Strangers

When her fingers brushed mine across the table, I knew that night I was going to recover something my girlfriend had been making me forget little by little.

For two days I had been lowering the curtains to hide what I was doing. That last morning I decided to leave them open, and the woman in uniform stayed planted on the other side of the courtyard.

When we got there that night, my wife was already wearing the plug. What we didn’t expect was to run into a nineteen-year-old who would change the routine.

We’d sworn the playroom would be oral sex only. We hadn’t counted on the man next to us watching—or on his wife’s hands on my back.

We talked for weeks without sending each other a single photo, until she told me she wanted to be the first to do it to me, in person, in her bed.

I wanted people to watch her. To devour her with their eyes. What I didn’t expect was that one of the strangers in the back would dare to chase her into the showers.

I closed my eyes in the empty locker room and let the fantasy carry me farther than I’d imagined. When I opened them, there was no going back.

When he tied the black mask over my eyes and opened the private-room door, I never imagined that one of those masks hid someone I’d known since childhood.

I’d spent half my life with the same woman when that stranger in leopard print sat beside me and looked at me the way no one had in years.

The doorbell rang at half past seven and I knew my marriage had just changed forever. She came down the stairs without a bra, looked at them, and smiled.

When I opened the door, he wasn’t alone: behind him, wearing that practiced rent-boy smile, he had brought a man I had never seen in the neighborhood in my life.

I went out to smoke in the dark and saw him: crouched behind the palm tree, eyes fixed on the window where she was undressing, unaware she was being watched by two.

When the first one came up to the car, my wife already had her skirt hiked up and her blouse open. What happened after that I saw everything from a sofa, glass in hand, holding my breath.

At two in the morning, in that room with red lights, I stopped pretending I was only there to keep my husband company. I was watching. And I was liking it far too much.

Our eyes met in the service-area café. I knew he’d follow me into the bathroom, and I knew I wasn’t coming out the same man who went in.

That morning I decided to go out with nothing under my skirt. I didn’t want to be touched, only watched. And in the second-floor ice cream shop, someone noticed.

I saw the bus driver watching us in the rearview mirror and, instead of covering up, I let him pull down my top. At three in the morning, my ex and I were a free show.

He’d kept the app open for months without saying a word. The night he finally replied, there was a discreet hotel and a man named Iván waiting for him.

The shop was empty at three in the afternoon. When he pulled the shutter down and led me to the fitting room, I knew that siesta wouldn’t be like any other.

She accepted the service as a one-time fantasy, but she never imagined that stranger would lead her to discover orgasms she didn’t even know her body could have.