The Forbidden Screen
The house was unnervingly quiet after my wife left for her errands. I had settled into the living room, browsing the web in the midday stillness, when the doorbell rang. It was Rocío, a close friend of my wife. She had stopped by to pick her up, but since the timing was uncertain, I invited her inside to wait. Rocío was forty-two and absolutely stunning, with short dark hair, sparkling brown eyes, and a generous curve to her breasts that always seemed to draw my gaze more than it should.
I offered her a drink, which she declined, and instead asked what I was doing. I invited her to join me at the computer. As we scrolled through some tech forums, a suggestive amateur advertisement popped up on the screen. The tension in the room shifted instantly. I tried to break the ice, mentioning how common those pop-ups were, but Rocío’s eyes lingered on the image. She asked if my wife knew I visited such sites, and when I admitted that we often explored them together to spice things up, a curious glint appeared in her eyes.
“My husband isn’t into those things,” she whispered, her voice suddenly husky. “Why don’t you show me a few? I’ll take notes on the addresses.”
We navigated to a video forum. I selected a category—trios—and a video began to play. The sounds of rhythmic moans and heavy breathing filled the small room. Rocío didn’t say a word, but her breathing became shallow, her gaze locked on the screen. I explained how these videos acted as a catalyst for me and my wife, and I could see Rocío becoming visibly aroused.
Suddenly, she stood up. She was wearing a beautiful flared dress that swayed as she moved. Slowly, deliberately, she reached beneath the fabric and slid her black lace panties down her legs, leaving them in a heap on the floor. My heart hammered against my ribs. As she began to touch herself, I shifted the video to something longer and more intense. Gathering my courage, I slid my chair back and sank to my knees before her.
I lifted the hem of her dress, revealing the glistening heat of her desire. Without removing her own hand, I leaned in and began to lick her, my tongue tracing her clitoris with a hunger I hadn’t felt in years. Rocío gasped, her fingers tightening in my hair as she accelerated her own rhythm. She arched her back, her body trembling violently as she reached a powerful climax, her cries muffled by the sounds of the video still playing in the background.
Just as she reached down to pull at my trousers, the intercom buzzed. My wife was home. Rocío jumped back, breathless and flushed. “Tell her not to come up yet,” she whispered urgently. “I’ll head down and meet her. Don’t worry… I’ll come back another day, and you can show me more.”
She gave me a lingering, searing kiss that left me aching and then hurried out the door. When I returned to the room, I found her black panties still lying on the carpet. I tucked them away as a secret trophy, the thought of her walking down the street without underwear driving me to a fever pitch. That night, my wife found me more attentive and passionate than ever, though my mind was miles away, counting the seconds until Rocío returned to fulfill her promise.