I Hid in the Bushes and Took Her Lover’s Place

For months I had been hearing rumors about Marisol, the wife of the caretaker of the Mendoza estate. People in town spoke in low voices, amid laughter and knowing glances, about what happened in that backyard after nightfall. I lived less than a kilometer away, in a house I had inherited from my uncle, and every time I passed along the dirt road bordering the property, I felt tempted to see for myself.

Marisol was not conventionally beautiful. She was more the sort of country woman whom the earth and sun had weathered without taking away her sensuality. She must have been about thirty-five, with wide hips, strong arms from carrying buckets and firewood, and a waist that showed beneath any dress. She always wore skirts above the knee, made of cheap floral-print fabric, and whenever she bent down to pick something up, the skirt rode halfway up her thigh, revealing the tops of thick, brown legs that made any man want to bury his face between them. More than one man in town had stared at her openly, imagining what might be beneath that cheap fabric: whether her pussy was shaved or hairy, whether her tits were as big as they seemed beneath her blouse, whether her cunt smelled like a female in heat.

Her husband, Eulogio, was a quiet, hardworking man. He spent the entire day riding along the estate boundaries, making sure no one cut the fences or went into the woods to steal firewood. He returned to the ranch at lunchtime, ate dinner with his two children at six-thirty, and was already asleep by nine. Marisol, on the other hand, seemed never to sleep. And according to what people said at the bar, it had been years since her husband had touched her pussy with anything but the weary gaze of a man coming home exhausted from the fields.

One November afternoon, I decided to find out for myself. It was close to six, that liminal hour between day and night, when the sky still held a little light but the shadows had already covered the corners. I left my house on foot without telling anyone and crossed the empty pastures until I reached the bushes surrounding the caretaker’s ranch. I crouched among the chilca plants and moved forward slowly, holding my breath every time a branch cracked beneath my boots.

I got to within about ten meters of the back of the dining room, where the wall was little more than plastered mud and cane. Through a crack between the boards, I could see inside: Marisol was serving dinner. Pumpkin soup with corn, judging by the smell that reached me where I was. Eulogio and the two boys ate in silence, as families accustomed to exhaustion tend to do.

Marisol wasn’t eating. She went back and forth between the table and the kitchen, and every couple of minutes she peered out into the backyard, looking toward the darkness as if she were expecting something. I stayed still, watching her. Her hair was tied in a low bun, with a few strands escaping at the nape of her neck. Every time she leaned over to reach something from the upper shelf, her skirt stretched tight across her ass, outlining the crack of her culo beneath the fabric, and I couldn’t stop looking at her. Two round, solid cheeks showed through, the kind you could see from a distance and that already made your cock hard.

I felt myself hardening beneath my trousers. My cock swelled suddenly, pressing against my fly until it hurt. I pulled it out right there among the chilca bushes and gripped it with my right hand. It was so hard that the tip was already leaking a drop of pre-cum, which ran over my fingers. I began stroking it slowly, taking care not to make a sound, while I continued spying through the cracks in the shed.

“I’m going out to the yard for a moment,” Marisol told her husband. “Don’t follow me. I need to relieve myself.”

Eulogio nodded without raising his eyes from his plate. The boys kept eating. Marisol grabbed an unlit lantern, opened the back door, and disappeared into the darkness at the far end. I slipped through the bushes, my cock still out and swinging, following her silently from a safe distance.

The backyard was little more than packed earth, with a chicken coop to one side and a well in the center. Marisol walked past the well and went behind a corrugated-metal shed, where the kitchen light no longer reached. I came close enough to see through the cracks between the boards.

And then I saw him.

There was a man lying on the ground on an old blanket. He was on his back, his trousers lowered to his knees, and a cock rose between his legs that, even at that distance and in that poor light, seemed enormous to me. A thick, dark cock, foreskin pulled back and glans shining with saliva or whatever it was. Marisol hiked her skirt up to her waist; she wasn’t wearing panties, and in the half-light I saw for an instant the thick black triangle of her pubic hair, and below it the fat lips of her pussy already opening with arousal. She crouched down, spat on two fingers, ran them over her cunt to lubricate herself, and mounted him without saying a word.

I watched her lower herself slowly, impaling herself all the way down his cock, and release a deep moan when she had taken it completely inside. She began moving little by little, rising and falling, resting her hands on the man’s chest. She had her back to him, looking toward the yard as if keeping watch so no one would come. Every time she lowered herself, I could see her ass opening a little, her asshole exposed for a second before the movement hid it again. Each descent drew a brief, muffled whimper from her, escaping between her clenched teeth. The man beneath her didn’t move much; he merely held her hips and guided her, setting the rhythm and driving her deeper each time.

I stood frozen among the bushes, my cock in my hand and my heart pounding in my throat. I jerked it slowly, in time with the rocking of Marisol’s hips, imagining that I was the one underneath her, that it was my cock buried in that dripping pussy. I recognized the man when he turned his head slightly: it was Damián, the one from the corner shop, a guy my age who sold cold cuts and wine by the jug. Married, with three children. And there he was, beneath Marisol, burying his cock deep inside her while she let herself be fucked in silence, receiving what the caretaker had denied her for years.

It didn’t last long. She quickened the pace, began bouncing harder against Damián’s hips, and the wet sound of her cunt impaling and withdrawing from his cock reached me where I stood, a sticky sloshing that drove me crazy. After five or six minutes, Marisol arched her back, bit her hand to hold back a cry, and went still for a moment. I watched her tremble all over, her ass shaking in short spasms as she clenched the cock inside herself until Damián came too: he dug his fingers into her hips, held her down on top of him, and unloaded inside her with a low grunt. When she stood up, a thick thread of cum ran down the inside of her thigh. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, straightened her skirt, picked up the unlit lantern from the ground, and went back to the house as if nothing had happened. Damián pulled up his trousers, waited hidden for a while, and slipped out through the back gate toward the road into town.

I came right there among the plants, unable to hold it back. I let out a long, thick jet that spattered the chilca leaves; three or four more jerks, and my cock was left dripping in my hand. I cleaned myself as best I could with a handkerchief and walked home, still trembling, with the image of that hairy cunt impaling itself on Damián’s cock burned into my mind.

***

For the next few days, I couldn’t think about anything else. I returned to the bushes three nights in a row, always at the same time, and always saw the same thing: Marisol having dinner with her family, looking toward the yard every couple of minutes, then escaping behind the shed where Damián waited for her on the ground with his cock out. The routine was identical. Not a word. Just that silent, five-minute encounter, almost mechanical—her on top, riding his cock, him underneath, gripping her ass—which seemed to me the most erotic thing I had ever seen. Every one of those nights I came two or three times, until my cock was left aching.

On the fourth night, everything changed. I reached my spot among the chilca bushes, settled in, and waited. Six-thirty passed. Seven passed. Marisol looked toward the yard more often than usual, and her restlessness was beginning to show. At a quarter past seven, she went as far as the gate, and then I saw a boy of about twenty on the other side. He was Damián’s younger brother.

I couldn’t hear clearly what she said to him, but I understood the essentials: his brother had a fever and wouldn’t be able to come; he had sent him to let her know. The kid left, and Marisol stood at the gate for a long while, her arms crossed over her chest. Then she went back into the house. That night there was no escape to the yard. Nothing.

An idea began turning over in my head. An idea I knew was crazy, but couldn’t get rid of. If she turned her back, if she never spoke, if everything was over in five minutes without him saying more than the occasional moan… who was going to stop another man from taking his place?

All I have to do is lie down on the blanket and wait.

The next day, before sunset, I slipped into the caretaker’s yard through the back gate. It was a risky move, but that hour was the safest: Eulogio still hadn’t returned from the boundaries, the boys were still at the little school in town, and Marisol would be inside peeling potatoes. I slipped over to the shed, lay down on the old blanket—it was still there, like another piece of furniture—and waited.

At six-thirty I began hearing the clatter of plates. Eulogio’s voice. The boys arguing about something. The smell of dinner seeped through the cracks. I was lying on my back, my trousers already lowered to my knees, my cock hard for half an hour and pointing at the roof of the shed, my heart about to leap out of my mouth. I gripped it and jerked it a couple of times to make sure it was standing straight, spat into my palm, and moistened the glans. I was ready.

“I’m going out to the yard,” I heard Marisol say. “Make sure you don’t come out here.”

Her footsteps. The door. The crunch of earth beneath her espadrilles. She passed the well without stopping and went behind the shed as she did every night.

She saw me. Or rather, she saw the shape of a man lying on the blanket, in the same position as always, his cock hard and waiting for her. She said nothing. She yanked up her skirt—she wasn’t wearing panties—and squatted over me. I felt the tip of my cock brush the lips of her pussy, soaked and hot, and then felt her weight as she let herself drop.

When she sat down, she did it all at once, letting her full weight fall. I felt her swallow me whole, felt her cunt wrap me in a tight, wet heat I had never imagined. She was soaking wet, dripping around me, and at the same time she squeezed me with the strength of a closed fist. I pressed my lips together to keep from moaning and giving myself away. She stayed still for a second, my cock buried to the root, and then whispered:

“You feel different today. Thicker. Veinier. But you feel so good.”

I didn’t answer. I gripped her hips, as I had seen Damián do, and guided her. She began to move. She rose and fell, slowly at first, feeling every inch of my cock enter and withdraw from her cunt, then faster, riding me with all the strength of those broad hips. She had her back to me, looking toward the yard, toward the shadows by the well, suspecting nothing.

Every time she lowered herself, that little whimper I had heard so many nights from the bushes escaped her. Her ass bounced against my thighs with a dull, fleshy slap, and I felt the sloshing of her cunt impaling itself again and again, her juices dripping down over my balls to my coccyx. I, meanwhile, had to grit my teeth to keep from releasing even a sigh. I felt the sweat on my forehead. I felt her nails digging into my thighs when she braced herself to thrust. I smelled her skin, a mixture of white soap and a smoky kitchen with wood fire, and beneath that, the scent of a hot woman, of a wet cunt I had been fantasizing about for days.

I grabbed her ass cheeks with both hands. They were solid and hot, and my fingerprints showed in them every time I squeezed. I spread her cheeks slightly with my thumbs and saw her tight asshole, glistening with sweat, every time she rose and fell on my cock. I ran my thumb over it, barely pressing, and felt her entire cunt contract suddenly around my cock. She gave a quiet laugh without turning around and quickened the pace. Her breathing grew shorter. Her legs began to tremble.

“Put it all the way in, daddy, just like you know how,” she whispered, leaning back to sink it to the hilt. “Break my cunt.”

I dug my fingers into her hips and began thrusting from below, burying myself in her with every downward stroke, bone knocking against bone. A high-pitched whimper began escaping between her teeth, something I had never heard from her on the nights I watched. I felt her tightening more and more, her cunt squeezing my cock as if she wanted to wring me dry. The bush of hair surrounding the lips of her pussy stuck to my balls, soaked.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she whispered, bringing one hand to her mouth to keep from screaming.

I was about to come too. I lifted my hips a little to meet her on the downward stroke, grabbed her ass with both hands, and impaled her with one final thrust, and that was enough. I felt her whole body contract, her cunt squeezing me in violent waves, clenching with such force that I could barely breathe, and at the same time I emptied myself inside her, in a hot jet that painted the walls of her cunt and left me weak. There were four or five thick spurts, each accompanied by a spasm that shook my hips against hers. She whispered a name that wasn’t mine: “Damián, Damián,” biting her hand and arching her back.

Then she stayed still for a few seconds, breathing unevenly, my cock still inside her and throbbing, my cum already running over the lips of her cunt and dripping onto my balls. And that was when it slipped out. I couldn’t hold it back. I let out a long, hoarse moan and said without thinking:

“You taste so good.”

Marisol jumped to her feet. My cock was pulled suddenly from her with a wet sound, and I felt the stream of cum and her juices running down the inside of her thigh to her knee. I felt her search for her skirt in the darkness and pull it down with clumsy hands without even cleaning herself. Then she turned around, and although she couldn’t see me well in the gloom, I felt the weight of her eyes fixed on mine.

“Who are you?” she said, her voice trembling. “I knew that cock was different. I knew it from the very first thrust. Who the hell are you?”

I sat up slowly, keeping the little light from the kitchen from shining directly on me. I pulled up my trousers with my cock still hard and drooling, pressing it against my groin so it wouldn’t show. I spoke softly, almost into her ear, so the people inside wouldn’t hear anything.

“Keep quiet. Don’t say anything, and I won’t either. Tomorrow, same time, I’ll be waiting for you here. And get ready, because I’m going to fuck you another way.”

She didn’t answer. She stood there, breathing hard, her skirt still crooked, a lock of hair across her face and her legs wet with my cum. I left her there, slipping out through the back gate, and returned home along the dirt road, still carrying her scent on my hands and the taste of that cunt on the tip of my cock.

That night I didn’t sleep. I thought about Damián, who would show up recovered tomorrow or the day after and discover that his place was being contested. I thought about Eulogio, who would never find out anything, sleeping soundly while his wife mounted strangers ten meters from the bed, swallowing other men’s cocks in the darkness of the yard. I thought about myself, the risk, and what I was willing to lose to sink myself into that hot cunt again.

And the next morning, before the sun came up, I was already counting the hours until I could hide among the caretaker’s bushes again, my cock hard once more beneath my trousers.