I Became a Different Woman Every Time He Came Back

I never thought I would write something like this, not even anonymously, but there are things a woman needs to get out of herself or they end up rotting her from the inside. Ever since I separated, my life had become a routine of schedules, cartoons, and nights when I fell asleep before ten with the television on. Until Bruno started coming to the building.

He was responsible for maintaining the pool and pruning the complex’s garden. He was tall, broad-backed, with the kind of body that isn’t built in a gym but by carrying real weight. The first time I saw him, I thought he was handsome and nothing more. The second time, I caught myself watching him from the balcony longer than necessary, mate gone cold in my hand, with a thought crossing my mind that embarrassed me: I wanted to know what he had inside his pants, how big he was, what it would feel like to have him inside me after so many dry months.

What happened next was inevitable. One night, when my younger son fell asleep early, Bruno came upstairs “to check a leak” and stayed until dawn. That first time, he ate me out completely before putting it in, licked my pussy until he made me shake twice on his face, and then fucked me slowly and deep until I asked him to come inside me. What really marked me came afterward, in the days when I learned to live a double life inside my own home.

***

That first morning, I woke up with him beside me, completely asleep, the sheet tangled around his legs. I watched him for a long while before getting up. I looked at his sleeping cock resting on his thigh, thick even at rest, with a prominent vein running along its length, and I surprised myself squeezing my thighs beneath the sheet. When did I become this? I thought, and the question didn’t make me feel guilty but gave me a sort of tickle in my stomach and a warm wetness between my legs.

My son, as every morning, had gotten up by himself to watch his shows in the living room. I put on my robe, nothing underneath, and went out to make him breakfast. I could feel the dried semen stuck to my thighs, a sticky reminder of the night before. I sat him in front of his bowl, straightened his hair, and stayed with him until he finished. Then I took him back to the couch and changed the cartoon. Everything normal. Everything motherly. And three meters away, behind a door, there was a naked man in my bed with the cock that had split me open inside only a few hours earlier.

I heard my bedroom door open. Bruno came out on tiptoe like a thief, signaling for silence with one finger over his lips, and crossed the hall toward the bathroom with nothing on, without the slightest hint of modesty, his cock hanging heavily between his legs, smiling at me like a boy who knew he was doing something forbidden. I waited for him to finish. When he opened the bathroom door, I took him by the hand and pulled him back into my room.

The distance was short, but walking behind my son with Bruno pressed against my back, holding my breath, his already half-hard cock brushing my ass over my robe, was the most exciting thing I had felt in years. I knew it was wrong. And that was exactly why I couldn’t stop.

Once the door was closed, we lay down on the bed and began kissing slowly, without making a sound. His hands roamed all over me, over and under the robe; he yanked open the belt and pulled it from my shoulders. I was left naked beneath him, my nipples already hard. He lowered his mouth to one breast and sucked it all over, barely biting my nipple, while his other hand opened my legs and searched for my pussy with two fingers. I was already wet, soaked just from having him on top of me.

“You’re ready already, slut,” he murmured in my ear, moving his fingers inside me. “I left your pussy wide open last night.”

I covered his mouth with my hand and lowered mine to his cock. It was hard as a rock, thick and burning hot. I squeezed it in my fist and stroked him slowly, running my thumb over the tip and spreading the drop already leaking from it. He moaned against my neck and settled between my legs. I felt the head of his cock resting at my entrance, pushing lightly, and with one slow thrust he buried himself all the way to the bottom.

“Do you like your breakfast?” he whispered in my ear, laughing.

“Shut up and fuck me,” I answered, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream.

He fucked me with a calm strength, without hurrying, as if we had all morning. He pulled almost all the way out and then pushed back in to the hilt, measuring every thrust so the bed wouldn’t bang against the wall. I squeezed my legs around his body and dug my nails into his back to keep my voice in. Every time he buried himself to the bottom, a hoarse moan escaped me, which I muffled against his shoulder, against the pillow, against my own hand. I felt his cock opening me from within, the head touching a spot that made me clench my teeth.

“Suck it for me a little,” he asked, pulling out and kneeling beside my face.

I turned, grabbed his cock with one hand, and put it in my mouth. I swallowed him whole until I felt him touch the back of my throat, and he held the back of my head without hurting me, moving me slowly up and down. I pulled off with a string of saliva and licked his balls, tight against his body, while stroking his cock with my fist. It was shiny with my spit and my own juices.

“Turn over. Get on all fours,” he ordered softly.

I turned over, propped myself on my knees and elbows, and lifted my ass. I felt his hands spread my cheeks, then his cock settle against me again and enter once more, even deeper this time. I covered my mouth with the pillow. He fucked me doggy-style, his hands locked on my hips, pulling me back and driving himself all the way in every time. I could hear the wet sound of my pussy dripping around his cock, and I felt such shame and such desire that I couldn’t handle both at once.

We stayed that way for quite a while, until I felt my belly tighten and knew a big one was coming. I told him not to stop, right there, just like that, and I came on his cock, biting the pillow, my thighs trembling. He held out a little longer, pumping into me until he tensed, pulled out suddenly, and came across my back and ass with a long exhale, hot jets that I felt falling one after another.

We lay still for a few seconds, breathless, listening to the little cartoon song playing in the background. Then came the difficult part: getting him out without my son seeing him. While Bruno dressed, I wiped my back with a tissue and went into the living room as casually as I could. The kid had fallen asleep on the couch. I gave him a signal, Bruno hurried across to the door, I gave him a quick kiss, and he left.

“That was the best night of my life,” he told me in the doorway.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I replied, even though it had been the same for me.

***

I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart still pounding and my pussy throbbing. I cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, and got in the shower. I spent almost an hour beneath the water, soaping myself until I erased every trace of him, every smell of semen, every dried residue between my thighs. I put two fingers inside myself to wash, and I could still feel him there, the phantom cock opening me. When I got out, I looked at myself in the mirror, hair disheveled, red marks on my neck, nipples irritated from all the sucking, and laughed to myself. I had put the responsible woman away in a drawer so I could become, for one night, the slut even I didn’t know. And the worst part was that I liked that other woman better.

That day I didn’t leave the apartment at all. I spent the whole afternoon walking around in my robe, putting lotion on my body, massaging my shoulders, trying to hide the hickeys he had left me, peeking out everywhere.

***

The following two weeks were a delicious torture. Bruno couldn’t come upstairs: my older son had come to stay for a few days while his father was away, and with two boys in the house there was no way. We had agreed that our meetings would take place only on nights when his friend, the complex’s doorman, was on duty, or on the days when he came to maintain the pool.

So all we had was the telephone. We would start with normal conversations—how my day had been, what he had pruned, some silly little thing. And suddenly his voice would change, grow deeper, and I knew exactly where things were going.

“Are you wearing your robe?” he would ask me. “Take it off. Open your legs for me. I want you to touch yourself.”

I would shut myself in my room on the excuse that I needed to rest, put the phone on speaker on the pillow, and obey him. I would open my robe, run one hand over my tits, and squeeze my nipples until they hurt. Then I would lower it, spread my pussy with two fingers, and begin stroking my clitoris slowly, in circles, the way he did with his tongue.

“Put two fingers inside,” he ordered, his breathing growing heavier and heavier. “Really deep. Move them like they’re my cock.”

I obeyed him. I put in two fingers, then three, and moved them inside while listening to myself getting wet, knowing he was on the other end with his cock in his hand, stroking it to the rhythm of my voice. I told him in detail what I was doing to myself, how wet I was, how I imagined his mouth sucking me, and he answered with filthy things that turned me on even more: how he was going to put me on all fours, how he was going to fuck me against the wall, how he was going to leave my ass full of cum.

When he came, I heard him growl on the other end, and I came almost at the same time, biting my arm so I wouldn’t wake the boys, my fingers soaked and my thighs squeezed over my own hand. The call ended and I would lie there, dripping, staring at the ceiling. I’m going crazy, I thought. I didn’t recognize this woman who masturbated in the middle of the afternoon while listening to the voice of a man she barely knew. But there she was, counting the hours until she could have him between her legs again.

***

Saturday was pool cleaning and tree pruning day. Since the night before, we had worked out the plan over the phone like two horny teenagers. First thing in the morning, I took my sons down to the pool. I put on a short pair of shorts and a light white cover-up, with no panties underneath, and waited for the moment.

When both of them were busy splashing around in the shallow end, I asked the neighbor across the way to keep an eye on them for a minute and slipped toward the pump room, that damp, dark little room at the back of the garden where Bruno kept his tools. I went in with my heart racing and my pussy already wet just from thinking about it. He was already there waiting for me, the bulge outlined in his work pants.

We barely spoke. He threw himself on me and we began kissing against the wall, with an urgency that had nothing elegant about it. He thrust his tongue down my throat, grabbed my tits over the cover-up, and pinched my nipples through the fabric.

“I missed you, slut,” he told me between kisses, moving down my neck and biting me.

“Me too. We don’t have much time,” I answered, already unbuttoning his pants.

I reached inside and found him rock-hard and burning, the tip already wet. I pulled him out of his underwear and stroked him in my fist, squeezing him while listening to him pant against my ear. Instinctively, I wanted to kneel down and take him in my mouth, to suck him whole until he came on my tongue, and I knelt, running my tongue all over the tip.

“There’s no time for that,” he panted, grabbing my hair and lifting me. “Turn around.”

He turned me toward the wall, yanked my shorts down together with the cover-up, and bent me forward until my hands were braced against the wall, my ass raised, my legs spread. I felt his fingers enter me for a second, checking that I was soaked, and then he spat on his cock and rubbed it against my open pussy.

“You’re dripping,” he whispered, laughing softly. “You’re such a filthy girl.”

“Put it in me now,” I begged.

He slammed it into me in one thrust, all the way to the bottom. A moan escaped me that I had to swallow whole, biting the back of my hand. Anyone could walk past outside. My sons were thirty meters away. And that thought, instead of stopping me, turned me on more, making my pussy tighten harder around his cock.

He fucked me quickly, without ceremony, his hands locked on my hips, pulling me backward to drive each thrust home. We were both breathing hard in that little room that smelled of chlorine and wet earth, and now of sex as well. I pressed my palms against the cold wall and pushed my ass backward to meet him, feeling his cock opening me, feeling his balls slap against my clitoris with every thrust.

“Harder,” I asked in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t stop, give it all to me, fuck me hard.”

He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and fucked me faster, deeper. He slipped one hand underneath me and found my clitoris with his fingers, rubbing it while he kept thrusting. I felt I was seconds from coming, everything inside me tightening. But time was against us. Just as I was beginning to lose myself completely, Bruno tensed, pulled out suddenly, and came onto the concrete floor with a muffled growl, thick jets splattering between his feet.

I yanked my shorts back up, frustrated, my pussy throbbing, pulsing, screaming that it was missing its own release. I had waited two weeks for this, and the “this” had lasted barely a few minutes. I felt halfway through everything, hotter than before I went in.

“Don’t be mad, mommy,” he said, taking my hand. “We didn’t have time. It was just a quickie. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Next time I’ll eat you until you come three times.”

I didn’t answer him. I turned my back and left the room, fixing my hair, my legs still trembling and my soaked pussy dripping inside my shorts.

***

I went back to the pool as if nothing had happened. My sons hadn’t even noticed I was gone; the older one asked where I had been and I told him I’d gone to the bathroom. I sat on the edge with my feet in the water, watching them play, smiling at them, becoming their usual mother again, my shorts clinging to my wet pussy. On the outside, everything was calm. Inside, it was a fire.

That night, when they were both asleep, I got in the shower and finished by myself what he had left halfway done. I leaned against the tiles with the water falling over me, spread my legs, and began rubbing my clitoris with my right hand while putting two fingers inside myself with my left. I closed my eyes and imagined his cock inside me again, his balls pounding against me, his voice in my ear calling me filthy. I inserted a third finger and pushed it deep, searching for the same spot, moving my wrist quickly. I came biting my lip, my legs trembling, squeezing my fingers inside me, my mouth open against the steam. And when one climax ended, another began: I thought about the quickie in the little room, about how he had left me unfinished, and I had to sit down on the shower floor to make myself come a second time, two fingers moving in and out while the hot water fell over my head.

I don’t know how long this will last. I don’t know whether it’s right or wrong; I don’t even ask myself anymore. I only know that every time I hear the trimmer start up in the garden below, my pulse quickens, my panties grow damp, and I lean out over the balcony looking for him. And that, no matter how responsible I am for the rest of the day, there is a part of me that lives waiting for the next time he comes back and drives his cock all the way inside me.