The Husband’s Return Threatened Her Forbidden Desire

Every paradise, even the most perfumed one, has an expiration date. The six months flew by like a sigh, and Gerardo’s figure, Marta’s husband, returned from oblivion like an annoying ghost that had just paid the rent. Both she and Iván had filed him away in a plot that no longer belonged to him, a secondary character nobody missed. A week before his return, the phone rang with a shrill chime that cut through the thick air of their secret world.

—Hello? —she said, her voice barely trembling.

On the other end, Gerardo’s voice sounded so far away it might have been coming from another continent.

—Marta, it’s me. Just letting you know I’ll arrive Saturday afternoon. Don’t bother coming to pick me up, I’ll take a taxi.

The call was short, dry, as functional as a weather report. He hung up and she was left with the receiver in her hand, feeling the weight of the real world drop onto her shoulders.

Iván, naked on the sofa, his cock still half-raised after that morning’s last fucking, was watching a shark documentary. He looked up.

—That was him, right?

She nodded without words. And something changed. The news was a bucket of cold water, but also a catalyst. During the week they had left, they threw themselves into a frenzy of order and chaos. They cleaned the house with obsessive ferocity, and above all they cleaned Marta’s room, that sanctuary Iván had profaned for half a year. They erased every trace as if they were stigmas that had to disappear before the owner arrived.

But they also used the time to give themselves over to each other with more hunger than ever. It wasn’t just the intensity, but the variety: a frantic roundup of the last six months, as if they wanted to live an entire life in seven days. They did it all over the house, a pilgrimage through their private altars.

On the kitchen counter he set her down with a shove, pried her legs open, and yanked off her panties with a rip that sounded like fabric tearing. He buried his face in her pussy until his tongue went numb, licking her clit with pornographic slowness, sliding two fingers up to the knuckle while she clutched the edge of the marble and panted, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. When Marta came for the first time, he already had his cock out, hard and dripping, and he drove into her with a single thrust that lifted her a few centimeters off the cold stone. He dug his hands into her tits over her bra, shoved it down with his teeth, and fucked her until the dishes in the draining rack rattled.

On the living-room sofa she straddled him and rode his cock slowly, her eyes locked on his, sinking all the way down with each descent, feeling the tip strike some secret place in her belly. She licked the sweat from his neck while he squeezed her ass with both hands and set the rhythm. She came screaming into his mouth, biting his lip, and he flipped her face-down over the cushions and fucked her from behind again, this time without mercy, until he spilled a thick load between her cheeks that ran down the small of her back.

On the hallway rug she got on all fours and first made her suck him, holding her hair like reins, pushing her mouth onto him until her eyes filled with tears and she slobbered all over his balls. Then he penetrated her from behind, gripping her hips, and with each stroke he smacked one ass cheek hard, leaving her skin red. Marta came again and again, orgasm piled on orgasm, biting the rug so she wouldn’t scream.

In the shower, with hot water falling over their faces, she knelt between the steam and sucked his whole cock, looking up at him with her mouth open and her tongue out so he could see how she swallowed him. He hauled her up, crushed her against the tiles, and fucked her standing, with one of her legs hooked over his arm, battering into her with water and semen splashing between their groins until he came inside her with a growl that echoed all over the bathroom.

And, of course, in the marital bed, that territory soon to be returned, they fucked with a ferocity that was also revenge. Marta felt that for Iván this was not just desire. It seemed as if he wanted to leave a mark on her body, a claim of ownership. He possessed her with an almost sorrowful fury, like a man who knows he is about to lose his kingdom.

One night, in the marital bed, he stopped in the middle of the act, his cock buried to the root inside her, his face inches from hers, his breathing ragged.

—Swear to me —he whispered hoarsely, moving his hips just enough to rub his pubic bone against her clit— that this cunt is mine alone. That you’ll never open your legs for that man again. That you won’t let him put so much as one finger inside you.

—I swear —she answered, tears welling and mixing with the sweat as she clung to his back with her nails—. I’m yours. My cunt is yours. Everything is yours. Yours alone.

He smiled, a grimace of triumph and pain, and sank back into her with long, deep thrusts that made the bed creak, pinching her nipples, biting her neck, fucking her as if he wanted to leave the mold of his cock engraved inside her. He put her legs over his shoulders and opened her all the way, and each thrust drew a new moan. When he felt her clenching in spasms around his cock, he sped up and came with her, a long, thick release they both felt like an explosion until the two of them burst.

When they finished, she hugged him, feeling the hammering of his heart and the semen dripping between her thighs.

—Now swear it to me —she said, her voice firmer now—. Promise me you won’t do anything while your father is home.

Iván pulled back a little and looked at her with a strange mix of frustration and contempt.

—What’s the point of swearing? None of that makes any sense. This is real. What we have is real.

—It’s only for a while. We have to be careful.

—Careful? What we have is an earthquake, and you’re asking me to control it so I don’t wake a neighbor who’s nothing but a salt statue.

—Don’t say that. He’s your father.

The only father I need is me. That’s what he thought, and almost said, but he got out of bed without finishing the sentence, his cock still shining with semen and her fluids. It was the first real disagreement between them. Up to that day everything had been a symphony of flesh and consent, and suddenly the first crack appeared in the wall of their paradise. Marta felt awful, terribly awful. It was the first true illusion of her life, the first time she had ever felt whole, and everything threatened to collapse.

***

On Saturday afternoon the house was spotless. It smelled clean and normal, a strange and threatening scent. Marta had put on a simple dress, a disguise of a decent woman. Iván wore jeans and a T-shirt, an ordinary boy waiting for his father.

When the doorbell rang, it was like a sentence. Iván opened the door and she stayed in the living room, her heart in her throat.

—Hi, son. How’s everything? —Gerardo’s voice, kind and distant.

—Fine, Dad. We were expecting you.

—I’m tired from the trip and have a backache you can’t imagine.

The following days were a black comedy, a domestic farce in which nobody laughed. The air in the house grew thick. They simply could not touch each other. Gerardo was home all day, a ghost in a bath cap and slippers wandering the hallways talking about his trip with paralyzing self-importance. He told stories about dinners with men with impossible names, about investments that would change the world.

—And then I told Lindqvist, “Does this look like charity work to you?” No, my friend, this is pure capitalism, through and through. And the guy admitted he’d never met anyone with such nerve.

Marta smiled with a grimace that looked like a cramp. Iván, on the sofa, stared at his phone with an intensity that could have punched a hole in the screen. Gerardo had completely forgotten the pact he had once sealed with his son, that agreement in which he ceded his own wife as if she were a rusty nail. For Marta, that was the most degrading thing: that he had handed her over was already bad enough, but that he didn’t even remember made her a piece of discard, a broken promise through sheer negligence.

Iván’s frustration was a caged animal. In the mornings, when the sun filtered through the blinds, he tried to get his hand on Marta in the kitchen, his eager fingers slipping under her skirt, searching for the wet heat of her cunt over her panties.

—No, please —she whispered, pushing him away with a fear that froze his blood, even as her pulse was already racing between her legs—. Your father…

—Your father? —he corrected with pained sarcasm, squeezing her breast over her T-shirt before backing off—. Let’s give him something to talk about.

In the afternoons, when she changed in the bedroom, he appeared in the doorway, a statue of restrained desire, the bulge of his hard cock outlined in his pants.

—I need to feel you. Even if it’s just a minute. Let me put it in you a little and I’ll go.

—And I need us not to get caught. Go do your thing.

Gerardo, to make matters worse, never left the house for anything. Not even on weekends; he hid behind his back pain. He seemed determined to serve his house arrest all at once, turning the home into a prison for three.

One Saturday, while he watched financial news in the living room, the beast escaped its cage. Marta was making the bed in her room, stretching the sheets with an automatic gesture, when Iván walked in. They had gone ten days without any contact, an eternity for two addicts.

—Take that off —he said, his voice a low growl, closing the door behind him without locking it.

—Knock it off. I’m serious —she replied, sounding firm and panicked at once—. He could come in any moment.

—Let him come in. Let him see how a real woman gets fucked. Let him see how his wife comes when someone touches her right.

She tried to stop him, hands on his chest, but he shoved her aside with a roughness that truly frightened her. This time it wasn’t a game. He yanked her dress up to her waist, ripped down her panties with one slap, and bent her over the half-made bed, her face buried in the lavender-scented pillow, her ass lifted and exposed. He opened his fly, pulled out his swollen cock, and ran the glans through her soaked slit.

—You’re dripping, bitch —he panted, rubbing the tip against her clit—. You tell me no and your cunt is like this. Have you forgotten? You’re mine.

He started pushing into her, the thick head forcing its way in, when the voice from the living room cut through the air.

—Marta, come here a second! —Gerardo shouted from the living room, his voice cheerful and alien—. Look at this! They’re talking about the company I invested in! They say it’s the bet of the year!

The phrase hit them like a cold tide. Iván’s rage deflated, replaced by silent poison. He pulled out abruptly, leaving her empty, the shiny glans hanging between her legs. Marta sprang up, yanking her wet panties back on with trembling hands, straightening her dress.

—Coming, coming! —she shouted in a voice that wasn’t her own, and hurried out almost running, without looking back, leaving him alone with his rage, his cock exposed and an unmade bed that smelled of frustration and wet cunt.

***

Another week passed. Iván had to settle for relieving himself alone at night, with the door closed, his hand pumping his cock with furious rage, imagining his fingers were Marta’s lips, coming into a handkerchief with a muffled groan that tasted like nothing. Marta couldn’t sleep; she woke startled in the middle of the night, heart racing and cunt throbbing, listening to the house whisper. She even came up with an excursion so she could slip away with Iván to a hotel, but Gerardo, in a fit of opportunistic fatherhood, signed up for the plan with a smile that ruined everything.

One afternoon, while showering, Marta touched herself, searching for an echo of what had been. She leaned back against the tiles, spread her legs, and slid two fingers between the lips of her cunt, circling her thumb over her swollen clit. She shoved three fingers deep and moved them with rage, trying to imitate the thickness of Iván’s cock, but they were too thin, too much her own. She remembered the strength of his arms, the weight of his body crushing her, the heat of his breath on her neck, the way he split her in two with every thrust. The orgasm came late and weak, a sad spasm that tightened her belly without bringing relief, a poor, lonely release, a ghost of the ones they used to share.

That same night, during a dinner in which he barely spoke, Gerardo sat rigid in his chair with a pained expression.

—Ah, my back. It’s locked up. I can’t move.

—Stay calm —she said, with a bit of panic and a bit of relief—. I’ll bring you something for the pain.

She went to the medicine cabinet, her hands moving with almost criminal precision. She found what she was looking for. It wasn’t a simple painkiller, but a powerful muscle relaxant, a little sleep bomb. She came back with a glass of water.

—Take this, love. It’ll help you relax.

He swallowed it without suspicion. Half an hour later he was sound asleep, snoring softly. She looked at him: a stranger lying in her bed, an intruder in his own home. She lay down with her back to him, clutching the pillow, and cried in silence, not from sorrow, but from the dirty, bitter relief of having done it.

When the tears dried and fear turned to cold resolve, she got up. Every creak in the floor sounded like a gunshot. She wasn’t a woman going for a glass of water: she was a spy crossing enemy lines.

She entered Iván’s room without knocking. He was awake, reading by the bedside lamp, and the surprise left him speechless when he saw her in the doorway, a ghostly silhouette. Without a word, she let her nightdress fall to the floor like an old skin. Naked, pale, and beautiful under the dim light, with her nipples already hard from the cold and from what was coming, she slid beneath the sheets beside him.

—My love —she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement and fear, while she searched for his cock under the sheet and found it already rock-hard—. I gave him a pill. He’s asleep. Fuck me. Make me yours, now.

Iván didn’t make her repeat it. In a second he was on top of her, urgent, pushing her knees against her chest, fitting himself between her thighs. There were no preliminaries, no games: it was pure need, a release after ten days of drought. He guided his cock with his hand, found her soaked cunt, and drove into her in one stroke to the balls. She had to arch and bite his shoulder to hold back the moan. He covered her mouth with his palm and began to fuck her with long, desperate thrusts that made the bed frame creak.

—Quiet, my love, quiet —he panted against her ear as he penetrated her—. Open wider. Like that. That’s how my woman gets fucked.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, driving her heels into his ass, pulling him in, deeper. She felt his cock pounding at her depths, a sweet pain that was going to split her open. In barely a few minutes they both came at once, a silent explosion: she clenched in brutal spasms around his cock, biting his hand so she wouldn’t scream, and he spilled inside her with a series of hot jolts that filled her cunt to overflowing, semen dripping down her ass and staining the sheet.

They stayed wrapped around each other, his cock still inside her, listening to their hearts.

—I missed you so much —he said, his voice broken—. I thought I was going to go crazy. I jerked off thinking about you every night.

—Me too. I touched myself and it wasn’t the same. I don’t want anything to separate us.

They made love for the rest of the night like two animals escaping their cage, recovering part of the lost days. They did it slowly, her on top, riding him with her hands braced on his chest, lifting and lowering her hips at a rhythm that killed them with pleasure, letting him watch his cock slide in and out of her shining with her juices. They did it with her face-down and him on top, crushing her into the mattress, fucking her with short, deep thrusts while he bit the back of her neck. They did it on their sides, him pressed to her back, one hand on her breast and the other on her clit, fucking her slowly while he whispered obscenities in her ear.

—Tell me you’re my slut —he murmured, pinching her nipple—. Say it.

—I’m your slut —she moaned, turning her head so he could kiss her—. Yours alone. Fuck me more, don’t stop.

She sucked his cock on her knees between his legs, looking up at him while the still-warm semen ran down her chin; she pulled it from her mouth only to lick his balls and swallow him whole again. He buried his face in her cunt and ate her with desperate hunger, sucking her clit until she came for the third time that night, pressing his head between her thighs. It was as if they wanted to inscribe on their bodies a map of resistance, a topography of desire impossible to erase. When dawn painted the sky gray, she returned to her room with her cunt aching, semen dripping down her thighs, and her soul satisfied. Gerardo was still snoring, unaware of the battle fought just a few meters away from him.

***

For Marta it was a relief that Gerardo’s back had stolen all his desire. He complained, moved with difficulty, but no longer looked at her with appetite, only annoyance. And in that forced truce, she and Iván found a new language: a stolen glance at breakfast, a brush of hands in the hallway, a whisper in her ear when he was in the bathroom.

Finally, one Sunday during dinner, Gerardo announced it as if giving the weather forecast.

—Tomorrow I’m going back to the office. My back is under control now and I can’t delegate any longer. Lindqvist must think I’ve retired.

Marta and Iván looked at each other over the table, a silent electric shock. Her stomach twisted, not from nerves, but from pure, wild anticipation; her cunt moistened right there under the dress. While Gerardo monopolized the conversation with his tirades about the futures market, Marta calmly took a fried potato from the plate. And then it happened: she brought it to her mouth slowly, her lips parted in an obscene imitation, letting it go in and out while she stared into Iván’s eyes. She stuck out her tongue to lick it from below, sucking it from tip to base as if it were a miniature cock. He had to cough and drink water so he wouldn’t choke on his own saliva.

On Monday morning the atmosphere was different, a contained excitement floating in the air. Gerardo was getting ready, buzzing like a mosquito.

—Well, I’m off. I don’t know what time I’ll be back, we have an important meeting today.

—Iván is staying home today —Marta said, her voice calm and firm—. He isn’t feeling well.

Gerardo, already in his coat and carrying his briefcase, barely looked at her.

—All right. He should take care of himself. We’ll talk later.

He closed the door with a click that sounded like the starting gun. The house fell silent for exactly three seconds. Then Marta went to Iván’s room, entered without knocking, and stripped instantly, like someone removing armor they no longer needed. She pulled her dress over her head, unclasped her bra, and let her panties fall, standing naked at the edge of the bed, nipples rigid, pubic hair glistening with moisture. He was waiting for her in bed, his cock already erect beneath the sheet, an obvious invitation.

—Today is our day —she said, sliding beside him and yanking the sheet away—. Today we take back everything they took from us.

And they devoured each other. It was a carnal marathon that lasted hours, a celebration of the body. They began with her straddling his face, sitting her cunt on his mouth, fucking his tongue while he grabbed her thighs and ate her like a starving man; Marta writhed on top of him, rubbing herself against his chin, coming over his lips with a long moan. Then she turned and swallowed his cock without lifting her cunt off his mouth, a furious sixty-nine in which they both came at once: she swallowed a thick release that filled her throat while he choked on her juices.

They barely rested. Iván put her on her back, spread her legs to the limit, and penetrated her again, this time slowly, looking into her eyes, watching his cock disappear into her centimeter by centimeter. He fucked her like that, in classic missionary, until she asked for more. He put her on all fours at the edge of the bed, stood behind her, and speared her while holding her hips, thrusting with dry strokes that made his balls slap against her clit. He slapped her ass until her cheeks turned red, pulled her hair back, and fucked her while talking dirty.

—Look how I take you, my love. Look how it all goes in. This ass is mine, this cunt is mine, all mine.

—Yes, yours, yours, don’t stop, come inside, come inside me —she panted, pushing her ass back against him.

They did it on the rug, on the desk chair with her mounted facing away from him, against the wall with her legs around his waist, with her lying on her side and him penetrating her from behind while he sucked her fingers. It was so intense, so long, with so many of his loads inside and outside her cunt, with so many orgasms of hers that they lost count, that in the afternoon, for the first time, he was the one who asked for a break.

—Hold on a bit, seriously. I’m burning. I think you’re going to leave me dry.

Marta laughed out loud, free and genuine, kissed his neck, and gave the soft, reddened cock a mocking lick.

—Then rest, champion. But don’t think you’re done.

In the intervals, when their sweat-slick, semen-sticky bodies separated to catch their breath, they talked. They talked about what they would do to be together, because there were no more Gerardo trips on the horizon and his presence seemed indefinite.

—We could rent a flat —Iván said, stroking her belly and letting his fingers drift down into the wet hair there—. A nest just for us.

—And how do I explain it? “Honey, I need a second apartment for my hobbies.” He’d kill me.

—Tell him it’s for me, for university.

She looked at him with a mix of love and disbelief.

—You and your crazy ideas. But it’s an idea. A terrible and wonderful idea.

Each plan was more outrageous than the last, but all of them came from the same place: a desperate need to build a world without Gerardo on the sofa telling boring anecdotes.

***

Time, that relentless judge, kept moving. Gerardo, caught in a whirlwind of work, became an even more absent ghost than before. His return, which had seemed like a sentence, turned into a mere nuisance. Now he was occupied with business and, above all, with his secretary, a certain Brenda whom he mentioned with suspicious frequency.

—Brenda is brilliant, organized… a pillar —he repeated, not noticing that he was chiseling his own tombstone.

For Marta and Iván, that work obsession was a monumental relief. The desire between them flourished with the ferocity of a weed in an abandoned garden. Weekends, once an abstinence hell, began to open up: Gerardo went to the office “to finish reports” or went out “to have lunch with clients.” They were windows of opportunity, breaches in the wall of normality.

One Friday afternoon, with Gerardo trapped in a conference, Iván found Marta in the kitchen, chopping onions with contained fury. He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, his body pressing against her back, his hard cock outlined against her ass over her skirt.

—You smell like home —he said, burying his nose in her hair. Then his tone soured—. Do you smell like him too? Does he sit in this same chair every morning, asking for coffee? Does he touch you? Does he put his cock in you?

—We’ve already talked about this. We haven’t done anything, I swear. He hasn’t fucked me since he came back. Not once.

—And why not? —he shot back, his eyes dark with jealousy, biting her earlobe.

—It’s complicated. He’s stressed. And it isn’t easy, Iván. It isn’t easy to have the love of your life beside you and share a bed with a stranger. It hurts more than you can imagine. I just want to be yours, to have your smell be the only one coming off my skin in the morning, to have only your semen dripping between my legs.

—Then get a divorce —he said, his voice as sharp as broken glass—. Tell him you’re leaving. That we’re leaving.

She shook her head, holding back tears.

—It’s not that simple. Where would we go? With what money? We depend on him. What we have is a luxury his absence allows us. We can’t bite the hand that feeds us, no matter how poisoned it is.

Iván looked at her with a new coldness, and whispered a secret he kept like a weapon.

—Maybe we don’t have to depend on him forever. Before the trip I checked his papers. They aren’t clean. I’m sure if I look hard enough, I’ll find something. Something that gives us power.

Marta went cold.

—Forget that idea. It’s one thing to find weird invoices and another to blackmail someone. That’s a game for people like him, not for us. He’d destroy us.

—Or free us? —he said, coming closer, his voice a sweet poison in her ear—. Imagine this house just for us. Imagine fucking in every corner without fear. Imagine waking up every morning without having to hide anything.

The idea was tempting, a bright poisoned apple. But she shook her head again, this time harder.

—It’s too dangerous.

***

So, as the days passed and with a talent for deceit that would have impressed any spy, Marta and Iván established a frequency as regular as a Swiss watch. It became their sacred ritual. Every time he came back from university, he found her waiting. The bedroom door closed, the outside world disappeared.

—I locked the door —Iván said, dropping his backpack with a dull thud, already pulling down his pants.

—I already showered —Marta answered from the bed, her robe open like a promise, her tits bare, one hand between her legs playing with her clit so she’d be slick and ready—. I knew you’d come hungry.

And they devoured each other. There was no time for tenderness, only urgency. He opened her legs with a decisive motion, guided his cock to the entrance of her already soaked cunt, and possessed her as if claiming territory, each thrust a declaration. He drove all the way in on the first shove and began at a savage pace, the bed slamming into the wall.

—Like that, my love, harder, break me —she moaned, her nails digging into his back, her legs locked around his waist.

—This cunt is mine —he growled through his teeth, speeding up, grabbing her tits and squeezing them—. All mine. Tell me who you belong to.

—To you, only to you, fuck me, come inside me.

When he emptied himself, he did it with a muffled roar, spilling semen in hot waves that left her feeling complete, like a glass finally overflowing. Sometimes he pulled out just before and painted her tits and neck with thick spurts that she gathered with her fingers and carried to her mouth without taking her eyes off him. They stayed stuck together for a moment, sweaty, listening to their racing hearts, before each of them returned to their role in the house’s farce.

But they never did it with Gerardo present. Unless Marta intervened. She had perfected her method: she bought the strongest relaxant she could find and kept it in the same box as the mild muscle relaxant he took with the trust of a baby with its bottle. That way, the night became a calm sea where their little boat could sail without fear of storms.

And it was rare that Gerardo stayed home on a weekend. He went out “to meet friends,” but his shirts smelled of cheap perfume and his mouth of even cheaper excuses. He went with Brenda, and came home extremely stressed, as if guilt weighed more than pleasure. His sleepless nights were their nights of freedom.

They even had time to shower together. The steam in the bathroom became their private fog, their private world. Under the hot water, everything was slower, more playful. She soaped him all over, lingering on his cock, jerking him with a foam-covered hand until it was hard as a rock. Then she knelt and looked up at him while the water ran down her face, mouth open, waiting for the tip.

—I like the way you look at me —he said hoarsely, gripping her wet hair—. Like you want to devour me alive.

—If I could, I would —she answered, expert at bringing him to the edge and then backing off, leaving his cock hard and dangling while she stood, braced herself on the tiles, and showed him her ass, moving it slowly.

He fucked her from behind under the spray, one hand on her hip and the other on her neck, fucking her as the steam wrapped around them, until he came again inside her cunt and watched the water carry his semen down between her legs. They no longer lived with the freedom they had before, when the whole house had been theirs, but with the little time they had, they squeezed it dry. Every act was a rebellion, a way of telling Gerardo and the whole world that their love, however forbidden, was more real and more vital than everything that existed on the other side of that closed door.