The Night My Husband Invited a Stranger to Watch Me

We’d been exchanging messages with him for months. We met him on a social network where my husband and I posted photos without showing our faces—daring photos, playing at that distant flirtation that turned us on so much. Among everyone who wrote to us, one stood out. His messages were never crude or vulgar. He liked to look, fantasize, imagine. He was, as he said himself, a voyeur, a silent spectator for whom the idea of touching mattered less than the idea of watching.

We called him Wolf, though that wasn’t his real name. My husband chose that nickname when we still didn’t dare give the fantasy a face. Six months went by of conversations, voice notes, increasingly explicit photos—photos of my shaved pussy spread open with two fingers, photos of my husband’s hard cock dripping precome, short videos where I sucked him off while looking at the camera and he came on my face—until one night, after wine, I proposed the unthinkable: that we make the fantasy real. A real meeting. One condition: I would write the script.

My husband laughed when he read it. Then he went quiet. Then he asked me to read it to him again, slowly.

—We’ll do it —he said when I finished—. But don’t tell him anything until Saturday.

***

I sent him the message at noon on Saturday. Just one instruction and one time. Bar Las Cinco Lunas, at nine on the dot. A cold beer in hand. A table by the window. And, above all, not a single word before the first exchange of looks.

I spent the afternoon locked in the bathroom. I shaved my pussy with the calm of a ritual, sliding the razor slowly until it was completely smooth, the lips pink and glossy. I moisturized my skin until it felt warm, painted my nails a dark red. I slid two fingers inside myself to check how wet I’d gotten just thinking about the night, and when I pulled them out they were dripping. My husband came and went, pretending to be indifferent, but I could see it in the mirror: his cock was pressing hard against his pants, and that only turned me on more. The plan was his too, even if I had been the one to write it.

At eight-thirty I put on the dress. Black, short, with a sheer panel running down the left side that showed skin from thigh to just under the breast. Under it, a tiny thong and nothing else. I looked at myself in the mirror and understood I was wearing a costume: a public woman who was really going to be a secret. Over it I threw on a long coat and buttoned it up to the neck.

—Ready? —my husband asked from the doorway.

—Not ready —I answered—. But I want to go.

***

We arrived at the bar at five past nine. The music was warm, the lights low, there were three occupied tables and a couple standing at the counter. I saw him right away, though I didn’t want to look. He was by the window, just as I’d asked, with a freshly poured beer and a straight back. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Taller than I had imagined.

My husband squeezed my hand and led me to a table diagonal from his, close enough that any gesture would be noticed, far enough that the air between the three of us still wasn’t obvious. He helped me off with my coat. I felt the cold of the room and the heat of his gaze at the same time. When I lifted my head, the neckline of the dress slipped off my right shoulder. I didn’t fix it.

—Don’t look yet —my husband whispered as he sat down.

—I know —I said, and slowly crossed my legs.

The first cocktail arrived quickly. We talked like any ordinary couple. But his left hand wasn’t on the table: it was underneath, open on my thigh, inching upward, with that patience he only has when he wants to make me nervous in places where I can’t react. His fingers reached the edge of my thong, moved it aside a centimeter, and found my soaked pussy. He pushed his middle finger in to the knuckle and pulled it out shining. He took it to his mouth, licked slowly, and lowered his hand back under the tablecloth.

—He’s watching you —he told me in a very low voice, without taking his eyes off my face—. He just put down his beer to look at you. Can you feel it?

I nodded without turning my head. I could feel it. That isn’t a metaphor: the skin on my neck was burning, and my husband’s finger was sinking into my pussy again, this time with two, opening me slowly under the table while I tried to breathe normally. I ran my hand down my collarbone as if adjusting my dress and felt my pulse racing.

He’s watching me, he’s watching me, he’s watching me.

***

The game started slowly. I crossed and uncrossed my legs a couple of times, letting the fabric ride up a little more each time. I laughed louder than necessary when my husband said something in my ear. I leaned over the table to reach my glass and let the neckline open as far as it would, my hard nipples outlining the black fabric. Every gesture was a word that he, sitting three tables away, read without getting it wrong.

—I’m going to the bathroom —I said twenty minutes later.

—Take it off —my husband replied, without looking up from his glass.

I didn’t ask him to repeat it. I stood with the naturalness of a woman going to powder her nose and walked down the narrow corridor leading to the back. I knew two gazes were following me: one familiar, the other forbidden. In the bathroom I braced myself against the sink and, without looking at the mirror, pulled my thong down to my ankles. It was stuck, heavy, soaked with discharge. I peeled it carefully off my pussy, smelled it, folded it in four, and tucked it into the inside pocket of my bag. Before leaving, I slid two fingers deep inside, pulled them out dripping, and smeared them along my neck, behind my ears, like perfume. Let me smell like pussy. Let me smell like what I was going to offer him. When I came out, still hot, the dress fabric rubbed directly over the lips of my vulva. Every step was a caress; my thighs stuck together from the sheer amount of fluid.

On the way back, I made myself cross in front of his table. Just one second. I looked him straight in the eyes. He lifted his beer slightly. I smiled without parting my lips, with that smile you say inwardly, and kept walking.

My husband noticed it immediately.

—You’re red —he said, amused.

—I’m dripping —I answered—. Put your hand on me.

The smile vanished from his face for a few seconds. Then it came back, bigger. He slid his hand under the tablecloth, found my naked pussy, and breathed deeply when he understood I was serious. He spread my lips with two fingers, rubbed my swollen clit with his thumb, and brought the shining tip back up. He took it to his mouth. He called the waiter and ordered another round with the same hand.

***

My husband ordered the second round in a low voice, but the third was sent by Wolf. A waiter appeared at our table with three beers and a clumsy message: “The gentleman by the window is buying these.” We toasted from a distance. I lifted my glass and held his gaze just long enough for it to stop being gratitude and become something else.

—Invite him over —I said without thinking.

My husband did it with a simple gesture. Wolf stood up. He came over. He smelled of something woody, clean. He held out his hand to my husband first, and then to me, and when he took mine he lingered a little longer than necessary. I didn’t let go before he did.

—Pleasure —he said in a deeper voice than I’d imagined from the audio messages.

—Likewise —I answered.

He sat down across from me, not beside me. I liked that. I wanted him in front of me. We started talking about nonsense to warm up: work, the city, travel, things that in truth no one cared about that night. But between sentence and sentence, his eyes would drop for an instant to my neckline or my mouth and come back up. Every time they came back, mine were waiting for them. I could feel the gaze sliding down like a tongue: my nipples tightened under the fabric, and my crossed legs, with nothing underneath, grew wet on their own.

—Can I? —he asked at some point, his hand in the air near my knee.

I looked at my husband. My husband made a small gesture with his chin. Wolf rested his hand on my knee and slid two fingers higher, no more. Then he stayed still. That stillness drove me crazy. I felt his thumb move once, in a single circle. I opened my legs a centimeter. Then another. His hand climbed three more fingers’ width and found the bare skin of my inner thigh, slick with fluid. He lost his breath for an instant. He said nothing, but his thumb kept rising until the pad touched the exact edge of my open pussy. There it stayed, still, as if measuring. My husband brought him the beer with the other hand.

—Let’s toast —he said—. To spectators.

—To spectators —we repeated.

Wolf didn’t take his hand away. I lifted my glass slowly, smiling, while he, under the table, slid his middle finger inside me to the second knuckle. He sank it in, twisted it once, and pulled it out. Then he took that finger to his mouth in front of my husband, never taking his eyes off me. He sucked my pussy from his finger, slowly, to the knuckle. My husband set his beer on the table with more force than necessary.

***

The bar gradually started to empty. An hour later, my husband suggested we change the scene. Two blocks away there was a nightclub we both knew, La Caverna. He said it as if the idea had just occurred to him. I knew it was in the script. Wolf nodded.

The three of us left walking. I was in the middle, one arm linked with my husband’s and the other free. I didn’t give Wolf my arm: I left it as a promise. Every so often his fingers brushed mine as we walked. With each brush I felt the cold street air directly between my legs, reminding me that I wasn’t wearing anything under the dress and that my pussy had been drenched by two different men in the same hour.

The nightclub was packed. Dense music, lights shifting from blue to violet every four seconds. We sat on a round sofa at the back. My husband ordered three margaritas with double tequila and brought them to my mouth one by one, while Wolf, sitting on my other side, moved my hair off my neck with one hand and nibbled just below my ear. His other hand was already on my thigh, this time without asking permission, heading straight up to find my naked pussy. He slid two fingers in at once, palm up, and started moving the pad against that spot inside me that makes me clamp my thighs shut. I opened my mouth and no sound came out—just a sharp intake of air.

My husband saw everything. He didn’t stop it. On the contrary: he took my free hand and brought it to his crotch. His cock was hard as a rock under his pants. I pressed the bulge with my open palm. Wolf, meanwhile, kept fingering me with two fingers, slowly, keeping time with the music.

I finished the first margarita fast. I finished the second even faster. I felt the first orgasm climb from my heels, short, dirty, muffled. I bit my lip and pressed my knees against Wolf’s fingers until it passed. He pulled out his hand shining wet, smelled it shamelessly, and offered it to my husband. My husband sucked the two fingers to the base without hesitation, looking at me.

It was the first time in my life I saw my husband with another man’s mouth. I almost came again right there.

—I’m going to dance —I said as I stood up, my legs trembling.

***

The dance floor was a few meters away, far enough that they could follow me with their eyes without having to mix with the crowd. I planted myself in the middle and started moving, slowly at first. I wasn’t dancing for the strangers around us. I was dancing for those two silhouettes on the sofa.

I closed my eyes for a while. When I opened them, my husband had one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, behind Wolf’s neck. They weren’t touching, but that closeness hit me in the stomach like a shot. It was as if the two of them had silently agreed that tonight they were accomplices, not rivals.

I raised my hands over my head, let the dress climb up my thighs until it showed the exact edge where my shaved pussy began. I felt the air mingle with sweat and my own slick between my legs. I went down slowly, one hand over my breast, pinching a nipple through the fabric until it hurt; the other falling straight to the edge of the dress and slipping under for a second, two fingers going inside me right there, in the middle of the dance floor, and coming out shining. I brought them to my mouth without breaking the dance and sucked them to the knuckle, looking at Wolf. When I was a breath from the floor, I straightened again with calculated slowness, holding his gaze the whole way.

I saw my husband whisper something in his ear. I saw Wolf nod without smiling. And I saw how, without ever looking away from me, my husband placed a hand on Wolf’s thigh, up high, very close to his cock, without quite touching it but without hiding it either. A hand that said, “this is our woman and we’re inviting you to fuck her with permission.”

I danced an entire other song with that thought nailed into my skin and my clit throbbing inside the dress.

***

When I came back to the sofa, I didn’t sit between them. I sat on my husband’s lap, facing away from him, my ass pressed directly against his hard cock. Wolf was half a meter away. My husband moved my hair aside and kissed the back of my neck. His hand slid down my thigh and, without asking permission, lifted my dress two fingers’ width, then four, then the whole skirt up to my waist. Wolf saw it. He saw my naked pussy, swollen, shining under the violet lights. Wolf didn’t move, but his jaw tightened.

—Look at what we’d been hiding —my husband told him with a smile, while he opened my lips with two fingers so he could see it properly.

—I’d already imagined it —Wolf answered, voice tight—. But the real thing is better.

—What’s imagined is better than what’s seen —I said, pushing my ass back against my husband’s cock—. What’s touched is better than what’s looked at. Come here.

Wolf let out the most honest laugh of the night, leaned in, and laid his open palm on my pussy, not putting anything inside, just feeling it throb. My husband, behind me, slid his hand under my neckline and pulled one breast out into the open, right there on the sofa, in the dimness at the back. The light reached us and didn’t reach us. Wolf lowered his mouth and sucked my breast slowly, closing his lips around the nipple until a moan escaped me. At the same time he started sliding three fingers into me, all the way in, with a long, dirty rhythm, while my husband bit my neck from behind and murmured in my ear, “like that, like that, show him how you come for us.” I came the second time with Wolf’s mouth on my breast, Wolf’s fingers in my pussy, and my husband’s cock pressed between my ass cheeks. I muffled the cry against my husband’s shoulder and bit his shirt.

I won’t say how that early morning ended. I’ll say that I walked home between the two of them, my dress stuck to my ass from dried fluid and Wolf’s semen running down the inside of my left thigh. I’ll say that we reached the building entrance and stood there, the three of us in silence under the yellow light, unable to bring ourselves to separate, with my husband’s mouth still tasting of Wolf’s cock and mine still tasting of both of them. I’ll say that that night, for the first time in my life, I knew what it was to be, for a few hours, the entire desire of a man who wasn’t my husband, without ceasing, for one second, to be my husband’s woman.

I’ll also say that it wasn’t the last night with Wolf. But that’s another story.