I Proposed to My Best Friend That We Fulfill Our Fantasy

“What do you want for breakfast, my love?” Lorena asked me from the kitchen.

“A coffee and some toast is fine,” I answered without taking my eyes off the race on TV.

After thirteen years at her side, Lorena still had something that made people turn their heads on the street. Thirty-four years old, tan skin, chestnut hair falling in waves to the middle of her back, long legs from running every morning. She wasn’t a woman with exaggerated curves, but she moved as if she were, and that was enough. Sweet-natured, one of those women who make you want to get home early.

I’m Esteban, her husband, and the one telling you all this. Thirty-eight years old, a programmer who works from home in front of a screen. Nothing spectacular: slim without being skinny, neither tall nor short, nothing that sets me apart all that much. Except, perhaps, the ideas that had begun to creep into my head those days.

We’d been married eight years and together as boyfriend and girlfriend for five before that. A good life, I can’t deny it. My remote work was enough for both of us, so she devoted herself to her things, to her gym mornings, to her garden. We lived in a quiet house on the outskirts of Bend, one of those Oregon cities where nothing ever happens. By mutual decision, we didn’t have children. Everything was fine. So fine, so calm, that I could feel monotony settling in silently between us.

“What if we stop by that place I told you about the other day?” I said that afternoon as I drove toward the mall.

“Which one?” she asked, turning toward me.

“The one I told you about the other night. In bed. While…” I let the sentence hang unfinished, with a naughty, slightly embarrassed tone.

“The sex shop?” She laughed. “Of course. I already told you: as long as it stays between us, I’m willing to try anything. Though I don’t think I can go beyond that.”

I don’t really know when it started, or why. For months, one idea had been circling in my head: seeing Lorena with another man. I love her, and I have no doubt at all that she loves me. Maybe it was precisely that certainty that gave me permission to fantasize. Maybe it was the same old jealousy, transformed by some strange mechanism into desire. Maybe I wanted to see her surrender, give her body and lose her mind completely to someone else. I don’t know. The only thing I know is that the idea kept growing, stopped seeming like madness and became the fantasy I whispered to her every time we made love.

***

“What do you think of this one?” I asked her in the shop, holding a vibrator with a built-in stimulator.

A saleswoman came over when she saw us hesitating and recited the list of features: several vibration modes, curved shape for the G-spot, waterproof, controlled from an app on the phone. Lorena and I looked at each other and smiled. Neither of us had ever tried anything like that. We bought it without thinking too much about it.

That night I was on top of her, entering her slowly. Lorena dug her fingers into my hips and pulled me in so I’d go deeper, opening her legs as wide as she could.

“Give me more,” she begged between gasps. “Harder, don’t leave me this hot, I’m begging you.”

There was something like frustration in her voice. As if I weren’t living up to what her body was asking for at that moment. I know that tone well. We never talked about it, but we both know I’m no stud, that it’s hard for me to go as deep as she’d like. Feeling always prevailed over that, and it never had to be said out loud.

“What if we try what we bought today?” she suggested, her breathing ragged.

I pulled the vibrator out of the nightstand drawer and went back to the bed, kissed her slowly, slid my hand down to her soaked sex and stroked her gently before replacing my fingers with the device. I ran it, switched on, over every fold of her, at medium intensity. Her moans shot up. She spread her legs, placed her hand over mine, and began guiding the movement to her own rhythm. I understood I was in the way: I let go of the vibrator and left it entirely to her.

She stayed lying there, one hand controlling the toy and the other roaming over one breast, eyes closed. I, masturbating beside her, licked her other breast while watching her writhe.

“Ahh!” A sharper moan than the others. She’d slid it in and was mimicking thrusts with her wrist.

“Do you like feeling it inside?” I asked her.

“You have no idea how much… I needed this,” she answered, voice breaking. “Do you like seeing me like this?”

“It drives me crazy to see you enjoying yourself.”

That toy was driving her wild like few things ever had. Seeing her so utterly surrendered, I worked up the nerve to push the game a little further.

“You’d rather this were another man’s cock, wouldn’t you?” I said in her ear, while she kept moving. “Would you like another man on top of you right now, fucking you all the way to the hilt the way I can’t? Would you like him to make you really scream?”

Lorena didn’t answer, but the game excited her more with every word. She arched her back, moving the vibrator until she found both spots at once.

“I know you want it. Enjoy it, admit it. I want it too,” I insisted.

Her legs started to tremble. She spread them as wide as they could go and gave herself over. To the orgasm, to the game, to desire, to everything at once.

“Esteban, forgive me,” she said as she came, her voice in pieces. “But I need a man who gives my body what it asks for. A man who knows how to fuck me!”

She let the words go and, with them, everything she had been keeping inside. I’m not just talking about the orgasm. I’m talking about the confession.

***

The next morning, with her head resting on my chest, she tried to apologize.

“Love, last night… the toy, your words, everything swept me away. That’s not me, you know it. Forgive me.”

“Say no more,” I cut her off, laughing. “It was the best orgasm of my life, and I think yours too. Not only does what you said not bother me: I love that you let yourself go like that. Just let yourself be carried away.”

From that day on, the game became a habit. Almost indispensable. The vibrator entered every one of our encounters, because it was the only way she’d finish with me. And I, meanwhile, wanted more.

***

“Hi, Bruno. Listen, come have a beer with me—I need to tell you something. It’s on me,” I told him on the phone.

Bruno was thirty-four, the same age as Lorena. A childhood friend, my best man, almost a brother. Tan, tall, athletic, one of those guys who, when we went out when we were younger, was my only serious rival for picking someone up at a party. I tell him everything.

“Look,” I began, turning the bottle around in the bar, “this is incredibly embarrassing, but you’re the only person I can tell. For a while now I’ve been fantasizing about seeing Lorena with another man. We talk about it in bed and it turns her on, but she still hasn’t worked up the nerve to take the step. The way she gets, I’m sure she’d enjoy it as much as I would.”

“Carlos… I mean, Esteban,” he corrected himself, serious. “You can’t force her. If you push her, she won’t accept, and even if she does, she won’t enjoy it.”

“I know. That’s the idea: for her to come to it on her own. But I didn’t come asking for advice. I came to ask you to be the one who helps us make it happen.”

Bruno looked down.

“I can’t. Not because of her, believe me. Because of our friendship. If this really happens, I don’t want to lose you both.”

“That won’t happen. I’m the one asking you. How could I ever be mad at you? And Lorena never has to know this was something you and I talked about.”

It took him a while to agree. But he agreed.

***

The party was at Bruno’s place. Lorena dressed up like I hadn’t seen her do in a long time: a black skirt ending halfway up her thighs, a fitted slightly low-cut blouse, high heels, and her silver anklet, the one I gave her. There were about ten people there, almost all couples. We drank, we talked, and little by little people began to leave, until the three of us were alone.

“I’m exhausted!” Bruno exclaimed, throwing himself onto the sofa. “But I’m glad you two stayed.”

“Hey, don’t you have anything tastier than this?” Lorena asked through a laugh, looking at her glass.

“For the lady, I have a sweet liqueur,” he answered with a smile. “Though I should warn you it’s an aphrodisiac.”

“Anything is an aphrodisiac for me,” she replied, and all three of us laughed.

I was sitting across from them; the two of them were together on the sofa. The alcohol kept going up, and with it the tone of the conversation. Lorena, careless out of trust, let her skirt creep higher with each crossing and uncrossing of her legs until it barely covered her groin. Bruno, half joking, half not, rested his hand on her thigh. She, far from being uncomfortable, seemed at ease.

“I told you the liqueur was an aphrodisiac!” he laughed, looking at her legs, his hand once again on her thigh.

Something was happening with Lorena. In years, she had never allowed Bruno anything like that. She looked at me with slightly unfocused eyes, as if trying to understand what was happening, or maybe looking for my permission.

“Your friend is an idiot,” she told me, laughing and looking me in the eye. And then, turning toward him: “But thanks for the compliment.”

And as she said it, she changed the way she was crossing her legs, trapping Bruno’s hand between her thighs.

We kept talking as if nothing were happening. His hand crept higher and higher, she remained comfortable, and I pretended it was the most normal thing in the world for someone to touch my wife in front of me. The hand moved up without shame, pushed the skirt aside, advanced. From where I sat I couldn’t see the exact point, but I could see the fabric completely lifted and her making no gesture at all to fix it. Every so often Lorena lifted the top leg and set it back down, making it easier for him to keep going.

It was a silent, electric game, doing what was forbidden in broad daylight, the three of us pretending nobody saw anything. Until I noticed the change in her. Her eyes closed for whole seconds at a time. Her mouth slightly open, lip bitten, breathing fast. Bruno had reached his destination and was rubbing her over her underwear.

He kept talking to me; she had already slipped out of the conversation, unable to hide and enjoy at the same time. The moment reached its peak when Lorena threw her head back and, without thinking, opened her legs to give him free access. She pulled herself together in an instant and nailed me with her gaze, gasping.

“I’m going to the corner store to see if they have more beer,” I said, never taking my eyes off her.

Bruno nodded. Lorena, not moving, held my eyes for a moment. Then she closed them, opened her legs even wider—wide enough to reveal her pink underwear—and let her head fall all the way back against the sofa.

***

The trip there and back was slow. Not because I wanted it to be, but because I couldn’t stop thinking. Lorena was giving herself up in front of me. Because of the alcohol? To indulge me? Because she enjoyed it? Maybe all of it at once, I told myself. And that last look? Did she want me to leave, to stay, or was she asking permission for something more? Jealousy hit me suddenly, cold. Was this all a bad idea? I didn’t know. But judging by how hard my crotch was without even touching myself, I knew seeing Lorena in another man’s arms was driving me insane with arousal.

When I came back, before ringing the bell, I looked through the living room window. I didn’t have a full view, but it was enough to understand.

A mix of jealousy, anger, lust, and satisfaction flooded my body all at once. Bruno was sitting there, his torso bare, his pants on the floor. Lorena on top of him, looking him straight in the face, moving her hips in a slow, deep rocking motion, hands on the back of the sofa on either side of his head to push herself better. Her skirt, completely askew, barely covered half her body. His hands gripped her ass, setting the pace. Bruno pulled her blouse up to bury his face in her breasts, and she threw her head back, surrendered. In between, they lost themselves in long kisses, like two teenagers.

Then he wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed her as he stood up, and laid her back on the sofa. Standing, he adjusted the condom, took her ankles, spread her legs, and entered her again. Now I could see her stretched out along its length, her head hanging off the armrest, her hair spilling over the edge. One leg over Bruno’s shoulder, the other in the air, held by his arm. She still had her heels on, and her pink underwear was dangling from one ankle.

He was pounding her hard, so hard the sofa was moving and her hair followed the rhythm. Through the window came the dry, steady impact of the two bodies. It was all surreal: my wife opening herself for another man, her foot with the anklet I’d given her resting on his shoulder, the kisses, the skirt hiked up. I couldn’t take it anymore. Without taking anything off, without even touching myself much, I came right there, standing up, watching through the glass.

I walked slowly away toward the door. I waited until I couldn’t hear anything and gave them time to get dressed before I knocked.

“I think it’s time we go,” Lorena told me when she opened the door, still breathless, her clothes put back in order but her hair messy, her cheeks flushed, and her legs a little shaky.

***

I never asked her what happened that night. She never told me, and we both acted as if it hadn’t happened. But the trust with Bruno grew, we started including him in all our plans, and in private we kept fantasizing. Only now, for Lorena, fantasizing no longer seemed like enough.

I confirmed it weeks later, driving back from the tennis class the three of us took on Saturdays. She got in the back, next to Bruno, under the pretense that he should massage a pain in her leg. I was driving, and in the rearview mirror I could see the massage climbing, the short skirt lifting with every movement, the way his hand disappeared farther and farther inside. Lorena searched for my eyes in the mirror and, never taking her gaze off mine, guided that hand to where she wanted it.

“Higher,” she asked Bruno, still looking at me.

She closed her eyes, opened her legs, and gave herself over again, now without the slightest shame. In that moving car, on the emptiest roads I could find, it was as if I had disappeared. And that fantasy that one day was born as madness in my head, the one I never imagined making real, was only just beginning to write its most dangerous chapter.