The Stranger Told Me My Husband Had Given Him Permission

We had been married for almost ten years and still had never quite finished growing up. Mauricio and I were both nearing thirty-five, but we still went out like two teenagers sneaking out of the house: too much wine, music blasting, and that easy laughter that only shows up when you’re comfortable with the person beside you.

That night we had ended up at a downtown club without planning to. After the third drink, we were both loose, light, in the mood to dance with anyone. I ended up on the floor with a tall guy in an open-collar shirt, and Mauricio, a few feet away, with a dark-haired girl who laughed at everything he said.

At first I didn’t care. Then I started to care.

I turned my head to look for him and saw them too close, too comfortable, her hand resting on his chest. That old sting hit me, the one from jealousy, and I left the guy to go toward them. I didn’t make it. The stranger grabbed my arm and pulled me back onto the dance floor.

—Leave it —he said in my ear—. I gave him permission.

I froze, sure I had misheard him over the music.

—What did you say?

—That I gave him permission —he repeated, not letting go, with a smile that explained nothing—. Your boyfriend and I swapped women. Now you’re my girlfriend, and those two are a couple.

—I’m his wife —I shot back, almost offended.

—Fine —he said, not losing his calm—. Then tonight you’re my wife.

Before I could answer, he firmly grabbed me by the waist and pressed my body against his, leaving me no space at all to react. He started moving me to the rhythm of the music as if we’d been dancing together for years. I felt out of place and, at the same time, turned on in a way I hadn’t expected.

My head was still somewhere else. I thought maybe he was only saying it to flirt, to take advantage while my husband was distracted with a girl who might not even have anything to do with him. I tried to pull away. I couldn’t. He held me with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

—Relax —he murmured—. Look at the table.

I looked. Mauricio and the girl had left the floor and were sitting at one of the back tables talking. This can’t be happening, they planned this, I thought. I saw her brushing her hand over his thigh, saw him lean in to whisper something in her ear. And yes, I got jealous. I thought about crossing the room and calling him out.

But the man I was dancing with wouldn’t let me. Every time I tried to break away, he used it to pull me closer. I felt his whole body against mine, the heat through the clothes, and I noticed clearly his hard cock rubbing my hip as we moved, outlined under his pants, thick, pressing against me without any attempt to hide it. Part of me was still fixed at that table, on my husband and that woman. The other part was already here, with him, with my cunt getting wet without asking my permission.

—What’s your name? —I asked, defeated.

—Adrián —he said—. And you’re not going to that table.

He said it without threatening me, like he was stating a fact. And the most disturbing thing was realizing he was right: I no longer wanted to go. My curiosity about what was happening at that table had turned into something else, a strange new arousal, a mix of the jealousy that was still burning in me and the growing hunger for this man who wouldn’t let me go. I found myself thinking about my husband with that girl not with anger, but with a strange heat in my belly, imagining her sucking his cock somewhere in a corner, and that thought, far from stopping me, clenched my thighs and made me press closer to the stranger.

I tried to calm down and keep dancing. At some point, almost without deciding to, I started moving differently, slower, rubbing my ass against the bulge on every turn, feeling it grow even harder every time I brushed it. It was a game and we both knew it. We looked at each other without blinking, whispered things in each other’s ears I can’t even remember, breathed each other’s necks, brushed our lips without quite kissing. That boundary, not kissing yet, had me more turned on than any kiss could have. Adrián slipped a hand under the skirt of my dress and squeezed one ass cheek hard, not caring who saw us, and he whispered in my ear, “you’re already wet, aren’t you?” I didn’t answer. No need.

***

When the song ended, Adrián took my hand and led me to the table where he had been earlier. Mauricio was still at ours, with the girl. I understood the game then, and decided to follow it to the end.

—Ask me for a pen —Adrián said, amused.

I signaled the waiter and got one. Adrián handed me a napkin.

—Write: “see you at the house.”

—What kind of crazy thing is this? —I asked, laughing nervously, but I wrote it.

He folded the napkin, put it on the waiter’s tray, and nodded toward Mauricio with a tilt of his chin. We watched the waiter cross the room and leave the note in front of my husband. Mauricio read it, said something to the girl, and from one table to the other the four of us exchanged a look. It was like signing a contract without touching.

We kept drinking and dancing a while longer, light, conspiratorial. And then, all of a sudden, when I turned my head, I realized Mauricio and the girl were gone. Not at the table, not on the dance floor. They had left.

Something in my stomach tightened, half vertigo, half desire. Adrián noticed my face.

—Relax —he said, his hand on the back of my neck—. It’s what we all agreed to.

By then I was already a little drunk, but not so much that I didn’t know what I wanted. We started kissing at the table, slowly at first and then hungrily, Adrián’s tongue pushing into my mouth without manners, our hands searching over our clothes until friction wasn’t enough anymore. He squeezed one breast under the neckline, found my hard nipple and pinched it slowly, and I answered by gripping his cock over his pants, feeling it throb against my palm. We looked at each other, understood each other without words, and almost ran to his car.

***

He drove to a hotel near the avenue without letting go of my leg the whole way. He hiked my dress up, opened my legs right there in the passenger seat, and slid two fingers into my pussy while we waited at a traffic light. “You’re soaked,” he said, twisting his fingers inside me, and I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t moan out loud in the middle of the street. He pulled out his shiny fingers, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them slowly while looking at me, and I almost came just from watching him.

The moment the room door closed, he stopped pretending to be patient. He shoved me against the wall, held my wrists above my head with one hand, and with the other ran over my body as if it had been his for a long time. He wasn’t asking; he was ordering me in a low voice, and I discovered that obeying him excited me more than I would ever have admitted.

—Take off your dress —he said, letting go of me for a second—. Slowly. I want to see you.

I did. I lowered the straps, let the fabric fall to my feet, and stood there in a thong in front of him, tits out and nipples hard just from looking at him. He stayed there watching me from the edge of the bed, not touching himself, until he made me come closer and kneel in front of him. He opened his pants without hurry and pulled out his cock, long, thick, the tip already wet. He placed it on my lips without saying a word. I opened my mouth and took it all, sucking it first slowly, savoring the salty taste of the head, then deeper, both hands at the base, until he grabbed my hair and started setting the pace, fucking my mouth and not letting me breathe. He made me swallow him all the way down, until my eyes filled with tears, and when he let go I coughed and took him back in on my own, because I didn’t want to stop.

—That’s it —he panted—. Suck it all, don’t let go.

What came after was long and unhurried: he pulled me up by the hair, threw me onto the bed on my back, ripped off my thong by tearing it at the side, and spread my legs wide. He got between my thighs and buried his face in my pussy with hunger, licking my lips, my clit, sliding his tongue inside and pulling it out to go back up again. He ate my pussy like his life depended on it, salivating me all over, and I pressed his head between my thighs as I came the first time, arched, screaming at him not to stop. He didn’t stop. He kept licking me while I trembled, turned me face down, lifted my ass, and licked me there too, without asking permission, his tongue going where no one had ever put it before.

A back-and-forth of oral sex that seemed like it would never end. Every time I thought we were getting to the finish, he would stop me, turn me over, change positions, and start again from the beginning. He put me on my knees again to make me suck him for a while longer, forced me to look into his eyes while I sucked his cock, and then pushed me back onto the mattress to keep devouring me.

When he finally put his cock inside me, he did it slowly, pushing centimeter by centimeter, watching my face to see how I opened around him. I felt him fill me completely, and when he reached the bottom he paused for a moment, letting me feel him pulsing inside. Then he started fucking me calmly, long, filthy, all the way in every time, and I dug my nails into his back and begged him harder.

He was dominant in everything, in every position, in every order whispered against my skin. He put me on all fours, grabbed my hair, and fucked me from behind with my ass red from his slaps, while I bit the pillow so I wouldn’t scream. He made me put one leg over his shoulder and drove into me from the side, watching my tits bounce with every thrust. But he had one clear obsession, one fetish he discovered quickly: he loved seeing me on top. He put me astride him and left me like that for most of the night, setting the rhythm with his hands on my hips, watching me from below as if he wanted to memorize every expression on my face.

—Ride it —he’d say—. Ride that cock like a whore, just like that, don’t stop.

And I obeyed. I braced my hands on his chest, sat down with his cock all the way inside me, and started going up and down while he squeezed my tits, tugged my nipples, slapped my ass. In that position he made me come again and again. The first one was long, my cunt trembling around his cock, clamping down on it without being able to control it. The second caught me with my back to him, riding him in reverse, with him holding my hips and pushing up from below to drive it deeper. The third made me cry from pleasure, my legs already weak, and he still didn’t let me stop. I lost count after the fourth or fifth, and I’m not exaggerating. My legs shook from the effort, exhausted from holding the rocking motion, my pussy was swollen, slippery, and he kept going, tireless, stretching every minute. Every time my body threatened to collapse, he held me tighter and forced me to keep moving, whispering to me to hold on a little longer, not yet, he wasn’t going to cum until I begged him to.

I started to think something was driving him like that, because it took him hours to finish. We changed to the bed, to the edge of the mattress, against the window where the first light was beginning to slip in. Against the glass he fucked me standing up, one hand on my neck and the other squeezing one breast, thrusting into me while the city began to wake up on the other side. With every change he took me back on top again, as if that were my only place in the world. When he finally came, with a low grunt and his hands dug into my hips, he pulled out of my cunt at the last second, laid me on my back, straddled my chest, and shot hot spurts over my tits, onto my neck, into the open mouth I offered him without thinking. He emptied himself completely, long thick ropes of semen dripping down my chin, and I licked him, licked what was left on the tip, sucking him to the last drop. I was wrecked, sweaty, powerless, my whole body used in the best possible way, with his cum still warm and sliding over my tits.

The sun came up and we were still awake, laughing at the state we’d ended up in, the smell of sex clinging to our skin.

***

When we left the hotel, Adrián drove me to his house. And there, parked in front of the door, was Mauricio’s car. I called him on the phone and my husband came out, hair disheveled and wearing the same idiot smile I must have had on my face. We got into our car, waved goodbye to Adrián, and pulled away.

The ride home was a two-voice confession. We told each other everything, unfiltered, talking over one another like two kids coming back from a prank. He told me how it had gone with the girl, how he had fucked her on the sofa, how she had sucked him on her knees, how he had come inside her twice; and I, laughing my head off, told him I had had more orgasms in a single night than with him in three straight days, and that Adrián had fucked me in every possible way until my pussy was ruined. Far from getting upset, he burst out laughing and squeezed my thigh with his hand, sliding it up under my dress to check for himself how wet I still was.

That’s when he confessed he had planned everything. That he and Adrián had been messaging for weeks through a liberal couples website we had joined long ago, almost as a game, without thinking we’d ever go this far. The club, the girl, the guy in the open shirt, the note on the napkin: none of it had been a coincidence. The only thing improvised had been my face, not understanding a thing in the middle of the dance floor.

—And you weren’t going to tell me? —I asked, pretending to be angry.

—And miss seeing you like that? Not a chance.

I hit him on the arm and kissed him at a red light. After that night we saw them a couple more times, but never separately again: the four of us together, with no hidden notes or surprises. Although, if I’m honest, none of those other nights stirred me inside the way that first one did, the one with the stranger who grabbed me by the waist and told me, in complete calm, that my husband had already given him permission.