Carla Was Crying Over Her Husband and Ended Up in My Bed

After Lucía left me, my life was suspended in a kind of thick fog. We had spent three years together before the distance between Valencia and Seville finally brought everything to an end. One day she simply told me she couldn’t take it anymore, that she needed something I wasn’t in any position to give her, and she hung up the phone.

I didn’t have many friends in the city. I had moved there for work and had spent almost all my free time with her. When she left, I was left with a half-empty apartment, two wilted plants, and far too many hours to think.

That’s how I ended up on those dating sites. At first out of curiosity, then out of boredom, and in the end because of a strange mix of wounded pride and the urge to prove to myself that I was still capable of being desired by someone.

Carla appeared one November afternoon in one of those chats where most profiles were obvious lies. Hers didn’t seem to be. She had thick black hair and a smile that looked a little shy in the photo. She lived twenty minutes from my place, in a coastal village south of the city.

We wrote to each other for two weeks before deciding to meet. In every message we shared pieces of our stories, and I was surprised to discover that hers was almost a mirror of mine. Her husband had left her two months earlier, without arguments, without scenes, without warning. One afternoon she came home from work and found the wardrobe half empty and a brief note on the kitchen table.

—The worst thing isn’t that he left —she wrote me one night—. The worst thing is not understanding why.

That sentence broke something inside me. I had never understood why Lucía had decided to leave either. Maybe that’s why I wanted to meet Carla in person as soon as possible.

We met on a Saturday afternoon on a terrace in the city center. She arrived in a simple black dress with her hair tied up, and when she smiled at me from the bar entrance, I realized the photo hadn’t done her justice. She had huge, dark eyes and curves the dress barely disguised. Her tits were big and heavy, and they filled out the neckline in a way that made it impossible not to look there every now and then. She had a narrow waist, wide hips, and walked with a confidence that contrasted with the sadness in her voice when she spoke.

We ordered beers, talked for hours, and then went to dinner at a nearby Japanese place. Our conversation flowed as if we had known each other forever. She laughed easily, and when she laughed her whole face lit up. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth and imagining it open, with those red lips wrapped tight around my cock.

After dinner we ended up in a cocktail bar that played quiet music. We danced a slow one, not separating much, and sometime between the second gin tonic and the third, I kissed her. It wasn’t a rough kiss. It was slow, almost careful, as if the two of us were asking permission at the same time. Her tongue slipped into my mouth slowly, testing, and I felt my cock hardening against her hip. She noticed too, because she barely pulled her face back and glanced down for a second at my crotch before kissing me again.

When we went out into the street, I asked her to come up to my place.

—I can’t —she said, looking away—. I’m still in love with him. I know it’s absurd, but I don’t want to do something I’ll regret tomorrow.

I walked her to her car and we said goodbye with another kiss, shorter, almost apologetic. I got home burning with desire, with my cock still half-hard inside my jeans, and that night I jerked off thinking about how her tits would have looked out of her bra, about how her voice would sound if I made her ask for more. I came in two minutes, her name filling my mouth.

***

We saw each other twice more in the weeks that followed. Both times the same thing happened: a pleasant dinner, long conversations, kisses in the doorway by the car, and a soft “no” as soon as I tried to go any further. The third time I decided not to push. The next day I sent her a message saying I understood, that I thought she was wonderful, but that I preferred not to see each other until she had things clear.

Ten days passed without me hearing from her. Until one Tuesday night, around eleven, my phone rang.

—Do you have a minute? —she said, her voice shaken—. I’ve got news.

By her tone I thought something bad had happened, but it was the opposite. Her husband had called her that same afternoon. He had apologized, told her he’d made a mistake, that he wanted to come home, and that he’d go see her the following weekend.

—I’m telling you because… because you’ve treated me well, and I didn’t want to just disappear —she told me.

I felt something bitter in my throat. I knew my chances had just evaporated. But I did the right thing. I congratulated her, told her I was very happy for her, and wished her luck. I hung up knowing for certain I would never hear from Carla again.

***

The following Friday, almost at one in the morning, her name appeared on my screen again. When I answered, the first thing I heard were sobs.

—He didn’t come —she said through tears—. He texted me an hour ago. He says… he says he got confused, that this is better for both of us. That he’s not coming back.

I didn’t know what to say. I let her cry on the other end of the phone for several minutes. When she calmed down a little, she asked if we could talk.

—I don’t want to be alone tonight —she added—. I just need a friend.

—Come over —I replied, before even thinking about what I was saying—. I’ll make you something to eat and we’ll talk as much as you need.

She took five seconds to answer.

—Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour.

I hung up and got moving. I took out the little I had from the fridge, threw together a cheese board, some cured meats, and opened a bottle of red wine I’d been saving for a special occasion. I lit two candles in the living room, not because I intended to seduce her that night, but because it seemed like the right thing for someone arriving with a broken heart. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

She arrived with swollen eyes, no makeup, wearing an oversized gray sweater that was probably her husband’s. She hugged me in the doorway without saying a word. She smelled of shampoo and held-back crying.

We ate slowly. She talked about him, about the six years they’d spent together, about the apartment they’d bought, the dog he’d taken with him, the anger and the grief that took turns hitting her. I listened and kept pouring her wine. By the second glass, she was the one stretching hers out for me to refill. By the third, she started laughing at little things, as if her body had decided on its own it couldn’t carry that much pain all night.

We moved to the sofa with the bottle halfway down. I made her a gin and tonic, and she settled in barefoot with her legs tucked under her body. The light in the living room was low, and the silence between sentences started stretching out.

You shouldn’t be doing this. She’s broken and came here looking for comfort, not something else.

But her hand found mine on the back of the sofa and held it there while she kept talking, almost without noticing. I stroked her fingers with my thumb. Then I brushed a lock of hair away from her face. And then, without thinking, I touched her cheek with the back of my hand.

—You’re very beautiful, even like this —I told her softly.

She looked at me for a long second, lips parted, and leaned toward me. The kiss began softly, like that first one in the street, and grew hungrier with every breath. Her tongue came into my mouth with months of restrained need, and she bit my lower lip before letting go. She climbed on top of me without leaving my mouth, with her knees on either side of my hips, and I felt the weight of her tits pressing against my chest through the sweater’s wool. She started moving on top of me, rubbing her pussy against my cock through our clothes, very slowly, as if she wanted to find out how much I wanted her before deciding anything.

—Jesus, you’re hard —she murmured against my ear, almost surprised, and pressed her hips harder against my bulge.

I slipped my hands under her sweater and pulled the fabric up until I yanked it over her head. Underneath she was wearing a simple black bra that barely contained two enormous, round tits, with the base marked by two red grooves where the underwire had been digging in. I unclasped the back in one tug and the bra fell from her arms. Her tits bounced free, the nipples already hard and dark, pointing upward. I grabbed one full in my hand and took the nipple of the other into my mouth. I sucked it hard, pulling it with my lips, nibbling it between my teeth, and she arched her back and dug her fingers into my neck to make me keep going.

—Keep doing that, keep going —she panted—. God, it’s been ages since anyone touched my tits like this.

I ran my tongue from one to the other, alternating, and slid my hand down her belly until I slipped it inside her pants. I sank my fingers between her panties and found her soaking, her cunt hot, slippery, swollen. I rubbed her clit with the heel of my hand while I pushed two fingers inside, and she grabbed my shoulders and started riding my hand, moving her ass back and forth.

—Let’s go to the bedroom —I murmured, my mouth still full of tit.

She pulled back for a moment, as if she had suddenly remembered where she was and with whom.

—I don’t know if I should… —she began.

—We’re not going to do anything you don’t want —I answered, holding her face in both hands—. We’ll just be more comfortable.

She bit her lip, nodded, and got up with me. We walked to the bedroom holding on to each other, and in the hallway I pulled down the zipper of her pants. The fabric fell to the floor and she kicked it aside, left only in her black panties, soaked at the front with a dark stain marking her cunt.

In bed everything was different. There was no rush. I laid her on her back, hooked my teeth into her panties, and slowly pulled them down, dragging them over her thighs, her knees, until I slipped them off her feet. She had shaved pussy on the sides and a thin strip of black hair on her mound, her lips open, shining from how wet she was. She spread her legs on her own, with a shamelessness I had never seen in her before, and grabbed her tits with both hands.

—Eat it —she asked, without opening her eyes—. Please, eat me all the way.

I knelt between her legs, slid my arms under her thighs to pull her up to my mouth, and drove my tongue from bottom to top in one long lick, from her hole to her clit. She let out a muffled cry. I opened her cunt lips with two fingers and started sucking her clit with my lips, squeezing it, letting go, circling it with the tip of my tongue. I slipped one finger in, then two, curling them upward inside her, searching for that rough spot while I kept sucking her clit.

—Oh, fuck, fuck, don’t stop —she moaned, moving her hips against my face—. Put it in me, put your tongue in me, eat it all.

I buried my tongue in her cunt to the root, pulled it out dripping with juice, and went back to her clit. She grabbed my hair with both hands and crushed my face against her, barely letting me breathe. I felt her thighs trembling, closing around my head, and then suddenly her whole body went rigid. She came with a long cry, biting the back of her hand so she wouldn’t wake the neighbors, while a gush of hot fluid bathed my chin. She kept pushing my face against her cunt while the spasms lasted, and I didn’t pull away until she herself moved me off, already spent.

I came up slowly, leaving a trail of kisses over her stomach and between her tits, and licked my lips over her mouth so she could taste herself. She licked my chin, sucked my tongue into hers, and found my cock with her hand. She took it fully, squeezing it, measuring it.

—Put it in me now —she told me in a rough voice by my ear—. I haven’t fucked in two months. I need you to put it all the way in.

I positioned myself between her legs and drove into her with a dry thrust, without warning. Carla let out a dull, sharp moan, almost surprised, and dug her nails into my back hard enough to hurt. She was so wet that my cock sank all the way in at once, and I felt her cunt closing around me like a hot fist. We started slowly, almost afraid of breaking something, but within minutes we were both lost. I lifted one of her legs over my shoulder, and as I changed the angle, she gripped the headboard with both hands and arched her back until her tits pressed against my chest.

—Harder —she said, eyes closed—. Fuck me harder, don’t hold back, give it to me rough.

I thought about her husband, about that stranger who had left her without reasons, and something dark pushed me to fuck with more rage than I intended. I rammed my cock into her to the hilt, again and again, knocking my balls against her ass with every thrust. The bed started banging against the wall and her moans slipped through her teeth, getting higher and higher.

—Like that, like that, give it all to me —she panted—. Break my cunt, please, break it.

I pulled out for a moment, turned her onto her stomach, lifted her ass by her hips and shoved it back in from behind. She loved it. She clung to the pillow with her teeth and started pushing her ass back against me, seeking me out herself. I saw her arched back, her tousled hair, her white ass bouncing every time I slammed into her. I gave her a hard slap with my open hand, leaving my palm red on her skin, and she gasped with a mix of surprise and pleasure.

—Again —she begged, looking back over her shoulder—. Give it to me again, give me more.

I slapped the other cheek and grabbed her hair at the nape, yanking her head back while I kept fucking her. I rode her like that for several minutes until I felt her starting to tremble again from head to toe, and she came a second time with her face pressed into the pillow, squeezing my cock so hard it almost made me finish right there. It wasn’t revenge or hate. It was simply knowing that that night she was mine, and that he, at that very same hour, was probably sleeping alone somewhere, suspecting nothing. I gripped her hips hard, thrust three, four more times to the hilt, and came inside her with a sharp удар, unloading in streams against the back of her cunt while Carla clamped around me with her legs as if she wanted to keep me there forever.

We stayed still for a while, breathing. I could feel the pulses of her cunt around my cock, still inside, and she moved her ass slowly, squeezing the last drop out of me. I thought she would fall asleep, or start crying. She did neither. She got up, went to the bathroom, and came back with two glasses of water, still naked, a white strand of my cum running down the inside of her thigh. She handed me one and sat astride me, her wet cunt resting against my belly, while she drank.

—Don’t think we’re done yet —she said, with a half smile I hadn’t seen all night.

She slid down my body slowly, leaving a trail of kisses over my chest and stomach, and before I could react, she had my cock between her lips again. She took it into her mouth even though it was still slick with my cum and her juices, and she didn’t even flinch. On the contrary. She sucked it all the way down, to the base, and looked up at me from below with shining eyes while she swallowed it to the throat. She did things with her mouth and tongue I hadn’t felt in years, let alone with that kind of surrender. She ran the tip of her tongue along my frenulum, sucked my balls one by one, took me all the way in again with hollow cheeks, leaving strings of saliva hanging when she pulled off. She worked me with her hand while she sucked my balls, alternating, never stopping.

My cock was rock hard again within a minute. At some point she climbed on top once more, guided the head with her hand, and lowered herself slowly, impaling herself all the way to the hilt. She braced both hands on my chest and started moving on her own, at her own pace, rising and falling on my cock, rocking back and forth, looking me in the eyes as if that part were more important than physical pleasure. I grabbed her tits from underneath with both hands, squeezed them, pinched her nipples, and she closed her eyes and sped up.

—I want you to finish here —she said at last, pointing to her mouth, and slid off me with a wet sound.

She positioned herself between my legs again, took my cock to the back of her throat, and started working it with her mouth at a pace that made me lose control in two minutes. I warned her, told her I was close, and she only tightened her lips harder and drove her tongue underneath. I came into her mouth in long spasms, and she didn’t pull away once. She swallowed it all, without letting go of me, sucking until the last drop, and then licked her lips and kissed the tip.

When it was all over, she collapsed beside me, an arm over her eyes, and stayed silent for several minutes.

—Tomorrow I’m going to feel terrible —she said at last, without moving.

—You shouldn’t.

—I know. But I’m going to feel terrible anyway.

***

She left at dawn, in silence, wearing the same oversized gray sweater. Before she went, she stopped at the door and looked at me from the threshold.

—I’d rather we didn’t see each other for a while —she said—. It’s not because of you. It’s because of me.

I nodded without saying anything. I knew that’s how it would be.

She never called me again. Months passed and sometimes I still wonder whether her husband ended up coming back after all, or whether she found someone else like me, willing to be on the other end of the phone on a Friday at one in the morning. The only thing I know for sure is that that night was the best bed I’ve ever shared with anyone, and that I’ll probably never live through another like it. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep a memory alive for a very long time.