The Maid’s Show in Front of the Other Woman

Yamila had been living for those days for five months. Wednesdays and Fridays had become her most private vice, the ritual that carried her through the whole week. She walked into the building in the impeccable uniform of any ordinary maid: a white blouse fitted tight to the bone, a gray skirt ending just above the knees, soft espadrilles so she wouldn’t make a sound on the parquet floor. An ordinary woman doing an ordinary job.

What the blouse didn’t show was the set he sent her the night before by anonymous courier. Scarlet thong, so thin it barely existed. Black lace bra with cutouts placed just so, leaving the nipples free. Silk stockings with a black garter, the back seam marked like a line of flight up the thigh. And a small wireless toy tucked inside her, which he controlled from his phone with the same calm with which he answered a work email.

That October afternoon, the apartment on Avenida Recoleta was bathed in a tired golden light. Yamila came in with her canvas bag, a restrained smile, her eyes searching for his. She found him on the living room sofa.

He wasn’t alone.

Sitting beside him, one leg crossed over the other and one arm resting familiarly on the backrest, was Renata. Ash blonde, high cheekbones, a short beige dress revealing tanned gym-toned thighs. The official girlfriend. The one who showed up in the captions of social events. The one who had no idea of the kind of games played there when she wasn’t around.

Something between Yamila’s legs tightened the very second she recognized the scene. He looked at her from the sofa with an expression that was not entirely kind: a small smile, eyes a little darker.

—Yamila, you’re punctual as always. Renata stayed a bit longer today. You just do what you always do, don’t mind us.

Renata lifted a hand in a lazy greeting.

—Hello, darling. Carry on with your thing, really.

Yamila nodded. She bit the inside of her cheek to tame the smile rising in her and forced herself to breathe slowly. She knew exactly what he was going to do. She knew this was going to be a different day.

She started in the open kitchen, just four or five meters from the sofa. She took off her light coat and folded it over the back of a chair with deliberate slowness. She picked up a cloth and stretched to reach the high countertop. The blouse pulled tight to its limit, the buttons trembling, her heavy breasts rising and falling with each breath. The skirt rode up a finger’s width, exposing the browned edge of her stockings and a strip of bare thigh. She turned her body just enough so that from his seat he could read the back seam running straight upward.

Then the buzzing began.

Low, treacherous, barely a tickle. The vibrator had woken up on minimum. Yamila bit her lip and disguised the gasp with a short cough. Her nipples hardened instantly and stood out through the white fabric with obscene clarity.

She bent down toward the low cabinets. She spread her knees as far as the skirt allowed, her round ass lifted toward the living room. The thong bit into her cheeks, and the toy vibrated inside her with a persistence that forced her to clench her muscles so her legs wouldn’t shake. She pretended to look for something, a lost cloth, a glove. She moved her hips in small, almost imperceptible circles, as if she needed to stretch her back. Beneath the thong, a thick wetness was beginning to stain the fabric.

***

On the sofa, Renata talked without pause about a photography exhibition they were going to open on Friday. He answered in amiable monosyllables. With his free hand, hidden under his arm, he slid his thumb across the phone screen.

Yamila moved into the living room with a clean cloth. She knelt in front of the coffee table, right in the angle where he could see her and Renata could not. Before starting to polish the glass, she let two buttons of her blouse come undone “by accident,” as if the pressure had beaten them. The neckline opened like a carefully measured invitation: black lace, large dark nipples peeking through the bra’s cutouts, so hard it looked like they might tear the fabric.

She cleaned with long, almost devout motions. Her chest swayed with each stroke. Behind it, her ass rocked barely at all, keeping time.

The buzzing rose one level for a second and then dropped again.

Yamila let out a sigh she disguised as physical effort. Her hips answered on their own, a discreet sway. Renata interrupted her speech to look at her.

—Are you all right, darling? You’re flushed.

Yamila straightened a little, smiling with the most innocent sweetness in the world.

—Yes, ma’am. It’s muggy today. And climbing the stairs made me warm up a bit.

Renata smiled indulgently and returned to her topic. He suppressed a smile with the back of his hand and used the chance to turn the level up another notch. Yamila clenched her legs and hid the shiver by leaning over the table.

***

When she finished with the living room, she went to the bedroom. She left the door ajar at a specific angle, calculated, rehearsed. From the sofa, the whole bed was visible, the upholstered headboard and a slice of the full-length mirror.

She started making the bed with the devotion of an actress onstage.

She bent over the mattress, her ass pointed exactly toward the door. The gray skirt rode up to her waist. The scarlet thong was a fine line between her buttocks; the vibrator hummed with a barely audible sound, and between her thighs a thick wetness gleamed, having made its way out of the fabric. She stretched the sheet with one hand and with the other repositioned the pillow, lengthening the pose more than necessary.

She sat up and perched on the edge of the bed with her legs open toward the door. She pretended to adjust a stocking. She ran her palm all the way up her thigh, from knee to garter, and when she reached the top she moved the thong aside for an instant. Only an instant. Long enough for him to see from the sofa the shaved sex, glossy, with the tip of the toy showing slightly. She lifted her gaze, biting her lip, and gave him a dark, mischievous look.

Are you watching? Do you like it?

The vibrator turned up.

Yamila arched as if stretching her back. Her middle finger brushed her clit in a quick circle, almost a mistake. Then she lay back on the bed to “smooth” the sheets. She spread her legs. One hand slipped under her blouse, pinched a nipple until she was breathing through an open mouth. The other hand went down to the thong and rubbed the soaked fabric with three extended fingers. Her hips lifted slowly, in a slow riding motion, as if someone were on top of her.

Her eyes were locked on him. Her tongue wet her lips. A quick, treacherous wink, just for him.

***

Renata turned her head toward the hallway just as Yamila withdrew her hands with feline speed, sat up, and smoothed her skirt as if nothing had happened.

—Is everything all right in there? —she asked, raising her voice.

—Everything’s fine, ma’am —Yamila replied in a singsong tone—. I’ll finish the room and be down.

Renata settled back into the sofa, unsuspecting. He, beside her, still had the phone in his hand. When their gazes crossed through the hallway, he lowered his finger on the screen. The buzzing subsided into a soft, lazy vibration, like a heartbeat. Yamila took a deep breath and granted herself fifteen seconds of calm before returning to the living room.

She came back with the bag finished and a couple of dirty cloths folded over her arm. She brushed past the sofa on purpose. She crouched beside his feet as if she needed to adjust an espadrille. Her ass nearly grazed his knee. The scent she gave off was thick, sweet, unmistakable. Renata kept talking about the exhibition. He looked at Yamila over Renata’s shoulder, his eyes bright.

Yamila stood up very slowly. As she did, she let her chest brush, as if by accident, against his shoulder. Her nipples, hard as bullets, pressed for a second through the blouse against his shirt.

She walked toward the front door with her back straight, her hips swaying in a rhythm that was not that of a maid leaving work. When she reached the entryway, she turned. Just for him. She ran her tongue over her upper lip, slowly, lowered her gaze for half a second to the crotch of his trousers, and brought it back up with a small, naughty smile.

—See you Friday, sir. Have a very good afternoon, both of you.

Renata answered from the sofa without lifting her eyes from her phone.

—You too, dear.

The door closed with a discreet click.

***

Inside, he switched off the vibrator with his thumb and laid the phone face down on the cushion. His trousers strained with an urgency he could not afford to show. Renata finally lifted her head and smiled at him the way one smiles at someone with whom one shares a boring, pleasant routine.

—Poor girl, she looked exhausted today.

—Yes —he replied, his voice almost neutral—. The maid has a harder job than it seems.

Outside, in the landing, Yamila leaned against the wall beside the elevator. She closed her eyes for a second, breathed through her nose, and ran two fingers over the thong. It was completely soaked. A thick, dark pleasure climbed from her navel to her throat, mixed with something that wasn’t exactly guilt.

She bit her lower lip and pressed the down button with the calm of someone who has just left an ordinary job. While the elevator descended floor by floor, she took her phone from her bag. A message from him glowed on the locked screen.

You were magnificent. Friday, you’ll have to stay a little longer.

Yamila smiled at her reflection in the elevator mirror. She was already thinking about what she would wear under the uniform.