What My Husband and I Did on the Bar’s Balcony

We were celebrating five years together. We didn’t want a restaurant with white tablecloths or an expensive trip. What Mateo and I wanted was exactly what had always worked for us: music in the half-light, a couple of ice-cold beers, and the complicity of knowing that the night would end with us naked somewhere, his cock buried deep in one of my holes.

Before going out, we shared a joint on the balcony of our apartment. Mateo watched me while I finished getting dressed in front of the mirror. He liked that part: watching me choose between lace and stockings as if I had to convince someone, when we both knew I was going to convince him.

I put on a short skirt of soft leather, fishnet stockings reaching halfway up my thighs, and a black garter belt. Underneath, a pair of white silk panties, much too small, that outlined the lips of my cunt without covering them completely. The fabric wedged itself between my folds, and the trimmed hairs peeked out at the sides. It was a detail only I knew about, and I planned to show it to him later, when the moment was right. Under the skirt, hidden on the inside of my thigh, was a tattoo he had learned to seek out with his mouth before his eyes, licking me from the knee upward until he reached my soaking-wet pussy.

Up top, I left on a white blouse, almost transparent, with nothing underneath. I have big tits with dark nipples, and in the cold they stood out like two hard buttons anyone could guess at through the fabric. Between my breasts were two symmetrical moles that Mateo knew by heart from biting them so often. My hair loose, no makeup. I didn’t need anything more that night.

He got dressed quickly. Tight jeans, a dark-blue T-shirt, a small hoop in his left ear, and tattoos showing below his sleeves. He was the kind of man girls stared at on the subway without even trying to hide it. When he bent down to tie his shoelaces, I saw the bulge outlined beneath his pants, generous and impossible to ignore. My mouth watered just remembering how that thick cock felt between my teeth. He smiled at me as if he had read my mind.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like that. As if you already knew you were going to fuck me all night.”

“It’s because I am going to fuck you all night.”

We walked several blocks with our arms around each other, laughing at anything and everything, with that easy laughter that only a joint and the feeling that the world belongs to us can bring. The wind slipped under my skirt and raised goosebumps on my skin, cooling my pussy directly because my panties didn’t cover a damn thing. Every time we crossed a corner, Mateo lowered his hand and squeezed one of my ass cheeks over my skirt, or gave me a quick kiss and stared at my mouth as if calculating how long it would be before he had it full of cock.

We arrived at a place called Black Swan. It was a small, dimly lit bar, with brick walls and a narrow staircase leading up to an indoor balcony. There were only two tables and a few old chairs up there, a couple of candles in the center, and a side view of the avenue. It smelled of smoke, beer, and something subtler, something like the sweat of the people who had kissed there before us, perhaps something more than kisses.

We went upstairs. The table in the corner was empty, as if it had been waiting for us. From there, we could see almost the entire balcony while remaining outside the reach of the light. An old, slow reggaeton song was playing, the kind meant for moving your hips in one place.

We ordered two beers and toasted by gently tapping the mugs against the table without quite separating them.

“May we never run out of desire,” I said.

“May we never have too many manners,” he replied, and laughed.

My cunt had already been wet since before we climbed the stairs. The joint always got me like that: hypersensitive skin, a thick tongue, swollen lower lips, and desire anticipating everything. I felt the white silk growing soaked and sticking to my flesh. I moved my chair closer to his, slid my hand under the table, and squeezed his bulge through his jeans. He was rock-hard. Mateo kept talking as if nothing were happening, but I felt the change in his breathing when I lowered his zipper a couple of teeth and slipped my fingers inside to touch his sticky tip.

“Do you want to misbehave?” he asked in my ear.

I didn’t answer. I slipped my other hand beneath his T-shirt, pushed the fabric up to the middle of his back, and slowly scratched him from his kidneys to his shoulders. He lowered his head and kissed me. It started softly, slowly, but after a few seconds his tongue changed pace, becoming more insistent; he licked my lower lip, sucked my entire tongue, and slid toward my neck as he bit me. I felt the pulse in his throat against my temple.

His free hand found the edge of my skirt and lifted it slightly. Then his fingers, cold from the beer, traced the garter belt, the elastic band of the stocking, the bare skin of my thigh, and finally the lace of my soaked panties. He moved them aside with two fingers and touched my slit directly, slipping because I was so wet. I let out a loud sigh. He pushed his middle finger into me up to the knuckle and moved it in circles inside my cunt. I tried not to make a sound and bit my lip. I looked over his shoulder at the rest of the balcony.

There was only one other occupied table, on the opposite side, with two guys arguing about soccer. Farther away, a waiter came and went with trays without looking up. And much farther back, a man sitting alone at the bar was looking at his phone. No one was looking directly at us. Yet.

“Sit on the table,” Mateo told me quietly, his finger still inside me.

I looked at him as if I hadn’t heard correctly.

“We can’t here,” I whispered, even though I was already moving.

“No one’s going to dare look straight at us,” he replied. “But someone will glance over and get hard thinking about you.”

I felt bad and good at the same time. It was a strange tingling, thinking that someone might turn around at exactly the wrong moment and see my open cunt. That a waiter might appear on the stairs and find me with my husband’s hand buried between my legs. That the other couple in the back, if they stopped arguing, might realize everything if they paid a little attention.

I sat on the edge of the table. Mateo remained standing between my legs. He pulled my stockings down to just above my knees, unhurriedly, watching my face. Then he moved the fabric of my panties aside and thrust two fingers into me all the way. A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold on the balcony. I heard the wet, splashing sound of his fingers entering and leaving my flooded pussy.

“Look how wet you are, slut,” he whispered in my ear. “They can hear you from here.”

“Look over there,” he added, turning my head with his chin.

I turned my head slightly. The couple in the back was still arguing. The man at the bar had put away his phone and was looking toward the avenue. But the waiter—he had come upstairs with two mugs and stopped in the middle of the balcony. He was far away, in the shadows, but he was standing still. Watching us. Or looking in our direction, which was the same thing to me.

I felt a blow in my chest. I thought I was going to tell him to stop, that I was going to be ashamed, that I would push him away. But what I did was spread my legs a little wider and let him see everything. Mateo noticed immediately. He moved his fingers deeper, curled them until he found the spot that made me clench my teeth, and began rubbing my swollen clitoris with his thumb. He kissed me hard, and I let myself fall backward, supporting myself on one hand, my blouse stuck to my hard nipples and my head tilted toward where the waiter stood.

He was still there. He neither advanced nor retreated. After a few endless seconds, he set the mugs down on the other table, said something I couldn’t hear, and turned toward the stairs. But before—I swear, before—he went down the first step, he looked again. And that second look was different. His gaze went straight between my spread legs, to where my husband’s fingers were moving in and out, dripping wet. That second look made me close my eyes and arch against my husband’s fingers, feeling the first little tremor of an orgasm beginning to climb up my back.

“Not here,” Mateo suddenly said, pulling his fingers out and bringing them to his mouth, sucking them one by one while keeping his eyes fixed on mine. “I’m not coming here. I want to bury it deep inside you.”

For a second I didn’t understand. Then I looked toward where he was looking. To our right, almost hidden between the wall and a coat rack, was a short hallway ending at the bathrooms. It was darker than the rest of the balcony. More intimate. Just right.

I got down from the table, adjusted my skirt with one hand, and walked ahead of him. I felt the other couple’s gaze on my back. I felt the thought of the waiter somewhere on the ground floor, surely already turned on, imagining what he would have liked to do to me. I felt that if I turned around, everything would come crashing down, and at the same time I didn’t care at all. I felt the dripping running down the inside of my thigh.

In the hallway, he pressed me against the wall. He grabbed my hair with one hand—not hard, just enough to tilt my head back—and squeezed my neck with the other. He wasn’t choking me. He was only making me feel that he could. That difference, the one between being able to and not wanting to, had always driven me crazy.

“Who told you to put on those slut’s panties?” he asked me.

“You did,” I replied in a thread of voice.

“Good. Now, on your knees.”

I slid down the wall until I was kneeling in front of him. I unzipped his jeans all the way and tugged his boxer briefs down, freeing his cock. It sprang up, thick and dark with blood, its tip shining with pre-cum. I gripped it with both hands, stroked it slowly, and stuck out my tongue to lick it from his balls to the tip, like an ice cream that was about to melt. I sucked each testicle separately, carefully taking them into my mouth, and then ran my flat tongue along the entire length of his glans.

“Put the whole thing in,” he ordered.

I opened my mouth and drove it down my throat. I gagged and my eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t let go. I began sucking it rhythmically, helping myself with both hands, listening as Mateo began to moan through clenched teeth. I pulled it all the way out and spat on the tip, then put it back in to the back of my throat, letting strings of saliva run down my chin and soak my blouse. I sucked his balls again, ran my tongue underneath them, and took his cock into my mouth once more. He held my head and drove it in at his own pace, fucking my mouth as if it were another hole.

“Stop or I’ll come on your face,” he panted, pulling my hair back.

He stopped me. He turned me around without saying a word. I ended up facing the wall, my skirt pushed up to my waist and my cold buttocks pressed against him. He leaned against me and made me feel the full weight of his erection, slick with saliva, sliding between my cheeks. He squeezed my tits beneath my blouse, pinched my nipples hard, and bit the nape of my neck.

“In the ass,” I said.

I looked over my shoulder at him. Mateo didn’t ask anything. He knew I was somewhere else that night. He crouched down and licked my asshole from top to bottom, while continuing to fuck my cunt with two fingers so I wouldn’t stop getting wet. He thrust his tongue into my ass, moving it in and out, spreading me open with his thumbs so he could suck me better. I pressed my forehead against the wall and bit my arm to keep from screaming. When he had finished coating it with saliva, he stood up, made some more spit on his fingers, and patiently prepared me, first with one, then with two, twisting them inside me until he felt me give way.

“Open up,” he murmured.

I arched my back and pushed my ass out. I felt the tip of his cock resting against my asshole, pressing slowly, gaining ground millimeter by millimeter. When it entered, it was like holding my breath underwater. It hurt at first, just enough, exactly enough—that burning I love so much. I asked him to wait, and he stayed still, buried halfway in me, giving me time to adjust. Then he pushed again, and now he was all the way inside me, his balls pressed against my cunt.

After that, everything was curve. Mateo moved slowly at first, holding my waist, entering and withdrawing in long strokes that made me moan with every downward thrust. Little by little he increased the pace until he was really pounding me, fucking my ass eagerly, making my skin slap against his in the silence of the hallway. With one hand he reached around and shoved three fingers into my cunt, fucking both holes at once. I thought I was going to pass out right there.

He began to raise his voice: he said things to me that would have made me uncomfortable in another situation, but that night they drove me further over the edge. He called me a bitch, called me his, told me he loved my tight ass, asked whether I liked people watching me, asked whether I would have sucked the waiter’s cock in front of him. I told him yes. I told him more. I told him louder. I told him not to stop. I told him to split me open. I told him I was his slut, that he could do whatever he wanted with me.

With his fingers inside my cunt, he found my spot and didn’t let it go. I felt the orgasm rising from somewhere deeper than my belly, my ass full of cock and my pussy squeezing his fingers. I came with a muffled cry against my forearm, clenching so tightly inside that Mateo growled like an animal and buried himself to the hilt.

He didn’t stop until he finished. He grabbed my hips with both hands and thrust four or five more times, each one more brutal than the last, holding himself against me on the final one. I felt him empty himself inside my ass, spurt after warm spurt, filling me. He stayed buried for a few more seconds, trembling, and then slowly pulled out. His cum immediately began dripping from my slit, running down my lower back, my panties still pushed aside, and the inside of my thigh. My legs trembled. I had to brace both hands against the wall to keep from falling.

Mateo crouched down, ran two fingers between my buttocks to gather some of his own semen, and brought it to my mouth. I sucked them without thinking, my tongue numb and my eyes half-closed.

We stayed like that, pressed together, breathing hard, without saying anything for a long minute. Then he turned me around, kissed me on the mouth with a tenderness that seemed to belong to an entirely different scene, and helped me straighten my clothes. He pulled my soaked panties up over my ass, still full of his cum, lowered my skirt, and smoothed my blouse, stained with saliva.

When we returned to the table, the candles were still burning as if no one had noticed anything. The couple in the back had left. The waiter came upstairs with two more beers we hadn’t ordered, set them down in silence, and, when he turned away, looked at me for a second. Only a second, but that look traveled from my swollen mouth to my sweaty cleavage, then dropped to my crossed legs, which were clamped together around the cum that was still leaking out. I kept that look too.

We toasted again, this time without hitting the table. Mateo lifted his mug and said:

“Happy anniversary, love.”

I smiled at him with my legs still trembling and my ass throbbing.

“Happy anniversary,” I replied. “Let’s do it again next year.”

And we both knew we’d do it again long before then.