Confession: I’ve Been with a Guy from the App for Two Months

I’m thirty-five years old, I’ve been married to Ricardo for nine years, and I live in Sacramento since he accepted the transfer through the company. On paper, it sounds good: a big house, two salaries, a back garden with a lemon tree that bore fruit last fall. The truth is different. My husband leaves at six in the morning and comes back when I’m already in bed, the lights off and dinner wrapped in plastic film on the counter.

What I’m about to tell is a confession. I’m not expecting forgiveness, nor am I looking for anyone to understand me. I need to get it out because it burns me from the inside and, at the same time, I don’t want it to end.

It started with an app. I downloaded it on a Tuesday afternoon after staring at myself in the bathroom mirror for too long. Thirty-five isn’t eighty, but for months no one had said anything nice to me. I uploaded four photos: two from last summer at the beach, one in the kitchen with morning light coming through the curtain, and one in black and white that my sister-in-law took of me at a cousin’s wedding. I used a fake name and my real age. I told myself it was curiosity. That I wasn’t going to do anything. That I just wanted to know if people still looked at me.

They did. And among everyone who wrote to me, there was one named Matías.

Matías was twenty-two. At first, the age difference made me laugh, almost embarrass me. I told him he was too young, that he should look for someone his own age. He replied with a long message, without spelling mistakes, without stupid emojis. He said girls his age bored him, that he liked women who already knew what they wanted. It sounded rehearsed. Even so, I read it three times before answering.

We talked every day for two weeks. At first, harmless things: college, the gym he went to six times a week, his weekend job at a coffee shop downtown. Then, more intimate things. I told him what I didn’t tell anyone: that Ricardo and I hadn’t fucked since before summer, that we slept back to back, that some nights I shoved two fingers into my cunt in the shower so I wouldn’t scream from rage, and that afterward I cried because I couldn’t even make myself come properly alone.

Matías listened. That’s the exact word. He read me to the end, asked me questions, remembered details I’d mentioned three messages earlier. Attention was the first thing that undid me. Not even desire. Attention.

The conversations turned dirty on a Thursday night. I was alone with a glass of red wine and he asked what I was wearing. I told him the truth: an old Ricardo T-shirt and nothing else. He asked for a photo. I said no. He persisted gently, without pushing, and in the end I took one in the bathroom mirror, lifting the shirt just enough to show my shaved cunt and a tit slipping free through the neckline. I hit send before thinking.

If you regret it, there’s no going back.

—You’re built for fucking until you break —he wrote to me—. I’ve spent two weeks imagining you and there’s no fucking way I’d come close. You’ve got a gorgeous cunt.

After that, there was no turning back. We talked about everything we’d do if we saw each other. He wrote in detail: how he’d eat my cunt until he made me come twice before he put it in, how he’d fuck me from behind while pulling my hair, how he wanted me to suck his cock while looking him in the eyes. I masturbated reading it, with two fingers inside and my thumb pressing my clit, biting my lip so I wouldn’t wake the neighbors. I came in minutes. Then I felt guilty for fifteen minutes, then I’d read it again and shove them back in.

One afternoon, without thinking too much about it, I sent him my address. Ricardo had a double shift the following Tuesday, he wouldn’t be back until after eleven at night.

—Come at four —I wrote to him—. We’ve got seven hours.

***

On Tuesday I woke up with my stomach in knots. I called work and said I had a migraine. I spent the morning cleaning a house that was already clean. I changed the sheets twice. I waxed my entire cunt with hot wax, in front of the mirror, until it was smooth as a newlywed’s, and ran my fingers over it to make sure there wasn’t a single hair left. I waxed myself as if I were going on a first date and, in a way, I was.

At three I got in the shower. I dried off slowly, put vanilla-scented cream on my thighs, shoulders, and tits, and tried on three dresses before settling on a short green one Ricardo had never seen. I’d bought it online two months earlier and never found a chance to wear it. Underneath, nothing. No panties, no bra. I wanted him to notice the second he touched me.

At ten to four, the doorbell rang.

Matías was taller in person. He had that taut skin guys get when they really train, defined arms under a white T-shirt, and green eyes that held mine from the porch without the slightest shyness. I opened the door and kept looking at him a second too long.

—Are you going to invite me in, or do I have to tell it from here? —he said with a half-smile.

I let him in. I offered him something to drink. He asked for water. I poured him a glass and poured myself one too because my mouth was dry and I needed something in my hands. We sat on the living room sofa, separated by a cushion, pretending to have a normal conversation about the traffic from his neighborhood.

—I’ve been hard all day thinking about this —he said suddenly.

He set his glass on the coffee table. He moved the cushion that was separating us and leaned over me. The first kiss was slow, almost polite, as if he were checking whether I was serious. The second was nothing like polite. He grabbed the back of my neck with one hand and kissed me open-mouthed, tongue all the way in, and I felt something inside me, something that had been asleep for months, wake up all at once. I felt his cock hard against my thigh through his jeans and my legs started trembling.

His hands slid down my neck, my collarbone, the fabric of my dress. He squeezed my tits through the cloth, searching for the bra he didn’t find, and let out a low sound in my ear.

—You’re not wearing anything under the dress, are you? —he murmured.

I didn’t answer with words. I took his hand and shoved it under the hem, straight to my cunt. He laughed against my neck when he realized I was soaked. He parted my lips with two fingers and ran them along my slit, up and down, not putting them in yet, teasing.

—Fuck, you’re already dripping —he whispered—. And I haven’t even done anything to you yet.

He put his middle finger in first, to the knuckle, and I arched on the sofa. Then the index finger too. He worked them in a hook, searching for the spot, while his thumb pressed my clit in slow circles. I came on the sofa with my mouth open against his shoulder, biting his T-shirt so I wouldn’t scream, and he didn’t stop until I shoved at his wrist.

—Upstairs —I told him, shaking—. Not on the sofa.

***

We stumbled up to the bedroom. I went ahead; he grabbed my hips from behind, lifted my dress on every step, and ran his hand over my bare ass. Halfway up the stairs he slid a finger in from behind without warning, and I had to cling to the banister with my eyes closed.

—Hold still —he murmured—. I want to watch it go in.

When we reached the room, I turned him around and pulled his T-shirt off. He had the body his photos promised: broad shoulders, defined abs, a fine line of hair from his navel down. I ran my hand across his chest and down to his belt. I undid it slowly, looking him in the eyes.

He let me. When I pulled his pants down, he was already rock hard, the tip of his cock peeking out from the waistband of his boxers and a dark stain of pre-cum on the fabric. I knelt on the rug and used my teeth to pull his underwear down. His cock sprang up into my face, thick, veined, the head shining. I heard him suck in a sharp breath when I pressed it against my cheek.

—What a cock you’ve got —I told him, surprising myself by saying it.

I licked him first from base to tip, tongue flat, going up slowly. I sucked his balls one by one, taking them whole into my mouth. When I went back up, I took him down in one go until he hit my throat and made me gag. He held my hair, not hard, just enough to guide me. I pulled him out with a string of spit hanging from my chin and went back down, this time slower, hollowing my cheeks, tongue pressed against the frenulum.

—Like that, don’t stop —he panted—. Fuck, you suck cock so well.

I sucked his cock for what felt like forever. I’d pull back to lick the tip and then take him back in all the way. I looked him in the eyes when I did it, mouth full, and his knees would go weak. I hadn’t sucked Ricardo’s cock in years. I hadn’t wanted to do that to Ricardo in years. With Matías, I wanted to. I wanted to feel his balls tighten against my chin, wanted to swallow him if he asked, wanted to watch him lose control.

Before he finished, he pulled away and yanked me up off the floor by my hair.

—If you keep going, I’m going to come in your mouth right now —he said—. And I still haven’t fucked you.

He pushed me toward the bed and pulled my dress over my head. He stood still for a second, looking at me naked on the sheets I’d changed twice that morning: tits hard, shaved cunt glistening, legs spread shamelessly.

—Fuck —he just said—. Open your legs. Wider. Show it to me properly.

I obeyed. I opened my cunt with two fingers so he could see it. He let out a low moan and leaned in without taking his eyes off me. He started with my thighs. He kissed the inner part of my legs, slowly, with soft teeth, moving upward until his mouth reached where it needed to reach. He went straight into me, tongue all the way in, and then moved up to my clit and started circling it with the tip.

I had never had a guy eat pussy like that. Ricardo wasn’t into going down; the two times he’d done it in nine years, it had felt like he was paying a fine. Matías stayed down there for what felt like twenty minutes, attentive, patient, reading every shiver as if he were studying for an exam. He sucked, licked, slid two fingers into me and curled them, then went back to my clit and trapped it between his lips. When he realized I was about to come, he held my hips down against the mattress so I couldn’t get away and never let up.

I came in his mouth screaming, my thighs clamped around his ears. He didn’t move. He kept licking me slowly, gentler, riding out the spasms. A few minutes later, while I was still trembling, he started again. He slid three fingers into me this time and made me come again. I felt my own slick on my face when he came up to kiss me.

—You taste fucking amazing —he murmured against my mouth.

When he entered me, he grabbed my wrists above my head and held still for a second, looking down at me. His breathing was ragged and the muscles in his neck were taut. The tip pressed at the entrance to my cunt, insisting slowly, not quite pushing all the way in.

—Ask for it —he said.

—Put it in —I answered without thinking—. All of it. Now.

He pushed in at once and I felt myself fill completely. I let out a long moan against his shoulder. He started slowly, pulling out to the tip and pushing all the way back in, looking at my face each time. I dug my nails into his back. He changed the rhythm when I asked, pushing harder, deeper, until the bed legs started hitting the wall.

—Harder —I told him—. Don’t hold back.

He drove into me with everything he had. The headboard started marking the rhythm against the plaster. With every thrust, a moan ripped out of my throat that I didn’t recognize as my own. He sucked my tits while he fucked me, took an entire nipple into his mouth and bit just enough. I came again a few minutes later, with him inside me, my cunt spasming around his cock, and I heard him curse under his breath.

—Turn over —he panted—. Get on all fours.

I turned over. I knelt on the bed with my ass in the air and my cheek pressed against the mattress. He got behind me and shoved himself back in with one thrust. He grabbed my hips with both hands and started fucking me from behind with his open hand on my waist, then a sharp smack on my ass that made me clamp down around his cock.

—Fuck, squeeze like that —he growled—. Again.

He smacked me again. And again. He grabbed my hair and pulled back, arching my back, fucking me at a brutal pace, his balls hitting my clit with every thrust. I was saying filthy things I had never said in my life: that I was his dirty girl, that he should put it in deeper, split me open, not stop. Hearing myself made me even hotter.

He made me come again like that, face pressed into the sheets and his fingers in my mouth. When the orgasm passed, he turned me over and put me on top of him, seated, his cock buried to the root. I set the pace. I rode him slowly, rising to the tip and dropping down hard, braced on my hands against his chest. He watched my tits bounce and squeezed my nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

—That’s it, ride it —he said—. Show me how you fuck yourself on it.

I fucked myself on him for a long time, eyes closed, grinding my hips against his, moving my clit against the bone of his pubic mound. Then again on my back, with his fingers tangled in my hair and my legs spread over his shoulders. In that position he got deeper than ever. He touched something inside me that left me breathless.

At no point during those two hours did I think about Ricardo. Not the house, not the garden, not the transfer, not the nine years of sleeping back to back. It was just Matías and me, the bed squeaking, the afternoon light coming in through the half-open blind, and his cock going in and out of my soaked cunt.

When I felt his muscles tense and his rhythm stutter, I whispered in his ear:

—Come inside.

—You sure? —he panted, easing off the thrusts.

—Yes. Inside. Empty yourself in me.

He asked me three times if I was sure between thrusts. I said yes every time, louder each time, clawing his back. The fourth time he pushed all the way in, stayed there, and I felt his cock throb inside me. Every throb was a hot spurt against my cervix. He came hard, panting against my neck, and I came again feeling him finish inside me, exhausted, trembling on top of me. It was the closest thing to revenge I’d ever felt in my adult life.

He collapsed beside me. His cock slipped out slowly and I felt the semen starting to drip down the inside of my thigh. I didn’t even wipe myself. I stayed like that, legs open and his cum running out of me, staring at the ceiling fan. He stroked my back with his fingertips. I stared at the ceiling fan. We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to.

Half an hour later he got on top of me again, hard again, and slid back in slowly, with all his cum still inside me acting as lube. The second time was different: slower, quieter, closer. He bit my neck while barely moving, and I grabbed his ass with both hands to set the smallest rhythm. He came a second time inside me without pulling out, without a sound, his forehead resting against mine.

At six he showered. I lent him a clean towel. At seven he got dressed and we went down to the door together. Before leaving, he kissed me in the doorway, unhurried, with his hand under my dress, sliding two fingers through my cunt, still full of him, as if we were starting all over again.

—Tomorrow? —he asked, sucking his fingers.

I told him yes.

***

Ricardo got home at eleven twenty. I reheated his dinner in the microwave, asked him about his day, and listened to him talk about a difficult client. I nodded at the right moments. I laughed when he made his usual joke. He kissed the top of my head before going upstairs to shower and I stayed in the kitchen staring at the empty plate, still feeling the dried cum on the inner part of my thighs.

That night, in bed, I pressed myself against his back. He stirred in his sleep. He didn’t turn over. I wasn’t expecting him to. I slipped a hand between my legs under my nightgown, still sensitive, and touched myself slowly thinking about Matías until I came for the fifth time that day, without making a single sound, with my husband’s breathing ten centimeters from my face.

Two months have passed. Matías and I see each other on Tuesdays and, sometimes, on Saturday mornings when Ricardo goes golfing. We’ve fought three times and made up three times, always by fucking. I’ve promised him that this is only sex and I’ve believed it myself, until he sends me a message in the middle of the afternoon telling me what he’s going to do to me and I’m smiling at my phone like a teenager again, panties wet in the middle of the supermarket.

This won’t end well. I know it. And even so, I keep opening the door with my cunt soaking wet before he even gets here.

I don’t know how this story ends. I know my husband still doesn’t suspect a thing and that I’m still, to the rest of the world, the perfect wife who lives in the house with the lemon tree in the garden. I also know I haven’t felt this alive, this fucked, this much my own in months. I don’t know whether that makes me a whore or just a person who stopped waiting for someone to look at her.

For now, it’s the only thing I have. And for the moment, it’s enough.