The Two Hostesses That Night at the Estate

Don Rodrigo’s annual dinner was one of those events my husband Andrés simply couldn’t turn down. His company depended to a large extent on that man, and when he offered rooms at his estate for us to stay the night after the party, there wasn’t much to think about. There were five of us in all: Andrés and me, Miriam —his secretary, with whom I had a relationship that went quite a bit beyond the professional—, and my brother-in-law Sebastián with his wife Claudia.

The estate was impressive. A building separate from the main house served as a celebration hall, and that was where we spent most of the night. Don Rodrigo’s wife, Isabel, moved among the guests with the ease that comes with age and money. She had to be around sixty, though her body told a different story: black stockings, a dress with a generous neckline, and a way of moving that made it clear she was very aware of the effect she had on people.

I also met Natalia, the host’s daughter. Everyone called her “the Heiress,” not only because of the place she occupied in the family business, but because of something in her attitude —that mix of confidence and mystery people have when they know exactly what they want. Thirty years old, maybe less, with a body that made clothing seem like a secondary accessory.

At some point during the night my shoes started to bother me. They were pretty but not made for standing for hours, so I decided to go to the room to change them. I crossed the garden and went into the main house. The living room was dim, but two silhouettes stood out on the sofa. I stopped.

It was Claudia, my brother-in-law’s wife, tangled up with Natalia. There was no room for misunderstanding: the Heiress had her head between my sister-in-law’s thighs, and Claudia was holding her by the shoulders with both hands, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. I stood frozen for a few seconds. Then I kept going without making a sound, went upstairs, changed my shoes, and returned to the party as if nothing had happened.

When the celebration ended and everyone retreated to their rooms, I needed to tell Miriam what I had seen. I went to her door and was about to knock, but something stopped me: a moan, muffled but unmistakable. I pressed my eye to the crack just enough to confirm what I suspected. Miriam and Sebastián. The two of them in bed, with no sign of Claudia, who had apparently gone back to the city with some excuse.

I slipped away in silence.

On my way to my room I passed the downstairs living room. There was light inside and voices. I stopped instinctively, and something —curiosity, boredom, or simply the wine— made me stay at the threshold, where I could see without being seen.

Don Rodrigo was standing. Isabel, seated on the same sofa where hours earlier I had seen her daughter with my sister-in-law, had her legs crossed and was wearing that skirt that reached halfway up her thigh. The black stockings gleamed under the light of a floor lamp.

“It’s been a good night,” he said.

“They always are,” she replied. “Though you would have preferred I weren’t here so you could entertain yourself with one of the secretaries.”

He laughed. She didn’t wait for his answer: she stood up, went to him, and pulled his pants down with a calm that suggested she’d done it thousands of times. She took him in her hands, brought him to her mouth, and began working him with her tongue with a precision that made me grip the doorframe.

“Like that,” he said, his voice rough.

Isabel sucked his cock with brutal naturalness, without haste and without shame, taking him to the base, sliding her tongue under the foreskin and wetting him all over with an old, expert, shameless lust. Don Rodrigo rested a hand on the back of her neck and guided her only slightly, making her set the pace with her mouth open and her lips taut around his shaft. The sounds were wet, raw, obscene, and I could feel my pulse thudding in my crotch watching her take him until it made his thighs tremble. When I heard him let out a rougher moan, she looked up at him from below with that insolent expression of someone who knows exactly what she’s provoking.

She kept going for quite a while, until he told her to stand up. He lifted her dress, ran a hand down her back, and pulled her breasts out of her bra. He kissed her neck while she remained in front of him, hands resting on his shoulders and eyes closed. He squeezed her hips hungrily, spread her legs a little, and rubbed her cunt over her stockings, drawing a short, low gasp from her. Isabel opened her legs wider, offering herself without shame, and slid one hand into his hair as if she were holding him in place so he wouldn’t miss a single second of what was coming.

“You’re the same little slut as always,” he murmured, and he didn’t mean it as an insult.

“And you’re the same bastard,” she answered, and that wasn’t an insult either.

What followed had nothing clumsy or routine about it. He threw her onto the sofa, yanked off her underwear with a sharp pull, and left her completely open, soaked, gleaming under the light. She lifted her knees, planted her heels against his back, and arched her waist to take him better. Don Rodrigo lowered his pants just enough, settled between her legs, and entered her with an urgency that didn’t seem like that of someone who had spent decades with the same person. He drove in to the hilt with one hard thrust, making the sofa creak, and she answered by digging her fingers into his shoulders, mouth open and breathing broken, as if her body were being split open from the inside. Every thrust was dry, deep, without delicacy, and the sound of their flesh slapping together filled the room with an obscenity that left me breathless.

They changed positions. Her on top, facing away from him, hands on the back of the sofa and ass moving with a slow rhythm at first, then fiercer, letting herself be speared while he held her hips to set the pace. Isabel threw her head back, exposing the taut line of her neck and her breasts swaying under the loosened bra, while he took her from behind with brutal patience, hammering her cunt from below again and again until she was panting through clenched teeth. When he announced he was coming, she got down, knelt, and finished him with her mouth. No drama. She wrapped her lips around his cock, sucked it hungrily, licked the head, took him to her throat and kept moving her head until she drew his cum out of him with a rough growl. She swallowed without pulling away, with the same naturalness as someone drinking a glass of water.

I left there carefully, went up to my room, undressed in the dark so as not to wake Andrés, and masturbated in silence until I fell asleep. I put a hand to my cunt, still hot from what I’d just seen, slipped two fingers in slowly and then faster, rubbing my clit with exactly the right pressure to mimic the image of Isabel kneeling there, her mouth full of semen. I came clenching my thighs and biting the sheet so I wouldn’t make a sound, my breathing ragged and my head full of wet bodies, tongues, and cocks.

***

The next morning I woke before everyone else. I put on a robe and went downstairs. The house smelled of fresh coffee and woodsmoke, and in the kitchen I found Natalia leaning against the counter with a cup in her hand. Short jeans, a shapeless T-shirt, her hair carelessly tied up. And still.

“You’re the first one up,” she said with a smile.

“I’m an early riser.”

She poured me coffee and explained that she planned to light the grill in the building at the back of the garden. I offered to help. She accepted, went to get me clothes so I wouldn’t stain mine, and waited outside while I went up to change.

I reached the grill and found her lighting the barbecue. It was a small, covered space, smelling of burned wood and herbs. The morning light came in from the side and made everything about her look like part of a very well-composed photograph.

“Did you enjoy the party?” she asked without looking at me.

The tone was not innocent. I knew immediately what she meant.

“I saw some interesting things,” I replied.

She lifted her eyes and looked at me steadily for a moment.

“My mother is interesting too,” she said.

“She certainly is.”

We fell silent. She went back to the meat. I moved up behind her, pushed her hair aside with one hand, and brushed her neck with my lips. She didn’t move. She kept holding the barbecue tongs as if what I was doing were the most natural thing in the world.

“Is this meat interesting too?” she asked.

I pulled up my T-shirt and showed her my breasts.

“And these?” I said.

She set the tongs down on the plate, turned her head, and smiled. With both thumbs she pulled down the straps of her T-shirt and let them fall. Her breasts were bared, firm and round, and I stood behind her: my chest against her back, my hands on her hips, my mouth at her neck. At first I pinched one nipple gently, then with more hunger, while she rested her head on my shoulder and opened her thighs just enough for me to feel the heat rising between them.

“Delicious,” I murmured against her skin.

She turned just enough to brush my mouth with hers. It was a brief contact, almost a question, and the answer was that we kissed for quite a while while the meat began to smell like it was roasting. She took my lower lip between her teeth, slid her tongue into my mouth, and grabbed my ass with one hand, pulling me against her to make it clear she wasn’t playing. I slid a hand under the waistband of her shorts, touched her crotch over the fabric, and felt her grow wet at once.

“I’m going to have to take care of this,” she said at last, pointing to the grill. “But don’t worry. When we can have real time, I’ll make it up to you.”

We got dressed before anyone else arrived. We carried the food to the house together, as if nothing had happened.

***

During lunch I couldn’t stop looking at Isabel. She had changed: short skirt, black stockings again, a red jacket that left very little to the imagination. When dessert was served, she announced that the others would be having a work meeting and that only she and I would be free.

“We could take a walk around the estate,” she suggested.

I agreed. I went up to change: I picked a blouse with a plunging neckline and a skirt that reached mid-thigh. When I came back down, Isabel was waiting in the living room with that smile I was already beginning to recognize.

We took a walk through the gardens and at the far end, separated from the main building by a gravel path, there was a converted barn. Big wooden doors, inside a small raised stage of dark planks, and in the center, a metal pole reaching up to the ceiling.

“For summer karaoke,” Isabel explained. “Though the pole has other possible uses.”

“Looks like one the striptease dancers use,” I said.

She looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

“Think it would suit you?”

I went up onto the stage almost without thinking. I grabbed the pole and began to move, slowly at first, following a song that existed only in my head. Isabel sat on one of the low sofas surrounding the stage, crossed her legs, and watched me without hiding it.

When I came down, she held out a hand to me.

“Come here.”

I knelt in front of her, while she remained seated. She unbuttoned my blouse slowly, button by button, as I stroked her thighs over her stockings. When she finished, she took it off me and unclasped my bra without hesitation. Then she made me bend forward and spread my legs with one hand, testing with her fingers before sliding one into my already slick sex, as if she were checking a ripe piece of fruit.

“Beautiful,” she said, and it was an observation, not a compliment.

She stood up and I did too. I helped her take off her jacket. Underneath she wore nothing but the bra, one of black lace that held up a pair of breasts that made any speculation pointless. I took it off myself with one gesture.

I pulled down the tiny thong she wore under her skirt and made her lean against the back of the sofa, bent forward. I knelt behind her and ran my tongue over her tailbone, slowly, down to the small of her back. She pressed her fingers against the sofa leather and bent her knees slightly to give me better access. I opened her ass cheeks with both hands, moved the soaked fabric aside, and buried my mouth between her ass before returning to the center, where her cunt was already throbbing wet and open. I licked her without detours, direct, seeking her clit with my tongue while she writhed and begged for more with broken breaths.

I stood up, turned her around, and made her sit. I took off her skirt and knelt between her legs. I spread her thighs with both hands and started licking her without detours, following the rhythm her hips set. Her cunt was soaked, hot, and my tongue tasted of salt and desire while she clutched my hair and pushed me against her, not letting me lift my head.

“God,” she said softly.

I kept going. She gradually tightened, her thighs clamped against my shoulders, until she came with a long, restrained moan, hands in my hair, not letting me move. Her belly trembled, her legs tensed, and she let out a harsh gasp when my tongue dragged the whole orgasm out of her, leaving her wet and open, breathing as if she had just run a very long distance.

When I let her go, she looked down at me with her eyes still half-lidded.

“Now you,” she said.

She laid me on the sofa, took off my skirt and underwear, and positioned herself between my legs. She began slowly, with the tip of her tongue, exploring. When she found what she was looking for, she didn’t stop. She licked my clit with cruel insistence, opened me with her fingers, and penetrated me with her tongue until she made my back arch. I gripped the edge of the sofa and let myself go, not thinking about Andrés, the business, or the meeting they were having two hundred meters away.

I came hard.

After that we lay there together, our bodies in contact from shoulders to knees. She brought her breasts close to mine until they touched, and that contact —so simple, so soft— made me moan again. We moved like that, tangled together, until we both came a second time almost at the same moment, rubbing ourselves slowly, breathing one another in, soaked and exhausted, skin sticky and hearts pounding too hard.

We got dressed in silence, helping one another as if wearing someone else’s underwear were something you always did. Isabel buttoned my blouse and kissed my cheek.

“I hope your husband keeps doing business with mine for many years,” she said.

“Me too,” I replied.

And I meant it.