I Confessed to My Husband That I Wanted to Sleep with Another Man

—If you really were to cheat on me—my husband asked one night, in that low voice he used when the game got serious—who would it be with, and why?

The question left me hovering between laughter and vertigo. While everything was happening only inside our imaginations, answering was easy: it was a game, a territory with no real consequences. But that night something in his tone told me it was no longer just fantasy.

The implications were enormous. Work, mutual friends, our reputations. What our children might one day find out when they were older. There was too much at stake to take it lightly.

And yet the answer came to me on its own when I least expected it.

The annual reunion of former university classmates fell on that same weekend. As if the universe were closing the circle: it was exactly there, years ago, that I first told Marcos about Andrés and about that afternoon we spent together before he left to live abroad.

I got ready carefully. I bought a dark blue summer dress that fit just where it should. I put on a little more makeup than usual, not so much that it would look like an effort, but enough to feel different from the woman I was every day. I felt whole. Confident in a way I hadn’t recognized in a long time.

When we arrived at the event hall, I found my old girlfriends and chatted with several classmates whose surnames I could barely remember. Marcos moved among the groups, trading jokes, comfortable in situations like this where I usually get lost. Then Andrés walked through the door and I knew it instantly.

There was no deliberation. The decision had been made before I even saw him.

I managed to slip away from Marcos discreetly and go over to Andrés. We talked for more than an hour. Just talked. About life, the years that had gone by, the versions of ourselves that no longer existed. He still had that way of listening that always undid me, his head slightly tilted, his eyes fixed on mine as if there were no one else in the room.

Marcos found us at some point, but he kept his distance. He didn’t intervene. He followed the conversation from afar with that calm of his that I can never quite tell is confidence or resignation.

When the conversation ended and we said goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, I went back to my husband. The hall was still full of music and voices and laughter that didn’t belong to us.

—I decided I want to sleep with him—I whispered in his ear—. I want him to fuck me, Marcos. I want his cock inside me.

***

Marcos looked at me. His eyes didn’t show exactly surprise, but something harder to name: as if he had been expecting those words for months, and now that he was hearing them he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He stayed silent.

Only a few feet away from us, amid the people and the noise, Andrés was still there. The man I had chosen. If the revelation disturbed him, Marcos chose not to show it. He stood firm, holding everything in inside.

We stayed at the party another hour. We said goodbye to everyone, Andrés included, with a brief handshake that seemed to carry no weight. The drive home was silent. Marcos drove with his eyes fixed on the road, his lips pressed together, showing no obvious disgust but no desire to talk either.

When we got home and went up to the bedroom, he didn’t wait. He shoved me onto the bed with an urgency I hadn’t seen in a long time. He yanked up my dress, tore the fabric of my underwear with his fingers and ripped it off me in a swipe, leaving my pussy bare. He lowered his face without saying anything and buried himself between my thighs, his tongue straight against my clit, sucking with an eagerness that tore a moan from my throat.

—You’re soaking—he murmured against my pussy, and went back to licking, this time sliding his tongue between my lips, tasting me as if he wanted to make sure he was the one who had gotten me like this.

I grabbed his head and pressed it hard against me. He sucked and licked hungrily, alternating his tongue with two fingers going in and out of me at a steady rhythm, searching inside me for that spot he knows better than I do. I arched when he found the exact angle. The wet fingers came out and went back in, making a moist, obscene sound that filled the bedroom.

—Keep going—I asked—. Like that, don’t stop.

But he stopped. He sat up, fumbled with his belt, and pulled down his pants along with his boxers. He was hard as a rock, the tip shining, throbbing against his belly. He took it by the base and ran it across my pussy lips, up and down, rubbing it against my swollen clit.

—Put it in me already—I said—. Please.

He entered me without hesitation, with one long thrust that made me let out a rough moan. Wet and ready, I took him without resistance, all the way to the hilt. His thrusts started out fast, almost rough, skin slapping against skin, but soon he found a slower rhythm, as if he wanted to prolong each second, so I would feel every inch of his cock. He went in and out slowly, deliberately, in command of the situation in a way that made me grab his shoulders and dig my nails in.

I lifted my legs and wrapped them around his waist to pull him closer, to make him fuck me deeper. He grabbed my hips and drove into me hard, all his weight on top of me, pulling almost all the way out and then plunging back in at once. I answered by moving my pelvis to meet each thrust, asking with my body that he not stop, that he keep taking me like that.

—Do you like my cock?—he asked in my ear, never stopping his movement—. Tell me you like it.

—I love it—I told him, and it was true—. Fuck me, baby. Harder.

He pulled out, turned me over, and put me on all fours. He grabbed my hair with one hand and with the other guided the tip of his cock to my entrance. He shoved it all back inside me in one thrust. I screamed into the pillow. In that position he went in differently, deeper, touching places he couldn’t reach when I was on my back. He braced himself with both hands on my hips and fucked me at a steady, punishing pace, the skin of his thighs slapping against my ass with a wet crack.

—Like that—I panted—. Like that, don’t stop.

At some point he slid a hand underneath and found my clit with two fingers, massaging it with a precision that has known me for years, while he kept thrusting. I knew I was close when my breath caught in my throat and the pleasure started climbing up from my legs.

—Are you going to come?—he asked, without stopping his movement or stroking my clit.

—Yes, baby. Almost— I said, my voice breaking.

—I want you to scream my name.

I started saying his.

—No. Not my name!

I understood in a second. And I screamed it without hesitation, with my face buried in the pillow and his cock buried deep inside me:

—Andrés! I’m coming, Andrés! Fuck me, Andrés!

The orgasm tore through my whole body. My pussy clenched in spasms around his cock and I felt Marcos trembling behind me. He thrust three, four more times, fast and deep, with a low groan, and came inside me, spilling in hot spurts while I kept repeating the other name between moans.

Time stopped. We stayed still, him still inside me, the hot cum slowly sliding down my thighs, catching our breath in silence. Then we looked at each other. No words were necessary. There was something between us that night that hadn’t existed for a long time.

***

The next morning, when the kids were still with their grandparents and the house was only ours, I told him the details.

Andrés wanted me to go to his apartment. He would take the day off and wait for me from early on.

He wanted me to arrive dressed in a way his neighbors would see me. So they would know without anyone saying anything. I would have to climb the three floors by the stairs, so the sound of my heels would announce my arrival from the lobby to his door. When he opened it, he would look me up and down before letting me in, lingering on my tits and my legs without any disguise.

He would lock the door. He would hug me from behind, his body pressed to mine, and I would feel his hard cock jammed against my ass before his hands even reached my breasts. He would take them slowly over the fabric, pinch my nipples until they were hard, without hurrying, while he spoke in my ear with that voice he still has from when he was twenty, telling me how long he had been imagining this day, how well he was going to fuck me.

Then his fingers would slide down my stomach looking for the edge of the fabric, lift it, and find my pussy already wet underneath my underwear. He met me two decades ago. He knows that when he touches me that way, when he does it slowly and without apology, I melt before he even really touches me. He would slip two fingers between my legs, move the fabric aside, and start rubbing my clit with the pad of his thumb while the other fingers sank in and out, wet. I would rest my head against his shoulder and open my legs for him, moaning softly as I masturbated standing up against his body.

I would reach with my hands for the zipper of his pants and free him so I could hold him in my palm while we kept going like that, back to back. Hard, big, bigger than I remembered. I would squeeze the base with one hand and with the other run my thumb over the already wet tip, spreading the fluid along the shaft. I would need to see his face. I would turn around and drop to my knees without anyone asking me to.

I would take him down my throat without stopping, hungry for that taste I had almost forgotten. I would swallow him whole, choking a little, my eyes full of tears from the effort, looking up at him so he could see how much I wanted him. He would grab my hair without pulling, just to keep me close, while I went up and down with my mouth, my tongue flattened underneath, sucking his cock clean. I would lick his balls one by one, run my tongue along the whole length, and take him deep again. I would do everything I know how to do to make him lose control too soon: the slowest, dirtiest blowjob I know, with saliva dripping down my chin, even though I don’t want him to finish there. I would take him to the edge and stop him just before, pulling him out of my mouth with a wet sound when I felt him about to come.

I want to ride him. I would lay him on his back on the bed, climb on top astride him, and take his cock in my hand to guide it to my pussy. I want to see his face while he enters me slowly, while I lower myself onto him centimeter by centimeter until I have him all the way inside, feeling that specific weight, that way of entering that nobody else has. He has been very clear about what he wants: nothing between us, like the first time two decades ago, when we were different people and consequences didn’t weigh on us. Skin against skin, with nothing separating his cock from my pussy.

Once I feel him inside, I would know whether he hurts me or whether my body takes him without resistance. I’m convinced I’ll be so turned on there won’t be any pain. Just him and me and the time that didn’t pass. I would start moving slowly, up and down, my hands on his chest, letting my tits bounce right in front of his face. He would grab my hips to set the rhythm, or lift a nipple to his mouth and suck it while I rode him. I would pick up the pace until I was fucking him hard, and when he was on the verge I would turn around and get on my back so he could drive into me from above, my legs spread as wide as they go. He would end up coming inside me, filling my pussy with cum that would then drip down my thighs when I stood up.

I don’t know how many hours we would spend like that. Probably after the first time we would rest a little and go at it again, and again, until our bodies had nothing left. What I do know is that when I came out, my heels would echo again down the hallway, this time with the different weight of everything that had just happened behind those four walls, with his cum still sliding around inside my panties.

And when I got home, I would bring Marcos the leather jacket I forgot at Andrés’s apartment. The same one I’ve worn since we were young. The one that once made me feel like myself, before I became the wife and mother and sensible woman I have to be every day.

When I finished describing it to Marcos, what happened next doesn’t need much explanation. I unbuttoned his pants right there in the kitchen and pulled out his already rock-hard cock. I sucked him off sitting on a chair while he held my head and fucked my mouth with short thrusts, moaning Andrés’s name as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then he turned me around against the table, hiked up my robe, shoved his cock in me from behind, and took me right there, my cheek pressed to the wood, while he whispered in my ear everything Andrés would do to me, how he would fuck me, how he would fill me. We came almost at the same time.

***

The problem was what came after.

One thing is talking about it in the dark, hot and surrendered, and quite another is opening the calendar and finding a real slot. Between Marcos’s father’s sudden illness, the kids’ school commitments, weeks of piled-up work, and a broken boiler that took three weekends to get fixed, the project was put on indefinite hold.

Maybe it was a sign. Or maybe that’s just how life works: fantasy lives alongside schedules and usually loses.

I started seeing obstacles where before I’d seen possibilities. The next time we were alone, I didn’t talk about Andrés. I talked about what we still hadn’t put on the table.

—Have you thought I might like it more with him than with you?

Marcos looked at me without answering.

—What if I fall in love? What if he falls in love?

—What if I get pregnant?

—What if someone finds out and it reaches our families? What if, in time, the kids find out something?

Silence.

—So then what?—I asked.

But I didn’t wait for his answer. Mine came on its own, clear and cold as a bucket of water:

—I’m sorry, Marcos. I can’t do it.

***

Epilogue.

After that, our sex life settled into a calmer rhythm. Not bad, just different. Like before everything started, as if the fantasy had deflated on its own and left the space clean but a little empty.

Marcos felt, at heart, relieved. He never said it, but Clara noticed it in small gestures, in the way he slept without tension that week. Maybe they had come close to something irreversible. Maybe the refusal had rescued them from a catastrophe that still had no name.

But there was another part of him that kept circling all of it. The thrill of imagining, of knowing without quite knowing, had an addictive texture that doesn’t go away by choice. He had checked it in the months that followed: the image came back on its own, always at the worst moment. He found himself hard in the shower, imagining Clara kneeling in front of Andrés, with the other man’s cock going in and out of her mouth. He would come alone, braced against the tiles, with Andrés’s name on the tip of his tongue.

There was something that didn’t quite fit. Clara had described the scene with Andrés in full detail, but he had never appeared in that description. Not as a witness, not as a participant. Only as the recipient of the story. She never clarified whether she wanted Marcos there or not, and he didn’t ask. The fantasy had concentrated on the act itself, not on the preparations or the after.

Things happen for a reason, Marcos’s mother used to say. In this case, although the phrase had always seemed like cheap comfort to him, he had to admit there was some truth in it.

So the months passed. The matter was filed away with no reopening date, and life went on with its own rhythms.

Until that Tuesday.

Maybe it was the way Clara asked what time he’d be home. Maybe her apparent coldness when she ended the call without her usual goodbye. A feeling he couldn’t name settled in Marcos’s stomach for the rest of the afternoon and followed him on the way back.

When he opened the front door, everything was silent. On the entry table there was a yellow sticky note. He hung up his keys and picked it up.

It said: “Go upstairs.”

Something in him knew before he moved.

He climbed the stairs slowly. The hallway was dim, with no clue to what awaited him on the other side. He pushed open the bedroom door.

Clara was on the bed. Her hair piled high, like when they were young and everything seemed easier. She wore nothing but the leather jacket, open, with her nipples peeking out at the edges and her thighs parted. Between her legs her pussy looked swollen, shiny, and there was a thick thread of cum dripping slowly onto the sheet.

The jacket he had forgotten at Andrés’s place.

Marcos felt the weight of that in his chest: something like suffering and desire mixed in proportions he couldn’t calculate. His cock went hard immediately, pressing against his pants. He didn’t want to ask. He sensed the answer and wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it yet.

There would be time to talk. To process. To decide what the two of them would do with what remained after this.

But all of that could wait.

He didn’t waste another second. He unbuckled his belt as he crossed the room, dropped his pants to his knees, and climbed onto the bed between her open legs. He grabbed her thighs, pulled them farther apart, and buried his tongue in her freshly fucked pussy, tasting the mix of her and the other man, licking up the cum that still filled her. Clara moaned and pressed his head against her. When he couldn’t take it any longer, he sat up, grabbed his cock, and shoved it all the way in with one thrust. She was so wet, so open and slick with another man’s cum, that he slid in to the hilt with no resistance at all. He fucked her with the leather jacket still on her, gripping her tits through the open edges, while Clara whispered in his ear everything Andrés had done to her that afternoon, how hard, how many times, how much cum he had left inside her. Marcos came with a long groan, over the other man’s cum, and for the first time in months he felt the whole world settle back into place.