The Married Man Who Comes Looking for Me While She Sleeps

“Your wife doesn’t complain, with a stud like you at home…”

I said it with my mouth still swollen, lipstick smeared to my cheek, and my whole body throbbing like a single exhausted muscle. The black lingerie I’d put on for him hung in tatters over my hip, the panties ripped along the seam from a tug he’d given them with his teeth, and between my legs I felt that sweet burn a man leaves behind when he’s taken his time fucking you until your ass is raw. I caressed his cock, still halfway between hard and resting, gleaming with me and with a thread of semen hanging from the head, and squeezed it softly in my palm, feeling it throb reflexively. I licked my finger, wiped away the thick drop dangling there, and sucked it slowly without taking my eyes off him, with the foolish tenderness of someone who’s just been happy and wants it to show.

Damián didn’t answer right away. He kept staring at the motel’s stained ceiling, one arm bent beneath his neck and the other resting across my back, his fingers spread as if he wanted to encompass all of me.

“Well,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “Don’t think so. Nothing’s happened at home for almost two years.”

Almost two years.

And something inside me clenched—not out of pity for him, I confess, but from a dirty, hot joy that rose from my stomach to the fake cunt of my mouth, the one he’d just ravaged with kisses. I leaned in and kissed him delicately on the mouth, with a tenderness that doesn’t suit me at all, because I’m not delicate. I’m a flabby forty-year-old who squeezes himself into cheap garter belts and paints his lips in the car’s rearview mirror before coming into rooms like these. But he returned the kiss slowly, without hurrying, sliding his tongue into me until I could still taste him mixed with me, as if we had our whole lives ahead of us, and it undid me.

***

We met on a rainy Tuesday, almost a year ago now, at the loading dock of the warehouse where I handled the accounts for a wholesale auto-parts dealer. He came and went in his white van, unloading boxes, always with his shirt stuck to his back with sweat and that way he had of looking sideways, taking my measure without saying a word.

I signed his delivery slips. He thanked me with a grunt. It took us weeks to exchange more than three words, and all of them were about the weather or the traffic on the ring road. But some looks last just long enough not to be innocent, and his always lingered on my face for one second too long, as if he were searching for something I didn’t show during office hours.

One Friday afternoon, with the warehouse already empty and the guard making his rounds through the back parking lot, I found him smoking beside the dock. I asked him for a light without having a cigarette. He understood at once. There was no speech, no by-the-book seduction, no clever line: just his big hand settling on the back of my neck, my back against the cold concrete wall, and his bulge already hard, pressing against my hip before I’d said another word.

“Is this what you were looking for?” he asked in my ear, hoarse, while he squeezed my cock through my trousers with a hand that didn’t ask permission.

“Since the first delivery slip,” I replied, and knelt right there between the boxes, unzipped him, and pulled him out. He was thick, crooked to the left, his foreskin half-retracted and the heavy veins throbbing. I put him in my mouth without further preamble, all the way down my throat, and he grabbed my hair and groaned a strangled “Holy shit” that I still remember. He came in three minutes, his head thrown back, and I swallowed every last drop as if I were signing a contract.

***

Since then, it’s Thursdays. His wife thinks he goes out to play cards with the guys from the workshop, and maybe it’s even true that he plays sometimes. But most Thursdays he takes the old road, parks the van behind the motel sign so it can’t be seen from the road, and knocks on the door of the room I’ve already paid for and left half-lit.

By then I’ve been getting myself ready for half an hour. I shave my legs in the tiny bathroom, pull on my stockings, fasten my garter belt, adjust the padded bra that gives me a fake but soft-to-the-touch chest. I put on my makeup. I look at myself. And when the door sounds, I open it slowly, as if I hadn’t spent the entire afternoon with my ass already lubricated and two fingers buried deep inside me, thinking about him.

That night he came in smelling of gasoline and cheap cologne, the two scents that have already become irresistible to me. He looked me up and down without touching me yet, then blew air through his nose like a horse.

“Fuck,” he said. “You look better every Thursday. You’re going to make it fall out on its own.”

“I get dressed up for you,” I replied, closing the door behind him with my foot while I ran my hand over his trousers and felt his cock already waking beneath the fabric.

***

He kissed my neck first, slowly, while his hands lowered the straps of my bra and squeezed the flesh at my sides without a hint of shame. Damián likes to take his time with what other people call the beginning, as if for him it weren’t the beginning but the middle. He bit my shoulder, licked my collarbone, turned me to face the wall, and spent a long while tracing my back with his lips, moving down vertebra by vertebra to the edge of my panties.

Before going any lower, he stood up, pressed me against the wall with his chest against mine, and whispered in my ear.

“Suck me first. I’ve been hard since the traffic light.”

He didn’t need to repeat himself. I knelt on the rough carpet, unbuckled his belt, and pulled his trousers down to his ankles. His cock sprang out of his underwear like an animal, thick and dark with blood, with that heavy drop already appearing at the tip. I gripped him at the base, ran my tongue flat from his balls to the head, and took him all the way in. Damián let out a curse and buried both hands in my hair. I sucked him slowly at first, swallowing him until my makeup made me cry, letting him move me against the roof of my mouth. Then faster, hollowing my cheek, sucking only the head with my lips tight around it while pumping the rest with my hand slick with saliva. He began fucking my mouth at his own pace, shoving my head against the wall, and I let him, eyes watering and mascara running, feeling his balls strike my chin with every thrust.

“Keep that up and I’ll come down your throat and that’ll be the end of it,” he warned through clenched teeth, then pulled his cock from my mouth with a wet pop and yanked me upward by the hair.

He stood me up, turned me around again, tore off my panties with two fingers hooked into the elastic, and spread my buttocks with his hands like someone finally sitting down at a table he’d been staring at for hours. He buried his face between my cheeks without warning. There’s no elegant way to tell it, and no need: he was eating my ass hungrily, his tongue thrust as far inside as it could go, slobbering over my hole, sucking me, biting my buttocks, rising to the small of my back before going down again. His tongue worked with a patience that left my legs trembling, going in and out of the opening, circling around it, while I clung to the headboard and bit the back of my hand to keep from screaming and alerting the people in the next room. He brought two fingers to his mouth, wet them thoroughly, and slid them in slowly, first one, then two, searching for the spot that makes me see stars.

“Stay still,” he ordered when I tried to turn around. “Not yet.”

And I obeyed. With him, obedience isn’t surrender; it’s trust. I gave him the full weight of my body, all those extra pounds I hate in front of the mirror and that he handles as if they were a gift, positioning me as he pleased, opening me, preparing me with his fingers while he murmured things in my ear that I’d rather not repeat here because they still turn me on when I write them. That I was his slut. That he loved my fat ass. That he was going to fuck it until I begged his forgiveness for not opening it sooner. Things like that, in that hoarse voice pressed to my ear, while he slid his fingers in and out with a squelch that embarrassed me and aroused me in equal measure.

***

When he finally put it in me, he did it slowly, holding himself back, watching me in the stained mirror of the dresser. I felt it making its way in inch by inch, that sharp burn that turns into pleasure if you breathe properly, and he knew it, waiting motionless with just the tip inside until I pushed my ass backward, asking him for more. I held his gaze for as long as I could, until pleasure forced me to close my eyes and let my forehead fall against the mattress.

What came afterward had nothing delicate about it. Damián thrust with his whole body, with the strength of a man who loads boxes every day, gripping my hips, setting the pace, pulling all the way out to the head before driving back in to the balls in one blow. The bed frame protested against the wall, the headboard pounded, and he kept at it without slowing, his groin smacking my buttocks with a wet slap that filled the room. He turned me onto my back, folded my legs against my chest, held my ankles over his shoulders, and plunged into me again with my ass wide open and his balls striking me with every thrust. I begged him for more in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own, a high, broken voice that comes out only with him, a slut’s voice begging to have his ass split open. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto my fake chest, drop by drop, and every drop felt like a little medal.

“Tell me I’m the only one who fucks you like this,” he demanded without stopping, teeth clenched and a vein bulging at his temple.

“The only one,” I gasped. “There’s no one else. I don’t want anyone else. Your cock, my love, only your cock.”

“Say it again. Tell me who this ass belongs to.”

“You. It’s yours. Fuck it, Damián, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

And it was true, though he had no idea how true. He spat into my mouth without pulling out, licked my cheek, bit my lower lip until it hurt, and kept thrusting harder, until I began to feel my entire sanity slipping out through my ass.

***

He turned me over again and put me on all fours at the edge of the mattress, my head hanging over the side. He positioned himself behind me, drove into me hard all the way to the bottom, and started fucking me the way you fuck something you no longer bother to take care of, gripping the back of my neck with one hand and my shoulder with the other, pulling me backward with every thrust to bury himself deeper. He put three fingers in my mouth, and I sucked them while he destroyed me from behind. I could feel his cum rising; I could tell from the tremor of his thighs against my buttocks, from his broken rhythm, from his rougher gasps.

I came first without touching my cock, my face pressed into the pillow and his hand closed around my neck, in a long shudder that emptied me from within and made me stain the sheet beneath me with a thick puddle. He held on a little longer, just long enough to watch me come apart, clenching his teeth and fucking me more slowly so he wouldn’t finish yet. When he finally came, he did it inside me, with a dull growl rising from his stomach, burying himself to the hilt and unloading inside me jet by jet, while he squeezed my hips so hard he left finger marks that lasted until the next day. I felt every pulse of his cock inside me, every push of hot semen, and clenched around him internally so I wouldn’t miss a single drop.

He collapsed onto my back with all his weight, panting against my hair, still inside me as he slowly softened. When he pulled out, a thick thread of his come ran down my thigh, and he gathered it up with two fingers and smeared it across my lips. I sucked them without thinking.

We stayed that way for a while, locked together, saying nothing as our breathing calmed. Then he did what he always does, what no one else has ever done for me without being asked: he turned me over carefully, kissed my belly, licked my fake nipples, and lowered himself to take my cock into his mouth with calm devotion, without hurrying. He sucked me all the way, balls included, running his tongue up and down the frenulum, hollowing his cheek, swallowing me deep until his eyes watered. He slid a finger in behind me, found that spot still throbbing with his come, and massaged it slowly while he kept sucking me. He pulled one last shudder from me, leaving me drained of strength and almost of tears, with a small, dry ejaculation that I spilled into his mouth and that he swallowed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Not because I asked him to. Simply because he wanted me to finish the night whole, too.

“You didn’t have to…” I began.

“Shut up,” he cut me off, climbing up to lie beside me and wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “I like it.”

***

And now we’re here, in the thick, warm silence of afterward, with the bedside lamp’s yellowish light and the ceiling fan turning lazily. I stroke his hairy chest, follow the line of an old scar on his side, smooth his hair with a gesture that looks far too much like affection. And I think of her, his wife, whom I neither know nor want to know.

I think of everything she’s missing. She misses the way he kisses, as if every kiss were a question and its answer at the same time. She misses the infinite patience of his tongue buried deep in an ass. She misses the honest strength of his hands spreading your buttocks. She misses that thick, crooked cock that fills even what you didn’t know was empty. She misses the look with which he pins a man to the bed without having to touch him. She misses the way that, after destroying you with his fucking, he gathers you back up with his mouth.

She misses the whole man, not just the stud. Because there are studs by the dozen in this world—I’ve known almost all of them in rooms like this one—and most of them come, pull up their trousers, and leave without looking back. Not Damián. Damián stays. He lets himself be loved for a while. And in that while, for one hour stolen from the week, I’m the luckiest person on this road.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his eyes already half closed.

“Nothing,” I lie, because there are things I don’t tell him. I keep them to myself because I’m afraid that if I let them out, he’ll get scared and won’t come back, and then I wouldn’t know what to do with everything he’s awakened inside me.

***

I know what I am and I know what this is. I don’t entertain any girlfriend fantasies, although sometimes, in the dark, I allow myself one minute of them. I know that in a little while he’ll get up, shower quickly to wash my smell from his body and my semen from his hair, get dressed in his work clothes, and go back home, to his bed, to his side of a mattress where nothing has happened for almost two years. And I’ll stay behind, picking my torn stockings and shredded panties up off the floor, my ass still dripping inside, removing my makeup in front of the mirror, becoming once again the flabby accountant from the auto-parts warehouse.

But I also know this, and it’s the only thing that truly matters to me: next Thursday he’ll park behind the sign again. He’ll knock on the door again. He’ll look me up and down again and blow air through his nose. He’ll pull my cock out as soon as I close the door and put it in his mouth before saying hello. Because in his house there’s a man starving to death, and here, in this little roadside room smelling of bleach and semen, there’s someone willing to eat him whole every week of his life.

I curl up against him, kiss his shoulder, run my tongue over his nipple, and repeat it very softly, almost to myself, with the sly satisfaction of someone who knows he’s won a war the other woman doesn’t even realize she’s losing.

“Your wife doesn’t know what she’s missing, my love…”

And yes. She doesn’t know what she’s missing. The stupid woman. Let her keep playing cards with her husband on any other night. Thursdays are mine. On Thursdays this cock is mine, this mouth is mine, this man is mine. And tomorrow, when he wakes beside her with his cock hard as it is every morning, she won’t know what to do with it. I will.