The Day My Wife Fulfilled Our Forbidden Fantasy

My name is Andrés. I’m forty-two years old, and for nearly a decade I had confessed the same fantasy to my wife every time the sex between us reached a certain temperature. Sandra is thirty-five, with dark brown hair, wide hips, and a way of moving when she doesn’t know I’m watching that I’ve found impossible to describe precisely. The fantasy was always the same: seeing her with another man. Seeing her for real, with another cock inside her, not as an image in my head but as something happening in front of me.

She always answered the same way: “Maybe someday.” Never a flat no. Never a yes either. Just that “someday” hanging between us while I fucked her thinking about it, with my dick buried to the hilt in her cunt and whispering in her ear what another man would do to her, and then neither of us would mention it again until the next time.

The trip to Albarracín was her idea. A long weekend in one of Spain’s oldest medieval towns, tucked away in the Teruel mountains. We booked a stone country house with wooden beams on the ceiling and a fireplace that smelled of pine when we lit it the first night. On Saturday morning we had a slow breakfast, with no fixed plans, and went out to walk the narrow streets that smell of damp and accumulated centuries.

Sandra wore a sleeveless blue linen dress. The afternoon sun beat against the reddish walls, and she walked slightly ahead of me, pointing things out: a window with geraniums, a cat asleep on a cobblestone, a stone arch framing the valley that opened below the town. I followed her and watched her. That was what I always did: watch her.

She was the one who stopped in front of the shop.

It was a small place, wedged between two dark stone houses, with the door standing wide open and a chalkboard at the entrance where someone had hand-written the day’s products: cured sheep’s cheese, Iberian cured meats, rosemary honey, artisan preserves. Inside it smelled of wood, ham skin, and something slightly sweet I couldn’t identify.

“Let’s go in,” Sandra said, and she was already crossing the threshold before I could answer.

The man behind the counter was about thirty-five. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the big hands of someone who works physically. He had a stubble beard and a way of leaning on the counter that conveyed absolute calm, the calm of someone who knows exactly where he stands in the world and isn’t in any rush to change anything.

“Good afternoon,” he said, and looked at Sandra in a way that wasn’t rude but wasn’t innocent either. His eyes traveled over her neckline, her hips, the gap between her thighs that the dress shaped when she moved.

She smiled back. That smile. The one I had learned to recognize years earlier, the one that meant something had ignited in her and that what came next depended on how much fuel he found.

What followed was a game they both pretended wasn’t a game. He offered her things to taste: a wedge of cured truffle cheese, a slice of ham so thin you could see through it when he held it up to the light. Every time Sandra leaned over the counter to take something, the dress parted in front and I knew he was seeing her breasts in full from above. Every time she looked up to thank him, he was already looking at her and making no effort to hide it.

“Where are you from?” he asked at one point, never taking his eyes off her.

“Madrid,” Sandra said. “First time here. And you make all this yourselves?”

“My family’s been in the village for four generations. We make the cheese ourselves. The ham comes from producers in the area.”

“It shows,” she said, and took another sample to her mouth with a slowness that had nothing accidental about it. She sucked it from his finger, closing her lips around the fingertip with a suction that left no room for doubt.

I was two meters away, staring at a shelf of preserve jars, not seeing the preserve jars. I was getting hard inside my pants.

He showed her different kinds of cheese, explained the curing times, described the summer pastures where the sheep grazed. Sandra listened with her head slightly tilted, with that attention she gave when she wanted someone to keep talking. Before we left, he wrapped a piece in brown paper. When he handed her the package, his fingers brushed hers longer than necessary. Sandra didn’t pull her hand away.

“What time do you close?” she asked, already in the doorway, not looking at me.

“At eight,” he said.

Sandra nodded slowly, as if calculating something.

“Maybe we’ll come back before then. To pick up a few more things.”

We left. The sun was already lower over the walls.

On the way back to the country house we walked in silence for a good while. The narrow streets amplified the sound of our steps on the cobblestones. Then she spoke without turning toward me.

“Did you see how he looked at me?”

“I saw everything,” I said.

“And?”

I stopped. She turned around. Her eyes were bright and there was a tension in her jaw I recognized immediately.

“Sandra. Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

She bit her lower lip. Then she nodded, slowly, without taking her eyes off me.

“It’s today or never,” she said. “And you’ve spent almost ten years asking me to let another man fuck me in front of you.”

We went up to the room. I lifted her dress before we even reached the bed and shoved my hand between her legs in one quick motion. What I found confirmed everything I had already imagined: her underwear was dripping, the cotton so soaked it stuck to the lips of her cunt as if someone had licked them. I ran two fingers over the fabric, feeling it hot and slick, and I told her so.

“I know,” she answered, without shame. “I’ve been like this since we left the shop. I couldn’t stop imagining him naked. He has such hands… did you see his hands?”

I tore off her panties, brought them to my nose, and breathed in her scent without looking away from her eyes. I was about to throw her onto the bed and fuck her with all the wetness she’d built up for another man, but she stopped me.

“No,” she said, pushing my hand away from her cunt. “All of this is for him. Don’t touch me now. If you touch me I’ll come, and I want to get there like this.”

She stepped into the shower with a slowness that had something ritualistic about it. I watched from the doorway as she soaped her breasts slowly, pinched her nipples until they stood rigid, slid her hand between her legs and stopped a centimeter from her clit, holding back. She trimmed the pubic hair carefully, leaving only a narrow strip. She perfumed her neck, between her breasts, her belly, and the inner part of her thighs, very high, almost touching herself. She chose her clothes deliberately: the same kind of dress, loose, with nothing underneath. No panties, no bra. She showed it to me by turning slowly, with a look that said everything it didn’t need to say out loud. When the dress moved with her, I could see the trimmed line of her pubis below it and a bead gleaming on the inside of her thigh.

I watched her from the edge of the bed with a dry throat and my cock throbbing against my fly. There was something in my chest I couldn’t describe precisely: desire, a strange pride, a kind of fear mixed with excitement until it became indistinguishable from it. I’d been imagining it for years, and suddenly I was less than an hour away from seeing another man enter my wife.

Sandra sat down in front of the mirror to fix her hair. She looked at me through the reflection.

“Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want to see him fucking me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, and I wasn’t lying.

“Then don’t interfere, whatever happens. Just watch. And if he asks me for something… I’ll give him everything.”

At seven fifteen we arrived at the shop. He saw us come in and said nothing. He closed the door behind us and pulled down the metal shutter with a calm movement, without hurrying. The light in the shop was reduced to what came in through a side window, warm and orange from the sun already nearing the horizon.

“Sit wherever you like,” he said, pointing to a stool by the wall. “I’ll take care of your wife.”

He said it with such naturalness that I was left speechless. Sandra was already on the other side of the counter.

I sat down. I didn’t move from there for the next forty minutes.

What happened between them started slowly. He showed her how to cut ham properly, standing behind her, guiding her hands with his. The contact was deliberate. His chin brushed her temple when he spoke into her ear to explain the right angle. She didn’t pull away. She lowered her shoulders, loosened her body, let herself be guided. I saw him slowly press his groin against her ass, saw Sandra feel the hard bulge pressing into her through the fabric and push her hips back slightly, looking for it.

“Like this,” he said in a low voice. “No rush.”

With his free hand he wrapped her waist from the front and lifted her dress to her hip. I saw Sandra’s ass exposed, naked under the orange light, and I saw his hand slide down her belly and disappear between her legs. Sandra moaned without opening her eyes. He pushed two fingers into her cunt from behind, one first, then two, and pulled them out shiny to the wrist. He held them up to the light so I could see them.

“Your wife is really dripping,” he said to me, without smiling, with clinical calm. “This isn’t the ham’s doing.”

Sandra dropped the knife. She turned toward him. She looked him straight in the eyes for a second that seemed much longer than it was. Then she kissed him. She shoved her whole tongue into his mouth and bit his lower lip, and he kissed her back, gripping her hair at the nape of her neck.

He took her face in both hands and returned the kiss with an intensity that made me clench my fists on my knees. Then he slowly lowered the straps of her dress, one and then the other, and the fabric fell to the floor without either of them making any move to pick it up.

Sandra wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

He stepped back and looked at her for a moment without touching her. Just looking. He ran his eyes over my wife’s breasts, her nipples already hard and dark, her belly, the thin strip of hair above her pubis, her thighs shining with wetness. He did it with a slowness that was harder for me to bear than anything that came after. Then he briefly lifted his gaze toward me, as if to confirm something. I nodded without really knowing what, exactly, I was confirming.

“Get on your knees,” he told Sandra then, never taking his eyes off me. “Take it out for me.”

Sandra went down. She knelt on the shop’s cold tiles and undid his belt with quick fingers, almost clumsy with want. When she lowered his pants and then his briefs, the man’s cock sprang out in front of her face, hard, thick, the tip already shining. It was clearly bigger than mine, and she noticed it the same instant she saw it, because a small sound escaped her throat before she grabbed it with both hands.

She looked at it closely. She studied it. She licked it from base to tip with a flat tongue, very slowly, and then took it all the way into her mouth. She held it deep until her eyes filled with tears and he had to pull her head away with his hand.

“Easy,” he said, laughing very softly. “We’ve got time.”

Sandra ignored him. She took it out and put it back in, this time setting the rhythm herself, sucking it with her mouth completely open, her tongue working the head, her left hand weighing his balls. I watched her cheeks hollow each time she sucked and heard the wet sound of her mouth around another man’s cock and felt like my pants were going to split open from the inside.

“Look at you,” he said, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back so she looked up at him from below with her mouth still open and a string of saliva hanging from her lip. “Look at how you suck cock, right in front of your husband.”

Sandra stuck out her tongue and offered it to him. He set the tip of his cock on her tongue and gave her a couple of soft taps across the face with it, marking her cheekbones. Sandra closed her eyes. She was smiling.

Then he lifted her by the hair and sat her down hard on the wooden counter. He spread her legs with his hands, calmly, and knelt. Sandra shut her eyes and threw her head back when he started eating her cunt. He did it with his whole mouth, biting her clit and then sucking it, sliding his tongue between her open lips, burying it to the throat. Sandra began moving against his face without the slightest restraint. What came out of her mouth wasn’t words. It was something more primitive and more honest than anything I’d heard from her in years.

“Yes, like that, don’t stop, god, don’t stop…”

I had opened my pants without realizing when. I had my cock in my hand and was working it slowly, not wanting to finish yet.

The first time came like that, with another man’s mouth pressed to her cunt and two fingers inside her, her back arched and her hands clutching the edge of the counter, biting her fist to muffle the sound. I saw the guy’s face shining with her juices up to his cheeks when he pulled away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up.

“Tell your husband what you want,” he said.

Sandra searched for me with her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and she wore an expression I had never seen on her in all the years we’d been together.

“No condom,” she said, never taking her eyes off me. “I want to feel it without anything. I want him to come inside me.”

I didn’t answer. There was no need.

He grabbed her by the hips and dragged her to the edge of the counter. He ran his cock over Sandra’s lips twice, smearing her with what she had just left there herself, and then pushed in slowly. I watched it go in. I watched the exact moment the tip forced its way through and then the rest followed, centimeter by centimeter, until the hilt, until his hips struck Sandra’s open thighs and she let out a short, rough cry that shot through my chest like something physical.

“Fuck,” Sandra said through clenched teeth. “You’re huge. What a cock you’ve got.”

He was fucking her standing up, with her still seated on the counter and her legs wrapped around his waist. He started slow, very slow, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in with a thrust that made her breasts bounce upward. Then he picked up the pace. The sounds became continuous and rhythmic, mixed with the creak of the wood under the weight of the two of them, with the dull slap of hips against thighs, with the splashing of a soaked cunt being fucked deep, and with the smell of the shop suddenly turning denser, of sweat and sex.

“Look at me,” he said at one point, gripping her jaw with one hand.

She looked at him.

“Now look at your husband. While you’re still coming, look at your husband.”

Sandra turned her head toward me. She looked straight at me while the other man drove his cock into her over and over, while her tits bounced with each thrust and she trembled all over, nearing another orgasm. I held her eyes for several seconds. She opened her mouth, two broken moans escaped her, and she held my gaze while she came for the second time, with another man inside her, pressing at me through her eyes. That image was what made me finish, with my hand, without moving from the stool, shooting onto the tiled floor between my feet.

They changed positions. Sandra turned on her own, without him asking, braced her forearms on the counter, and stuck her ass out. He slapped one cheek hard, making it red, and drove his fingers into her hips before burying himself in her again from behind.

“Yes, like that, like that, don’t pull out, don’t pull out,” Sandra begged, pushing back against his thrusts too.

He sped up. He was fucking her with both hands clamped on her hips, yanking her toward him with every blow, the flesh of Sandra’s ass rippling with the impact. He slid one hand around to the front and grabbed a breast, then brought his fingers up to her mouth. Sandra sucked them without stopping taking it. With his other hand he wrapped around her neck from behind, tightening it without choking her, marking her as his.

“You’re going to let your wife get bred,” he told me, looking over Sandra’s shoulder. “Do you understand?”

I said nothing. I only watched. Sandra answered for me:

“Yes, come inside me, don’t pull out, come inside me…”

When he finished, it was inside her, all the way in, with a deep sound he made no attempt to suppress. I saw the arch of his back, saw the grimace of his open mouth, and saw him go still for a long moment with his hips pressed to Sandra’s ass, emptying himself into her. Sandra was trembling again, eyes closed, feeling him come inside.

When he finally pulled out, he did it slowly. I saw the shiny cock withdraw and immediately saw a thick stream begin running down Sandra’s inner thigh, trailing to her knee. She didn’t move. She stayed still for a few seconds, leaning on the counter with her forearms, breathing, another man’s semen dripping to the floor of the shop.

Then she turned, took it into her mouth, and cleaned his cock with her tongue, all of it, unhurriedly, looking up at him from below. She kissed him once more, long and unhurried. What happened between them after that during those last few minutes was something I didn’t try to interpret. I stood up, fastened my pants, and waited by the door.

We went out into the street when the village was already almost silent. The sky above the walls was a deep dark blue and the first stars were starting to appear over the mountains. The night air smelled of cold stone and fields. Sandra walked beside me without speaking, with a different sway than in the afternoon, more settled. She knew that under her dress what another man had left inside her was still running out.

Halfway back, she slipped her hand into mine.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“More than okay,” I said.

She nodded. We walked the rest of the way without letting go.

That night, in the bed of the country house, with the wooden beams above us and the complete silence of the village all around, she curled against my side and it took me a while to fall asleep. Not because I felt bad, or because I was processing anything complicated. But because I wanted to stay awake a few more minutes with all of it still present: the image of Sandra looking at me from the counter while another cock split her open from the inside, the way she had found me with her eyes exactly when I needed it most, the fact that after almost ten years the “someday” had finally arrived and was exactly as I had imagined it.

Maybe a little better.