How I Got My Revenge for My Perfect Boyfriend’s Betrayal

I’m thirty-four now, and it’s been a long time since I stopped pretending it didn’t mark me. My life today is calm: steady work, a body the gym gave me, a place of my own, and a single life that doesn’t weigh on me. But there’s one afternoon that comes back every so often, without warning, and I need to tell it once and for all.

My name is Mariana, though I only choose that name for this story. Everything else is so real it still makes me uncomfortable.

Fifteen years ago I was nineteen and in my second year of college. I’d been Tomás’s girlfriend since the last year of high school and, by then, everyone took it for granted that we’d end up married. He studied at another university and ran a clothing store his parents had set up for him downtown. I saw him whenever I could: he picked me up after class in his car, took me to his apartment, and we made the most of the little time we had together as if it were the last.

That year I ended up sitting next to a guy in one of the hardest classes in the program. I’ll call him Federico. He was skinny, pale, with glasses too big for his face and long hair he never quite managed to comb. What bothered me wasn’t that he looked that way. It was the way he looked at me. It wasn’t a shy look: it was a look that had weight, that lingered on my breasts, on my legs, on any seam in my jeans that was a little too tight.

The first day the lecture hall filled up and I had to sit beside him, he greeted me in a thin voice.

“H-hi,” he said, swallowing hard.

I didn’t answer. As soon as a seat opened up, I moved without even pretending otherwise.

What came after was worse. He started running after me when class ended, looking for me in the hallways, making up excuses to talk to me. I made it clear I had a boyfriend, that I wasn’t interested, that he should please leave me alone. He’d nod, keep staring at my neckline for a second, and in the next class he’d try again.

“The biggest nerd in the room thinks he stands a chance,” I told my best friend, Renata, a Mexican girl with a faster tongue than mine.

“Back home they say the uglier they are, the tastier,” she laughed, hanging on my arm.

“Jesus, no way,” I’d shoot back, and we’d change the subject.

My life then was perfect on paper. Tomás picked me up, took me to his apartment, threw me onto the bed, shoved his dick into me in the same old routine, and told me I was the best. We’d been fucking for almost two years and there wasn’t any open complaint in that territory either: he had been the first and only man who’d ever opened my legs, and he treated me like I was made of glass, so much so that many times I was left wishing he’d flip me over and bury it in me without asking if I was okay. I never asked him for anything strange. I never asked him to go down on me from below, to finish on my face, to talk dirty in my ear. With him, sex was neat. Neat and predictable.

One afternoon, the last class got canceled. I took the car, drove to his building without telling him, and when I was about to get out, I saw him coming through the gate. He wasn’t alone. A red-haired girl, much taller than me, was laughing pressed against his shoulder while he touched her waist like he knew exactly where to put his hand. They walked half a block, she got into a car waiting double-parked, and took off.

Tomás stayed standing on the sidewalk, watching the car disappear, smiling.

I didn’t get out. I didn’t shout. I didn’t confront him. I started the car and drove home with white-knuckled hands on the wheel. On the way I cried once, then my eyes dried up and I didn’t cry again.

I pretended I hadn’t seen anything.

That decision, I know now, was the real beginning of everything. If I had confronted him that same afternoon, maybe I would have burst into tears, dumped him, and the story would have ended there. But I chose to keep quiet, and by keeping quiet I opened a door I later didn’t know how to close.

Over the next few days I dressed differently. Nothing outrageous: I swapped jeans for slightly shorter skirts, stopped tying my hair back, put more care into my eyes. I started going to the gym six days a week instead of three. My body, which was already good, sharpened until it became impossible to ignore. High tits, a lifted ass, stone-hard legs. A body screaming for someone to fuck it properly.

Federico was the first to notice. He started appearing again in the hallways, but differently. He’d cut his hair, swapped his glasses for thinner ones, and even walked differently, with his back straighter.

“Mari! Wait up,” he called one afternoon.

“What do you want?” I answered, more tired than angry.

“Just to say hi. Is that so bad?”

He made a move as if to come closer and kiss my cheek. I stepped back on reflex, but not with the same contempt as before. For the first time I looked at his face and realized he’d made an effort. For me.

“My boyfriend gets jealous,” I lied. “Better not.”

“Okay,” he said, and stayed there looking at me with a new smile, without so much anxiety.

Something shifted in me that day. I didn’t like Federico, I wasn’t physically attracted to him. But knowing I was wanted by someone capable of changing himself for me made me feel something I’d stopped feeling with Tomás a long time ago.

***

As the weeks went by, Federico earned a place in my study group. He was brilliant: he solved in ten minutes what took the rest of us hours. He started sharing notes, summaries, even full assignments with me. I let him. I was tired, and part of me, the spiteful part, wanted to give myself little permissions to feel less tied down.

One Friday I introduced him to Tomás. It was nothing: leaving campus, two minutes of saying hello on the sidewalk. But the look on Federico’s face when Tomás grabbed my waist and kissed me in front of everyone was a mix of envy, shame, and rage he couldn’t hide.

“Did you see how the skinny guy was staring at me?” I said, once we were in the car and had pulled off.

“Poor bastard’s in love with you,” Tomás laughed. “Dreaming is free.”

“Some girls with cheating boyfriends would take him up on it,” I blurted, and glanced at him sideways.

Tomás coughed, changed the station on the radio, and didn’t answer.

That night, when we got to the apartment, he wanted to prove something to me. As soon as I shut the door, he was already undressing me in the hallway, pushing me against the wall, forcing his tongue into my mouth as if the kiss were an apology. He hauled me to the bed by the arm, ripped my panties off with his teeth, and climbed on top of me with a hunger I didn’t know in him. He opened my legs and shoved it in right away, no foreplay, fucking me with those long, deep thrusts I liked and he almost never bothered giving me. I felt his cock rock hard, slamming deep inside, while he sucked my nipples and growled in my ear that I was his, that nobody else touched me, that I was the only one. He fucked me face-down, gripping my hair, fucked me sitting on top of him while he squeezed my tits, fucked me on my side with one leg over his shoulder. It lasted longer than ever. In the end, when he came inside me with a long groan, he stayed sprawled on his back, sweaty, staring at the ceiling. I lay still too, with his cum running down my thigh, thinking only one thing: this isn’t love, this is guilt. And guilt, in a long relationship, is the only thing left when trust is already gone.

***

What finally pushed me over the edge happened on an ordinary Thursday. I had a photoshoot for a small store downtown, a modeling job I did so I wouldn’t have to depend on my parents. I’d put on a short black dress with a V-neck, nothing vulgar but impossible to ignore. Tomás was supposed to pick me up when I got off.

He called me when I was already waiting on the sidewalk.

“Baby, I’m sorry, I can’t. Something came up at the store, I’m going to be really late,” he said, in that voice that was already starting to sound fake to me.

“Fine. Bye,” I cut in before he could say anything else.

I stood there with my bag over my shoulder, thinking whether to call a cab or wait for the bus. And then Federico showed up, backpack on his shoulder, eyes shining like two flashlights.

“And your boyfriend?”

“He’s not coming.”

“I’ll take you. I have to stop by my apartment first, then I’ll drop you at your place.”

I hesitated three seconds. Three. Then I got in the car.

The ride was strange. Federico was relaxed, cracking jokes, telling me stories about the lab where he worked for free. For the first time, without the anxiety from before, it was actually pleasant being with him. We got to his building and, instead of staying downstairs, I went up because he said it would only take a few minutes.

The apartment was small, neat, with an old couch and books stacked against one wall. I sat down. He stayed standing there in silence, looking at me in a way I knew.

“Mari,” he said, and came closer.

Before he finished the sentence he was already hugging me, awkwardly, almost asking permission with his eyes.

“I’m a virgin,” he murmured. “Please. It would be a pleasure to lose my virginity to a woman like you.”

I shoved him away hard. I was stronger than him; on that point it took no effort at all.

“Are you crazy? You can’t just throw yourself at me like that.”

I grabbed my bag and walked to the door. He sat down on the couch, covered his face with both hands, and started shaking like a kid.

“Sorry. Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s just that I’m never going to have anyone. Look at me.”

I stopped with my hand on the doorknob. I don’t know why I stopped.

“Don’t say that,” I told him, and went back to sit beside him, keeping a prudent distance.

“A woman like you, with a perfect boyfriend, was never going to give me a chance.”

“Perfect boyfriend.” The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Tomás at that moment, while Federico was falling apart beside me, was somewhere putting it to the redhead. I knew it without proof. I knew it in my body. I pictured him fucking her up against the wall of the shop, his pants down around his knees, while he left me standing on a downtown sidewalk in a black dress with panties wet from nothing.

“He’s not perfect,” I said quietly, almost to myself.

Federico lifted his face.

What happened next wasn’t planned. I mean it: it wasn’t planned. But nobody stopped me either.

“I’ll let you kiss me,” I told him. “Touch me. But that’s all. Understand?”

“Yes, yes, whatever you want,” he answered, closing the door I’d left half-open.

I put my bag on the couch.

His first kisses were disastrous, like a kid who’d seen too many movies and never understood them. He knocked into my teeth, filled my mouth with saliva, pressed his lips against mine as if he wanted to eat them. I stopped him with both hands on his face.

“Slowly. Like this,” I said, and showed him with my mouth how it was done. I bit his lower lip, slid my tongue in calmly, taught him the rhythm.

In two minutes he had learned. In five he was doing it better than Tomás. His hands, on the other hand, didn’t know where to go. I took them. I put one on my tit, over the dress, and squeezed his fingers so he’d knead it. I lowered the other to my thigh, under the skirt, and guided his hand myself until he felt the elastic of my panties. There he stopped, fingertips trembling, waiting for permission.

“Keep going,” I whispered into his mouth.

“Your body is perfect,” he said, voice rough, while his other hand searched for the zipper at the back of the dress and pulled it down with a clumsiness that made me soften.

The dress fell to the floor. There I was, in black panties and bra, sitting on the edge of the couch with my legs just slightly apart, looking at him like I’d never looked at a man before: with a cool head and a burning cunt at the same time. I unclasped my bra myself. My tits bounced free and he stared at them, mouth open, as if he’d never seen a pair in real life. I grabbed the back of his neck and shoved his face against one nipple. He sucked slowly at first, then hungrily, nibbling, tugging, while his other hand squeezed my free tit. I threw my head back and let out a moan I didn’t even recognize as mine.

“Down,” I ordered him.

He obeyed. He knelt between my legs on the floor, his face level with my panties. I pulled them aside with my own hand, showed him what he had to do, and he lowered his face between my legs with the devotion of a convert. At first he didn’t know how. He licked random places, sucked the outer lips, missed the hole. I grabbed his hair and lined his mouth up with my clit.

“Here. Flat tongue. Slowly.”

And he learned. God, how he learned. Tomás hated eating my pussy; he always found some excuse not to do it, and the three or four times he had, it felt like he was doing the world a favor. Federico, on the other hand, seemed to have spent months imagining exactly this moment. His tongue was clumsy at first, then precise, then merciless. He sucked my clit with the tip of his tongue, wrapped his lips around it, pushed his tongue into my cunt and pulled it back out wet. Then he came back up and circled it, pressing, sucking, nonstop. He slid two fingers in, first slowly, then all the way, bent upward, searching for a spot I didn’t even know I had. When he found it I knew: my back arched on its own, my eyes shut, and a cry escaped me.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” I begged, both hands on his neck, pressing him into me, fucking his mouth with my hips.

I clawed the couch until I broke my nails. I yanked his hair so hard I pulled out a few strands. And when the orgasm hit, it hit me differently than with Tomás: deeper, lower, almost angry. It shook me whole, my legs trembling, my cunt dripping onto Federico’s chin and neck. I soaked his face, his chest, the couch.

“Sorry,” I laughed, gasping, covering my face for a second with my forearm. “That had never happened to me.”

“You’re incredible,” he answered, wiping himself with the back of his hand, wearing a smile that wasn’t the shy boy from class anymore.

I grabbed his wrist and took him to the bedroom. I pulled off his shirt, his pants, his boxer briefs. When I saw him naked I was surprised: he had a big dick, much bigger than that skinny body promised. Long, thick, a vein running down the middle and the head shining. My mouth watered. I knelt on the rug. I took him with both hands, one above and one below, and looked up from underneath, holding his gaze. I licked his balls first, sucked them one by one, took them into my mouth while my hand stroked him slowly. Then I went up. I licked the vein all the way from his balls to the head. I kissed the tip. I opened my mouth and took him all the way in until the head bumped my throat and brought tears to my eyes.

“Fuck, Mari,” he blurted, both hands clenched into fists against his thighs.

I sucked him like I had never sucked Tomás. Not because I liked Federico more, but because that afternoon I wasn’t sucking Federico off. I was sucking Tomás off through Federico. I took him in and out, twisted him with my tongue, spat on him, flattened him against my cheek, put him between my tits and squeezed him there with both hands while he looked down with his eyes rolling back. I sucked his balls again, licked his perineum, went back up, took him back deep. I grabbed his hand and put it on the back of my neck so he could set the rhythm. The first time he pushed he was timid; the second, when he understood I was letting him, he shoved it in to the balls and drove it there. I gagged, coughed, my saliva dripping off my chin, and smiled around a mouthful of him so he wouldn’t stop.

“I’m going to finish like this,” he gasped.

“Not a chance,” I said, pulling him out of my mouth with a pop. “Come here.”

I climbed onto the bed, got on all fours on the mattress, and signaled him, arching my ass up, spreading my legs just a little. I showed him everything. My cunt dripping, my asshole tight, my thighs trembling. He stood there behind me, not moving, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Put it in me,” I told him, looking back over my shoulder.

He climbed onto the bed. He gripped his cock with his hand and looked for the entrance. The tip slipped twice, wet and clumsy. I guided his hand and lined him up myself. He went in slowly, holding back, gasping with every inch, while he held my waist like he was afraid of breaking me. When I had him all the way inside I was short of breath for a second. He was bigger than what I was used to. He opened me, filled me, reached a place Tomás never reached.

“Move,” I told him through clenched teeth.

He started slowly. I set the tempo with my hips, pushing my ass back to take him deeper. Then he let go. He grabbed my hips with both hands and started fucking me for real, with thrusts that got longer and longer, harder and harder. The sound of his thighs slapping against my ass filled the room. The bed creaked. I moaned into the pillow, mouth open, saliva staining my arm.

“Harder,” I begged. “Fuck me harder.”

He buried it to the hilt. He pulled it all the way out. He drove it in again. He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, and whispered in my ear, in a voice I didn’t know:

“You’re a slut. A beautiful slut.”

I didn’t say a word. I bit my lip and kept pushing my ass against his stomach.

We tried two, three different positions; in each one I was the one in charge. I threw him on his back on the mattress and climbed on top, riding his cock, moving up and down while I played with my tits for him, while I sucked two fingers and ran them over my nipples. He watched me from below, mouth open, his hands sunk into my ass, squeezing me. Then I turned around, still on top of him, and showed him my back. I rode him, moving my hips in circles, resting my hands on his knees, letting him see his cock go in and out of me, shining with how wet I was. I took one of his hands and brought it to my mouth, sucked his finger, then put that finger on my asshole and taught him how to press there while he fucked me. He almost came right then.

“Wait, wait,” he panted.

I got off. I made him sit against the headboard and sat on top of him facing him, with my legs around his waist, holding him. I guided his cock into me with my hand and started bouncing on him, slowly, looking into his eyes, gripping his hair with both hands. We kissed like that while we were fucking, tongues down each other’s throats. I could feel every beat of his cock inside me. I could feel his whole body trembling.

“I’m going to come,” he said, voice cracking, grabbing my hips to stop me.

“Give it to me between my tits,” I asked, and got down onto the floor, kneeling in front of him.

I took his cock with both hands and worked it fast, aiming it at my cleavage. I squeezed my breasts around the tip and let him move it there inside the soft flesh, while I stuck out my tongue so he could aim for my mouth. It lasted three, four strokes. Then he let out a rough cry that didn’t sound like him, a roar, and he came in streams over my chest, my neck, my chin. One stream hit my open mouth and I swallowed it without thinking. The cum ran between my tits, down my stomach, reaching my pubic bone. I stayed kneeling, tongue out, eyes closed, letting him finish emptying himself on me. I kept stroking him with my hand, squeezing out the last drops, until he bent over with pleasure and asked me to stop.

I hugged him for a second, like that, filthy, still kneeling, while he let himself fall back onto the bed, breathing as if he’d run a marathon. Then I got up, went to the bathroom, washed my face and cleavage with a little water, fixed my hair, went back to the bedroom, and got dressed in silence. He watched me from the bed, naked, his cock still half-drooping over his thigh, without saying a word. When I finished zipping up my dress I stepped over, bent down over him, and said, looking him in the eyes:

“This doesn’t happen again. Ever. Understood?”

“Understood.”

He kept his word. Federico and I stayed in college for one more semester; after that he transferred to another university because of his father’s job. We never touched again, never talked about that afternoon again. But every time I saw him in a hallway he smiled at me with a confidence he hadn’t had before, and I smiled back like someone returning a favor to an accomplice.

I married Tomás three years later and separated from him ten years after that. I never told him what happened that afternoon, and he never confessed to the redhead or the ones who came after. We were even without knowing it, or that’s what I want to believe.

I’m not writing this to justify myself. I know it was wrong. But I also know that that afternoon, in that small apartment smelling of old books, with my cunt dripping and a stranger’s cum drying between my tits, I stopped being the girl who kept everything in, and I started being the one who’s writing to you now.