I Invent a New Fantasy for My Cuckold Husband

The days that followed the disaster were thick with silence, the kind that seeps into the walls. Damián avoided looking me in the eye. The air in our bedroom, no matter how often I aired it out and changed the sheets, still felt charged with something he couldn’t name and that I had no intention of giving back to him. We ate without speaking, chewing each bite as if it were penance.

One night, while dinner grew cold between us, he broke that muteness with a broken voice.

—Carolina… —he began, without lifting his eyes from his plate—. I miss… I miss when you used to tell me your stuff.

I paused with my fork in the air.

—My stuff?

—Yeah. Your fantasies. When I’d sit here and you’d tell me you’d been with the guy from the gym, or with Andrés… even if it wasn’t true. It was easier. It turned me on. This other thing… what actually happened… it’s tearing me apart inside.

A cold smile curved my lips. There it was, the confession I’d been waiting for. It wasn’t the infidelity that was destroying him, but the fact that it had stopped being a story. He preferred the tale, the safe lie he could control from his corner. He wanted the woman from the stories, not the flesh-and-blood woman coming home with her hair mussed.

—I understand, my love —I said, softening my voice until it was almost tender—. You want me to be your storyteller again. Would you like me to invent another adventure for you? A new one, just for you.

He lifted his head, and a glimmer of hope lit his face. He nodded slowly, like a dog being shown a bone after days of punishment.

—Perfect. —I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs calmly—. Then listen carefully. And don’t interrupt me until I’m done.

He needs this more than he needs to breathe, I thought. And I’m going to give it to him, drop by drop.

I started with something soft, almost innocent, to warm the engine slowly.

—Today I went to the neighborhood market —I said, lowering my voice—. And I ended up staring at the produce guy. A dark-haired man, big hands, still with dirt under his fingernails. I imagined him taking me to the back storeroom, between the fruit crates, and lifting my skirt without asking permission. I imagined him bringing his face close and smelling me over my underwear. Telling me I smelled like a real woman, like heat, like desire. And just from that, just from his breath there, I came without him even touching me with a finger.

Damián swallowed. His breathing changed rhythm. I watched his hand drift, discreetly, down to his lap.

—But that wasn’t enough for me —I went on, raising the temperature a little—. Then I went into a café and the waiter, a shy young guy, couldn’t take his eyes off me. I beckoned him over and whispered in his ear that if he wanted a real tip, he should follow me to the bathroom. Inside, I got down on my knees in front of him. His legs were shaking. I slowly opened his pants, pulled out his already-hard cock and licked the tip, first gently, then deeper, leaving him trembling while I sucked his balls with one hand resting on his thigh so he wouldn’t collapse. When he started moaning, he threaded his fingers into my hair and pushed my mouth lower, and I let him, taking him in with relentless strokes, listening to him beg for more, hearing him tell me not to stop. I looked up at him the whole time, and when he finished I smiled with my mouth wet and told him “thanks for dessert” before leaving, fixing my hair as if nothing had happened.

His hand was already moving with less shame over his pants. His face was split between lust and guilt, and that crack was exactly where I wanted to slip my fingers in.

I let a long, calculated pause hang there. I took a sip of wine without hurry, let the silence stretch until he almost begged me with his eyes to continue. I learned long ago that desire grows faster in waiting than in words. And Damián, my poor Damián, was learning how to wait like no one else.

—Do you want me to go on? —I asked, pretending innocence.

—Please —he said, his voice shattered.

That word, that “please” coming from a man who had once been proud, was worth more to me than any orgasm. I kept it like a jewel.

—But you know something, Dami… —I said, and let the silence weigh heavy—. That’s for beginners. Today my fantasy was much darker. Today I went to see Andrés. And this time I didn’t go alone. I took Lucía with me.

His eyes flew wide open. Lucía’s name, my best friend’s, and Andrés’s, mixed in the same sentence, hit him in a place he thought was locked shut.

—The two of us rang the bell —I continued—. When Andrés opened up, we told him we’d come to behave badly and needed someone to show us how. He let us into the living room, drew the curtains, and looked us up and down without rushing, like someone choosing fruit. He asked us to kneel, side by side, and took his time deciding where to start.

I got up from the chair and sat on the edge of the table, right in front of him, opening my legs just enough so he couldn’t look at anything else.

—First he had us take off our underwear —I said, lowering my voice until it was almost a whisper—. Lucía unhooked her bra and let her tits fall in front of him, and I saw how Andrés stared at them like he was hungry. He pulled my panties aside with two fingers, slowly, and ran his tongue over the crease of my pussy without so much as a hello, like he already knew by heart where he had to start. He got the two of us on all fours on the rug and opened us up with his hands, measuring with his eyes which one of us was wetter. Lucía touched my hip so she wouldn’t lose her balance, and when he sank two fingers into me or buried his mouth between her legs, the two of us found each other’s mouths so we wouldn’t scream. It was pain and pleasure at the same time, a dirty, hot, brutal pressure, and neither of us wanted it to stop.

Damián was panting. His hand was moving constantly, desperately, under the table. I tracked every breath he took, every time he bit his lip, and adjusted the story according to what I saw. I wasn’t improvising: I was steering him. Every sentence was a step, and he climbed them one by one, not realizing where I was leading him.

—You like imagining it, don’t you? —I said, tilting my head—. Imagining me with another man, giving myself over, not thinking about you for even a second. You like that more than having me. Say it.

—I… I like it —he admitted, almost breathless.

And there was the truth he himself still didn’t fully understand: he didn’t desire me, he desired the story of me. The version he could control from his chair, the one that always ended with a kiss and a promise. The real thing terrified him. That’s why he preferred to believe it was all a story.

—And then, my cuckold —I said, and the word fell like a lash between us—, the fantasy got truly good. Andrés came over to me, grabbed my hair, and said, “You’re the cuckold’s wife, so you get the prize.” He spread my legs wider, pressed me against the back of the couch, and rammed his cock into me in one stroke, all the way in, making me let out a cry that tore my throat open. Lucía got behind him, grabbed his waist, and stroked his cock with her hand while I moved up and down, soaked through, feeling how he filled me completely. He fucked me hard, without a trace of tenderness, and I begged for more, told him to give it to me harder, to break me if he had to, because I wanted to feel him buried in me until my legs shook. Damián, you can’t imagine how good it felt to have the two of them watching me while I clung to Andrés like a desperate bitch.

I leaned closer until my breath brushed his ear.

—And that wasn’t the end of it. When Andrés changed rhythm and left me gasping, Lucía knelt between my legs and licked my pussy while he shoved his fingers into her mouth, slowly, making her suck them covered in my own taste. Then he made me turn around, bent me over the table, and opened my ass with two wet fingers before shoving his cock in all at once, making me growl from pure shock. I was shouting your name through clenched teeth, not because I wanted you there, but because I knew thinking about you would kill you the same way pleasure was killing me. Andrés grabbed my hips, set the pace, and Lucía, from the front, kissed my mouth so I could taste the two of them mixed together. It was chaos of sweat, nails, saliva, and moans, a beautiful disaster.

—When Andrés finished, he stepped away and left me there, trembling, open, marked. And then Lucía came, cleaned me with her mouth, and then climbed up to kiss me so I could taste him too. The two of us sharing another man’s taste, while you were here at home, waiting for me like a good patient husband.

Damián came with a muffled groan, folding in on himself, staining his pants. He stayed there, defeated, trembling, eyes shut, reliving every image I had just woven for him thread by thread.

I watched him for a moment in silence. I enjoyed that second more than I like to admit. Then my face changed. The hardness melted away and I replaced it with a luminous tenderness, rehearsed to perfection. I got down from the table, knelt beside him, and wrapped my arms around him.

—Oh, Damián, my love —I murmured, kissing his forehead—. Are you okay? Forgive me, I got carried away. That fantasy was way too intense, right?

He opened his eyes, dazed, and found love painted across my face.

—A fantasy? —he stammered.

—Of course, baby —I said, stroking his hair slowly—. Everything I told you was just a story, a dirty little tale to turn you on and nothing more. Do you really think I’d do something like that? With Andrés, with Lucía? My God, what an imagination you have. And what an imagination I gave you.

I kissed him. A long, deep kiss, full of promises. The kiss of the Carolina he thought he knew, the usual one, the one from quiet Sundays and shared plans.

—I love you, Damián. You’re all I have. I’d never leave you. It’s you and me, and our games. Nothing more than that.

He clung to me like a shipwrecked man to a log in the middle of the sea. He believed every word, one by one. He relaxed in my arms, convinced the nightmare had been only a dream, a hot story told by the woman who loved him.

And as I held him, I smiled over his shoulder, where he couldn’t see me.

He wanted the fantasy. I was going to give it to him. A fantasy that would get more and more real, more and more razor-sharp, until one day he no longer knew where my love ended and where his ruin began. Because the truth, the one he refused to look at, no longer needed to be invented. It only needed him to keep preferring the story.

That night we slept wrapped around each other, his body fitting against mine, his breathing calm for the first time in days. I stayed awake staring at the ceiling, going over every detail of what was to come. Andrés had stopped being a name I invented to turn him on. Lucía had too. But he would find that out later, when it would already be impossible to tell which of my stories had been a lie and which had really happened while he waited at home, happy, grateful, blind.

And that, I thought, stroking his back, was the cruelest fantasy of all: the one he asked me for in his own words, night after night, never suspecting that each story was one more step toward the end.