I Confessed to My Husband What the Other Guy’s Cock Was Like

My husband discovered a few months ago that hearing my memories turns him on like nothing else. At first it was just scattered questions, almost timid, in the middle of a kiss or when I’d be stroking his chest before bed. Then it became part of the game, a new routine in a bed that already held few surprises.

We’re both forty-three. We’ve been together since shortly after university, but the spark never really went out. We’ve tried things, we talk about things, we’re embarrassed by almost nothing. I’ve always been a woman who likes sex without hang-ups: I don’t care about size, or how long it lasts, or fancy techniques. I care about what my body wants in the moment, and I make that clear to the man in front of me.

Joaquín knows that better than anyone. And for some reason, a while ago, he became obsessed with knowing what I had been like before him.

That particular night, the kids had shut themselves in their rooms with their headphones on. The house was silent. Joaquín kissed me slowly, with that intention I already know, and I slipped my hand under the sheet to stroke his cock, still soft, still waking up. Of all the ones I’ve known, his is the one that fits me best. I couldn’t really explain it: there are longer cocks, thicker ones, others that last longer, but his seems made to measure for my hand and my mouth.

When it was hard and throbbing, I leaned down to suck it —it’s something that just comes naturally to me, I don’t need him to ask— and then he stopped me. He put his hand on my cheek and looked at me with that crooked smile he gets when he’s up to something.

—Not yet tonight —he said—. Tell me first.

—Tell you what?

—What the others were like. The ones before me.

That game again.

—I’ve already told you —I said, laughing.

—In broad strokes. I want details. I want to know how they fucked you.

I let go of his cock for a second, settled against his shoulder, and took it again, this time more slowly, almost languidly, so the conversation would matter more than the rush. I know him: if we go too fast, he’ll come before I finish talking.

—I told you about Andrés, my first —I began—. The professor. Long and thin. You know that one by heart.

—Yes, I know that one.

—And the one from the bank?

He lifted his head a few inches off the pillow.

—You never told me that one all the way through.

—That’s the one you’d like the most —I warned him.

—Tell me.

***

I was twenty-six. I worked at a bank branch in Rosario, and there was a coworker, Mateo, who had been coming on to me shamelessly for months. Married, with two small children, charming. I was alone at the time —Joaquín and I still hadn’t found our way back to each other— and curiosity and boredom with routine kept getting the better of me.

One Friday he invited me to lunch at his place. His wife worked out of the house all day, the kids were at school until the afternoon. I wasn’t naive: I knew perfectly well why I was going.

—Mateo? —Joaquín cut in, his voice already thick—. You never mentioned him by name.

—It’s a name. That’s all. Should I go on?

—Go on.

I got out of the taxi at two. The house was in a quiet neighborhood, with a front garden and an old wisteria over the entrance. He opened the door in a T-shirt, no watch, freshly showered. There was no music on, no wine on the table, nothing at all of the usual choreography of someone improvising: he had the situation planned down to the last detail. I’ll confess, that turned me on even more. I liked that he’d gone to the trouble.

As soon as he closed the door, he kissed me. Without asking. He pressed me against the hallway wall and kissed me the way you kiss someone you’ve been imagining for months. I melted. My body always reacts fast: two deep kisses are enough and my nipples are hard and my panties are wet on the inside.

—Go on —Joaquín repeated, and his hand closed over mine so I wouldn’t stop stroking him.

He took my blouse off with patience, not haste. I was wearing a violet bra that barely held my tits in; he pushed them out over the cups and started sucking my nipples, one first and then the other, slowly, as if he were tasting them. You know how I am: big tits, white, round, my nipples go very hard very fast. Mateo figured that out in thirty seconds and stayed there longer than I expected, while my whole body loosened up.

—I was wearing a thong —I went on—. Black, one of those that barely covers the front and disappears between the ass cheeks. He pulled it aside, without taking it off, and started rubbing my clit with two fingers. Slowly, then a little faster, then with a pressure he didn’t let up on. I was going to come standing up against his wall.

—Did you come like that?

—The first time, yes. Standing up, holding on to his neck, biting his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream.

I felt Joaquín’s whole body tense. His cock throbbed in my hand, hard, swollen, wet at the tip. I deliberately slowed my pace. I didn’t want him coming yet.

***

—Then he took me to the living room sofa —I went on—. He sat me down, finished taking off my thong, and took his clothes off. And there, my love, was when I nearly fell off the sofa.

—Tell me.

—He had an ordinary body. Skinny, no defined abs, none of that gym body stuff. You’d pass him on the street and not look twice. But when he took off his boxers…

—Go on.

—He had the thickest cock I’ve ever seen in my life. And believe me, I’ve seen quite a few. Long too, yes, but above all thick. Like a big cucumber. The head was pink, smooth, round, swollen. And as it went down toward the base, it widened even more. The veins were prominent, thick, and it had a slight upward curve. It looked unreal.

—Describe it to me properly —Joaquín asked, his voice already breaking—. Thicker than mine?

—A lot thicker, baby. Yours is perfect for me, I always tell you that. His was… abnormal. The kind that comes around once in a lifetime.

I felt his thigh tighten against my leg. I let go of his cock, licked my palm to wet it properly, and took it again. The groan that escaped him was almost a whimper.

—Tell me how he put it in you —he begged.

—I will, but breathe a little or we won’t make it to the end.

***

When I saw that member, I swear I thought it wouldn’t fit. I was dripping wet, but that thing looked more like something to look at than to fuck with. Mateo realized what was crossing my face, because he didn’t rush. He filled his palm with spit, spread it slowly all over his cock, opened my legs, and ran the head over my entrance, not pushing in, once, twice, three times, lubing me up with his spit and mine until I was slippery.

The first push was short. Just the head. And even so I felt a tug low in my belly that was half pleasure and half burn. I gripped the back of the sofa with both hands. He waited. He looked into my eyes and waited. He pulled back out and went in a little farther. Again. Again. Until my body accepted him, until I felt myself fitting around him.

And there, Joaquín, there I discovered something I didn’t know. For the first time, I felt what it is to be truly full. The walls of my pussy were vibrating, every tiny movement reaching the very bottom of me. He didn’t need to move hard: the friction alone was going to make me come.

—And I came —I said—. Two minutes later. Without him touching me, without anything, just from the sensation of having him inside me. It was an orgasm unlike any I’d ever had. Long, deep, strange, as if it were pushing me from the inside out. I dug my nails into his shoulders and moaned in his ear.

Joaquín had his eyes closed. His hand squeezed mine over his cock. A bright drop was running down the head and I used it to slide myself more easily.

—Go on.

—Then he asked me to get on all fours. I asked for a minute, my legs wouldn’t hold me, I swear, my thighs were shaking. He told me no, that he was about to come, that he wanted to finish on my ass. How do you say no to someone who’s just done that to you?

I turned around, pressed my face against the back of the sofa, and offered him my ass. I felt him take my waist, felt him slide that thick cock into me again in one fluid motion now, and felt the gentlemanly part of him disappear. He started fucking me hard. Without stopping. Without holding back. I could do nothing but hold my breath and watch a second orgasm build in me, this one from the soles of my feet, making my knees shake all the way to the very last inch.

—And he came —I finished— outside, over my ass, with such a generous spurt that it took me a while to clean it off afterward. As if he’d been saving it up for months for that day.

***

When I finished telling the story, Joaquín couldn’t hold out two more thrusts. With a growl, he asked me not to stop, to squeeze harder, and came between my fingers, over his own belly, his jaw clenched and wearing an expression I hadn’t seen in years. I felt him throb in my hand, once, twice, three times, emptying out like he’d been holding it in for weeks.

Then he stayed quiet for a long while, breathing hard, recovering. I ran my hand over his damp chest, kissed his shoulder, and waited. I know that after coming like that he needs a few minutes to get back into his body.

—Why had you never told me the whole thing? —he asked at last, still with his eyes closed.

—Because I was a little uneasy about it —I confessed—. Not for me, for you. I thought it would bother you.

—Bother me? —he gave a low laugh, almost to himself—. I’m the one who has you now. I’m the one fucking you tonight.

—And you’re going to keep having me —I told him.

I gave him a long, slow kiss, and bit his lip before letting him go. I felt his cock throbbing again against my thigh, still wet, still sensitive, still awake. He looked at me with that same filthy smile he’d had at the start of the night, and I knew what he was thinking.

—Next time you want another story —I said.

—Next time I want another story.

—I’ve got a few saved up, baby.

—I know.

I switched off the bedside lamp. His cock was still pulsing against my leg and I knew that night, before sleeping, I still had something left to do. But that part is ours, and I’m not telling anyone.