Cheating

After two years without touching her, I had her beside me on the plane, trembling, asking my forgiveness and looking at me as if I were still her man.

I was indisposed, but when he told me he only wanted my mouth, I knew I would end up on my knees swallowing everything.

I found her torn, soaked panties on the floor. When she turned in bed and looked at me with shame in her eyes, I knew the night was only beginning.

I went into the garage in the tightest dress I owned, with no panties underneath, determined to make that son of a bitch return every last peso he’d stolen from my husband.

It started as a joke among friends, until she came looking for me in the sand, squeezed me in her hands, and made it clear she hadn’t come to talk.

I went back to the bar for my wife and found her far too comfortable between two truckers; that night, inside the motorhome, everything went wrong in the worst—and most exciting—way.

The message arrived at noon: that night I had to take my wife to the hotel and wait in the adjoining room, facing a switched-on screen.

When the phone vibrated, I was already wet; I knew he was waiting in the same bathroom, with haste, contempt, and the cock I had never learned to refuse.

When I entered the bar and saw him at the back table with no Camila between us, I knew the beer was an excuse—and I’d end up with his mouth on mine.

Crouched behind the table, I watched her slowly drive him wild, never imagining that her husband was already watching from the shadows.

When she shut the office door and asked me to look her in the eyes, I knew we weren’t going to talk about work alone.

I arrived at the estate before anyone else and knew from her gaze that she hadn’t invited me to show me the horses.

I thought we were going to have dinner and talk, but my neighbor took me somewhere everyone seemed to know her—and I ended up crossing a line.

I went in to say I had arrived for class and found her crying under the water; when she looked at me, her order was simple: “Take off your clothes.”

I went in with some reports and came out trembling, her perfume on my skin and the sound of her voice pretending to sound normal on the phone.

I left home with one condition: to behave like the slut we'd both been imagining for months.

I had spent months watching her through the window, but the day she knocked on my door, I realized she had been waiting for me too.

I watched them fuck on my living-room sofa and couldn’t look away; when he caught me, he decided none of us would remain just a spectator.

When he opened the door and saw her ex on the porch, he knew he was about to lose her in front of his eyes again.

No one at the university imagined what she did after class, much less what happened whenever her husband was away.