I Became My Ex's Mistress After the Divorce

It’s been seven years since Mauricio and I signed the divorce papers, and in all that time I never stopped seeing him. It sounds absurd, I know. People separate so they never have to see each other again, and I separated so I could keep looking for him every so often, like someone going back to an addiction they know is bad for them. The raw truth is that what I miss is not him, or our life together, or any of that. What I miss is the sex. With Mauricio it was always incredible, and no man who came after ever even came close.

Ours ended badly, the way these things do. He fell in love with someone else while we were still sleeping in the same bed, and one day he told me straight out, no anesthesia. I cried what I had to cry, signed what I had to sign, and promised myself I would never look for him again. That promise lasted exactly four months. Then came the first message, the first beer, the first relapse. And so, relapse after relapse, we got here, to this story neither of us would ever tell out loud.

A few months ago he wrote to me out of nowhere to invite me for beers. I said yes without thinking twice. We sat down in a quiet bar, one of those places with low light and music that doesn’t get in the way, and we let the alcohol do its thing. It didn’t take much. By the second round we were talking too close, our knees were brushing under the table, and every time he laughed he looked at my mouth a second too long.

I watched him calmly while he talked about anything—his job, a trip, I don’t remember. I wasn’t listening to the words, I was listening to the tone, that deep cadence I know by heart and that always meant the same thing. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were resting on the table, and I couldn’t stop staring at his hands. I knew exactly what those hands were capable of doing to me, and he knew that I knew. That wordless complicity was what finally got me hot.

—Do you remember the last time? —he asked, playing with the bottle label.

—I remember every time —I answered.

That was the whole conversation we needed. We paid the bill without finishing the last beer and went to his parents’ house, which they were away from for a few days. It had been our old hideout when we were dating, before we got married, before everything that came after. Going back there had something forbidden about it that got my blood burning all the way there.

As soon as we closed the door we started kissing. It wasn’t a tender kiss or a reunion kiss: it was the kind that bites, the kind that searches. His hands were already sliding under my blouse while I fumbled with his belt. Every second that passed made my body ask for more, and it showed on him too in the way he breathed against my neck.

We stripped each other between the living room and the hallway. When I was left topless, he sank to his knees a little and started kissing my breasts slowly, squeezing them with both hands in that firm way that always drove me crazy. He sucked on my nipples and let them go with a wet sound, and I held his head so he wouldn’t stop. I was already wet, already ready, but there was still something I wanted to do to him first, something I’m good at, something that undoes him.

I pushed him gently until he sat down on the sofa and knelt between his legs. I love sucking him, I always have, and that night I told him so with him in my mouth. He answered me in a rough voice that he loved the way I did it. I felt him harden against my tongue, grow until the veins stood out from how hard he was, and that made me want him even more. I took him as deep as I could, kissed his balls, moved up and down patiently until I felt he couldn’t take it anymore. Only when I knew he was on the edge did I stop.

I looked up from below, with my lips still brushing the tip, enjoying having him like that, begging without words. He likes it when I make him last, when I take him to the limit and leave him hanging there. That night I wanted to torture him a little, to make him pay in pleasure for all those years I pretended I didn’t need him. I gave him one last slow lick, from top to bottom, and only then did I stand up.

Then I got on top of him and drove him all the way inside me in one single motion. I felt him enter to the hilt and a long moan escaped me. I started moving slowly, holding on to his shoulders, and he dug his fingers into my hips, setting the rhythm. I like being on top because I can see his face, see how he starts losing control, him, the one who always wants to be in charge. That night I was taking it away from him little by little, and I enjoyed it like I hadn’t enjoyed anyone in years.

And that was when everything changed, because we weren’t a couple anymore and that made it different.

—Do you know how I fuck her? —he said suddenly, looking me straight in the eyes.

She was his wife. The woman he left me for. I should have been upset, I should have climbed off him and told him to go to hell. Instead I stayed frozen for a second, with him inside me, feeling how that sentence lit something up in the pit of my stomach.

—Tell me —I asked.

And he told me. He told me she liked it on all fours, that when he put her like that she went crazy, that she moaned softly as if she were embarrassed. He told me what he whispered in her ear, how he held her, which parts of her body drove him wild. Every intimate detail he gave me made me ride him harder, faster, as if I wanted to erase that woman and take her place at the same time.

I want him to do it to me the way he does it to her.

—You say she likes it on all fours —I gasped.

—She loves it.

I got off him and put myself in that position, on all fours on the sofa, offering myself to him.

—Then fuck me like you fuck your wife —I demanded, looking back at him over my shoulder.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He settled in behind me, grabbed my hips, and drove into me in one single thrust, without mercy, all the way in. He started fucking me with a delicious fury, as if in that moment I were all the women he had ever wanted to take out on. First from the front, until he left me trembling, and after a while he lowered his hand, stroked me, and started pushing slowly somewhere else, making his way in little by little.

In these seven years I had my own story too. I learned things, discovered what I like, left behind the shyness of the married woman I used to be. And I put all of that into practice that night, taking advantage of how turned on he was by cheating on his brand-new wife.

—Give me everything —I told him with my face against the cushion—. Everything, like your wife the poor cuckold.

I felt something break inside him when he heard me. He fucked me harder.

—Break me like you break her —I went on—. Harder. Let her not find out what you’re doing.

—You’re crazy —he murmured, but his voice was trembling with pure pleasure.

—Fill me —I demanded—. I want it all inside.

And damn if it didn’t work. He gave me more than ever, lost the rhythm, lost control, until I felt him empty himself inside me with a growl that came from deep in his chest. I clenched down as hard as I could, contracting my muscles to squeeze him dry to the last drop, until he couldn’t take any more and pulled out. Even then I kept squeezing, feeling what he had saved for someone else running down my thighs.

***

We stayed silent for a few minutes, both of us sprawled on the sofa, catching our breath. Then we got dressed without saying much, like two accomplices who had just done something they’ll never tell anyone. He went home, to his wife, to his tidy life. I went home to mine.

But since that night something has stayed spinning in my head, something I wasn’t expecting. I didn’t become obsessed with him. I became obsessed with her. With the idea of Mauricio fucking his wife while thinking about me, or thinking about me while fucking her. With the possibility of being there, in some corner, watching, listening to those soft moans he described to me.

I think about it at night, when I can’t sleep. I imagine the whole scene: their house, the marriage bed, her believing it’s just any other night, and me in the dim hallway watching him do to her what he described to me in the darkness of that sofa. I imagine her face if she discovered me, the impossible explanations, the scandal. And instead of scaring me, that image turns me on. I don’t know what that says about me and, at this point, I don’t much care to find out.

I don’t know whether I’ll work up the nerve to suggest it the next time he writes to me. But something tells me yes, that sooner or later I’m going to whisper it in his ear, just when I have him most surrendered, most mine, farther from her than ever. And knowing him, knowing us, I know it won’t be hard for him to say yes.