What I Did Fifteen Days Before My Wedding

As you may have imagined, I’m a woman of hot blood. Before I met Andrés, I had an intense sex life and experience from a very young age. I didn’t consider myself promiscuous, but I was never one to wait around either. I had several boyfriends and, in between them, the occasional night with guys I met at a party or at a bar.

With Andrés, I was the one who took the initiative. I sought him out, kissed him first, and took him to bed before he’d even dared to hold my hand. And from the first time we fucked, the sex between us was lukewarm. Decent, affectionate, but without any fire. His cock went in and out with the same rhythm every time, he came quickly, kissed me, and fell asleep. Only once in a while did I reach orgasm with him, and almost always I was the one who ended up touching myself afterward, in the bathroom, biting my lip so he wouldn’t hear me. Even so, I was in love—I still am—and Andrés was, and remains, the perfect man in every other respect.

I say that without reproach. He was tender and attentive, the kind of man who remembered your birthday and how you liked your coffee. In bed, though, he was always by the book: the same two or three moves, the lights off, everything over in fifteen minutes. I told myself my standards would come down, that it was just a matter of getting used to it. But the body has a memory, and mine remembered all too well what real desire felt like: a hard cock thrusting forcefully, hands squeezing, a mouth sucking my cunt until it made me tremble.

When he proposed to me, we were very young. Twenty-four years old, both of us. I said yes because I thought I’d lived enough already, that my wild phase was over, and that life, in the end, was about much more than sex.

And it’s true. Life isn’t only sex. But I also learned that sex is a part of life you can’t cover up with your hand. Denying the obvious has never worked for anyone.

The first time I fucked another man while I was with Andrés was about fifteen days before the wedding. After it happened, I came close to throwing everything away and confessing. I thought he deserved a different kind of woman—calmer, less hungry. I avoided him for two whole days, unable to look him in the eye, turning it over and over in my mind. In the end, I said nothing. We went ahead with our plans, got married, had two children, and here we are, still together today.

This afternoon, for no reason I could quite explain, that memory came back to me.

It wasn’t planned. Quite the opposite—it was completely casual. Now, with the distance of all these years, I almost convince myself it was fate teaching me a lesson: no matter how much I love Andrés, my body asks for things he is never going to give me.

That night I had plans to have dinner and a few drinks with two friends. The three of us had just graduated, very young, but already working and eager to spend our money. We chose a charming restobar downtown, one of those places with warm lighting and quiet music. One of them left early, so only two of us remained.

At the next table were two acquaintances of my friend, and they ended up joining us. There were four of us. I barely spoke; I just turned my glass between my fingers and watched the ice melt. But one of them couldn’t take his eyes off me.

—Aren’t you going to say anything all night? —he asked, leaning toward me.

—I’m listening —I replied—. Sometimes it’s more entertaining.

—And what are you listening to?

—The fact that you keep looking for an excuse to talk to me.

He laughed. He had an easy laugh, the kind that put you at ease. He started complimenting me, none of it especially subtle, but he delivered it with a confidence that disarmed me. No one had flirted with me like that in years. Ever since I’d gotten together with Andrés, I’d forgotten what it felt like to be desired by a stranger, that game of glances and double entendres I’d enjoyed so much at university.

I’m only flirting. There’s nothing wrong with that.

That was what I kept telling myself as I let his knee brush mine beneath the table. And when his hand settled on my thigh, over my dress, I didn’t move it away either. I felt my panties grow wet all at once, a damp tug between my legs that I hadn’t noticed in months.

At some point my friend got up and left with the other guy, saying goodbye with a wink that said more than she let on. And I was left with half a drink still unfinished and that man looking at me as if he already knew how the night would end.

—Want me to take you home? —he asked.

—Depends where —I said, though I already knew the answer.

The engagement ring felt heavy on my finger. I turned it with my thumb, once, twice, like someone switching off an alarm. He didn’t see it, or if he did, it didn’t matter to him. He had no idea I was fifteen days away from getting married. I didn’t tell him either. To him, I was just another girl from a bar, and the truth was that, that night, exactly what I wanted to be.

***

He took me to a cheap guesthouse a couple of blocks from the bar. It was badly lit, with a reception desk that smelled of disinfectant and a frankly depressing room: a creaking bed, a flickering lamp, and a bedspread that was best not examined too closely. And yet, instead of putting me off, it turned me on even more. It sent me straight back to my university days, when I’d slip into any corner rather than wait.

We went up a narrow staircase, him in front and me behind, counting the steps so I wouldn’t think about what I was about to do. The television from another room could be heard in the hallway, and farther away, a couple arguing. None of it had anything to do with the responsible girl who would be signing her marriage certificate in fifteen days. And that was exactly what I liked about it: for one night, I didn’t have to be that girl.

We went in kissing, without turning on the main light. His tongue forced its way between my teeth with a hunger Andrés had never possessed, and I sucked it as if it were the only thing I wanted to do in life. His hands went straight to my back, to the zipper of my dress, and I let him. The dress fell to the floor. I was left in my bra and panties, and he pushed me against the wall, slipped a hand beneath the fabric, and touched my cunt with two fingers, already soaked.

—Fuck, you’re dripping —he murmured against my neck.

—Shut up and keep going —I told him, grabbing the back of his neck.

We stripped each other in jerks, laughing and breathing in short gasps, stumbling over our own clothes. He ripped my panties off; the elastic scraped my hip and I didn’t even complain. He sucked my nipples one at a time, biting them just hard enough to draw a moan from me. I buried my fingers in his hair and pressed his mouth against my tits, asking for more without saying a word.

When I had him naked in front of me, I noticed the difference. He wasn’t huge or anything extraordinary, just an average cock. But it was bigger than Andrés’s, and above all, thicker. It was hard, pointing upward, the vein clearly visible underneath, the shiny head already beading with pre-cum at the tip. Just looking at it made something tighten inside me, a wet spasm that made me swallow.

We were still standing beside the bed. I knelt without him asking and put him in my mouth with a hunger that surprised even me. Feeling that thickness between my lips, feeling it stretch my mouth until it brushed the back of my throat, hearing him breathe deeply above me, drove me wild. It wasn’t special. It was new, which is something entirely different. I sucked him slowly at first, running my tongue along his entire length, pausing at the frenulum, going down to his balls and licking them too, one after the other, while massaging his cock with my hand. Then I took him with more hunger, swallowing him whole until my eyes filled with tears and I ran out of air. I pulled him out, slick with spit, then took him back in, looking up at him to see his face. He grabbed my hair—not to force me, but to guide me—and I let him set the pace while I hollowed my cheeks and pressed my lips against the base.

—Wait, wait —he murmured, gently tugging my hair—. I’m not going to last at this rate.

I pulled him out with an obscene pop, spat a strand of saliva onto his glans, and smiled up at him with my swollen mouth. I stood and arranged myself on the bed, on all fours, my chest against the bedspread and my ass at the edge of the mattress. I showed him everything: my open, glistening cunt and my tense asshole just above it. He stared for a second, and I heard him swallow. He stood behind me. I felt a little surge of pride when I heard him open a condom; I hadn’t asked him to, but he put it on by himself. Then he grabbed my hips, ran the tip over my cunt lips a couple of times, getting himself good and wet, and pushed in.

Feeling the difference made me soar. His thickness filled me in a way I didn’t know, stretching my walls and pressing inside me against places Andrés had never touched. I let out a long, hoarse moan, and he answered with a hard thrust that drove my face into the mattress. I came almost immediately, shamefully fast, biting the bedspread so I wouldn’t scream as my cunt clamped around his cock in spasms. He felt it and didn’t stop; on the contrary, he sank deeper, gripping my waist and fucking me with an increasingly brutal rhythm. The sound of his hips slamming against my ass filled the room, wet and obscene, and I pushed back to take him all the way.

—You’ve got such a delicious cunt —he panted, squeezing one cheek and spreading me open so he could watch himself go in and out—. You’re fucking soaked.

—Harder —I begged, my voice broken against the fabric—. Fuck me harder.

And he obeyed. He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and pounded into me with everything he had. I was falling apart, drool hanging from my mouth, moaning things I didn’t even understand, rubbing my own clitoris with two fingers because I couldn’t take it anymore.

While I was still trembling from my second orgasm, I felt his fingers reach higher, getting wet with my juices, slicking themselves with saliva too, probing the place I never let anyone probe. His thumb slipped just barely into my ass, circling the tense ring, pressing without actually entering.

—No, not there —I said, almost breathless.

Andrés had never done anything there, nor had we ever even discussed it. But it was one of those noes said with the mouth and contradicted by the body, because I didn’t move an inch—in fact, I arched my back to offer it to him better. He understood. He ignored me, which was what I wanted him to do. He pulled his cock out of my cunt, spat on my ass, and with two fingers spread the saliva mixed with my own juices around and inside my asshole. Then he pressed the tip of his glans there, with a patience I’m still grateful for, and began to enter.

It hurt. Even though he wasn’t big, it hurt, because after two years with Andrés that part of me was still untouched. I gripped the bedspread, held my breath, and felt the ring give way centimeter by centimeter around that thick cock, felt myself open inside in a new, almost brutal way. Little by little, the burning turned into something else, a dense, hot pressure that made me dig my nails into the fabric and bite my wrist to keep from screaming. I had never felt so full, so invaded, so dirty—and I had never been so wet.

—Should I keep going? —he asked, lying still once he was all the way in, his balls resting against my dripping cunt.

—Keep going —I said in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own—. Fuck my ass, please, don’t stop.

He began to move, slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt, letting me feel every inch. Then faster. He slipped one hand underneath me, found my swollen clitoris, and began rubbing it in circles while he pounded my ass harder. I hid my face in my arms and let myself be carried away by something I had never felt before, a mixture of embarrassment, pain, and a murky pleasure I was almost ashamed to enjoy so much. Every thrust tore a deep, animal moan from me, and I felt the bedspread soaked beneath my body, my own juices running down my thighs.

—You’re such a slut —he whispered in my ear, draping himself over my back without stopping his thrusts—. You love getting fucked in the ass, don’t you?

—Yes —I blurted out without thinking—. Yes, don’t stop, like that, like that…

I came again, with an orgasm unlike any other, one that shook my whole body from my belly to my legs, made me squeeze my eyes shut and see lights, and this time he came with me, gripping my hips tightly, burying himself to the hilt and collapsing for a moment onto my back as I felt the hot pulses of his ejaculation emptying inside me through the latex.

***

Afterward, he slipped out slowly, with a wet sound that made me close my eyes in shame and pleasure at the same time. I stayed that way for a moment, face against the bedspread, ass in the air, feeling everything throbbing inside me. He took off the condom, tossed it into a wastebasket in the corner, and, without much ceremony, began to dress. There was no embrace, no tender words, no exchange of phone numbers. And, strangely enough, that was fine.

I decided to get dressed too. I put on my dress without panties, because mine had been torn on the floor, and felt the cold air slip between my thighs, still wet and sticky. We went out into the street together, said a lukewarm goodbye on the corner, and each went his own way. I never saw him again. I don’t even remember his face very well; what I do remember is every detail of what happened in that horrible room: the creaking bed, the salty taste of his cock, the burning the first time he opened my ass, the way my whole body trembled when I came with him inside me.

It lasted forty minutes, perhaps less. It wasn’t the marvelous session they write about in novels, nor the unforgettable encounter one imagines. It was quick, a little clumsy, in a pitiful place. And yet it came back to me this afternoon, intact, after so many years, because it was my first infidelity, even though I wasn’t married yet.

Fifteen days later, I walked down the aisle in white, smiling at Andrés with tears of genuine emotion in my eyes. I loved him. I love him. That night at the guesthouse changed nothing about what I felt for him.

And yet, it wasn’t the last time.