The Fantasy That Broke My Husband That Night

I had spent months watching him fall apart in silence, and that afternoon I decided that reconciliation would be nothing but a set piece.

Andrés came home from work with that beaten-dog expression that had settled on him since the confession. Three weeks earlier, I had told him I had slept with a colleague from the office during a business trip. One night only, I told him. A drunken mistake, I told him. I cried just enough, promised what was convenient, and let him forgive me with the solemnity of someone signing his own sentence.

What Andrés didn’t know was that the night in the hotel had not been the only one. And that, while he clung to the idea that the marriage could be repaired, I had discovered something far more interesting: the pleasure of watching him kneel on the inside.

Tonight I’m going to show him what it means to lose me.

We ate dinner in silence. Pasta and red wine, one of those bottles he keeps for special occasions. He uncorked it as if we were celebrating something. I watched him chew and thought about how docile he had become, how he had learned to swallow humiliation with the same courtesy with which he swallowed the food I put in front of him.

When I cleared the plates, I asked him to sit in the armchair. I told him I had something to tell him.

—Something good? —he asked, and his voice sounded like a child waiting for a caress.

—Something new —I replied.

I poured myself another glass, let my hair down, and sat astride his lap. I felt his whole body tense, felt him try to hold his breath so I wouldn’t notice the immediate effect my weight had on him. Pathetic. Sweet. Mine. Under my skirt I wore nothing, and as I settled over his lap I let the wet heat of my cunt soak the fabric of his trousers. He noticed. Of course he noticed. A tiny gasp escaped him, that sound of surrender he had been practicing for weeks without knowing it.

—I have a fantasy —I whispered into his ear—. A new fantasy. But this time I don’t want us to do anything. I just want to tell it to you. I want you to hear the whole thing. I want you to watch it while I say it. All right?

He nodded. Of course he nodded.

—But there’s one condition —I added, biting his earlobe—. You can’t touch me. You can’t touch your cock. You can’t move. If you come, it’ll be only with my voice. Do you understand?

Another nod. I ran my fingers over his neck, over his throat, just enough for him to feel the pressure. I smiled at him.

—Good boy.

***

—Imagine it’s Tuesday afternoon —I began—. You’re in the office, trapped in an endless meeting. I picture you in that blue shirt that hangs too loose on you, looking at the clock every five minutes, thinking about me. And meanwhile, I walk into the gym.

I leaned back, resting my hands on his knees, and let him see how my cleavage opened. My nipples stood hard against the fabric, and he couldn’t stop looking at them.

—I’m wearing black leggings, the ones you gave me for my birthday. The ones that show everything. No underwear. I’ve been wearing no underwear all day, Andrés. While you were signing papers, I went to the supermarket, the bank, the café on the corner, with my cunt bare under the fabric. Feeling the seam dig between my lips with every step. Getting myself wet in the checkout line, my love. And nobody knew except me.

I felt him shudder.

—There’s a man at the gym I’ve been watching for weeks. He’s nothing special. Shorter than you. Older. But he’s got huge arms and a stare that never blinks. His name is Diego. I know because once I asked him the time and he answered without taking his eyes off my mouth. Can you picture Diego, my love? Can you picture him with his cock hard under his shorts, pretending while he talks to me about the time?

—Yes —Andrés muttered. His voice came out broken.

—Say it again. I want to hear it.

—Yes, I can picture Diego.

—Good boy.

I stroked his jaw with the tip of my finger. He was burning.

—I do squats in front of the mirror. I know Diego is watching me. I know that every time I go down, the leggings cut into my ass and the groove shows, the cunt slit perfectly outlined in the Lycra. I know he’s seeing it. I know it’s making his mouth water. And I like that. I like that a stranger wants me while you’re working to pay for the house, the vacations, this armchair you’re trembling in. Are you with me, Andrés?

—Yes —he said, and his voice was almost a sigh.

—I finish my routine. I go to the changing room. It’s empty. It always is at that hour. And then I hear him come in. Slow, deliberate footsteps. I know it’s him before I turn around.

I leaned forward until my mouth was a finger’s width from his. I didn’t kiss him.

—Diego doesn’t say anything. He walks over to where I am, grabs my wrist and shoves me against the wall. No permission. No asking. He presses his forearm to my throat, not to hurt me, just to remind me that he’s the one deciding. And he says one thing in my ear: “You’ve been provoking me all day, haven’t you, bitch?” And I don’t deny it, my love. I don’t deny it because it’s true.

Andrés closed his eyes.

—Don’t close them —I ordered. —Look at me.

He opened them. They were wet.

—Diego slips his hand under my top and grabs one whole breast. He squeezes. He pinches my nipple until he tears a moan out of me. And with his other hand he reaches between my legs over the leggings. He feels how soaked they are. He laughs in my ear. “You’re dripping, pig,” he says. And he sinks two fingers in, knuckle deep, even though the fabric gets in the way. He squeezes my cunt through the Lycra. I open wider, my love. I open wider for him. Like a bitch in heat.

Andrés clenched his fists on the armrests of the chair.

—Then he turns me around. He plants both hands on my shoulder blades and forces me to lean over the lockers. He yanks my leggings down to my ankles. He doesn’t take them off. He leaves them hanging like a strap. I don’t resist, my love. I don’t resist because I’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks. And then he slaps my ass. One single smack. So hard the shape of his hand is left on my skin like a red tattoo.

—“Do you like that?” he asks. And I tell him yes. “Harder,” I beg. And he gives me another. And another. Until the burn becomes a heat climbing up my whole back. Until my eyes fill with tears. Until I lose count of how many there are. And between one strike and the next, he shoves three fingers into my cunt all at once. No ceremony. He moves them inside me, stirring my guts, and I drool against the cold metal of the lockers. And with his thumb he scrapes my clit, no rhythm, no tenderness, like someone lighting a lighter, until he makes me come standing up, trembling, with my leggings still trapped around my ankles and his free hand clamping my nape against the metal. And in the meantime, Andrés, do you know what I haven’t done?

He shook his head, unable to speak.

—I haven’t asked him to stop. Not once.

***

I lifted myself a little to undo my belt. I showed it to him. I folded it in half and slapped the palm of my hand with it. The crack sounded dry in the silence of the living room. Andrés swallowed.

—Diego takes off his belt too, but not to hit me. He uses it to tie my wrists behind my back. He tightens the leather until it hurts. He checks the knot with a sharp tug. And then he puts me on my knees on the floor. The changing room floor is cold and dirty, my love. It smells of damp, of other people’s sweat, of cheap disinfectant. My cheek is pressed to the tiles and he grabs my hair.

—Don’t go on —Andrés whispered. But it wasn’t an order. It was a plea.

—Yes, I will. And you’re going to listen.

I placed the folded belt under his chin and lifted his face with it.

—Diego pulls down his pants. He doesn’t take them off. He only lowers the zipper. And out comes his cock, my love. A thick cock, dark, with marked veins and the glans already shiny, dripping for me. Bigger than yours, Andrés. Quite a bit bigger. And then he does something you’ve never dared to do. He grabs me by the nape, brings my face to his cock, and says: “Kiss it.” Not “suck it.” “Kiss it.” As if it were an altar. As if I had to worship it. And I do it, Andrés. I kiss it with devotion. I trace it all over with closed lips, slowly, from the balls to the tip, as if I were praying. I lick his balls one by one. I slide my tongue under the glans. I tickle the foreskin with the tip of my nose. And he just breathes deeply, letting me, like a king being adored by his subject.

Andrés was trembling. I realized he was on the verge of crying.

—“Now say you’re mine,” he orders me. “I’m yours,” I tell him. “Say your husband doesn’t know how to fuck you.” And I say it, my love. I say it with my mouth stuck to his cock. “My husband doesn’t know how to fuck me.” “Say it again.” “My husband doesn’t know how to fuck me.” “Louder.” “MY HUSBAND DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO FUCK ME!” And my voice bounces off the changing room tiles. And I don’t care who might hear it.

Andrés let out a moan. A broken, childlike, miserable moan.

—And then, only then, he lets me suck it. But he doesn’t let me set the rhythm. He grabs my hair with both hands and uses my mouth like it’s just another cunt, like it’s any hole at all. Without mercy. Right down to the back of my throat. He takes it all the way in, until the tip hits my uvula and I gag. And he doesn’t let go. He keeps me there, with his cock buried in my throat, until tears spill from my eyes, until my mascara runs in two black streaks, until I drool a thick strand that hangs down to my tits. And only then does he let go, to let me breathe for a second, before slamming into my mouth again. And again. And again. Fucking my face with both hands clamped to my skull, while I, tied up, can do nothing but open my mouth and take it.

—And while he uses me, he says things to me. Things you’d never say. He calls me “bitch,” “traitor wife,” “rented hole,” “the paying husband’s whore.” And every word he says makes me wetter, my love. Every word sends a thread of me running down the inside of my thigh. I tell him so, I can stammer it even with a cock in my mouth, and he laughs and shoves it deeper. “Is your husband hearing this? Is your husband hearing how his little wife is choking on another man’s cock?” And I nod, eyes rolling back, swallowing saliva and his flesh at the same time.

***

I got down from the armchair and took two steps back. I looked down at him. Andrés was breathing hard and had a clear bulge in his trousers. A bulge he didn’t dare touch, because I had forbidden it.

—The best part is coming —I announced. —Do you want to hear it, my cuckold?

He answered only with a mute nod. He could no longer speak.

—Diego puts me back on my knees, still tied up. He turns me around. He presses my chest against the wooden bench in the changing room, that bench full of splinters and stains. He parts my legs with his knee. He spreads my ass cheeks with both hands and just stares. “What a pink cunt you’ve got, married girl,” he says. “And what a tight ass. Does your husband fuck it? No? His loss.” He spits. He spits between my cheeks, and I feel the spit slide slowly down my slit. And then he takes me. Without warning. Without tenderness. In one shove he jams his cock into my cunt to the hilt, all the way to the balls, and I scream against the wood of the bench because it doesn’t fit, because it stretches me, because it splits me in two.

I saw Andrés hold back a sob.

—I scream, my love. But I don’t tell him to stop. I tell him more. “Harder,” I beg. “Ruin my cunt.” “Hurt me.” And he does. He grabs my tied wrists and uses my body like a lever, pulling my arms back while he slams into me. Each thrust knocks my hip against the edge of the bench. Each thrust gives my soaked cunt a wet smack. You can hear it from the hallway, Andrés. You can hear the slap of his balls against my clit. You can hear my voice begging for more like a bitch in heat. You can hear everything.

—And at one point he pulls out. He pulls out completely, dripping with me, and rubs himself between my ass cheeks. He aims for my asshole. “Here too,” he says. And I say yes. I say yes, my love, because by then I’m no longer a person, I’m an open mouth saying yes to everything. And he pushes in slowly, centimeter by centimeter, on my own slick, sliding in. And it hurts. It burns. It stings. But I beg him not to stop. I beg him to wreck my ass while he puts two fingers in my cunt so I don’t feel empty. And when I’m about to come, he pulls the fingers out, stuffs them into my mouth without taking his cock out of my ass, and forces me to taste myself. He forces me to savor the whore I am.

—And while he tears me apart, he keeps saying things. “Look at you, married and speared on both ends. Look at you, begging like a slut.” And I thank him. I thank him for using me. I thank him for giving me what you could never give me.

—Please —Andrés whispered.

—“Please” what.

—Please, stop.

—No.

I brought my mouth to his ear. I bit his earlobe until it hurt.

—Back to the cunt. He slams into me so hard the bench moves. And I come, Andrés. I come with his cock inside me, with my wrists tied, with my face pressed to the dirty wood, screaming like I’ve never screamed with you. And when I’m still coming, when my cunt is still throbbing around him, he comes. Inside. No asking. No permission. I feel his thick semen filling me, hot spurts one after another, so many that they overflow and run down the inside of my thighs. And he stays still, buried to the hilt, breathing into my neck, marking me as his territory. And then he does the last thing. The most beautiful thing. He pulls out slowly, and with his cock still dripping he paints my cunt lips with his own mess, like someone signing a painting. He releases my wrists. He stands up. He pulls up his pants. He grabs me by the hair and forces me to look at him from the floor, with his cum streaming down my thighs and my mouth open. And he says: “Go home to your husband. And next time he touches you, think of me.” And I, my love, stay there a little longer, kneeling, letting his cum run onto the tiles, savoring what I am.

***

I moved away. I poured myself the last glass of wine. I drank it in one swallow. Andrés was motionless, eyes closed, his left hand clenched on his thigh. And then I saw the stain. A dark stain spreading across the crotch of his trousers. He hadn’t touched himself. He hadn’t needed to. He had come in his pants like a teenager, just from my voice.

I sat down beside him. I slid my arm around his shoulders with the tenderness of a mother comforting a child after a fall. I kissed his temple.

—Poor thing —I murmured—. I got you too excited, didn’t I?

He didn’t answer. His gaze was lost on some point in the ceiling.

—It’s just a fantasy, my love —I told him—. Just a story to keep us entertained. I love you. I would never do something like that. I promise.

I leaned in, gave him a long kiss on the mouth —letting him taste the wine and the dampness of my lips— and stood up.

—Go and change, come on. You look like a kid who’s peed himself.

I went up the stairs with the empty glass in my hand. I went into the bathroom. I undressed slowly in front of the mirror. And I looked at myself.

My hair was tousled, my eyes bright, my cheeks red with wine and power. I touched my neck, where my own hand had drawn an imaginary path minutes earlier. I touched my breasts, pinched my nipples until they stood up hard as stones. I slid my hand between my legs and discovered I was soaked, my lips swollen and slick. I slipped two fingers inside and drew them out shining, held them up to the light, brought them to my mouth and sucked on myself while thinking about my husband’s face crying in the armchair. I came standing up, biting my lip so I wouldn’t shout, one hand gripping the sink.

I got into the shower. And while the hot water ran down my back, I thought about Diego. About the real Diego, not the invented one. About the office colleague I’d been fucking for six months every time he had a work trip. About the one who would be waiting for me tomorrow at two in room 312 of some random hotel, with his cock already hard for me. About the one who was going to do exactly what I had told my husband in such explicit detail. No censorship. No fiction. With real semen dripping down my thighs while, at that very same hour, Andrés would be signing papers in his office, in that blue shirt that hangs too loose on him.

It was only a fantasy, my love.

I closed my eyes under the water and smiled.