I Discovered His Betrayal, and That Night I Let Myself Be Seduced

My name is Renata, I’m thirty-nine years old, and until a few months ago I would have sworn I had a good marriage. We’d been married for fourteen years, we had a son, and a quiet house where we almost never argued. That calm seemed to me proof that what we had worked. It took me a while to understand that calm is sometimes only what’s left when someone has already stopped fighting.

The first signs were small. My husband, Hernán, started coming home late with explanations that were too neat. Some nights he said he was staying at the office and sleeping there, something he had never done in years. He said it was an important project, that it would pass soon. I believed him, because it was easier to believe him than to ask myself questions that scared me.

One afternoon, while he was showering, his phone lit up on the nightstand. I don’t usually go through his things. That time something in me made me do it. I opened the conversation and read messages from that very day addressed to a woman I didn’t know. He was writing that he wanted her, that he was counting the hours until he could bury himself in her again and again, that he couldn’t get the taste of her cunt out of his head. He spoke to her with a fire I didn’t remember feeling from him in a long time.

I took a picture of the screen with my own phone. I thought I would use it to confront him, to have proof when I demanded the truth. I never did. The water was still running in the bathroom and I was still sitting on the edge of the bed, my hand trembling around the phone, unable to decide what kind of woman I was going to be from that moment on.

***

A few days later I was alone at home. Hernán had taken our son to a game, and I decided to distract myself with the old photos stored on the computer. I wanted those happy memories to comfort me, even if only for a while. Browsing through folders, I found one with a strange name, a meaningless string of letters. When I tried to open it, it asked for a password.

I know nothing about computers, but I remembered the name of that woman from the messages. I typed it in almost without thinking. The folder opened at once.

It was full of photos and videos. It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing, and by the time I did, it was too late not to have seen it. It was him. It was the same woman from the chat. There was a photo of her kneeling on a hotel floor, mouth open, with my husband’s cock resting against her cheek. There was another where he was gripping her hair in his fist while he fucked her from behind, and you could see on his face the pleasure I hadn’t seen on him in years. I accidentally played a video, and suddenly I heard her moaning while Hernán repeated, “That’s it, slut, squeeze my cock with that little ass,” in a tone he had never used with me. It wasn’t a one-night slip; by the dates, it had been going on for months. I stared at the screen until the image blurred, and only then did I realize I was crying.

That night Hernán came home as if nothing had happened. I said nothing either. Maybe out of pride, maybe because I felt that putting it into words would make it even more real. The following days I became someone else. I didn’t feel like doing anything. He didn’t notice, because by then he barely looked at me. One night he came looking for me in bed, pulled my panties down without a word, got on top of me, and shoved it into me dry. He moved for three or four minutes, came inside with a short grunt, and rolled over to sleep. I didn’t enjoy it, I didn’t get wet, and he didn’t look me in the face once. That, somehow, hurt more than the photos.

***

I told all of that to Lucía, a childhood friend I ran into by chance at a supermarket. We went for coffee that ended up lasting three hours, and I emptied everything I’d been holding in onto her. She listened without judging me. Then she took my hands across the table and told me she wasn’t going to leave me alone that night, that she’d drag me out dancing if she had to.

I agreed without much enthusiasm. I put on a dress she lent me, a very tight black jumpsuit with a round neckline that left the channel between my breasts visible. When I looked at myself in the mirror I didn’t recognize myself, and for the first time in weeks that didn’t seem like a bad thing.

We went to a club I would never have entered on my own. We drank too fast and danced like two teenagers, laughing at nothing. For a couple of hours I forgot the photos, the messages, the cold bed. I forgot I was the wife of someone who no longer loved me.

We were sharing cocktails at our table when a man came over. He introduced himself as Adrián. He was tall, with a neatly trimmed beard, and that quiet confidence of someone who doesn’t need to try hard to be noticed. He wore a suit without a tie, his shirt with the first two buttons open. He must have been in his forties. He bought us another round and, after a while talking, asked me to dance.

At first I refused. I told him I was fine where I was. It was Lucía who nudged me with her arm, laughing, until I had no choice but to get to my feet.

***

On the dance floor, the alcohol finished loosening me up. We danced to everything the DJ played: salsa, bachata, a bit of cumbia. Adrián danced close but without crowding me, one firm hand on my waist that made me feel, for the first time in a long while, that someone was really paying attention to me. Every time I turned, his beard brushed my temple and I felt a shiver travel down my back until it settled between my legs. On one of those spins he pressed me against his body and I felt clearly the bulge of his hard cock against my hip. He didn’t hide it, didn’t pull away. Neither did I.

“Your husband is a lucky man,” he said in my ear just as the music dropped.

I almost laughed. If you only knew, I thought.

“Don’t be so sure,” I replied, and I was surprised by the sound of my own voice.

We went back to the table. We talked for a long while, the three of us at first, then almost just him and me, because Lucía had started flirting with the bartender. Adrián kept telling me how beautiful I looked in that dress, and I, who had spent weeks feeling invisible, let myself be wrapped up in every word as if it were water after a drought. At some point, under the table, his hand settled on my bare thigh and slowly moved upward until it brushed the edge of my panties. I spread my legs a little without even realizing it.

When Lucía hinted it was time to go, he offered to drive us. She was pretty tipsy, so we agreed. We dropped her off first at her place, made sure she got inside safely, and then I was alone with Adrián in the car. He suggested we stop by his apartment for one last drink. There was a silence. I knew perfectly well what accepting would mean. I said yes.

***

His apartment was tidy, with just the right amount of light. He poured me a glass of white wine and we sat on the sofa. We talked a while longer, though neither of us was paying much attention to the words anymore. His hand rested on my knee. I gently moved it away.

“Don’t forget I’m married,” I said, almost as a formality.

“I’m not forgetting,” he replied, leaving his hand still, waiting.

The problem wasn’t him. The problem was everything I had inside me: the image of Hernán fucking that woman, grabbing her hair, coming in her mouth; the nights at the office; the bed where he had left me to finish without even looking at me. Suddenly the guilt I should have felt turned into something else, a hot rage rising between my legs that needed to get out somehow.

When he leaned in to kiss me, I didn’t resist. I kissed him first, with a fury I hadn’t known I had. I straddled him on the sofa and tore open his shirt, popping off a button or two. Adrián slowly lowered the zipper of my dress, tracing my back with his fingertips, and that contrast between my urgency and his calm only lit me up more. When the jumpsuit fell to my waist, I wasn’t wearing a bra. He stared at my breasts for a long second before taking them in both hands, and I threw my head back.

“What beautiful tits you have,” he said in a rough voice, and took one nipple into his mouth.

He suckled it slowly, biting it just a little, tugging with his teeth until I moaned. He moved to the other and did the same, while I rubbed myself against the hard bulge I could feel beneath him. I reached for his belt, unfastened it clumsily, pulled down his pants and boxers to mid-thigh. When I took his cock out I froze for a moment: it was thick, thicker than Hernán’s, the tip already glossy. I wrapped my hand around it and started stroking him without rushing, setting the rhythm with my fist.

“Get down and suck me,” I whispered in his ear, and I didn’t recognize my own voice.

I slid to the floor between his knees and took him into my mouth without ceremony. I started at the tip, licking and running my tongue along the slit until I tasted the salty pre-cum. Then I went down as far as I could, swallowing him to the back of my throat. Adrián grabbed my hair with both hands and began to guide the movement, not rough, but firm. I looked up at him from below while I sucked his cock all the way, saliva running down my chin, and he let out little groans that made my thighs clench. I let go of him, licked him from top to bottom like an ice cream cone, sucked his balls one by one, and took him back in until I gagged.

“That’s it, that’s it, suck it all,” he panted, tugging my hair.

There was nothing delicate about what I was feeling, but when he lifted me off the floor and laid me on my back on the rug, he took his time. He finished stripping off my dress and panties, opened my legs, and stared at my cunt as if he had never seen one before. Then he lowered his head and ran his tongue all the way through me, from my ass to my clit, in one long sweep that made me arch.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured against my flesh.

He suckled my clit with his lips, drawing circles with the tip of his tongue, and slid two fingers inside me at the same time. He curved them, searching for that spot Hernán had never found, and found it at once. He started working his hand while he devoured me, and I grabbed his head and pushed his face against me, shameless, rocking my hips against his mouth. Within minutes I came for the first time, with a cry that came from deep inside me, clenching his fingers with my cunt as if I didn’t want to let him go.

He didn’t give me time to come down. He lifted me in his arms and carried me to his bed, still trembling, and threw me face down. He put a pillow under my hips, opened my legs with his knee, and entered me in one long thrust. I screamed into the sheets. It felt thick, full, hitting exactly where it needed to. He stayed buried to the hilt for a second, breathing against my neck, then started moving slowly, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in to the bone.

“You’re so tight, damn,” he whispered.

“Fuck me harder,” I begged, and I was surprised by how badly I needed to say it.

He obeyed. He grabbed my hips and started pounding into me without restraint, the wet sound of our bodies crashing together filling the room. I bit the pillow, arched my back, lifted my ass so he could get deeper. He slapped my ass until the skin turned red, and instead of complaining I asked for more. Then he turned me over, put my legs over his shoulders, and shoved his cock all the way back in, looking me in the eyes. From that angle I felt him even bigger. He bent down to suck my tits while he fucked me, and I sank my nails into his back until he growled.

We changed positions several times. I got on top and rode his cock, bouncing on him with my tits jolting, while he squeezed my hips and looked up at me with narrowed eyes. He put me on my side, spooned me, and fucked me from behind while pinching my nipples and whispering in my ear everything he was going to do to me. Every time I felt I was about to come, he slowed down, gave me a breather, and took me back to the edge. I lost count of my own sounds. I screamed in a way I had never allowed myself to scream with my husband.

“I’m going to come inside you,” he warned me, jaw tight.

“Yes, come with me,” I answered, grabbing his ass so he wouldn’t pull out.

He thrust four, five more times, hard, to the hilt, and I felt the hot jet filling me while I exploded again, clenching around him with my cunt on every spasm. He collapsed on top of me, panting, and we stayed like that a long while, stuck together by sweat, with his cock still inside me, pulsing. When we finally went still, exhausted, breathing in broken bursts, I realized it had been years since I’d felt so awake, so present inside my own body.

***

It was almost dawn when I got dressed. Adrián, like the gentleman he was, offered to drive me home. He dropped me off around the corner, without me asking, so no one would see me getting out of his car. I went in silently, put on my pajamas, and got into bed intending to sleep a couple of hours before the alarm went off. I still had Adrián’s cum inside me; I could feel it every time I squeezed my thighs together.

Hernán shifted when he felt me and, half asleep, started touching me. I was still sensitive, my skin lit up from the night before. The room was dark. I let him touch me. He lifted my pajamas, pulled down my panties, and when he slid his hand between my legs he found my cunt soaked, swollen, still slippery inside. He let out a snore of surprise that he interpreted as desire for him. He climbed on top of me, shoved it in, and by one of those ironies only life knows how to invent, that morning I had sex with my husband and enjoyed it like I hadn’t in a long time. Only it wasn’t him I was giving my body to. In my mind I was with Adrián: his beard scraping the inner side of my thighs, his thick cock opening me, his hands squeezing my ass, the other man’s load that Hernán was now pushing deeper inside me without knowing it. I was giving myself to Adrián with every movement, and I came in silence, biting my lip, while my husband unloaded himself on top of another man’s cum.

After that first time, Adrián and I kept seeing each other in secret. We never promised anything, and there was no need to. We met in hotels, at his apartment, once even at my own house one afternoon when Hernán was at work, or maybe with his lover; at this point I don’t much care where he is. Adrián fucked me in my own marital bed, made me come three times on the sheets where I sleep with my husband, and licked my cunt until I had no strength left before leaving.

I don’t know if what I’m doing is right or wrong. There was a time when that question would have kept me awake. Today I sleep perfectly. I discovered that I had spent years going numb while holding together a marriage the other person had let go of long before, and that feeling desired, fucked, and wet again didn’t make me a bad woman, but a woman alive.

This is my confession. Thank you for reading me.