Cheating

When Diego pulled over beneath the neon lights, I knew our bet over laughter and kalimotxo would become the night my wife and I had secretly imagined for months.

We went looking for a new dildo far from home, where no one knew us. What happened in that booth left the toy forgotten on the floor.

“I started thinking and came up with a few ideas,” he wrote. Three hours later, a stranger was ringing our doorbell.

When the dressing room door opened, I knew it wasn’t my assistant. It was him, and he had that look that made me choose between desire and guilt.

At the wedding everyone was looking at her in a way I never had. That night she came up to get me and I passed out drunk. What happened after that I only found out at dawn.

At three in the morning, the first message arrived. A woman tied to an unfamiliar bed and a sentence that chilled my blood: “this beauty is your wife.”

The night before my wedding I got myself ready alone in the hotel suite. What my future husband didn’t know was who I was really getting ready for.

Bruno’s curiosity awakened something in me I could no longer control: I wanted my trainer to touch me for real, not just in my words.

She leaned against the edge of the desk, opened her jacket, and said huskily, “Now you can stop wondering.” And I knew that afternoon wouldn’t end at the office.

He held my gaze at the counter for ten seconds, and I knew I would follow him to the restrooms. That morning, I stopped being the perfect wife.

She only wanted to understand her body before getting married. She never imagined that therapy group would lead her to betray everything she believed about herself.

Three days without thinking about anything except the smell of hot rubber and his hands on me. And my husband, without knowing it, gave me the perfect excuse to go back.

She treated the workers like trash. They decided to teach her, against the sink in her immaculate kitchen, exactly where she belonged that afternoon.

My girlfriend had been out of town for a week and I could think of only one thing: text Mariana and meet her at our usual café for a little game.

Every morning she chose a different garment, knowing it would end up torn on the living-room floor. What she didn’t expect was the door opening early.

I held her gaze while I lied, my hand still remembering his skin trembling against the cup, praying she wouldn’t put the pieces together.

I've been faking it in bed for years. That night, while he ordered another drink, I exchanged glances with the man at the bar and knew I wouldn't return from the bathroom alone.

I told Andrés that therapy was helping me clear my head. I didn’t tell him that every session left my body shaking and my conscience split in two.

At three in the morning I sent my personal number to the client. When her name appeared on my phone, I knew I’d already crossed a point of no return.

I never dared tell her. But that afternoon, while she was having coffee with her friends, I typed the two words that set everything in motion: “but accept.”