The Night My Husband Lent Me to His Best Friend

Esteban and I had had an understanding since our second year of marriage: each of us was free to sleep with whomever we wanted, as long as we didn’t bring anyone from our circle into the game. The rule was simple, and it had worked for us for a long time. He called it “the only sacred clause,” and I laughed, because I knew that sooner or later one of us would break it.

I broke it, with Marcos.

It wasn’t on a whim. Marcos Solana was my husband’s friend from university, a vain man who had made money with a couple of gyms and a chain of sports stores, and who was now getting into property development with the help of some German partners. I needed those names, those figures, those contacts for someone who paid me very well to get them. Marcos was the means. The rest followed on its own.

—Are you sure about this? —Esteban asked me one afternoon, while I decided how to provoke the first move without it seeming like mine.

—I have to get information out of him and I’m not going to ask him over coffee —I replied—. I need him to think the idea is his.

Esteban smiled. He knew that look better than anyone.

—Then I’ll help you set it up. But you’re going to dinner alone.

***

The plan was a little play. Esteban called Marcos under the pretext of organizing a mutual friend’s birthday, and while they talked I appeared on the scene pretending I’d just gotten out of the shower with no towel, raising my voice so I’d be heard on the other end of the line.

—Esteban! And the towel I asked you for? Look at the mess I’m making everywhere!

My husband handed me the phone with a resigned gesture, holding back his laughter.

—Hello, Marcos —I said, deliberately lowering my voice—. I’ll give it right back to him, this man’s left me dripping.

—Don’t tell me you’re talking to me as God brought you into the world —he replied, and I noticed the change in his breathing.

—A little more grown up, but yes. You cover yourself up, in case you catch a cold.

He laughed, no longer bothering to hide it. By the time I gave the phone back to Esteban, Marcos had proposed that we meet “for a drink one of these afternoons.” Two days later, a message from him confirmed what I had planted: “Still on for tomorrow?” My husband read the screen over my shoulder.

—You should go into theater —he murmured.

—I know how to handle a man. It’s not the same thing.

—I have no doubt about that.

***

I chose my outfit carefully: black leather trousers, wide belt, ankle boots, a white shirt with a deep neckline that hinted at the pale pink bra underneath. I preferred to go in my own car and not depend on him. My thing.

The restaurant was on the mountain road, far from the city: discreet, well connected, with several dimly lit dining rooms and, as Esteban had warned me with a smile, rooms upstairs. Marcos was waiting for me at the bar. A few kisses, a hand on the hip, a glass of wine to start the evening and his eyes slowly taking in everything I was offering him.

We talked about trivialities while he sized up the situation. He had the good sense not to mention his wife until later, and concentrated on what really interested him: showing off. The gyms, the stores, the import of energizing products and, finally, his landing in construction. There I showed genuine curiosity.

—How does a man from outside that world dare to invest in something so complicated? —I asked, resting my chin on my hand—. You have to be very brave.

I didn’t need anything more. He started telling me the beginning, almost by accident, the first projects, the partners who brought him in, the contacts. I took note in my head of every name, every figure, every date, while leaving my hand on the table like a lure. He didn’t take long to pick it up. He felt like the hunter of a quarry that was actually hunting him.

***

We moved to one of the dining rooms, almost empty, with barely two couples seeking the same anonymity as we were. Marcos chose a table at the back. Before the waiter arrived, he dimmed the lamp to the minimum, wrapped an arm around me and kissed me without meeting resistance. Time lost all meaning between kisses and gentle caresses. When I came back from that sweet dream, I found him looking me in the eyes.

—Are you a brave woman? —he asked.

—You can’t imagine how much.

—Let’s see. Take off your bra.

—Don’t be old-fashioned —I laughed—. I assure you they stand up on their own.

—I know. I’ve imagined them moving freely. I want to see them up close, if you’re really as brave as you say.

The half-light protected me. I unbuttoned my shirt down to the belt, making him suffer through each button, slipped my arms out of the sleeves and, with exaggerated calm, unclasped my bra. I folded it slowly and left it on the table, a small mound of pink lace. Then I put my shirt back on, without buttoning it.

—You are brave, no doubt about it.

He made as if to grab the garment and I clicked my tongue.

—It stays there. Unless it scares you.

The neckline, open down to my stomach, barely kept the lapels together. Any careless movement would leave me naked, and that, precisely that, was what turned me on. Marcos parted the two sides of my shirt and took possession of my breasts with a delicacy I hadn’t expected, feeling the shape, the fullness, as if memorizing every inch. I threw my arms around his neck and put all my senses into capturing what was coursing through me.

—Let’s go upstairs —he whispered.

—Wait. No rush. I’ve told you my whole life and I know nothing about you, except that you take risks in business.

He raised a hand and ordered another round. He had the whole night ahead of him and he knew it.

***

The room was sober and well furnished. Marcos knew what he wanted; so did I. He turned out to be a good specimen, well cared for, shaved clean in every last corner, aware of every muscle. He liked feeling admired and I didn’t have to fake admiration: I used my hands to explore the landscape slowly, and he let me, pleased with himself at having the desired woman at his feet.

I turned him over and kissed his back, his firm buttocks, sank my tongue where he himself helped me find the way. I was almost on the verge of making him lose his mind with just that, with his cock in my fist and him bracing himself with both hands against the bedspread, but he stopped me in time. Then it was his turn. He returned the favor without hesitation, without hurry, with a precise and meticulous tongue that lifted me to a place I hadn’t expected to reach so soon. I had been wrong about him: I’d thought he’d go looking for immediate gratification and instead I found a lover on par with the best.

We rolled across the bed. I wanted him inside me and didn’t hide it. He entered slowly, then hard, and I fell into a deep orgasm almost without realizing it, while he redoubled his efforts to leave me exhausted. Few men have managed that on a first go. He did.

***

We ordered something to eat and stayed lying there, drinking, while I discreetly came back to the only subject that mattered to me.

—You still haven’t finished telling me what you do with your German partners —I said, playing with the rim of my glass.

—They’re serious people, very meticulous, but difficult to understand. My English doesn’t go far enough to catch all the nuances.

—Did you know I’m half German?

I launched into a little speech with impeccable Bavarian accent and his eyes lit up.

—You sound like a proper Teutonic woman. I wouldn’t mind your help.

—Sometimes I act as interpreter for an acquaintance who closes contracts with companies over there. I’ve even helped him seal a deal or two.

—And this helping him close contracts?

—Sounds awful the way I put it, doesn’t it? —I smiled—. I go with him to business dinners and translate.

—Nothing else? With this body and what I’ve seen tonight…

—Are you calling me a whore?

—A hetaira —he corrected, very proud of himself—. My sister-in-law studied history and told us about it once. The hetairai of ancient Greece were free, cultured, educated women. The only ones admitted to men’s gatherings, and their opinions were respected. Not mere prostitutes: women who decided who they slept with and in exchange for what.

—For having heard it once, you’ve really remembered it.

—It’s that you fit the profile. Cultured, free, beautiful, with a conversation that can compete with any man’s. And showing off your skills with me. You’re a hetaira, without a doubt.

—You’re wrong about one thing —I said, weighing every word—. You don’t pay.

I didn’t know whether he took it as an insolence or as a provocation, but it was already said. Marcos smiled wickedly, stood up, searched in his jacket and came back with a handful of bills. He scattered them over my body with obscene care: my breasts, my stomach, my pubis, my thighs. He admired his work.

—Enough? —he asked.

I didn’t count how much there was. It didn’t matter. What burned was the touch of money on my skin, the idea of having been bought. Everything else—the cynicism, the lesson he meant to teach me—was suddenly superfluous.

—I don’t care how much —I murmured.

—I figured. You’re one of those who get turned on feeling bought. —He paused—. Count it. Enough to make your ass.

“One of those.” There are phrases more stupefying than a slap. In the blink of an eye I had gone from being the friend’s wife to being one of those women you pay for something specific. And I was choking on sheer pleasure.

***

I gathered the bills slowly, letting him watch, and got on all fours over the bedspread. Marcos didn’t pounce. Despite his macho manners, he was still treating me like an inexperienced adulteress, and he entered me with the care of someone who believes he’s opening an unexplored path. I didn’t disabuse him.

I enjoyed it precisely because of that: because of the slowness, because of the restraint of a powerful man holding himself back so as not to hurt a female he supposed to be a virgin. I have rarely felt someone like that, containing all his force so as not to break anything. The joining was long, intense, and left me trembling with a pleasure I didn’t have to fake.

Afterward, lying on our backs in the half-light, he lit a cigarette and handed it to me.

—Does Esteban know? —he asked—. About your friend, the one who closes contracts.

—Esteban knows what I consider he needs to know.

—And about us?

—Not a word about us. We have an agreement: we’re free as long as we don’t bring people from our surroundings into it. I’ve broken it with you, and I still don’t know why. I hope you respect that.

—You have my word —he said, and embraced me.

I felt that he was ready again, and I almost laughed. I let him keep going a little longer, unhurried, because I already had everything I’d come for. While he kissed my neck, believing himself to be the master of the night, I went over the list in my head: the name of the German group, the figures for the deal, the partners, the deadlines. Marcos thought he had bought me with a handful of bills.

The truth is, I had made the business deal.

***

I drove back at dawn, with the windows down and his smell still on my skin. Esteban was waiting up, pretending to read.

—Well? —he asked without looking up.

—I got what I needed. And something more.

—I can already see that last bit on your face. —He smiled and put down the book—. Was it worth it?

I sat on the edge of the bed, still dressed, and thought about the answer. About the bra on the table, about the bills on my stomach, about the word “hetaira” spoken as an insult and received as praise.

—Every minute —I said—. But don’t tell anyone. That’s the sacred clause, right?

Esteban turned off the lamp. In the darkness, his hand found mine and did not let go.

—The only one —he replied.