I Invent a New Fantasy for My Cuckold Husband

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

One night, while dinner cooled between us, he broke that muteness with a trembling voice.

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

I stopped with the fork in the air.

—My things?

—Yeah. Your fantasies. When I sat here and you told 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… this thing that really happened… it’s breaking me apart inside.

A cold smile formed on my lips. There 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 of the stories, not the flesh-and-blood woman who came 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 narrator again. Would you like me to invent another adventure for you? A new one, just for you.

He lifted his head and a gleam 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 stood there looking at the greengrocer. A dark-haired guy, with big hands, still with dirt under his nails. I imagined him taking me to the back storage room, between the fruit crates, and lifting up my skirt without asking permission. Pressing his face close and smelling me over my underwear. Telling me I smelled like a real woman, like heat, like desire. And just with that, just with his breath right there, I came without him touching me with a finger.

Damián swallowed. His breathing changed rhythm. I saw his hand move, discreetly, toward his lap.

—But that wasn’t enough for me —I went on, raising the temperature a little more—. Then I went into a coffee shop and the waiter, a young, shy 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 knelt in front of him. His legs were trembling. I tasted him without rushing, kept looking up at him the whole time, and when he was done I said, “thanks for the dessert,” and walked out fixing my hair like 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 stick my fingers.

I paused for a long, calculated moment. I took a slow sip of wine, 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 broken.

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

—But you know something, Dami… —I said, and let the silence hang 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 brought Lucía with me.

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

—The two of us rang the bell —I continued—. When Andrés opened the door, we told him we’d come to misbehave and needed someone to show us how. He let us into the living room, drew the curtains, and looked us up and down without hurry, like someone choosing fruit. He told us to kneel, one beside the other, 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, spreading my legs just enough so he couldn’t look at anything else.

—He put the two of us on all fours on the rug —I said, lowering my voice almost to a whisper—. He was comparing us, saying he had to see which one of us was more surrendered. Lucía and I looked at each other, and every time he touched us, we’d find each other’s mouths so we wouldn’t scream. It was pain and pleasure at the same time, and neither of us wanted him to stop.

Damián was gasping. His hand was a constant, desperate motion under the table. I measured 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, without realizing where I was taking him.

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

—I… I like it —he admitted, almost out of breath.

And there was the truth he himself 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 one terrified him. That was why he preferred to believe it was all just a story.

—And then, my cuckold —I said, and the word fell between us like a lash—, the fantasy got really good. Andrés came up to me, grabbed my hair, and told me: “You’re the cuckold’s wife, so you get the prize.” He got behind me. And while he took me however he wanted, I screamed your name. I screamed, “Damián, look what I’m doing for you, look how far I’m going.” Lucía, underneath, wouldn’t stop teasing me with her tongue. It was a mess of sweat, screams, the smell of sex with no brakes.

I leaned closer until my breath brushed his ear.

—When Andrés finished, he pulled away and left me there, shaking, open, marked. 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 flavor, 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 like that, defeated, trembling, eyes closed, reliving every image I had just woven thread by thread.

I watched him in silence for a moment. 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 climbed 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 too intense, wasn’t it?

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

—Fantasy? —he stammered.

—Of course, my life —I said, stroking his hair slowly—. Everything I told you was a story, a dirty little tale to turn you on, 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 castaway 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 nothing but 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, sharper and sharper, 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 tucked against mine, his breathing peaceful 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, too. But he would discover that 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 while stroking his back, was the cruellest 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.