The Threesome with My Wife and the Woman Identical to Her
It wasn’t my idea. I’ve spent years telling myself it wasn’t my idea, and I almost believe it. It was Elena who, one night, with the lights off and my hand still wet between her legs, whispered in my ear that she’d met someone who looked like her. Not a neighbor, not a colleague from the clinic where she worked. A woman who sold herself in a place on the coast, in Málaga, and who, from behind, in the half-light, could pass for her twin sister.
“I’ve seen her twice,” she murmured. “The second time I talked to her. Her name is Rocío.”
I didn’t know what to say. My wife had never been shy about what she wanted, but this was new—a step I hadn’t known existed.
“And what did you do?” I asked, pretending to be calmer than I was.
“Have a drink. Look at her a lot. Think about you fucking both of us.”
Elena had this habit of dropping the sentence that changed everything and then falling silent, waiting, like someone placing a card face down on the table. She didn’t press the matter that night. She didn’t have to. The seed had been planted, and over the following weeks it grew on its own, silently, every time I looked at her and wondered what it would be like to have her twice over, two identical pussies opening for my cock.
***
The place was called the Candil, and there was nothing elegant about it. A long bar, low lighting, music chosen by a guy behind the counter with a taste that didn’t fit the place. That guy was Bruno, the owner, a big-handed man with an easy smile who understood people better than any psychologist I’d ever met. He was the one who greeted us the first night we went there together.
“So you’re the husband,” he said without malice as he served us. “Your wife has a good eye. Rocío and her, from a distance, are the same person.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“You’re going to see for yourself.” He leaned a little over the bar. “It’s beautiful, you know? Two women who look alike eating each other’s pussies. People will pay anything for something like that.”
Elena said nothing. She drank slowly, watching the entrance whenever the curtain at the back moved. When Rocío appeared, I understood everything all at once.
She wasn’t identical. Up close, her eyes were darker, her mouth wider, and there was a small scar in her eyebrow that Elena didn’t have. But taken as a whole—the way she walked, emphasizing her hips, the mane of hair falling over her left eye, the tilt of her neck when she smiled… it was like looking at my wife through fogged glass. I felt a vertigo that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and an immediate tightness in my fly.
She sat down with us. The two of them together, side by side, were a mirror returning a slightly wrong image. They talked as if they’d known each other all their lives. I barely opened my mouth; I just watched, compared, searched for the differences, and lost myself every time I found them.
“Does it bother you that we talk about you as if you weren’t here?” Rocío asked me at one point, while Elena’s hand settled on her thigh beneath the table.
“No,” I said, and it was true.
“Good. Because tonight you don’t decide anything. Tonight we’re going to use you however we want, and you’re going to watch everything we tell you to watch.”
Elena laughed under her breath. I recognized that laugh: the one she made when she liked something too much and didn’t want to admit it, the same one she gave when she came while I bit the back of her neck.
***
The room was at the end of a hallway, behind the curtain. A wide bed, a standing lamp with its light softened, an armchair in one corner. Bruno nodded toward the armchair before closing the door.
“Start there,” he said. “They’ll tell you when.”
I sat down. The two women stood facing each other, a step apart, looking at one another with a curiosity that was anything but feigned. Elena was the first to move. She raised her hand and brushed aside the lock of hair falling over Rocío’s eye—the same gesture I had made to her a thousand times. Rocío closed her eyes for a moment, as if recognizing the touch.
“It’s strange,” Elena whispered. “It’s like touching myself.”
“I know.”
They kissed slowly, unhurriedly, their mouths barely open. That decorum didn’t last long: soon their tongues were seeking and tangling in plain sight, and I heard the wet smack from the armchair. My wife’s hands slid down the other woman’s back and lowered the zipper of her dress with the same skill she used when undressing herself. The fabric fell to the floor, and for one absurd second I didn’t know which of the two bodies was the one I knew by heart. Rocío wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits were a little smaller than Elena’s, her nipples dark and already hard, pointing upward.
Elena closed her fingers around one of them, pinched it, stretched it, and Rocío moaned with her mouth open against Elena’s neck. Then my wife lowered her head and sucked it, extending her tongue, taking the whole nipple into her mouth, biting it while the other woman gripped the back of her neck. Rocío was the one who began undressing Elena then, hurriedly pulling her dress up until she was left in her panties. She slipped her hand around the front, moved the fabric aside, and touched her there. I watched Rocío’s wrist move in small circles and my wife arch against her, biting her lip.
“She’s soaked,” Rocío said, glancing at me. “Your wife is dripping just thinking about what we’re going to do to her.”
I shifted in the armchair. My cock throbbed against the seam of my trousers, but I didn’t touch myself. Not yet. This had its own timing, and I was barely a guest.
***
Rocío was the first to kneel. She led Elena to the edge of the bed, tore her panties down over her ankles, and spread her knees with her hands, opening them wide so I could see too. My wife’s pussy, glistening and swollen, its lips already parted, was level with that unfamiliar mouth. Rocío kissed the insides of her thighs, moving upward little by little, and when she finally licked her, she did it slowly, from bottom to top, with her tongue flat, pausing to suck her clit until Elena let out a long moan.
My wife threw her head back and released that sound I knew so well, the one that always escaped her just before she lost control. Watching it brought on by another tongue, by a woman who was almost herself, took my breath away. Rocío slipped two fingers inside her and kept sucking her clit, moving her wrist with a rhythm that made her whole body shudder.
“Look at your husband’s face,” Rocío said without removing her fingers. “He’s about to come in his pants without anyone touching him.”
Elena turned her head and sought me out. Her eyes were shining, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. She said nothing, but held my gaze while the other woman devoured her pussy, licking noisily, slurping, and that silent complicity was more intimate than anything we’d shared in years of marriage. I watched Rocío’s chin become covered in juice, watched Elena grab her hair and push her face against her sex until she came for the first time, trembling and squeezing her head between her thighs.
“Come here,” she finally told me, her voice broken, extending an arm. “You can now. Come fuck us.”
I got up on slightly unsteady legs, took off my shirt and trousers along the way, and knelt on the bed behind Rocío. I ran my hands over her back—that back which, from behind, was my wife’s—and found the tattoo at the base of her spine: a small geometric design I didn’t understand and didn’t stop to decipher. I kissed it. She arched her body toward me without stopping her attention to Elena, offering me her raised ass, her cheeks spread, her pussy and asshole on display, glistening with saliva and sweat.
“Don’t just stand there looking,” she murmured. “You’re not an audience tonight. Put it in me.”
I gripped my cock and rubbed it between her lips, up and down, feeling it become completely slick. When I entered her, I drove in with one thrust, all the way to the bottom, and Rocío released a muffled cry against Elena’s thigh. She was hot and tight, and every time I thrust I heard the wet smack of her body against mine. Elena watched me from above, one hand on the back of Rocío’s head, pushing her against her pussy, the other pinching one of her nipples.
“Fuck her hard,” she begged. “Fuck her the way you fuck me.”
I grabbed her hips and began pumping her in earnest, pulling my cock almost all the way out and driving it in to the balls, again and again. Rocío could no longer speak; she only moaned against my wife’s sex, her tongue still inside, and the moan vibrated through Elena and made her writhe.
***
What came afterward blurs in my memory like images from a dream returning in flashes. I remember Elena lying on her back, with Rocío straddling her mouth, the two of them moving with an alarming synchrony, as if they shared the same body and the same desire. My wife gripped Rocío’s ass with both hands and ate her pussy from below, sticking out her whole tongue and thrusting it inside, while Rocío rubbed herself against her with her hips, tits bouncing, mouth open.
I knelt behind Rocío in that position and offered her my cock at face level. She took it all at once without using her hands and looked up at me with watery eyes as I gripped the back of her neck and thrust. I felt her throat close around my glans, heard her gag, and Elena patted my thigh from underneath, asking me not to stop. I fucked her mouth like that, with Rocío sucking me and eating my wife’s pussy at the same time, until I had to pull her off or come too soon.
I remember my hands divided between the two of them, not knowing which one each moan belonged to. I remember Elena lying on her side at the edge of the bed, bending one leg and asking me to penetrate her while Rocío sucked her tits. I put my cock in her from behind, in that spooning position, and felt her familiar pussy swallow me without resistance, slippery and burning. At first I fucked her slowly, with Rocío biting her shoulder and whispering the same filthy things in her ear that I always said to her in private, as if they had rehearsed them.
“Make her come again,” Rocío ordered. “Break her.”
I grabbed Elena’s thigh, lifted it to open her completely, and sped up. Elena screamed and came with a long shudder, and I almost finished inside her. I pulled out in time, panting.
“Now the other one,” Elena said, her chest still rising and falling. “Put it in her ass. I want to watch.”
Rocío got on all fours beside us, and Elena, with two fingers soaked in her own juices, slowly slipped them into Rocío’s asshole, one and then the other, patiently opening her. She spat there and put them back in. When I finally placed my glans against her, Rocío lowered her head against the sheet and asked me to push. I entered slowly, feeling that tight ring yield, feeling it squeeze me differently from a pussy—hotter, tighter. Elena, lying on her back beneath us, ate Rocío’s pussy while I sodomized her, and Rocío didn’t know whether to push backward against my cock or downward against my wife’s mouth. She convulsed with pleasure, biting the pillow.
Then Elena asked me to enter her too, and the sensation of sinking into flesh that was and wasn’t Rocío’s, with the other woman’s taste still on my cock, made me lose my mind. My wife watched us with a smile I had never seen on her before—the smile of someone who has finally found the exact reflection of her fantasy.
“Do you like it?” Elena asked, her voice hoarse, squeezing my ass with her heels to drive me deeper. “Do you like not knowing which pussy you have it buried in?”
“I like it,” I admitted, the words coming out broken.
“Say it again.”
“I like it. It drives me crazy. You’re both the same fucking pussy.”
Rocío laughed underneath me, a laugh almost identical to my wife’s, and that slight discrepancy, that note that didn’t quite fit, was what pushed me to the brink. Elena noticed how my whole body tensed, pushed me away, sat up, and beckoned me with one finger. Rocío crawled over to her. The two of them pressed their faces together, cheek to cheek, tongues out, eyes raised, waiting.
I gripped my cock and came over them with a growl, thick spurts falling on both their foreheads, lips, and chins, which they passed from one mouth to the other with their tongues, kissing afterward with my cum between them. I had never seen anything so filthy or so beautiful.
***
Afterward the three of us lay there, catching our breath, a tangle of legs and dark manes impossible to distinguish in that light. Rocío lit a cigarette and passed it to Elena, who took a drag and handed it to me. We smoked it in silence, passing it from hand to hand as if we’d been doing it all our lives.
“You know what’s strangest?” Rocío said after a while, looking at the ceiling, her hand resting on Elena’s stomach. “For a moment, I didn’t know who I was either. Whether I was her husband’s wife or the one who gets paid at night. You two made me forget.”
“Don’t talk as if it were a job,” Elena said, squeezing her hand.
“But it is, darling.” Rocío smiled without bitterness. “Only, some nights are so unlike work that you get confused. This was one of those.”
I propped myself up on one elbow and looked at them both, so alike and so different, outlined against the room’s beige wall, their thighs still glistening, their nipples red from so much sucking. I thought about how easy it had been to cross that line, how what had seemed unthinkable to me weeks earlier now felt like the most natural thing in the world. I thought we would come back. I knew it with a calm certainty, without guilt, while Elena curled against my chest and stretched out her arm so Rocío could do the same on the other side.
“What are you thinking about?” my wife asked.
“That I don’t want to know when this is going to end.”
“Then don’t ask,” she said, and kissed me, and I could still taste the salt of my own cum in her mouth. “The future will tell us.”
Outside, in the club, Bruno had put on another song, one of those slow ballads that sounded like a confidence. The curtain at the back moved with the air conditioning. The two women fell asleep almost at the same time, breathing in rhythm, and I stayed awake a little longer, watching them, still unable to fully distinguish where one ended and the other began. Maybe I had never wanted to distinguish them. Maybe that confusion, that vertigo of having my wife and her double tangled in my arms, their pussies still hot from my cock, was exactly what I had come looking for without daring to name it.
When sleep finally overcame me, the last thing I felt was a hand—I didn’t know whose—searching for mine beneath the sheet and squeezing it.
