She Recognized Her Body in Her Lover’s Stories

Marta walked into the chalet, hurled her bag onto the sofa, and slammed the door shut with a bang that echoed through the empty house.

I can’t believe it. The son of a bitch.

With a snort, she picked up the shoulder bag again to take out her phone and carry it upstairs with her. She didn’t even take off her street sandals. Her head was somewhere else, in a place where fury, nerves, and a spark of excitement were all mixed together—something she wouldn’t have confessed then even under torture.

It had all started that August morning, one of those mornings when the heat clings to your skin from early on. She had just finished shopping at the village supermarket when Hugo’s messages arrived, her lifelong friend, along with a couple of links. He knew she liked that kind of reading, and every now and then, if he came across a story he thought she might enjoy, he sent it to her.

Marta decided to put the shopping aside for a moment and sit on a bar terrace for a coffee. A read to keep her entertained and, in passing, feed those fantasies that kept her company in her lonely moments. But barely had she read the first paragraphs of the first one when her face changed. First her expression, then her color. The sun-tanned skin on her face went pale, and immediately after that, turned a blazing red, like cartoon characters just before steam came pouring out of their ears.

She switched the phone off in a hurry, looked around to make sure no one had seen what she was reading, downed her coffee in one gulp, and shot off to finish the errands she still had left.

She was done quickly. The village where they had their summer townhouse was small, and that week she hardly needed anything. Her two children were with their grandparents on the coast, and Andrés, her husband, had stayed in the city with work piling up. He wouldn’t be coming up to sleep in the village for several days.

Marta had given herself a week without husband or children. Under the excuse of getting ahead with the housecleaning and taking an online course, she was enjoying a break she considered more than deserved: sunbathing by the pool, reading, and meeting up for beers with a friend who was also vacationing there.

What had shattered her peace that morning was simple and devastating. Hugo, that lifelong friend she had had more than one fling with behind their respective partners’ backs, had written a couple of stories on an erotic fiction website. And from the little she had managed to read, they were based on their own encounters. The bastard had taken his inspiration from her body, and now Marta was torn between fury and a burning curiosity to know how the two stories ended.

But it was late and she was starting to get hungry. She poured herself a glass of very cold white wine and made a salad with a few nibbles to go with it. While the second course was heating up, she went upstairs to the bedroom and took off the sweaty, sticky clothes from that morning, until she was left in her underwear.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The half-light slipping through the blinds made her bronzed skin look splendid. She missed a bit more bust, but otherwise she looked good. She picked up a light robe and slipped it on to stay cooler, hoping to ease the heat and the anger that were tormenting her.

She was about to go back down the stairs when, turning her head, a memory ambushed her and left her rooted to the spot. In that very hallway, beside the banister, years ago Hugo had grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the wall while his mouth demanded a kiss. Marta felt her legs go weak and, between her thighs, a warm wetness begin to betray her. She saw herself forcing her way to his mouth, as if all the tension of kissing in secret, with both families chatting downstairs, had unleashed a thousand demons in her tongue.

If that day he had dared to carry her off to the nearby bathroom in his arms, she didn’t know what would have happened. But sanity won out, and that moment remained only as fuel for her fantasies.

She went downstairs, set the dishes on the breakfast bar, and leaned against one of the stools. She didn’t even sit down. She was in a hurry, and her hungry stomach was battling a bundle of nerves that kept growing. Maybe it was instinct, but the edge of the furniture she was resting her ass against lined up exactly with the thong, right against her sex. The robe was too short to get in the way, and without realizing it she had left her flesh pressed directly against the wood.

—Mmm… —she sighed, surprised by that sudden arousal—. What’s wrong with me?

At that moment the phone rang and jerked her brutally out of her reverie. As if he sensed the storm boiling in the brunette’s head, Andrés had decided midday was a good time to call. Marta jumped so hard the fork slipped from her hand, and when she saw who it was she almost choked, as if she’d been caught doing something forbidden.

It was an inconsequential conversation, like so many others, but it helped chase away the fears piling up because of those damned stories. With that and other family matters to attend to, the rest of the meal passed with no particular incident. Only a beep from her phone, while she was eating a flan for dessert, dragged her back into the previous state. It was from Hugo.

“Have you read it?”

The colors of anger rushed back to her face. On top of telling her what he shouldn’t, was he pressuring her? She left him on read and didn’t bother replying.

If he’s impatient, let him stew.

She cleared the table without even washing the dishes. Inside, the jab of nerves was making itself felt in her stomach again. The meal had calmed her a little, but the two glasses of wine were working against her.

She poured herself a third glass, fresh from the fridge, and went back upstairs. Up there was the computer, where she would be more comfortable reading. As she stepped onto the last stair, she noticed the heat, much more intense in that area because of the sun that had been beating down on the roof for days. It was the perfect excuse for something she had already decided: take off the robe and let the air caress the sweat beginning to bead through her pores.

She was left in her underwear in full view of her own reflection. A black bra, low-cup and made of almost transparent fabric, through which her dark nipples could be guessed without effort. And the matching thong, with a translucent triangle in front and barely a thread in back. She didn’t even take off her mid-heel sandals. Andrés would have been furious at hearing them clack all over the house, but Andrés wasn’t there.

—Fuck him —she thought out loud, enjoying her husband’s absence.

She looked at herself again in the mirror. Her short hair suited her, and she liked her slim figure, even if she felt a little soft.

—If it weren’t for these pathetic tits… —she said, weighing them over the bra—. Well, at least the nipples get attention.

Her legs, on the other hand, were her pride: firm thighs, not a single varicose vein, with skin so soft that Andrés was still smitten by them. And he wasn’t the only one. Hugo always told her that the finest velvet in the world couldn’t compare with the feel of her legs. First-rate flatterer, that man.

The computer blinked as it booted up. Marta moved the children’s toys off the small table, placed a coaster for the glass and the bottle, and settled into the swivel chair. She began reading.

The texts weren’t long, but she kept going back over them to check the details. The sun was beating full force against the wall, and although she had the blinds almost closed, the air had turned dense, a light, constant pressure over her whole skin that made her breathe deeper. Pearls of sweat began to surface again on her belly. She touched them with the tips of two fingers and lingered on spreading them in circles around her navel while she kept reading.

The words arranged themselves before her brown eyes, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, describing that carnival night that had ended in a secluded corner of the entrance hall of her house. By then her left hand had left the navel and was moving down toward the scant fabric protecting her intimacy. First it grazed the surrounding area with nails and fingertips, while her imagination, in full boil, shook her more and more.

Soon she needed something stronger. She reclined in the chair, lifted her feet, still in their sandals, onto the furniture beside her, and spread her thighs wide. The thong went taut, its straps sinking into the flesh and pressing right where she needed it most, while the whole palm of her hand rubbed her sex over the fabric. Her breathing deepened.

—Ahh, I’m so fucking horny… I can’t believe it —she muttered—. Did we really do all that that night?

She was talking to herself, the text almost finished. The thong had already been shoved aside, and both hands had abandoned the rest of her body. One rubbed her clit fiercely; the other slid two fingers inside her, into a sex that was so drenched it had soaked the fabric and was already slipping down her thighs to the seat. Luckily it wasn’t upholstered, or it would have left an impossible stain to explain. Marta always got very wet when aroused, something anyone who had ever managed to push her to the limit knew. Something Hugo had known long before she married Andrés.

She threw her head back and closed her eyes. She could no longer focus on the reading; she only wanted to reach the pleasure her senses were demanding. The final paragraphs were left in suspense while she drove her fingers in as deep as she could, curling them to brush that rough patch that tore rhythmic thrusts from her, accompanied by ever-louder moans. She had never been a screamer in bed; some lovers had complained about that. But that day she felt unleashed, and knowing she was alone, without family, without neighbors above or below, made her body want to enjoy through hearing too, listening to itself proclaim all that a simple text on a screen was capable of provoking in her.

She kept going with both hands, harder and harder, seeking the depths with her right and the little button with her left, while she remembered Hugo’s long, firm arms. Sweat bathed her completely, and the room smelled of sex. Her movements became vibrating, near the limit, until with a muffled, prolonged moan she arched her back and came hard. A tremor tautened her whole body, like an immense cramp that curved her all the way to her toes.

—My God… how much I needed that —she said to herself with a smile—. Though now I’ll have to clean up.

***

She took off the soaked thong and tossed it toward the bathroom. She straightened her bra, went to get a towel, and dried her legs, her hands, the chair, and the little puddle on the floor. What a mess, she thought, while a tingle ran through her sex, still hypersensitive.

The first story had been a delicious experience, but when she stopped to think about it coldly, all her composure sank. Ghosts crossed her mind: images of family and friends discovering those lines. So absorbed was she in those thoughts that when the phone rang again, she almost died of fright. She picked it up fearing it was Andrés asking for explanations, but it was her sister, calling to say she would come visit the next day.

Marta hung up and, still in her sandals, finished off the wine, now lukewarm. The bottle was empty, so she went down the stairs just as she was, covered only in her own skin, to get something cold.

She descended slowly, accentuating the sway of her hips. She felt profoundly sensual, a black-haired panther capable of devouring any man who crossed her path. Although she knew perfectly well which bastard she would choose if she had him within her claws.

The refrigerator opened and bathed her body in a pale light. The cold air raised gooseflesh on her skin and nipples. There was no wine left, so she took out a light beer. It wasn’t her favorite, but she wanted something cold and alcoholic. She poured it all into a glass and retraced her steps. She still had one story left to read, and she wasn’t going to leave it for another time.

She went into the bedroom and set the glass down. This time she was clear that she wouldn’t just read. She took off her bra and let her breasts breathe, firm, anticipating what was coming. She went to the wardrobe, moved some sweaters aside on the top shelf, and took out a shoebox. Inside, wrapped in soft cloths, she kept a medium-sized dildo she had brought knowing that during those days of solitude she might need its help.

She sat down again, dressed only in her sandals, took a good swig of beer, and opened the second link. She hadn’t seen anything from this one yet. When she started reading Hugo’s version of that day at Andrés’s family estate, she felt that hollow in her stomach again. Doubts gnawed at her about how much of it someone close to her might recognize. But little by little, sip by sip, she managed to let the black thoughts drift away and slipped back into the story. By the time she reached the hottest moments in the bed at the estate, her hands were already gripping the toy.

Her left hand went back to her clit; her right played with the tip of the dildo at the entrance to her sex. This time she took it more slowly, enjoying every caress and the situation itself. She took one hand away from her lips and brought it to her breasts, let a thread of saliva fall onto her nipple and used it as lubricant to stroke it. She felt hot, desired, just like when she was younger and could turn anyone on with a single look. And her body loved that feeling.

The reading went on and the arousal kept growing. The tip of the toy was already entering the threshold of her sex, unhurriedly, while her other hand pressed her nipples. She finished the story without even getting close to orgasm, but so excited that she knew she wasn’t going to stop. She stood up without taking out the dildo and let herself fall onto the unmade bed, raising her bent knees, sandals still on, and that detail gave the scene a touch she found maddening. She drove the prosthesis all the way in, touching the spots only something like that could reach.

For a good while she pumped it in and out, feeling full, but she needed something more vicious, something that would take her beyond that. She stretched out her hand, grabbed her phone, and knelt, resting her weight on one elbow while the other hand kept up the penetration. With a wicked smile she scrolled through the photo gallery until she found one of Hugo, taken on a day they had met by the pool with several friends. He could be seen perfectly: the tattoos, the muscles that turned her on so much. She was so aroused she could almost smell the vanilla deodorant he wore, that scent he once confessed was enough to set her on fire.

Going through the photos one by one, she imagined him sneaking onto the terrace without her hearing and then, with her ass up, grabbing her by the buttocks and lifting her as if she weighed nothing, covering her in caresses. The deeper she sank into the fantasy, the more her desire opened like a tap, soaking sheets already completely rumpled.

—I wish you’d come in through the window… and fuck me… —she panted—. And finish by coming in my mouth…

An intense tingle was born in her sex and spread through her whole body. She dropped the phone, fell onto her side, and moved the dildo frantically, attacking her clit again without mercy, harder and harder, chaining one orgasm after another until she was left almost breathless.

She kept caressing herself a little longer, while pleasure yielded its place to an immense calm that wrapped around her inside and out. And so, with the toy still partly inside her and the heat of the room embracing her, she fell asleep.

***

When she woke up, she had no idea how much time had passed. It took her a moment to react and look at the clock, but only forty minutes had gone by. Even so, she felt brand new. She got up, stretched her legs around the room, and before going down to the living room, put on her robe, with nothing underneath. The sensation of feeling sexy and desired was still very much there.

She made herself an iced coffee; she wanted to be clearheaded after so much alcohol and debauchery. With slow deliberation she sat on the sofa and stretched her legs out over the seat. She reflected on everything she had just read, on the last few months, and of course on Hugo and every word he had written.

—That fucking bastard is going to get it —she thought, though the anger from before had turned into an enormous need to feel mischievous—. I’ve got to think how to teach him a lesson for scaring me like that.

She bit her lower lip and smiled again. The idea circling her head promised to give her quite a few very good times. And, definitely, a lot of pleasure.