than she actually had. Her thinness made her breasts, firm and well set, stand out even more under any T-shirt.

According to my wife, Marisol had always been pretty free with that sort of thing, but since her separation she’d gone wild. She told me stories that sounded like they’d come out of a movie, almost always involving men much younger than her. She said she had a kind of strange pull over them, as if guys in their early twenties could detect from miles away that there were no rules with her. Once the three of us ran into each other in a bar, and I saw with my own eyes how a guy twenty years younger than her went over to her without the slightest hesitation. She didn’t even bother to push him away.

The thing was, Marisol lived in the city, far from the sea, and that August she decided to escape for a weekend with her two children to enjoy the beach. We put the three of them up in the guest room. They arrived on Thursday night, worn out from the trip, and the plan was to spend Saturday and Sunday entirely on the sand.

On Friday I got off work at midday, my body sticky with sweat and one idea in my head: take a quick shower and meet everyone at the restaurant where we’d arranged to have lunch. My wife had sent me a message with the address and the time. I was running late.

I walked into the house and heard no one. The silence was total, that heavy silence of empty houses in the middle of summer, with the blinds half drawn and the distant hum of the fridge. I assumed they were already at the restaurant waiting for me. I went to my room, stripped off, leaving my clothes bunched up on the bed, and, thinking I was alone, I didn’t even bother to close the bathroom door.

I got under the water and let the cool spray run down my back. The second I warmed up—or rather cooled down—I felt the tension of the day wash down the drain. My mind, suddenly free, drifted off on its own. And of course it drifted toward Marisol.

I didn’t decide it. She just appeared. I remembered one of the stories my wife had told me, laughing, half scandalized: one night her friend had left a party with three strangers and hadn’t come back until dawn. In my head the scene built itself, much clearer and dirtier than any account.

I saw her on the floor of some unfamiliar living room, on all fours, her skirt hiked up to her waist and her panties hanging off one ankle. One of the guys had her by the hair, shoving his cock deep into her throat, forcing her to swallow him whole every time he thrust. Another was behind her, kneeling, fucking her pussy with an open hand on her ass, leaving the red imprint of his fingers with every slap. The third was waiting his turn, cock in hand, jerking off slowly while he watched his friend get used like a toy.

I could feel myself getting harder as I imagined her in the middle of those three men, split open, handled, with not a single empty space left. Without even realizing it, my hand went to my groin. I grabbed my cock at the base and started stroking slowly, unhurried, letting myself be carried by the warm sway of the water. My dick went hard as a rock in seconds, veins standing out, the head swollen and red under the shower spray.

In my head the men changed her position. One sat her on top of him, legs spread wide, and fucked her ass while another slid into her pussy from the front. I imagined her with both of them inside at once, writhing, choking, moaning like a bitch in heat while the third filled her mouth. I imagined her swallowing semen in streams, chin and tits smeared with it, begging for more in that rough voice she got when she’d had too much to drink.

The excitement rose faster than I expected. I spat into my palm and started again, this time with my fist clenched, twisting my wrist when I reached the head. I felt my balls pressed tight against my body, hot and heavy, and my legs trembled with every stroke. Between ragged breaths I started murmuring her name, first quietly, then not so quietly.

—Marisol, fuck, Marisol… slut… dirty bitch… who’s fucking you now, huh… —I said things I would never have said to her face, insulting her with that hot anger that means nothing and everything, promising her out loud an entire catalog of filth—. I’d ram it all the way in, until you couldn’t breathe… I’d fill your cunt with cum, I’d come in that filthy mouth of yours…

I sped up. My hand went up and down furiously, the skin of my cock burning, the shower spray bouncing off my chest. I felt the tingle rise from my balls up through my whole shaft and knew I had nothing left. When I came, it was with a rough groan that slipped out against my will. A couple of long, thick spurts hit the shower screen and slid slowly down, white on the glass, while my legs could barely hold me up. I was still dripping when I opened my eyes, my cock throbbing in my hand and my breathing a mess.

I turned off the water. I breathed. I felt ridiculous and satisfied in equal measure, that stupid after-feeling. I stepped out of the bathroom still naked, not fully dried off, with my hair streaming and my cock still half soft, hanging heavy between my thighs, shiny with water.

And there, in the middle of the hallway, was her.

Marisol had come back to the house to look for something—a charger, a cream, I never did find out what—and I hadn’t heard her come in. She had heard me, though. Damn right she had heard me. She was standing still, leaning against the doorframe, looking me up and down with a half smile I couldn’t read. It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t disapproval. It was something else, something more dangerous.

We both froze, not saying a word. Two seconds that lasted an hour. And the worst part—or the best—was that the sheer thrill of being caught got to me: I could feel my cock filling up again, rising on its own in front of her, swelling second by second, without my being able to stop it. Her eyes dropped for an instant and stayed there, fixed on my groin, watching as the head pushed out from under the foreskin and my dick pointed upward again. I saw her realize it. I saw the smile vanish from her face and her mouth part slightly. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, very fast, almost involuntarily. I saw it. She knew I saw it.

I managed to react. I muttered something unintelligible and slipped into my room like a kid caught doing something wrong. I heard the front door close. She’d gone back to the restaurant.

***

I should have dressed and gone downstairs. Instead I stood there in the middle of the room, heart pounding, my cock hard again against my belly and my head on fire. Knowing she was still in the house, knowing she had seen me, had heard me say her name while I came, that she had watched my dick rise for her in the hallway, had me completely out of my mind.

I didn’t go down right away. Instead I did something I still struggle to tell anyone about. I went out into the hallway, into the room where she was sleeping, and walked over to the bag of dirty laundry next to her open suitcase. I rummaged through it almost without thinking, my fingers clumsy, until I found a pair of panties. Black, with tiny white polka dots, made of thin cotton, still carrying her scent.

I brought them to my face without being able to help myself. They smelled like her, and like that expensive perfume she wore, and underneath that, something more intimate, more animal, that warm, sour smell of a woman’s cunt that gets into your nose and doesn’t leave. I found the most marked part, the bit that had been pressed against her between the legs, and I shoved it against my mouth and nose until my vision started to blur.

I grabbed my cock with my other hand. It was so hard it hurt. I wrapped the panties around the head, putting the fabric right where it touched, and started moving my fist up and down, feeling the cotton brush my glans with every stroke. I pictured her slipping those same panties on in the morning, pulling them up her thighs, pressing them against her pussy with those slender fingers. I pictured the cunt where that fabric had been, tight, wet, waiting.

It took four or five strokes. My second load of the day came thicker, heavier, soaking the crotch of the panties and soaking through the fabric. I felt the hot spurts escaping between my fingers, my cock throbbing, my balls emptying again. I moaned softly, clenching my teeth, my face still buried in the cotton that smelled like her. I left the panties there, tied up in a knot, stained with my cum, and shoved them back in with the rest of the clothes as if that could erase what I’d just done.

After that I dressed in beach clothes, splashed water on my face, and went down to the restaurant with my best normal-face on. When I sat at the table, Marisol poured me wine without looking directly at me. My wife was talking about the tide and the umbrella. The kids were arguing over an order of squid. Nobody suspected a thing.

The rest of the weekend passed with a calm that seemed impossible. Swimsuits, towels, sunscreen, card games on the terrace at sunset. Marisol and I behaved like two adults who shared no secret. Only now and then, when nobody was looking, our eyes met a second too long. And in that second, everything fit. On Sunday afternoon they packed up their things, loaded the car, and left. I breathed easier, convinced the whole episode was buried forever.

***

Three months passed. Summer was already a memory and the nights had started to cool off. One of those nights I was alone in the living room, sprawled on the sofa watching whatever was on TV, when my phone vibrated on the table. I picked it up without much interest. It was a message from Marisol.

I was so surprised I sat up at once. She and I never talked. My entire relationship with that woman went through my wife; we had never once exchanged a private message. I felt a pinch in my stomach and, not really knowing why, I thought back to that summer. Both times. The hallway.

The message started carefully, almost asking permission. It said she had seen me online and had been thinking for some time about whether to write or not. That she hoped I wouldn’t take it badly. I read that first line three times before I dared go on.

Then she told me. She said that when she got home that Sunday, while she was unpacking and getting the washing machine ready, she found her panties tied in a knot and stained. That it took her a moment to understand what it was, and that when she did—when she realized that dry white crust was my semen, dried on the cotton she’d worn against her cunt—she stood there in front of the washing machine, the garment in her hand.

I let out my breath slowly. I felt a strange kind of vertigo, like when a car goes too fast over the crest of a hill. I had no idea how this was going to continue. I was expecting reproach, a threat, a “I’m going to tell your wife.”

It didn’t come.

Marisol kept typing. She said she hadn’t been bothered. Quite the opposite. That it had turned her on in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time, especially after seeing me in the hallway, naked and hard again because of her, with my cock standing up right in front of her face. She confessed that she couldn’t resist. That that night, in her bed, with the garment still in her hand, she finished what I had started.

She told me all about it in detail. That she had stripped completely, lain on her back, and put the stained panties over her mouth, smelling my dried cum while she slipped two fingers into her cunt. That she had imagined being the one to catch me in the hallway, but this time not running away. That she would have gotten me down right there, on her knees, and sucked my cock until I came in her mouth. That she had thought about swallowing it all, every last drop, while looking me in the eyes.

She wrote that she came three times that night. The first time with her fingers, imagining me fucking her against the wall in that hallway. The second time with the vibrator, face down, biting the pillow and thinking it was me fucking her from behind. The third time slowly, very slowly, with the panties still over her face, smelling what I’d left in them while she rubbed her clit with her fingertips.

I read every word with a dry throat and my cock hard again against my pants. I answered clumsily, in short sentences, not really knowing what to say, while feeling my body respond the same way it had that afternoon under the shower. She wrote back fast, with no filters now, as if she’d been holding it in for three months. She told me what she wanted to do to me, without shame: suck me to the hilt, swallow my load, sit on top of me and ride me until I was dry, ask me to fuck her in the ass like those three guys at the party I had imagined without knowing she’d actually done it for real.

Then two photos arrived. The first was the same panties, freshly stained this time by her, the fabric soaked through with a thick, glossy discharge, proof that while she was writing to me she had been touching herself. The second needed no explanation: her small, firm breasts, her nipples hard and dark, and lower down her open hand over her shaved, wet pussy, with two fingers sunk in to the knuckle. She left me holding the phone in a trembling hand and with the certainty that that summer slip-up hadn’t ended: it had only just begun.

I wrote back that the following weekend my wife was going to her mother’s with the kids. Marisol took less than a minute to reply. She only sent one word, and that word was worth all the ones I had shouted in the shower three months earlier.