When the Musicians Couldn’t Stop Looking at Her

That night we went out to dinner with no great expectations. Sofía had put on a fitted white cotton blouse, a dark fabric miniskirt that reached mid-thigh, flesh-colored stockings with a very subtle sheen, and white socks with lace at the hem. She slipped on her usual sneakers. That combination to me — the short skirt, the shiny stockings, the innocent-looking socks — unleashes something in me I can’t quite explain, and I think I’m not the only man who reacts that way when he sees her walking down the street.

The restaurant we were going to, a traditional food place we’d been going to for years, was fifteen minutes from home on foot. When we got there there was a line at the door: an estimated twenty-minute wait, they told us. The place is worth it: high ceiling, dark wooden beams, whitewashed walls, and a permanent smell of stews that gets into your nose before you even cross the threshold. That night there was a trio playing in the back corner, three guitarists moving from table to table performing regional pieces and boleros for anyone who wanted to listen.

They gave us a table upstairs. To get there you had to climb an open staircase that rose from the center of the place, and anyone going up or down it ended up literally face-to-face with whoever was seated at the first tables on the upper level. Our table was exactly that: two chairs, a decorative fountain at one side, and a full view of the staircase. Sofía sat facing the steps. I sat with my back to them.

I realized the situation as soon as we sat down. Whoever went up the stairs would have no choice but to look toward Sofía, and with that miniskirt and those stockings, the view was more than interesting even from the wrong angle. She noticed too. She looked at me with a slight smile, said nothing, and moved her chair a couple of inches forward.

During dinner three or four groups of people went up. Mostly families, with the odd couple or group of friends. In every case the pattern was identical: the men’s eyes reached Sofía’s level halfway up the staircase, and without exception, everyone looked. Some quickly, as if they’d been caught. Others slowly, measuring, with no attempt to hide it. Sofía took it with the same equanimity she takes everything else: sitting up straight, with that posture of hers that makes any clothes look good on her.

The trio came to our table when we were finishing the first courses. They played a piece without being asked, just as they did at every table. The lead singer and the man playing the requinto stayed at the edge of the aisle, but the third musician — the youngest of the three, with curly hair — had to step down two stairs so he wouldn’t block the waiters. From that position Sofía’s legs were exactly at eye level.

It took him less than thirty seconds to realize what was in front of him.

Sofía waited until they finished the first verse. Then she looked straight at me and with the slightest movement of her eyes told me to look down, at the musician. I made a show of reaching for something in my pocket so I could turn my body slightly and I saw it: his eyes were fixed under the table, with that expression of someone looking at something he knows he shouldn’t be looking at and can’t stop. His lips were still moving, but from pure memory. You could tell by the bulge in his pants that he was already hard just from getting a glimpse of my wife’s pussy.

They finished the song. We applauded. Sofía thanked them with one of those long smiles she knows don’t go unnoticed. The young musician looked at her face for the first time during the whole performance.

When they walked away, Sofía leaned toward me.

—I didn’t open my legs —she said, almost in a whisper—. There were too many people going up. But I crossed and uncrossed them every thirty seconds and he didn’t miss a thing. I swear the little asshole was drilling his eyes between my thighs like he wanted to stick his tongue in there right then and there.

I asked her if she liked it.

—More than I thought —she answered, with a calm that was more exciting to me than anything else she could have said—. I’m soaked through. Touch me, look.

I slid my hand under the tablecloth and lifted her skirt a little until I brushed her crotch. The cotton of her underwear was hot and sticky. I ran my finger over the fabric and felt her cunt throb against my fingertip. She parted her lips and took a deep breath, pressing her thighs against my hand so I wouldn’t take it away.

I told her if the trio came back to our table, to do it again. I told her to go further. I’m not exactly sure what image I had in my head when I asked her, but I know I had it very clear. She listened to me, finished her wine, and nodded once.

***

The trio took about fifteen minutes to come back. When they did, the musicians had changed positions. The one now descending the two steps was a man in his forties, dark-skinned, with slow gestures. Not the same one as before, but with the same eyes as someone who knows the place well and knows exactly what he might find at that table when there’s a woman seated facing the staircase.

We agreed on a signal before they started playing. If Sofía took my hand, it meant she was moving her legs. At that moment I would turn slightly to see the musician’s reaction without it seeming obvious.

They started with a bolero. Two minutes later, Sofía took my hand.

I turned my body on the pretext of looking for the waiter. The musician had his eyes fixed under the table, with a concentration that had nothing to do with the lyrics of the song he was performing. Sofía squeezed my fingers once more and I turned again: the man’s gaze was still on exactly the same spot, unmoving, as if he had found something he didn’t want to let go of. You could see his Adam’s apple swallowing every couple of beats, and one hand went instinctively to the front of his pants to adjust the cock that had already swollen inside the fabric.

I don’t know how to properly describe what I felt at that moment. It wasn’t jealousy, though there was some of that. It wasn’t pride exactly, though there was some of that too. It was a strange mixture of arousal and possession, like when someone desires something that’s yours and you know it and they don’t know that you know it. I found it unbearably hot. I was hard as well, pressing my cock against the zipper and gripping it with my hand so it wouldn’t show from the other side of the tablecloth.

Skirts have their own physics when you’re sitting down. The more you move, the more you cross and uncross your legs, the more the fabric tends to ride up on its own. Sofía knows it, has always known it. When they finished the bolero and started another piece, the miniskirt was already about five centimeters higher than where it had been at the start of the night. At one point I saw her part her knees slightly and stay like that, with the hem of the skirt wrinkled against her thigh, letting the shadow under the table frame her crotch. Her white panties glowed in the dim light, with the dark wet patch already marked just over the hollow of her cunt.

The musician didn’t miss a single movement. You could see him breathing harder, gripping the strings with tense fingers.

They left with a polite thank-you. Sofía gave them another one of those smiles. The dark-skinned man held her gaze a second longer than necessary before turning away, and I caught the rigid bulge between his legs when he turned in profile.

***

I asked for the bill when we were finishing dessert. The waiter who had served us all night — kind, efficient, and clearly aware of where Sofía was sitting — took quite a bit longer than usual to bring the change.

The trio came a third time before we saw the waiter again. This time it was the lead singer descending the steps: the tallest of the three, guitar slung in front of him and a professional smile from a man who’s been doing the same thing for years. They started a medley, three songs in a row without a pause, which meant they would be in that position for several minutes.

Sofía took my hand as always. But after a few seconds she was squeezing my fingers hard, almost pinching me. It was different from the other times, more insistent, more urgent. I wondered exactly what she was doing.

I didn’t turn. I kept looking at her. Her eyes were on the trio with a neutral, almost distracted expression, but there was something in the posture of her body, in the way she rested her hands on the table, that told me this time she was going much further. I slid my hand under the tablecloth to touch her thigh and found her underwear pushed to the side and her bare cunt, soaked, with the lips open and hot. I brushed her clit with my thumb and she jerked, but she didn’t close her legs: on the contrary, she opened them a little wider so I could slip a finger in up to the knuckle. She pressed herself silently against my hand, biting her lip, with the musician in front of her singing the second song of the medley without taking his eyes off what she was showing him.

The singer finished the medley and took a moment to climb back up to the aisle. One extra second that didn’t belong to the usual routine. I pulled my finger out slowly, drenched, and she grabbed it and put it in her mouth before anyone could see us, sucking it clean while keeping her eyes locked on mine.

We said goodbye to the three of them with applause. They left. The waiter brought the change. We left the restaurant ten minutes later.

***

We walked the first few minutes in silence. Sofía had her hand hooked through my arm, as always. Halfway home she stopped, looked at me, and said:

—The last one saw everything.

I asked her what everything meant.

—That I opened my legs —she replied with the same calm she’d used for everything else that night—. Enough for him not to have to imagine anything. I came right there in my seat, with your finger inside me and him singing a meter and a half away. He noticed perfectly. He got a face I’m going to remember for the rest of my life.

I didn’t say anything for the rest of the walk. My cock was clearly outlined against my pants with every step I took, and she knew it, and she kept squeezing my arm tighter against her chest.

***

At home we went straight to the bedroom. We didn’t turn on the ceiling light, only the bedside lamp. Sofía stood beside the bed and I slowly lifted her skirt, as if I weren’t in any hurry, even though I was in a lot of hurry. I pulled down her stockings along with her underwear to mid-thigh, without taking them off completely. There’s something about that position — with the clothes halfway there, trapped between the thighs — that I like more than anything else. I lifted her blouse and unclasped her bra so her tits fell forward, hard, with the nipples pointing downward, so swollen you could see the wrinkled circle of the areola around them.

I knelt behind her and parted her thighs as far as the trapped fabric would allow. Her cunt opened under the yellow light of the bedside lamp, glossy, with the inner lips swollen and hanging heavy from all the heat built up throughout dinner. I ran my tongue from her clit to her asshole and licked the whole groove in one pass, sucking up the moisture that had been dripping down the inside of her thigh since the second bolero. She let out a guttural moan, gripping the edge of the bed, swaying her ass against my face. I drove my tongue into her cunt, moved it in circles, pulled it out and bit her clit with my lips. When I sucked it hard her whole body started trembling and she pressed my head with her free hand so I wouldn’t stop.

I put her face down on the bed. I pulled my pants down to my knees, took out my cock, already purple from being held back so long, and set the head against the entrance to her cunt. She was so wet that it slid all the way in on the first thrust, with no resistance, to the hilt. She screamed into the mattress. I put a hand on her lower back and started fucking her from behind, slowly at first, measuring every movement, pulling my cock out until only the head was left inside and then driving it back in to the bone. She rested her forehead on the mattress and shifted her hips toward me, arching her back to lift her ass, asking for more without saying a word.

—Tell me —I said, gripping her hips with both hands.

And she told me. She told me how she had felt the first musician’s eyes from the very first bars, how her thighs had broken out in goosebumps when she noticed him looking at her cunt through her panties. She told me that every time she crossed and uncrossed her legs she could see him lose the thread of the melody. She told me that when we agreed on the hand signal she felt something she didn’t know how to name but recognized as desire in a very specific way, a throbbing between her legs that soaked her panties from top to bottom. She told me the skirt had ridden up on its own, that she hadn’t done anything to stop it because she hadn’t wanted to stop it. That she was imagining the second musician letting go of his guitar, throwing it onto the hallway floor, yanking off her panties in one pull and eating her pussy right there with the whole restaurant watching.

I pushed harder. I grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled back so she would arch her neck. Her thighs slapped against my hips with each thrust, a wet, obscene sound that filled the room.

She told me that when the third musician arrived and put his eyes exactly where she expected him to put them, she decided then and there that she was going to do what I had asked her to do. That she slid her panties to one side with two fingers under the tablecloth. That she spread her knees slowly. That she felt the cold air in the room hitting her with her cunt lips wide open. That he kept singing without lifting his eyes once, taking advantage of every second of that medley so he wouldn’t miss anything. That when I fingered her she came in silence, clamping down on my hand, with the orgasm climbing from her clit to her chest while the guy stared at her fixedly from three steps below.

—Did you like it? —I asked, without stopping fucking her, feeling how her cunt tightened around my cock every time she recalled it out loud.

—A lot —she said, without the slightest hesitation—. I want to come again. Fuck me harder. Fuck me like you were him.

I grabbed her by the neck with my left hand and by the hip with my right and drove into her as if I wanted to go through her. I started talking in her ear as I fucked her: that the musician had seen everything, that he had gone back home with the image of her open cunt burned into his head, that he’d be jerking off right then thinking about her. She started moaning loudly, no longer holding back, fists pressing into the sheets. I slid a finger wet with saliva into her asshole and felt her tremble all over. A few seconds later her cunt tightened hard around my cock and she came with a muffled cry against the mattress, pressing her face into the pillow, her thighs convulsing around my hips.

I held out a little longer. I pulled out, turned her over, laid her on her back, and lifted her legs against my chest, with the stockings still tangled around her ankles like a rope. I shoved it in again and fucked her while looking into her eyes, watching her tits shake with each thrust, watching her bite her lower lip, watching her mouth open when the head of my cock hit the back of her. When I couldn’t take it anymore I pulled out, climbed on top of her, and emptied the whole load over her tits and neck, thick streams falling from her chin to her navel. She ran her fingers through it, brought them to her mouth, and sucked my cum off them without taking her eyes off mine.

We finished without saying anything else. Afterward we stayed lying there, her skirt still at her waist, stockings tangled around her ankles and her chest shining with my dried cum, and me staring at the ceiling with my breathing still fast.

Every time I remember that night I feel exactly the same thing I felt then: the urge to do it again. To seat her at a visible table, in a place full of people, and let the others look at what’s mine. And for her to know it. And for her to like being looked at.