The Night I Saw My Wife with the Bar Manager

That night we had decided it was time. We had been fantasizing about the idea for months, talking about it in whispers after sex, laughing the next day as though it were a joke, but neither of us had forgotten. My wife wanted another man to fuck her. She wanted me to watch her spread her legs for someone else, to watch her come with a stranger’s cock inside her. And I, as difficult as it was to admit, wanted it just as much as she did.

We chose a bar we used to go to with her cousins on special occasions. We knew the place, the music, the kind of people who went there. That gave us a false sense of control over something that, in reality, couldn’t be controlled.

Camila—that’s my wife’s name—got into the shower at nine. She came out wrapped in a towel, her wet hair clinging to her neck, and gave me a look that was already a promise. It took her almost an hour to get ready.

When she came down the stairs, I almost stopped breathing. A thin white blouse, without a bra, her nipples showing through the fabric every time she breathed. A very short black skirt. A thong of the same color that could be made out whenever she walked against the light. White Converse, because she told me she didn’t want to look «like some slut». And a black leather jacket draped over her shoulders.

—Are you ready? —I asked her.

—I’m nervous —she replied—. But yes. Let’s go before I change my mind.

We barely spoke in the car. She looked out the window and bit her lip. Every so often I squeezed her thigh, not out of desire, but to remind her that I was there, that she wouldn’t be alone in this.

When we arrived at the bar, the valet greeted us. Camila got out of the car and the boy’s gaze went straight to her legs. She noticed. She smiled. She adjusted her skirt with a slow, deliberate gesture and walked toward the entrance with her hips a little looser than usual.

—What was that? —I whispered.

—That’s what we came here for, isn’t it? —she answered without looking at me—. I’m already getting turned on. My thong is wet, in case you’re interested.

At the door there was a tall guy, around thirty-five, in charge of the pat-downs. He told Camila that her companions hadn’t arrived yet and asked whether he could search her. She took off her jacket and raised her arms.

The man’s hands moved up her waist, went around the sides of her breasts and lingered there, rubbing over the thin blouse until her nipples grew hard and visible. They moved down over her hips. He asked her to turn around. He ran his palms over her buttocks, underneath her skirt, without even trying to hide what he was doing, and his fingers slipped between the halves of her ass, brushing the thong’s elastic. Camila let out a very quiet sigh, almost inaudible, but I heard it. So did the guy. When he finished, he ran his tongue over his lips without taking his eyes off her skirt.

He let us through. As we walked away, I saw him take out his radio and speak to someone without losing sight of her.

The first hour went as we’d expected. Camila ordered a gin and tonic, then another. Every time a song she liked came on, she went to the dance floor. She had no shortage of dance partners. They pulled her away from the table, brushed against her waist, and one or two pressed against her from behind more than necessary. I saw one slip his knee between her thighs under her skirt, and another grab her ass with both hands while she didn’t pull away. I watched her from a distance and felt that strange mixture of arousal and something I didn’t know how to name, something like vertigo, with my cock hard against my jeans.

She would return to the table, give me a long kiss, her tongue hot with gin, and whisper in my ear what the last man had said to her or what she had felt when he put a hand on her hip. «That one slipped a finger over my thong,» she told me once, then took my hand and guided it between her legs so I could feel how soaked she was. And then she would leave again.

Around one o’clock she sat down beside me and took a deep breath.

—There’s no one here —she said.

—What do you mean, there’s no one here?

—Look around you. Drunks, old men, little boys who don’t even know where to put their hands. I don’t feel like letting any of them fuck me tonight. We’ll have to leave it for another time.

I took a sip of my drink to hide my expression. I was disappointed. But I understood her. If the fantasy didn’t happen with the right man, then it didn’t happen. The essence lay in the desire, not in just any substitute.

We were ordering the last round when a waitress approached and asked Camila if she could speak with her for a moment, somewhere private. They went to a corner where the music was slightly quieter. I watched them from the table. I saw Camila shake her head once, then again. She came back with a strange smile.

—What did she want?

—The manager of the place. He says he’s been watching me all night and would like to meet me.

—And what did you tell him?

—No. These managers are always older guys, with bellies and pig faces. I’m not ending up with an old cock in my mouth just to please some guy who’s going to disgust me.

I kept quiet. In one sense, she was right. In another, curiosity had already bitten me. If the manager had been watching her, he knew exactly what had happened at the door, on the dance floor, during every dance. And if he had dared send a waitress, he wasn’t just anybody.

—Let’s stay a little longer —I said—. Have another drink. Let’s relax. If you still want to leave after that, we’ll go.

She agreed reluctantly. I waited until she got absorbed in her phone, told her I was going to the bathroom, and went to find the waitress.

I found her beside the bar. I told her I needed to speak with the manager, that it had to do with the proposal he had sent my wife. She looked at me as if I had asked her for the keys to the safe. It took her a while to decide. Finally, she asked me to follow her.

We crossed a hallway behind the bar, another behind a small kitchen, and climbed a narrow staircase to an unmarked door. She knocked twice and went in.

The office wasn’t what I had imagined. A black desk, two leather armchairs, an entire wall of monitors showing the cameras throughout the place. And behind the desk, a man around twenty-eight or thirty, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, no tie, his jaw clean-shaven, and a smile that wasn’t friendly but wasn’t hostile either. Attractive. Very attractive. And he knew it.

He offered me a seat and poured me a whiskey without asking whether I wanted one. I accepted it.

—So your wife is the one who’s been provoking half the bar and then says no when the invitation arrives —he said, not as a question—. What game are you two playing?

I told him the truth. That it was a fantasy of ours. That she wanted to fuck someone else in front of me. That she had rejected the offer because she had imagined some slob with a belly. That I, on the other hand, had come to speak with him because he had piqued my curiosity.

He let out a short laugh.

—Quite a pair. Look, I’ll make this easy. I’ll send her another drink, on the house. I’ll tell the waitress to say it’s from me and that, if she wants to come upstairs for a moment, she should. I’m not going to force anyone to do anything. If she comes back down, she comes back down. If she stays, I’ll let you know so you can come watch her. I have monitors and audio in this office and the one next door. How does that sound?

It sounded good to me. I shook his hand and went back to the table.

—Were you gone long? —Camila asked me.

—There was a line. Order another drink. The last one. I promise.

Five minutes later, the waitress arrived with two glasses of wine, a Ribera, and said loudly that the drinks were on the house. Then she leaned toward Camila’s ear and whispered something. I watched my wife’s breathing quicken and her neck turn red. The waitress left.

—What did she say?

—The manager wants to see me for a moment. Upstairs.

—And?

—I don’t know.

—Go up —I told her—. Just to see him. If you don’t like him, come back down. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.

She looked at me for several seconds. Then she stood up, adjusted her skirt with the same deliberate gesture she had made at the entrance, and followed the waitress. Before disappearing into the hallway, she turned and gave me a look I couldn’t read.

I gave her a minute. Then I stood up and went to the bar. The waitress was already waiting for me with instructions. She took me to the office next door, opened the door, and said quietly, «If anything happens, open the door and it’s over. There’s no show if you don’t want one.»

She closed the door. I sat in front of the monitor and put on the headphones.

***

In the other room, Camila was standing in front of the desk. The manager had greeted her with a drink in his hand and offered it to her. She took it but didn’t drink.

—I was expecting someone older —she said.

—I was expecting someone less of a bitch —he replied. He said it with half a smile, and my wife laughed despite herself.

They talked for a couple of minutes. He asked her about the fantasy. He asked what she wanted to happen. He asked what she didn’t want to happen. She told him she wanted him to fuck her properly, without holding back, and that she wanted me to see everything. She wanted to feel a new cock. She had been imagining this for months and couldn’t stand it any longer. I heard it all from the monitor. It was the first time that night someone had spoken to Camila as though she were a person and not a piece of meat. And, paradoxically, that was what convinced her.

She sat on the edge of the desk. She crossed her legs. Her skirt rode up a couple of inches.

—He’s watching, isn’t he? —she said without looking up.

—He’s watching —the manager replied.

Camila took a deep breath. Then she set down her drink.

—Let him watch.

He moved toward her slowly. He placed a hand on her knee and slid it up the inside of her thigh, unhurriedly, waiting for a sign to stop that never came. When his fingers brushed the edge of her thong, he found her soaked. He pulled it aside slightly and ran two fingers along the slit of her pussy, from bottom to top, and Camila arched her back against the desk.

—You’re dripping —he told her in her ear—. You’ve been asking for it all night.

—Shut up and take it off —she replied through clenched teeth.

—Take it off yourself. Slowly. Let him see you properly.

My wife stood up. She slipped her thumbs into the elastic of the black thong and lowered it down her legs, very slowly, without taking her eyes off him. She let it fall onto the carpet. Then she sat back on the desk and spread her legs wide, shamelessly, showing him her wet, glistening pussy beneath the office’s dim light. My wife’s pussy, which until that night had belonged only to me, opened for another man, her lips swollen and a thread of fluid running down toward her asshole.

—Lick me —Camila told him, her voice rougher than I had ever heard it.

The manager knelt between her thighs. He ran his hands along the insides of her thighs, spread them even wider, and buried his face in my wife’s pussy without ceremony. I watched him on the monitor and heard him through the headphones: the sloshing of his tongue against her wet lips, the sucking sounds he made at her clitoris, the moans beginning to rise in Camila’s throat. He ran his entire tongue from bottom to top, paused at her little bud, sucked it with closed lips, penetrated her with his outstretched tongue, and moved back up. My wife gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, threw her head back, and said things to him that she hadn’t said to me in months.

—Oh, you bastard, yes, yes, don’t stop, lick me properly, put your fingers in me, put your fingers in me, you son of a bitch, I’m going to come.

He slipped two fingers inside her and curled his fingertips against the roof of her pussy while continuing to work her clitoris with the tip of his tongue. Camila came with a muffled cry, closing her thighs around the manager’s head and pressing his face against her pussy until he slapped her thigh to make her let go. When he pulled away, his chin was wet, and he smiled at her as if he had just won a bet. He ran his thumb across his lower lip and sucked it.

When he stood up, she went for his belt with both hands. She was determined. There was no trace of the woman who had told me half an hour earlier that she was disappointed. That woman had stayed downstairs at the table. Camila undid the buckle, lowered his fly, and pulled out his cock in one motion. It was a thick cock, thicker than mine, with a swollen head and a clear drop at the tip. Camila studied it for a second, as though measuring it, and then put the whole thing in her mouth.

She sucked it slowly at first, running her tongue underneath it, pulling it out and taking it back in until it reached her throat. Then faster, with both hands, one at the base and the other massaging his balls. She pulled it out, spat on the head, and licked his frenulum a few times while looking at me through the camera. Yes: she looked at me. With another man’s cock in her hand, shining with saliva, my wife found the camera with her eyes and showed it to me like a trophy. Then she put it all the way back in her mouth, and the manager gripped the edge of the desk and let out a low moan.

—Enough —he said, gently pulling her hair—. If you keep that up, you’ll finish before we even start. Turn around.

He turned her around, bent her over the desk facedown, and pushed her skirt up to her waist. My wife was left with her ass raised, her legs spread, her pussy and asshole visible to the camera. He spat into his hand, rubbed it over his cock, and began sliding it in slowly, setting the pace, watching it enter inch by inch between her swollen lips. Camila opened her mouth soundlessly when he had buried himself to the hilt.

—Fuck, you’re tight —he told her—. Has it been a long time since someone put it in you like this?

—Shut up and fuck me —she replied—. Hard. Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.

He held her by the hips and began to move. Slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the root, so she could feel him properly. Then faster, finding a steady rhythm, his hips striking my wife’s ass while the wet sound of penetration reached me through the headphones as though I were in the room. Camila’s eyes were open, staring toward the wall without seeing anything, and her mouth fell open with every thrust. Her white blouse had ridden up, and her breasts hung free, her nipples brushing the desk’s cold wood.

—Look at the camera —he told her at one point—. The one in the corner. Let him see your face.

My wife turned her head and searched for me. Though she knew she couldn’t see me, she looked straight at the camera showing me the image. And she smiled at me. Her eyes half closed, her mouth open, a thread of saliva at the corner, her whole body jolting with every thrust from another man. And she smiled at me.

That smile was probably the most exciting thing I had ever seen in my life.

—Tell your husband what you feel —he ordered her without stopping his thrusts.

—He’s fucking me so well, baby —Camila said, her voice breaking—. He puts the whole thing in me. He’s big. He fucks me all the way to the back and I love it. I’m coming again, look at me.

And she came while looking at the camera. She came with her teeth clenched, letting out a long moan that reached me so clearly through the headphones that I shuddered in my chair. I felt my own cock throbbing against my clothes without even touching it.

They went on for a while longer. They changed positions. He sat in the leather armchair, his cock shining with her fluids, and she climbed on top of him, facing away from him and toward the camera, her legs spread over the armrests. She showed me everything like that: my wife’s pussy impaled on a stranger’s cock, rising and falling, her fingers pulling her lips apart so I could see clearly how it went in and out. She brought one hand to her clitoris and began rubbing herself while she rode him, never stopping looking at the camera, never stopping looking at me.

—Look, look at how I’m taking it —she said breathlessly—. Look at how I swallow it.

He squeezed her tits through her unbuttoned blouse, pinched her nipples, and bit her neck. When he realized he was about to finish, he lifted her abruptly, made her kneel on the carpet, and put himself in front of her face. Camila opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue, obedient in a way I had never seen before. He came on her tongue, her lips, and her chin, one jet after another, and she didn’t close her eyes. When he was finished, my wife ran two fingers over her face, gathered up what she could, and put it in her mouth. Then she gave a quiet laugh, as though all of it were a private joke shared by the three of us.

They dressed in almost complete silence. Camila tied her hair back. She picked up her thong, looked at it for a second, and slipped it into her jacket pocket. The manager gave her a short kiss on the temple, almost paternal, almost mocking.

—Whenever you want to come back —he told her—, you know where to find me.

***

She came out of the office door. I came out of mine at the same time. We met in the hallway. We didn’t say anything. I shook her hand. She squeezed it so hard I thought she was going to break my fingers.

We didn’t talk much in the car on the way home either. Only when we were nearly there did she take my hand and place it on her thigh, still without a thong, then slide it up to her pussy. It was hot, swollen, still dripping with the other man’s cum mixed with her own fluids.

—You didn’t touch me tonight —she told me.

—Tonight wasn’t my turn.

—Well, now it is. Now it’s your turn to finish ruining my pussy.

We got home, and I embraced her in the entryway against the door before we went upstairs. I lifted her skirt right there in the foyer and knelt to lick her pussy just as it was, with another man’s semen still inside her. I had never done that to her. I had never imagined I would. I ran my tongue all the way from bottom to top and heard her moan against the wooden door, gripping my hair with both hands and pressing my face against her. I licked her until she came again, squeezing my head between her thighs, and then I carried her upstairs to bed.

There, I put it inside her. I entered slowly, sliding into the pussy another man had opened, feeling how loose and hot she was, feeling the slippery mixture still inside her. She wrapped her legs around my waist, dug her nails into my back, and whispered in my ear everything he had done to her, everything she had said to him, everything she had felt when she came while looking at the camera, knowing I was watching her. I came inside her on the second attempt, hard and long, biting her shoulder, and stayed on top of her with my breath against her neck.

I told her, while we were still there and she breathed against my chest, that I didn’t know whether I wanted to do it again.

—I don’t know either —she replied—. But just in case, don’t throw away that place’s card.

And she fell asleep on my chest, breathing peacefully, as though nothing had just happened.