The Afternoon I Went Back to My Old Friend's Bed

My name is Diego, I’m thirty-eight years old and I live in Valencia. I’m no prize for anyone: just average height, five foot four, neither fat nor thin, neither ugly nor handsome. The kind of guy people pass on the street without looking up. There’s nothing spectacular about what’s between my legs either: plain and ordinary. Let’s make that clear from the start, because if someone’s looking for a story about an imposing guy, this isn’t the place.

I’m married. I love my wife and she loves me. But in bed we’re different planets. She’s the kind who turns off the light, who hardly dares try anything, who gets through it without much hunger. I’m the opposite: I think that, within respect and consent, there should be no ceiling in sex. And since I can’t get that with her, I look for that extra something outside the house.

Do I feel guilty? Not much. To me sex is a complement to love, and as long as no one gets hurt, I see no reason to sulk by giving up something I enjoy so much. It may sound selfish. Maybe it is. But I’m not going to stop enjoying myself while I can.

Now that the introduction’s out of the way, let’s get to it. What follows is real. I’m too lazy to invent scenes I never lived through: I’d rather tell it exactly as it happened.

Years ago I was messing around — saying I was “seeing” her would be a lie — with Carla, a girl three years younger than me. With her I had the best fucks of my life. Fiery, daring, uninhibited, a beast in bed. She knew how to move, knew how to suck, knew exactly what to say and when. A goddess, plain and simple.

We ended it after a few months, before things got out of hand on the emotional side. I met the woman who is now my wife and, not long after, Carla started seeing a girl. Yes, a girl.

But we kept seeing each other. Every few months we’d meet up for a drink, smoke a joint, and laugh like always. And I, of course, never missed a chance to try to get into her pants again, because Carla has always, simply put, driven me wild. Between the fact that she was with her partner and that she didn’t want to be an accessory to one of my cheating episodes, the most I ever got was a few forced kisses and a “stop pushing it, come on.”

Until a few weeks ago. Carla had broken up with her girlfriend and that, I confess, brought back my old hunter’s appetite. We met one Thursday morning at her place, like so many other times. Couch, open window, two coffees, a half-rolled joint.

***

Don’t ask me what we talked about. I’ve completely forgotten. All I remember is that, as always, I was inching closer and closer, brushing her arm, trying to get to that point where it’s no longer quite clear whether there’s any intention or not. And as always — or so it seemed — with no apparent result.

I don’t really know how she ended up leaning against me, with my arm behind her head and my other hand resting on her stomach. Not gripping, not really groping. Just my finger tracing her belly button in slow circles, looking for the edge of her shorts below and the hem of her T-shirt above, which had ridden up a little when she leaned back.

The situation was turning me on more than any explicit scene could. Being close to her, smelling her hair, feeling her temperature rising without her saying a word. She had gone quiet a while ago, eyes half-closed. And then I started noticing it: her breathing had changed. Shorter. Heavier.

Without really realizing it, my other hand had moved up. It was on her breast, over her T-shirt, with no pressure. As if it had landed there by accident. She didn’t complain. So, as if it were nothing, I started moving slowly, tracing her nipple through the fabric. Nothing. No protest, no moving my hand away.

I turned my head and gave her a very soft kiss near the ear. No tongue, no noise. Just a brush. My heart was racing and the pressure in my crotch was starting to hurt. I gave her another kiss, this time on the cheek, while the hand up top kept moving and the one below had reached the edge of her shorts.

And then she sat up.

That’s it, end of the line, not again. But Carla turned toward me, stared at me for a second, and said:

—Fuck, asshole, you’ve got me so fucking horny.

And before I could answer, she kissed me. Not one of those goodbye kisses, not the friendly peck from so many other afternoons. She devoured my mouth. Her tongue never stopped moving, setting the pace, exploring every corner of mine. I answered as best I could, with my left hand finally sliding between her legs, stroking the heat already noticeable through the fabric of her shorts. She was soaked. So was I, in my own way.

She stood up from the couch, gently pushed me back so I’d lean down, and sat astride me. Before I could react, she took off her T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath.

—I’m in charge here —she said, not smiling.

At last I could touch those tits again, the ones I remembered far too well, knead them, play with her nipples while she kept kissing me between gasps. I pulled her up a little to get my mouth on them, one and then the other, barely biting her nipples, while my hands slipped behind her, grabbing her ass, tracing her slit over the fabric, looking for her pussy from the other side.

She was moving on me as if she were already fucking me, grinding her crotch against my pants. Every movement she made had me thinking I was going to come before we even started.

***

She stood up again, this time to yank off her shorts and panties in one go. I took the chance to get rid of my T-shirt and unbutton my pants, because the pressure was already physically painful. When she came back, I shoved two fingers straight into her. She was burning hot, wet beyond anything I remembered. She kissed me again, deep, while I moved my fingers inside her and she panted against my mouth.

I pulled my pants down a little more to free myself completely. Carla looked at my cock, looked me in the eyes, and took it in her hand.

—Let’s see how long you last, asshole.

—With how turned on I am, not long. I’m warning you.

—You’re about to find out what a proper blowjob is.

She said that because she knows, from so many confidential talks between friends, that my wife isn’t exactly enthusiastic about that. And she leaned down over me.

What came next wasn’t a blowjob. It was something else. She took me all the way in, worked with her tongue, went up and down at a pace that seemed calculated to drive me insane. I tried to hold out, caressed her back, buried my fingers in her hair. But when she started sucking hard and massaging me with her free hand, I knew I didn’t have much left.

—Stop, stop —I told her, almost voiceless—. You’re going to make me finish.

She sat back up, wearing that little smile of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing. I grabbed her hips, lifted her, and set her over my face. What came next doesn’t need much description: I spent a good while lost between her legs, parting her lips with my tongue, teasing her clit, going down to the entrance and coming back up. Every movement she made, every muffled moan, told me I was on the right track.

***

When she pulled away, I thought she was going to climb on top and fuck me directly. But she said:

—Let’s play a little more.

And she straddled me again, but without taking anything in. She pressed her pussy along the full length of my cock, flattening it against my belly, and started moving back and forth like she was fucking me, lubricating me with her own wetness, masturbating herself with me. I stroked her clit with my thumb and she moaned, no longer hiding anything.

It was a magnificent kind of torture. Feeling her slide over me, hearing her breathing speed up, watching her bite her lower lip. I didn’t want it to end.

She leaned in to kiss me again and, as she lifted her hips, my cock shifted. In one of her movements, without either of us planning it, it went in. She literally swallowed it because she was so wet. And she started riding me.

I wasn’t fucking her. She was fucking me. At her pace, setting the rhythm, sinking all the way down and circling her hips when she reached the bottom. She moaned softly, almost to herself.

I held out as long as I could. But it wasn’t much. I asked her to get up, pushed her away with my hands, and with two hard spurts I came all over my own belly, a long load, the kind I hadn’t had in months. She looked down at me with half a sly smile, knowing she was responsible.

I got up to go to the bathroom and clean myself off. When I came back, she was stretched out on the couch, completely naked, one arm under her head. I went to pick up my clothes.

—Where are you going? —she said—. This isn’t over yet.

***

I came back. Lay down beside her, shoved my tongue into her mouth, let my hand slide down between her legs and started fingering her again, working her clit, slipping two fingers in every so often. It didn’t take all that long for her to come, gripping my forearm hard and biting my shoulder.

Then I went down, spread her legs, and spent a while eating her pussy slowly, unhurriedly. Enjoying the smell, the heat, the occasional shiver running through her thighs.

When I sat back up, my cock was ready again — not fully, but enough. I started running it over her cunt as if stroking her with it, looking her in the eyes, seeing in her face the desire she still hadn’t quite gotten out of her system. And I entered her slowly.

I fucked her missionary for a long while, calmly, deeply, while I caressed her breasts and sides, kissing her every so often. Then I turned her over — really, she anticipated me — and she got on all fours, ass up, offering it shamelessly.

I went for it. I ate her ass for full minutes, licking, tracing it with my tongue, while I fingered her cunt with one hand. She moaned, shifted, told me to keep going. When I got brave and slid my index finger in deeper, she cut me off at once:

—No, not there. It’s been too long and it’ll hurt.

I backed off without arguing. There’s nothing worse than pushing when someone tells you no. I put my cock back into her pussy, all the way in, letting my balls smack against her on every thrust. I stroked her back, whispered those two or three words I know she likes, the ones that would sound ridiculous coming from anyone else but always work with her.

The couch was uncomfortable. And even so, sooner than I expected, I felt myself right on the edge again. I pulled out in time and finished over her lower back, a shorter orgasm than the first one but just as pleasurable.

I went to the bathroom for some paper. Cleaned her carefully. Cleaned myself.

***

While I was getting dressed, she dropped one of those lines that can sink anyone:

—I remembered you having more stamina.

I had my answer ready almost without thinking.

—You had me insanely turned on. And I’ve been wanting this for years.

She smiled. Gave me a kiss at the corner of my mouth and stayed lying there while I finished dressing. I left the apartment with that strange feeling of having recovered something I’d long since given up for lost.

The next day I had one of the best fucks I can remember with my wife. I applied, without her noticing, Carla’s lesson: “I’m in charge here.” I took the lead like I rarely do, and it worked. My wife looked at me strangely when we were done, almost surprised, and fell asleep on top of me without saying a word.

I’ve tried to arrange to see Carla again several times since that morning. No luck. It was just a horny moment, she says. And although I know it hit her just like it hit me, her guilt over the fact that I have a partner is very strong. But I’ll keep insisting, without pressuring her, because if besides being good friends we can see each other every so often for something like that, why not?

Who knows. Maybe soon I’ll write again.