My Husband Watches Me Through Other Men’s Eyes

The apartment slept in that yellowish half-light that slips through the slats of the blinds when the avenue never quite goes dark. The air conditioner hummed softly, almost a secret meant for just the two of us. Martín and I had finished the first round ages ago—he’d taken me from the side, with two fingers in my ass and his cock buried to the hilt in my pussy, until I cried into the pillow—but the stillness wasn’t rest. It was the beginning of the real scene, the one that matters, the one that has belonged to us for years.

I was lying on my back, hair stuck to my temples and skin still damp. Between my legs I could feel his cum sliding slowly out of my slit, warm, mixed with my own juices. He settled in behind me, pressed against my back, and buried his nose in my nape as if he wanted to steal some of my scent. His cock, still semi-hard, brushed my lower back every time he drew a deep breath.

—I still don’t know what drives me craziest —he said, his voice rough, his open hand sliding down my side to the bone of my hip, and from there to my groin, teasing the wet hair.

I knew where the conversation was going. We always ended up back in the same place, like two tourists going through the photos of a trip until the edges wore thin.

—The plumber’s face? —I asked with a low laugh that vibrated against the pillow—. Or the painter’s smell?

—Both —he kissed my shoulder with that measured voracity that undoes me, and pinched one nipple between his thumb and forefinger until a short moan slipped out of me—. But let’s start with the plumber. I’ve got that kid burned into my brain.

I closed my eyes and the scene came back without me having to summon it. It was a Tuesday at one in the afternoon. The guy had arrived in a blue coverall stained with soot, carrying a toolbox that smelled of old grease and a bunch of keys hanging from his belt. I’d opened the door in low-rise jeans and a thin white cotton tank top, no bra underneath. My nipples showed through like two coins pressed beneath the fabric, and I knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes anywhere else.

—I remember the smell —I began, quietly, because the story held better in a whisper—. Dry sweat, grease, something metallic. He crouched in front of the sink and I stood right beside his head, pretending to look for a dish towel in the drawer. I could hear him cursing under his breath at the pipes, feel his heavy breathing against my thigh. It occurred to me that if I’d dropped my jeans right there, he wouldn’t have known what to do. He would have stayed squatting there, mouth open, staring at my cunt from ten centimeters away.

Martín growled and pressed his jaw against my neck. I felt his cock harden again, slowly, against the crease of my ass.

—Fuck —he muttered—. You’re confessing it to me now, after all these years.

—Now I’m confessing everything.

—I was in the studio, with the whole kitchen on the screen —he said—. I thought that if they’d filmed you for a movie, they’d give you the Oscar for naturalness. The way you leaned to show him the joint, with your elbow on the counter, that arch in your back... Renata, that arch wasn’t natural.

—I practiced twice in front of the bathroom mirror —I admitted, and we both laughed in the dark, a conspiratorial laugh that belonged only to us—. And I touched myself while I practiced, Martín. I shoved my hand down my jeans, rubbed my cunt thinking about the guy who still hadn’t arrived, and made myself come fast, so I’d reach the door with my panties already wet. I wanted him to smell something off if he got close enough.

—You’re killing me.

—The jeans, remember the jeans? —he insisted, running his palm over my lower belly, exactly where, that day, the waistband of the black thong had shown. His fingers dropped another centimeter and found the swollen clit, still sensitive from the first fucking. He began drawing slow circles, unhurried.

—Those old ones, the worn-out ones, the ones that practically beg you to bend over —I answered, biting my lip—. I bought them thinking about these games, Martín. You know they’re not for going out.

—And the black lace thong. From the camera I could see the elastic riding up over the jeans whenever you changed position. One millimeter and it disappeared. Another millimeter and it came back. It was hypnotic. The contrast of the lace against your pale skin, right on the edge of what’s allowed to be seen.

—He stopped —I went on, my voice breaking under Martín’s fingers working me slowly between the legs—. That was the exact moment. He set the tool down on the floor and froze, crouched there, not moving. I felt the change in the air, I swear. When he straightened up to go turn off the shutoff valve, I saw his eyes. His pupils were huge, like he’d been in a dark room for a long time. And fear. Fear of looking, but an uncontrollable need to do it. And I saw the bulge in the coverall, Martín. He had a hard-on, outlined against the blue fabric. You could see the whole shape, the head and everything.

—Did it turn you on?

—It made me clamp my thighs. I was dripping. When I went into the bathroom afterward, the thong was stuck to my cunt, soaked through.

—And you didn’t give him a break —said Martín, biting my earlobe, two fingers already inside me, moving in a rhythm—. You stretched yourself out as you passed by him, arms up, like your back had gone to sleep.

—My tank top rode up. My jeans slipped down. It must have lasted a second, two at most. But it was enough for everything. He saw the base of my tits, Martín. I saw it on his face. He saw the nipple underneath, when the fabric clung to the bulge and left everything exposed, the nipple standing up against the cotton.

—I saw the back of his neck go red, Renata. I saw his Adam’s apple move when he swallowed. The camera caught every one of those details, down to the millimeter, like a microscope. And when he dropped the wrench on the floor, I swear I almost screamed in the studio. I was touching myself over my pants, did you know that?

—No.

—I was grabbing myself whole, squeezing my cock, looking back and forth between you and the guy. I almost came inside my jeans, watching you get some stranger hot in my own kitchen.

—I bent down to hand it to him.

—With your back to him. With the curve of your ass perfectly framed by those jeans. And him, squatting there, trapped thirty centimeters away, unable to look anywhere else. I swear I saw on the monitor how his pants tightened in the crotch. That kid was wrecked. He walked out of the house like he had crushed glass in his pocket.

—I would’ve sucked him right there if he’d asked —I whispered, and the confession came out on its own, unfiltered—. If at that moment he’d grabbed my hair and pushed my head down to his bulge, I would’ve sucked him with the coverall on, Martín. With you watching. I would’ve pulled down his zipper and shoved his cock into my mouth all the way to the throat.

Martín let out a moan born deep in his chest and sank his teeth into my nape. His fingers inside me curled against that spot he knows how to find with his eyes closed.

I arched under Martín because memory was more solid than any hand. Feeling a stranger come apart just looking at me, and knowing my husband had been the invisible director of the whole scene, was a drug you couldn’t buy anywhere in the world.

—When I handed him the wrench, he didn’t look me in the face —I finished, my voice trembling—. He didn’t dare. He looked at my hand. And I felt like I owned the world, Martín. Owned him, owned you, owned the whole afternoon.

—And I owned you —he replied—. That’s the exact accounting.

He flipped me over in one motion, face down, and lifted my hips up, my face crushed into the pillow and my ass in the air. He ran his tongue from my clit to my asshole, long and thick, tasting his own cum mixed with mine. Then he spit on my slit and licked again, until I begged him to put it back inside me.

—Not yet —he said, and buried his whole tongue in my cunt, rooting around inside, coaxing liquid out of me with his tongue—. We still have to talk about the painter.

***

—But the painter —I murmured, mouth against the sheet, my voice thick—. The painter was something else.

—He was insolent —Martín answered, propping himself up on his elbows over me, the tip of his hard cock sliding between my ass cheeks, not entering, torturing me—. He had no shame. Only appetite.

I saw him again, just as clearly. The guy was skinny, with long arms stained white with paint, up on the aluminum ladder. He had a piercing in his eyebrow and an almost shaved head. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

—The smell was what turned me on most —I said, moving my ass back, seeking his cock—. The turpentine, strong, sharp, mixed with the sweet perfume I’d deliberately put on that morning. It was a strange fog, toxic and sweet at the same time. And me, right in the middle, pretending to clean the living room picture window for the umpteenth time. No panties, Martín. That time I took my panties off before he arrived. I left them hanging from the bathroom doorknob, soaked through.

—No panties under that skirt?

—Nothing. Just me, and the cold air from the fan every time I bent over.

—The old cotton T-shirt, two sizes too big, no bra. And the backlighting from the window —Martín listed, with a collector’s precision—. I knew every one of those details before the painter even set foot on the ladder.

—When I lifted my arms to reach the top pane, the fabric left my whole side exposed. My whole breast, Martín. In profile, against the light, the nipple standing up. And he was higher than me, up on that ladder. He had a bird’s-eye view of the neckline that you never had, Martín. He saw me from above, straight down. He saw both my tits hanging inside the T-shirt, swaying loose every time I wiped the glass.

—I groaned in the office, you know? My coworker asked if Excel had frozen up on me. I told her yeah, it was an old file. And I went to the bathroom to jerk off, Renata. I locked myself in the stall, opened my fly, and stroked myself thinking about the guy looking down at your tits from the ladder.

—He left the brush hanging in the air. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. He had white paint smeared on one hand and he froze like a bad statue. He didn’t move for twenty seconds. I counted to twenty, Martín. I counted the seconds in silence while I wiped the glass. And when I finished counting, I ran my hand over my neck, bent down slowly, and adjusted my left breast under the fabric like it itched. I made him see what I was doing. I made it clear that I knew.

—What killed me most was that he didn’t apologize with his eyes —he said, his mouth close to my ear, the tip of his cock now pressing at my cunt entrance, pushing without entering—. The plumber apologized in silence while he looked you over. The painter looked at you like he had the right to do it. Like you owed him the scene. And that prickled your pride.

—That’s why I bent over to wet the rag —I admitted—. That’s why, not because it was necessary.

—With your back to him, in that little black skirt. And nothing underneath?

—Nothing. I showed him everything. The whole slit, the asshole, all of it. My legs just wide enough for the clit to be visible. I was wet, Martín. He had to be able to see the shine from up there.

—He saw everything. The whole curve. The skirt pulled tight to the limit. And there was no string, no lace, nothing. Just your open cunt, on display, with the morning sun hitting it right there. And him, up on the ladder, gripping the rung like he was about to fall. I saw the tremor reflected in the window glass. I saw it with my own eyes, not the camera’s.

—You know what I heard? A moan. Soft, muffled, but I heard it. It slipped out of his throat. He was touching himself up on the ladder, Martín. He had the brush in one hand and the other down in his fly.

—Then I sent you the message.

—“Are you watching?” —Martín repeated, laughing softly against my skin, and at that moment he drove his cock all the way in with one dry, deep thrust that tore a cry out of me—. Three words. You almost made me pay dearly for them.

—I wanted you to know that I knew —I panted, arching, trying to take him deeper—. That it was a partnership. That he was there, a meter and a half away, with the smell of paint on him, and if I opened my legs one centimeter more than necessary, he’d see everything. I wasn’t me, Martín. I was a work you commissioned and someone else looked at without knowing he’d paid for the ticket.

He started fucking me slowly, long strokes, pulling his cock out to the tip and then sinking it back all the way in. He grabbed my hair with one hand and turned my head so he could talk in my ear while he slid into me.

—The water droplet —he remembered, and his voice went thick.

—I offered him the glass because he said his throat was dry. He took it from my hand and, when he did, a drop slid down his chin and fell onto my chest. I didn’t wipe it off.

—You didn’t wipe it off —Martín confirmed, fucking me harder, our skin slapping together with a wet, obscene sound—. He followed that drop with his eyes. The whole path, from your collarbone to where it disappeared under the fabric. It was torture. A live broadcast of the most exquisite torture I’d ever seen.

—It went down into my neckline and kept falling —I told him, clenching my cunt around his cock every time he pulled out—. Down between my tits, caught in my skin, all the way to my navel. And he followed it with his eyes, didn’t even blink. When the drop disappeared under the waistband of the skirt, he let out a low “fuck” under his breath. I heard it.

—I wanted him to leave with an empty stomach and a head full of images —I panted—. To jerk off that night thinking about the transparency of the T-shirt, the reflection of the droplet, the sound of the brush when he left it hanging in the air. To come three times thinking about me, Martín. To ruin his whole week trying to get off the same way again and not being able to.

Martín sank into me with the accumulated force of both memories, and I felt quadruple. It was the two of us there, but also the plumber trapped on the kitchen floor and the painter frozen on the aluminum ladder. Four accomplices in an intimacy neither of the other two had signed up for, but which we’d dragged our strangers into without asking permission, without them ever realizing their role in this bed.

—Pull it out —I asked abruptly—. Pull it out and turn me over.

He turned me over, face up, spread my legs wide and lifted them to rest on his shoulders. He shoved it back in with one hard thrust, looking me in the eyes, and started fucking me hard, each stroke slamming me into the mattress. I grabbed my tits with both hands, pinched my nipples, twisted them for him.

—Say it —he asked, never stopping—. Tell me how many there were in the bed.

—Four —I moaned—. You, me, the plumber, and the painter. All four of them fucking me, Martín. The plumber with his mouth on my cunt, licking me until I bled. The painter with his cock in my mouth, down my throat. And you, fucking my ass, marking me as yours in front of them.

—Beautiful whore. My whore.

—Come inside me —I begged—. Come inside me while thinking they’re watching me come.

The end hit like an avalanche. Harder than the first round, because we weren’t alone anymore. The memory of the wrench falling to the kitchen floor, the trembling aluminum ladder, the rag rubbing against the glass, the smell of turpentine—all of it fused into a single muffled scream into the pillow. I felt Martín tense up completely, drive his cock in to the hilt, and unload inside me in hot bursts, while my orgasm shook my legs and made me clamp down on his cock with my cunt until I milked him dry.

***

Afterward, calm. Wet skin, the ceiling turning slowly overhead, breath going in and out until it found its place again. From the window came the sound of a distant bus. Nothing else. Between my legs, his cum ran warm, and neither of us made a move to wipe it away.

I curled into the hollow of his neck.

—Now yes —I whispered.

Martín kissed the crown of my head.

—Now yes what?

—Now yes, we can call the electrician.

He laughed softly, almost soundlessly.

—You’ve already got the script ready.

—I already have the script. And I’ve got the new dress. The cream-colored silk one, the one with the side buttons that open under tension, remember which one?

—I remember perfectly.

—And this time I’m going to put a chair right next to the panel. So he has to work on his knees, down below. And I’m going to be standing right beside him, looking down at him from above. Total reversal of the painter’s camera angle. No panties again, Martín. And with the dress short, very short. When I raise my arms to hand him a tool, the silk is going to ride up to my hips. He’s going to be kneeling there, with his face exactly at the level of my cunt. Can you imagine it?

I felt Martín smiling against my hair. The smile of a predator who knows the prey hasn’t arrived yet, but the trap is already built, polished, ready. His cock, between us, started moving again, shy at first, insistent.

—I love your head, Renata.

—I love that you watch me —I answered, already heavy-eyed, already with the image of the electrician taking shape in the back of my mind—. And most of all, I love that you watch me through other people.