The Week I Cheated on My Partner Twice

That week, my partner and I had gone days without speaking to each other.

It wasn’t the first time we’d reached that point of absolute silence, but this time it felt different. Heavier. As if something had changed for good and neither of us wanted to admit it yet.

My name is Sandra. I’m twenty-nine, with light brown skin, long legs, and wide hips that never went unnoticed. I always knew I had a body, and I always knew how to use it. But that week my body and my head were pulling in completely opposite directions.

On one side there was Martín, my ex, with whom I have a five-year-old daughter. Martín had been dropping hints for months that we could get back together, mixing messages about our daughter with remarks that had nothing to do with anything. I rejected him every time, but in that state of mind, with the fight with my partner still ringing in my ears, the idea was starting to lose its clarity.

On the other side there was Diego.

Diego was someone who had followed me on Instagram a few months earlier, a guy I knew by sight from parties with mutual friends, but with whom I had never exchanged more than two words. We liked each other’s posts, left the occasional comment, nothing beyond polite. But I had looked at him closely a couple of times, and what I felt wasn’t exactly politeness.

On Thursday, the fight with my partner reached the point of no return. No shouting, no slamming doors. Just that concrete-like silence and the certainty that that night we would sleep in separate rooms.

***

On Friday afternoon I was supposed to meet Martín to hand him our daughter for the weekend.

The handoff lasted ten minutes. But Martín, as punctual as always when it came to bad ideas, took advantage of the fact that our daughter ran off to her grandparents’ room to stay by the door, blocking my way with that gesture I recognized perfectly.

—You could stay a while —he said—. It would be good for our daughter if we had dinner together.

—Martín...

—Just dinner. Nothing else.

I hesitated. I shouldn’t have, but I did, and he saw it on my face.

We had dinner. Our daughter went to bed early. Martín’s parents did too. And suddenly it was ten at night and we were alone in the kitchen, with the dirty dishes in the sink and that thick silence that only exists between people who have seen each other naked many times.

—You should go —I said, though it was to myself that I was saying it.

Martín came closer slowly and kissed me. I let him. There was something comfortable and familiar in his mouth, something that didn’t require effort, and at that moment effort was the last thing I felt like making.

We kissed standing by the counter. When his hands started moving, I didn’t stop them. He lifted my skirt a little, slid a hand under the fabric, and found my wetness immediately. I drew in a breath through my teeth. There was no delicacy in him, only habit, fingers probing my mons and searching between my folds with the confidence of someone who thinks he knows every corner of your body.

I knelt in front of him on the cold ceramic floor and lowered his pants. I knew him well. Too well. I started slowly, with my tongue, wetting the tip before taking him deeper, swallowing him with my mouth open and my lips taut around his cock. He tasted salty and sour as always, and that was exactly what turned me on most: how easy it was to bring him to the edge. I licked his frenulum, sucked his head hard, ran my hand along his shaft while he gripped the edge of the counter with white knuckles. It didn’t take long. A couple of short thrusts of his hips and a broken moan when he came in my mouth, hot, thick, his whole body shaking with relief.

He stayed there breathing hard, leaning against the counter, while I swallowed and wiped the corner of my lips with my thumb.

That’s it, I thought as I stood up.

Martín apologized awkwardly. He said he’d been carrying a lot of tension for weeks. I wiped the corner of my mouth, grabbed my bag, and left without saying anything else.

***

I got home after one in the morning. The lights were off. My partner’s side of the bed was empty.

I sat on the couch with my phone in my hand and that heat in my body that Martín hadn’t taken care of. On the contrary. He had left me half-finished, aroused and with nothing to show for it.

That was when I opened Instagram.

Diego’s profile was there, in the list of unused conversations. I went to the chat and wrote something short, without thinking too much. That I was awake and had wanted to talk to him for a while.

He replied almost immediately.

We talked for half an hour. Diego was direct and funny, with that kind of humor that acknowledges tension instead of pretending it doesn’t exist. We talked about music, about a party where we’d crossed paths months earlier, about nothing important. But under that conversation there was another one, and we both knew it.

In the end, he was the one who said it outright.

—I’ve wanted to get to know you better for a while. Do you have plans tomorrow?

—I might not —I replied.

—I live alone. I can make coffee. Or whatever we come up with.

There was a pause. Then a file came through. A photo. No text.

I opened it.

God.

I closed it. Opened it again. I couldn’t believe it was real.

I tucked the phone under my pillow and took a long time to fall asleep.

***

Saturday dawned with the phone on the bedside table. My partner hadn’t slept at home. He’d left me a message in the early hours saying he needed time to think. I read it with a calm that even I found strange.

At six in the evening, Diego sent me the address.

I showered twice. I put on a dark, short skirt, the same one I’d worn that night at the party when Diego had watched me from the other side of the room. No stockings. I looked in the mirror longer than usual.

I walked to his building. Fifteen minutes on foot that felt like five because of the adrenaline.

I pressed the intercom for the fourth floor. A deep voice told me to come up.

The door was ajar when I reached the landing. Diego appeared at the end of the hall in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Taller than I remembered. Defined arms, dark skin, a smile that was anything but innocent.

—You came —he said.

—I came —I replied.

He had roommates, he explained while showing me into the living room. But they had gone out. We talked for a while over coffee that neither of us finished. I watched his hands when he spoke, big and calm. He looked at me in a way that made it hard to hold his gaze.

It was Diego who broke the silence in the only way that made sense.

—Did you like the photo?

I felt the heat rise to my face.

—Yes —I admitted.

He stood up, held out his hand, and led me down the hall without rushing.

***

There was no urgency in his room.

Diego closed the door and kissed me standing beside the bed, his hands on my face first and then on my waist, taking the time Martín never took. When he unbuttoned my shirt, he did it button by button, looking at me between each one as if he had all the time in the world. He slid my bra strap down, kissed my chest through the fabric, then pulled it aside to lick my nipple, slowly, drawing a shiver through my legs. His mouth was hot and his tongue precise; he sucked both my breasts as if learning them, squeezing my tits with his palms until I was panting.

When my skirt hit the floor, he stepped back and looked at me.

—I knew you’d be like this —he said quietly.

I pushed him toward the bed.

I knelt between his legs and pulled down his pants. What I’d seen in the photo was real. Completely real. I took him in my hand first, gauging the size, feeling the hardness throbbing under the skin, and then with my mouth. He rested his head on the pillow and let out a long, deep sound. I took my time. I licked his shaft from base to tip, ran my tongue over the head, sucked him deep, setting the rhythm with my hand while I looked at his face. His hips gave a small upward jerk, asking for more. I gave it to him: more saliva, more pressure, more tongue, until his breathing turned ragged and he asked me to stop in a rough voice that was anything but gentle.

—I don’t want to finish here —he said.

He lifted me up by my arms and laid me face-down on the bed.

He bent over me and started at my neck. He worked his way down my back, slowly, until he reached the edge of the skirt already lying on the floor, parting my legs with his knees as if he knew exactly where to touch first. He opened my ass with one hand and slid two fingers into my pussy, sinking them in without asking, opening me with firm, deep movements while his mouth traveled down my back. I grabbed the sheet with my fingers and pressed my forehead into the pillow. He stayed there a long time, sucking me, licking me, sliding his fingers in and out until I was soaked. When I could think of nothing else, he straightened and slapped my hip sharply.

He positioned me on my knees and got behind me. He held my waist, rubbed the tip between my wet lips, and took his time entering me, little by little, all the way in, letting me feel every inch. I let out the breath I’d been holding since the day before. He filled me in one go and then pulled out just a little, pushing back in with a slow thrust that made me clamp around him with such force that he growled.

He started slowly. Then not so slowly.

The impact of his body against mine grew stronger, pushing my pelvis into the mattress, making me moan with my face buried in the pillow. He grabbed my hair to force me to lift my head a little and told me in my ear that I was going to come for him, that he wanted to hear me scream his name. I moved back against his cock, tightening around him with every rise and fall, feeling him rubbing me deep inside to the very bottom. I came before he changed position, trembling all over, my legs tense, my pussy pulsing around him while he kept thrusting for a few more seconds to prolong my orgasm.

—Get on top —he said.

I climbed over him and looked down at him from above. I put my hands on his chest and started to move. The sensation of having him so deep, of rubbing against his pelvis with every drop, made me let out a rough moan. His hands went to my hips, holding me while I set the pace: up, down, faster, harder. His cock slid in and out wet, and every time I leaned a little farther forward, he squeezed my tits and told me to keep going, not to stop. The expression on his face at that moment is something I stored away in a precise corner of my memory.

We spent hours. With pauses, with water, with an unexpected laugh or two. He was generous and I didn’t have to ask for anything. We did everything: he put me against the wall, bent me over the bed, made me kneel again to suck him once more until he was nearly out of breath, brought me to the edge with his tongue between my legs and then fucked me again until my thighs shook. By the time we both had little strength left, we lay there in silence staring at the ceiling, skin sticky and the smell of sex filling the room.

At midnight I got dressed in the bathroom. Diego walked me to the door.

—Come back whenever you want —he said, leaning against the frame.

I didn’t make any promises. But we both knew I’d be back.

***

I got home a little before one. My legs were slightly unsteady as I climbed the stairs. I hadn’t showered.

The bedroom door was ajar. My partner was in bed, awake, with his phone on his chest.

—Where were you? —he asked without moving.

—At Verónica’s —I said—. I needed to talk to someone.

He nodded. He put the phone on the bedside table. I saw on his face something I recognized as guilt, or maybe the desire to fix what we’d been breaking for days.

—I’ve been an idiot this week —he said.

I didn’t answer. I sat on the edge of the bed.

He came closer. Put a hand on my knee, then on my thigh. I didn’t push him away. When he laid me back and hiked up my skirt, I stared at the ceiling.

He asked no questions. He was thorough and took his time. He didn’t ask why I was different that night, or maybe he noticed and preferred not to know. He parted my legs with his hands, lowered his head between my thighs, and ate my pussy patiently, sipping up the moisture I still carried, licking my cunt as if he wanted to erase the trace of another cock from there. I closed my eyes and thought about the room on the fourth floor. About Diego’s hands. About the expression on his face.

My partner fell asleep convinced he had fixed something between us.

I lay staring at the ceiling for a long time after he did. I thought about Friday and Saturday, about Martín and Diego, about what that weekend had been. And I thought that my partner had just fallen asleep without imagining even half of what had happened.

I didn’t feel guilty. I felt something else. Something more like curiosity about how far all of it would go.