Secret Desires in the Countryside
Every month, I returned to the quiet village of my ancestors to maintain my grandparents’ old estate. I wasn’t alone in my efforts; my close friends, a couple I considered family, always helped me. While my comadre and I spent the weekends scrubbing floors and polishing wood, her husband spent most of his time immersed in a bottle of aguardiente, practically claiming a permanent seat at the dining table.
One humid afternoon, during a long lunch, the air felt thick with unspoken tension. As we chatted with the increasingly drunken husband, I let my hand drift beneath the table. I placed it gently on my comadre’s leg, starting with soft, innocent pats. However, the atmosphere shifted instantly. When she shifted in her seat, her dress rode up, exposing a generous stretch of her smooth, golden thigh. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I let my palm press firmly against her bare skin.
I looked at her, searching for a sign of disapproval, but she only responded with a slow, knowing smile. That was all the permission I needed. My fingers began to stroke her thigh with a rhythmic intensity, hidden from the view of her husband, who was too preoccupied with his drink to notice the electricity crackling between us.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming hunger, I slid my hand further upward. I felt the damp lace of her underwear, a clear sign that she was just as affected by the risk as I was. I knew I needed more time and privacy if I wanted to truly possess her. Using the husband’s love for alcohol to my advantage, I prepared a potent cocktail—a mixture of brandy, mezcal, tequila, and aguardiente. I whispered in her ear, “Do you want to get him out of the way?” Her eyes flared with desire as she nodded.
Once the husband had drained the glass and finally succumbed to a deep, alcohol-induced slumber, leaning heavily against the table, I wasted no more time. I led her to the bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. I stripped her slowly, my lips tracing the curve of her neck and shoulders. At forty-five, she was a vision of maturity and grace, her breasts firm and her nipples peaking with anticipation.
She didn’t want foreplay; she was burning. “Please,” she whimpered, pulling me toward her, “I can’t wait any longer. I’m on fire inside.” I entered her slowly, savoring the tight, searing heat of her body. She gasped, her voice a mixture of pleasure and the thrill of the forbidden, knowing her husband was just a few rooms away.
We spent the rest of the day exploring every inch of one another. I moved her from the bed to the floor, changing positions to prolong the ecstasy. I felt her body shudder violently beneath me as she reached a powerful climax, her walls gripping me tightly. When I finally let go, I poured myself deep inside her, feeling a connection that transcended the betrayal of the moment.
The boldness of the act only fueled us. After a quick shower, we returned to each other, crossing the dining room completely naked while her husband continued to snore loudly on the table. We spent the entire night locked in a passionate embrace, creating a secret world of our own. By the time he woke the next morning, we were dressed and composed, sharing a smile that only the two of us understood.