I Confessed to My Lover What Really Turns Me On

There are things a woman thinks about all her life and never says out loud. I told Marcos mine one Sunday morning, with his cock still resting between my fingers, and I think that conversation changed both of us forever.

We were lying on the bed, each of us facing the other's legs, caressing each other without hurry. The light filtered in through the curtains, giving the room that golden hue of the hours when no one is waiting for us anywhere. We'd been like this for months, discovering each other, and yet there was still something I hadn't confessed to him.

—I love it when it's like this —I told him, brushing the skin hiding that shy little head with the pad of my thumb—. Innocent mode, as if it still didn't know what it was capable of.

Marcos smiled, but it was one of those smiles that don't quite believe the compliment. I know him. I know that for years he thought that thing resting between his thighs was a defect, something to hide, a conversation he'd rather avoid. And I was determined to dismantle that idea for him that very morning.

—You don't know what women think, do you? —I went on, without taking my eyes off him—. I'm going to tell you, because I think you need to hear it.

He went still, attentive, his right hand traveling slowly over my thigh, my belly, the mound covered in soft hair that he liked to stroke the way someone strokes velvet. He wasn't looking for anything in particular. He was just wandering. And that wandering, I told him, was already worth more to me than any display. His fingers moved a little lower, parted the lips of my cunt with two fingertips, and stayed there, testing the wetness beginning to emerge, not putting anything in yet, just drawing slow circles over my clitoris like someone tuning an instrument before playing it.

—Do you see what you're doing to me now? —I asked, arching my back slightly—. Almost every woman I know goes crazy for a man's hands. Because watching you use them, without realizing it, gives us an idea of what you'll be like afterward, in intimate caresses. And we're almost never wrong.

Marcos gazed at me, entranced, without stopping any of his curious fingers. One of them finally sank into me, slowly, up to the knuckle, and I felt it curl, searching for that spot only he had learned to find. A moan escaped me as I kept talking, because there was no turning back now.

—I'm going to tell you something that may surprise you. In my head, the perfect lover has never had a huge cock. Never. I prefer it discreet, like yours. And it's not consolation, or a kind lie to make you feel good. It's the most honest truth I've ever told you in my life.

I said it and felt my heart begin to race, as if I were confessing a forbidden secret.

Then I told him what we almost never tell. That those of us unlucky enough to have been with men who began and ended with the attribute they displayed like a flag learned the difference quickly. Those men arrived with urgency, carrying something they thought was a trophy, and penetrated you without the slightest consideration. They set the hammer in motion and started pumping, bang-bang, bang-bang, as if the only place that mattered were the obvious one and everything else was superfluous.

—They didn't ask if it hurt —I told him, while he pulled out his wet finger and ran it over my clitoris, smearing it with my own juices—. They didn't care whether I was comfortable, whether I was enjoying myself, whether I came. They came, fucked, and left. They pulled out their cocks dripping, wiped themselves with the sheet, and fell asleep with their backs to me. And you were left staring at the ceiling with an irritated cunt, thinking pleasure was something that happened in movies.

Marcos frowned slightly, as if the thought of me with those other men bothered him. I stroked his cheek to reassure him and returned to what I really wanted to tell him, without stopping my hand from moving over his skin. His cock, still soft, was slowly filling against my palm, as if it were listening to me too.

—For years I thought I was the problem —I confessed—. That I didn't know how to enjoy myself, that I was frigid, that I asked for too much. It took me a long time to understand that the problem wasn't me, but men who confused fucking with a show of strength. To them I was little more than a hole to come in.

I told him I'd come to believe desire was something you pretended. That a woman learned the gestures, the moans, the right phrases, and repeated them so the other person would finish and let her sleep. For far too long, pleasure had been a performance for me, not a truth of the body.

—Until you appeared, with your calm way of touching and asking questions. And suddenly I didn't have to pretend anything anymore. The first time I came with you, I cried, remember? It wasn't sadness. It was rage over all those wasted years.

—You're not like that. And neither is your body. Let me tell you about the first time.

***

—The first time I saw you completely naked —I confessed, lowering my head until my breath brushed your glans—, I realized immediately that you didn't feel comfortable. You covered yourself a little, looked away. And I, on the other hand, couldn't have been happier.

I reminded him of that night in every detail, because I knew he remembered it differently. For him it had been a moment of shame. For me it had been a discovery.

—It was wonderful to take you all the way into my mouth and feel you slowly grow as I surrounded you with my tongue —I told him, and watched his ears turn red—. You were my surprise. Something soft and shy that gradually rose for me, as if it wanted to show me how comfortable it was. I'd never felt a cock respond to me like that, with such sincerity.

And so there could be no doubt, I did what I could no longer resist. I opened my mouth and took him all the way in, effortlessly, until I felt his pubic bone against my nose. My throat filled with that warm scent of a clean man I would recognize among a thousand. I sucked him slowly, drawing him out inch by inch, letting my tongue circle his crown underneath, right where I know his thighs go weak. Marcos moaned, a surprised moan, and I looked up at him from below with my mouth full.

—Mmmm —was all I could say without letting go.

I pulled him out with a wet kiss, tugged his foreskin with two fingers, and sank him back into my mouth. I sucked him hungrily, licking his balls too, one first, then the other, taking them carefully into my mouth while my hand never stopped moving up and down his cock. His hips were raised, barely pushing toward me, not daring to fuck my mouth all the way, and that restraint of his, that damned politeness, made me even hotter.

As I worked him with my lips, I played with him between my fingers. I gently pinched the thin skin, stretched it just enough to see that gleaming tip emerge, already spitting out a clear drop, caught it with my tongue, and started again. I loved how delicate everything was, how soft every part felt. Even his flavor seduced me, slightly salty and honest.

—I adore you, Marcos —I told him, giving the tip a chaste kiss before looking him in the eyes—. You have no idea how much.

He gave me a smile that this time really did seem to believe it. For the first time there was no shadow on his face, only the kind of astonishment belonging to someone hearing something he had needed to hear for years.

I turned my head again and continued, because I still had the most important thing to say. My hand kept stroking him slowly, so he wouldn't go soft.

—There was something else about that first night that made me fall in love with you, and it wasn't your cock. It was that you didn't want to fuck me just because you were hard. You asked me. “What do you feel like?” you said. Just like that.

I confessed that question had suddenly erased a pressure I'd been carrying for far too long. The pressure to be ready, to open my legs even when I didn't feel like it, to pretend everything was fine so no one would be uncomfortable. With four words, he had dismantled all of it.

—That was the perfect complement —I told him—. Not size, not strength. Sensitivity. That damned sensitivity almost no man bothers to have.

***

—Because women, in general, like men who talk to us too more than men who only use us —I continued, my voice a little lower—. It's nice when they ask whether it hurts, whether it's uncomfortable, whether I've come properly, whether I prefer a gentle caress or to be fucked harder. That's what really melts us.

Marcos said nothing. His hand was still on my hip, and he looked at me as if I were revealing a secret map no one had ever told him about. With his other hand he slipped between my legs again, two fingers this time, moving in and out with a slow rhythm that already had me dripping down my thighs.

—Men like you use every resource —I told him, my voice trembling—. Your hands, your mouth, your words, your patience. You make a woman feel as comfortable as if she were with someone who has known her all her life. And that, believe me, is infinitely more valuable than any extra inch.

I sat up a little so I could see his face properly.

—And don't take it the wrong way —I added, smiling—. It's the greatest compliment I know how to give.

He pulled me against his chest, and for a moment we stayed that way in silence, listening to each other's breathing. I felt something loosen inside him, an old tension finally finding its way out. His cock, hard now, throbbed against my hip.

—No one had ever said anything like that to me —he murmured at last—. I thought I had to apologize.

—Never —I told him—. Never again.

I kissed his neck slowly, tracing it with my lips to the hollow of his collarbone, while I thought about how many men must have gone through life convinced they were worth less because of something so absurd. How many women must have given up pleasure because they believed the opposite lie, that bigger is always better. Two deceptions that drive us apart when the only thing that matters is what happens when two bodies finally listen to each other.

***

His fingers, as skilled as I had told him, had kept working while we talked, leaving me with my cunt soaked and almost unknowingly opened. That was another thing that drove me crazy about him: the way he prepared me without hurry, as if we had all the time in the world. When he pulled out his fingers, they were dripping with me; he brought them to his mouth and sucked them slowly, looking at me. My whole belly clenched.

I climbed astride him. I took his hard cock between my fingers and rubbed it outside against my lips, back and forth, coating it with my own juices. I ran it over my clitoris until a whimper escaped me, and only then placed it at my entrance. I lowered my hips slowly and felt him enter, widening me inch by inch, fitting as if that had always been his place. When I had him all the way inside, I stayed still, my hands braced on his chest, feeling him pulse deep inside me.

—Do you know what else I love? —I told him breathlessly, beginning to move slowly on top of him, rising until I almost pulled him out and then dropping hard until I buried him all the way inside me.

Marcos didn't answer. His mouth was busy on my nipples, sucking and nibbling them with a care that raised gooseflesh on my skin, his firm hands traveling over my back until he grabbed my ass with both open palms, helping me set the rhythm, his eyes closed with an expression I had never seen on him before. The expression of a man who finally feels truly desired.

—I love it when it loses all its shame —I whispered in his ear, riding him harder—. When it forgets what it thinks it's missing and simply slides all the way in. When you fuck me the way you do, without asking permission, without apologizing for existing. Fuck me, Marcos. Fuck me like that.

He grunted something against my neck and squeezed me more tightly against his body. He began thrusting from below, meeting my downward movement with every thrust, and the collision of our flesh became a wet, obscene, beautiful sound that filled the entire room. He grabbed the back of my neck, sought my mouth, and pushed his tongue inside while he kept thrusting up into me, never pulling out.

We turned over without separating. I ended up on my back with him on top, and I wrapped my legs around his waist to keep him even deeper inside me. Marcos looked into my eyes, braced his forearms on either side of my head, and began to fuck me in earnest, with long, deep thrusts, each one drawing a moan from me sharper than the last. His pubic bone struck my clitoris on every downward stroke, and I felt my orgasm rising through my legs, unstoppable.

—Like that, like that, don't stop —I gasped, digging my nails into his back—, give me more, give me all of it.

And he gave it to me. Without urgency but without restraint, moving in and out with a rhythm that made me lose my mind, looking me in the face the whole time, never taking his eyes off me for even a second. There was no hurry, no trophy to display, nothing to prove. Just two people who had stopped pretending and were fucking with their mouths open.

—It's you —I told him on the edge of orgasm, clinging to his shoulders, feeling everything inside me tense around his cock—. It was always you. Just as you are.

I came with a scream I didn't recognize as my own, squeezing him inside me with spasms that brought his orgasm out a second later. I felt him swell, pulse, and empty himself deep inside me, jet after jet, with a hoarse grunt against my neck. I kept trembling beneath him, laughing almost breathlessly, feeling his hot semen run out of me inside when he finally pulled out slowly. I knew then that that Sunday confession had been worth more than a thousand nights with any of the others. Because I had told him the truth. And because, for the first time, he had believed it.

Afterward we stayed wrapped in each other's arms, the golden light climbing up our legs and his cum leaking from me between my thighs onto the sheet, and Marcos kissed my forehead as if sealing a pact.

—Thank you —he said in a very quiet voice.

I didn't ask why. I already knew. Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is to tell them, without fear and without lies, what truly turns you on. And I had told him everything.