I Confessed My Affairs to My Husband and Something Changed in Him

After telling Marcelo about my first affair before we got married, I expected the worst. A reproach, a long silence, maybe a fight. None of that happened. What happened was that that night he fucked me with an intensity I’d never known from him, as if every detail I’d revealed was fuel for something he’d been holding back for a long time.

That was how our dynamic worked ever since we discovered this: I told him, he got turned on, and the two of us ended up tangled in bed as if we’d just met. To the outside world we were a normal married couple with two daughters and predictable routines. Behind closed doors, we had awakened something neither of us knew how to name.

We’d been uploading photos for months to a couples’ dating site. We received messages of every kind, most of them disposable. An occasional video call with a foreigner who didn’t convince me, proposals that never came to anything. But Rodrigo was different. From the first meeting, something had remained pending between us, a chemistry that could not be forced or extinguished. Our communication was sporadic: brief hellos, polite questions, messages for Marcelo. Nothing that gave away what had happened that night in April.

Everything changed when Marcelo photographed me one night. I put on a semi-transparent nightgown, silver heels, and posed shamelessly in front of his camera. We uploaded the photos to the profile with a description of what we were looking for and waited. A few days later the replies arrived, but only one made my pulse race.

“Hi. You look incredible. I got hard just seeing you. Hope to see you in a couple of weeks.”

I felt an immediate tingling between my legs.

The next day I was at the office, buried in files in a lonely area of the archive, when my phone rang.

—Hi, beautiful. Are you busy?

—Not really. What’s up?

—I can’t stop thinking about those photos. I imagine you on all fours, sliding my cock between your ass cheeks, rubbing your clit with the tip.

—You’re going to make me wet here at work. I can’t get the urge out of me.

—That’s what you do to me. I want you well rested on Saturday. You understand me?

—Perfectly. Since your last message I haven’t fucked Marcelo.

—Good. On Saturday we’ll both get our fill.

That afternoon I showed the messages to my husband. We ended up fucking on the living room couch with an urgency we hadn’t felt in weeks. From that night on, I saved my body for Rodrigo. The days left until Saturday felt endless.

***

On Saturday I got ready after lunch, when the girls were occupied with the television. I got in the shower and let the warm water run slowly over my body. I shaved carefully, leaving my skin smooth where I knew his hands and mouth would go looking. While I lathered myself up, I felt that anticipatory tingle, that mix of nerves and urgency that only shows up when you know exactly what is going to happen that night.

I dressed as Rodrigo had asked: black miniskirt, striped camisole, matching black lace underwear, silver heeled sandals. My hair half pulled up with a clip, pink lips, eyes barely lined. When Marcelo got home from work he looked me up and down and said I looked beautiful. He showered quickly. At seven thirty we left the house.

Rodrigo arrived on time at the meeting point. He no longer wore his usual formal clothes; he had on loose jeans and a tight T-shirt that outlined his arms and chest. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, and we got into the car. Me in front, Marcelo in back. Before heading to the motel, Marcelo moved to the trunk because we didn’t know if they’d let the three of us enter together.

With the car stopped and the windows up, Rodrigo turned toward me, took me by the nape, and kissed me. It was a long kiss, with tongue, without warning. His hand slid under my miniskirt, moved aside the lace, and his rough fingers found my clit. I shuddered all over. He rubbed with a precise rhythm, every pass firmer than the last, and I squeezed my thighs around his hand without being able to help it. The headlights of the cars passing on the road became blurry points behind my half-lidded eyes. I came clenching my teeth, with a spasm that left me breathless and the seat wet.

I was still recovering when he took my hand and put it on his fly. He was hard beneath the denim. I unzipped him without thinking and leaned over his lap. I took him in my lips from the tip, kissing him slowly all along the shaft, soaking him with my saliva before taking him fully into my mouth. I closed my lips around his thickness and went up and down until he tangled his fingers in my hair.

—Like that, don’t stop —he said, his voice broken.

I stopped him before he came, grabbed his face with both hands, and kissed him again.

—Let’s go. I need to fuck you now.

He started the car and we went into the motel. The attendant looked at us out of the corner of his eye while muttering something to his coworker. Rodrigo and I exchanged a complicit smile, my makeup smeared and his zipper still open. He opened the trunk for Marcelo, and while he got out with his backpack, we went up to the room hand in hand.

There was no preamble and no conversation. When I closed the door I set my bag on the vanity and Rodrigo pressed himself against me. We kissed while his hands stripped off my blouse, my bra, while he hiked up my skirt to grip my ass hard. His mouth went down my neck to my nipples. He sucked them hungrily, running his tongue around each areola, biting them softly and then with more pressure. My body responded on its own: I clenched, I opened, I soaked.

I knelt to take off his jeans. His cock sprang out thick and firm, and I took him in my mouth hungrily, closing my lips around the shaft, tasting that salty, metallic flavor while he set the rhythm with his hand on the back of my neck. After a moment he lifted me and took me to the bed.

He put on the condom and I mounted him. I sat down slowly, letting him enter centimeter by centimeter until I felt him all the way inside. I started rocking my hips forward and back, squeezing him every time I rose. Rodrigo grabbed my breasts with both hands, kneading them firmly. I leaned down to bring my nipples closer to his mouth, tugging his head against my chest, and he took them with his tongue flat, biting them as if they belonged to him.

I changed position without getting off him: I turned around, giving him my back, and rode him in a squat. From that angle he went in deeper, and each thrust of his pelvis tore a moan from me that I couldn’t control. Marcelo recorded from the couch in the corner, in silence, breathing hard.

Rodrigo turned me around and laid me on my back. He spread my legs, rested my ankles on his shoulders, and came in hard. He fucked me looking into my eyes, one hand on my breast and the other dropping to my swollen clit to rub it without stopping his thrusts. I screamed without caring who might hear. He changed the angle, leaving one of my legs stretched out on the bed and the other resting on his shoulder, alternating between deep strokes and moments when he pulled his cock out to rub it against my clit before plunging back in.

He put me on my side, then face down with my legs closed, feeling the intense friction with every thrust, then on top of him again. Every position brought a new angle, a different depth. There were no words, only the instinct of two bodies that already knew each other and fit together without effort. Until he took off the condom, moved close to my face, and I opened my mouth. I sucked him with firm lips, caressing him with my tongue, until he came long and hot. I swallowed it all and cleaned him slowly with my lips.

We stayed sprawled on the bed, breathing hard, covered in sweat. Rodrigo slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me against his chest. Marcelo was still on the couch, quiet but with bright eyes.

Later, wrapped in towels and sitting on the bed, the three of us talked about trivial things. Rodrigo and I were holding hands. At some point I got up to go to the bathroom, and when I came back I dropped the towel and went up to him from behind. As I peeked under his arm I found that he was hard again. I took him in my hand and the game started all over. There was another intense round, first on the couch and then back in bed, with him fucking me from behind while I asked Marcelo to record up close. When we finished for the second time, I was exhausted and satisfied. Marcelo came over and fucked me too, but to be honest, after Rodrigo I could barely feel it. It didn’t take him long to come.

***

On the way back home, already in our bed, Marcelo started asking questions. Not about Rodrigo, that he had seen with his own eyes. He wanted to know about the other one, the one I had mentioned weeks before without names or details.

—What happened with that second man? —he asked, trying to sound casual.

I saw the gleam in his eyes. It wasn’t curiosity. It was need. I settled against his chest and told him.

His name was Damián. We worked in different branches of the same company, but when they transferred him to mine, we started crossing paths every day. He was tall, dark-skinned, with a square jaw and big hands. In his mid-thirties, married, with a son. I knew that, and that’s why I never spoke to him more than necessary. Until one afternoon after work he found me alone in the corner store, drinking a soda.

—Why so serious? Is something wrong? —he said in a voice that undid me.

—Nothing. I was just thinking.

—Will you have coffee with me one of these days?

I didn’t answer right away, because a friend called him and he stepped away for a moment. When my coworker Lucía came back, I told her what he had said. She didn’t hesitate: “That man has been looking at you since you got to this branch. Are you really going to tell me you don’t like him?”

She was right. I liked him. And I was so turned on I couldn’t think straight.

The following Thursday we went to the café. I dressed in tight jeans, red heels, and a white camisole. The conversation started with work and drifted toward the inevitable: he was married, I was seeing someone without anything serious. We both knew we shouldn’t be there. Neither of us got up from the table.

When we left, a downpour broke loose. We ran to the car soaked through. My blouse stuck to my breasts and my nipples stood out hard from the cold. Damián looked at me, took me by the neck, and kissed me. The windows fogged up in seconds. His hand unfastened my pants and slid down to my crotch. His thick fingers found my clit and rubbed it with urgency until I came in the passenger seat, squeezing my thighs together, with a moan that echoed inside the car.

Marcelo interrupted me.

—Just like that? In the car?

—Just like that. I was so turned on I didn’t need much. But that night it didn’t go beyond that. We set something up for the following Saturday.

On Saturday I put on a green miniskirt, high heels, and a thong that barely covered what it needed to. We met downtown. We greeted each other with a long kiss, not caring who saw us.

—Want to get dinner? —he asked me.

—I’m not hungry. I ate well.

—I’m not —he told me, looking me in the eye—. I’m starving. Starving for you.

He drove straight to the motel. Once inside the room he came up behind me, whispering in my ear that he loved my miniskirt but that I wouldn’t need it in there anymore. He undressed me slowly, kissing every inch of skin he revealed: my shoulders, my back, the curve of my neck. His hands covered my breasts completely, pinching my nipples until I felt jolts of pleasure shooting down my belly. He found the zipper on the skirt and pulled it down. The garment fell at my feet along with the thong.

I turned around, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled his pants down to his ankles. I knelt to take off his shoes, utterly submissive and surrendered. His cock was leaking pre-cum. I kissed the tip, ran my tongue slowly over the glans, drawing threads from that transparent liquid, and then took him into my mouth. He gently pushed his hips against my lips, setting a slow rhythm that filled my throat.

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing. I wrapped my legs around his waist and his cock found the entrance without anyone guiding it. Because I was so wet, he went in all at once with a single thrust. A sweet pain that turned into immediate pleasure when he started moving me up and down, holding me by the ass, while I clung to his neck with my nails digging into his back.

—Did he really carry you like that? —Marcelo asked, eyes wide.

—Yes. He was strong. And I was so wet it took nothing.

I kept telling him. Damián took me to the vanity, sat me on the edge, and opened my legs. He fucked me looking at my face, with long, deep thrusts, while I sought his mouth between moans. Then he took me to the bed, got on top of me, and sank into me with all his weight. I felt his hairy chest brushing my nipples, his hot breath in my ear, his hands gripping my wrists against the mattress. I came twice before he exploded inside me with a growl that shook his whole body. His semen ran hot between my thighs and I felt the slow pulse of my body settling back down.

We stayed in bed with our legs tangled, covered in sweat, exhausted. We fell asleep like that, pressed together, without needing to say anything else.

Marcelo stayed quiet when I finished the story. I thought he had regretted asking.

—I didn’t know you had done all that —he said at last—. I thought you were the same shy girl from high school.

—You changed too, Marcelo. We both did. You were with someone else back then, or did you already forget?

—No, you’re right. It’s my jealous cuckold feelings —he smiled and pulled me toward him.

That night we made love with the door closed and the lights off. It was different from everything before. Slower, more ours. As if every confession, instead of driving us apart, stitched us tighter together.

Nobody who saw us during the day would suspect a thing. And that, in a way, made it even better.