I Pretended to Be a Virgin for Three Years to Control My Boyfriend

There is a wound that marked me before my time and took years to stop hurting. I’m not going to tell you where it came from; it’s enough to say that I learned too early that a man’s desire can be held in the palm of your hand, like water, and that almost everything I did after that was so I would never again feel like it had been snatched away from me.

When my adolescence ended, I thought I owned a small empire. I thought I had a harem of men willing to throw their coats over the mud so I could walk across without getting dirty. What I didn’t understand yet was that they would have thrown that coat down for me, for you, for her, or for the girl next to her. Even so, I was intoxicated by the feeling of being courted and by the fantasy of being the only one.

I started law school. It’s one of the few professions where you really get close to the human soul, and I did everything necessary to learn how to read it. I learned to think like a lawyer, to look for intent behind every gesture, and I stood out from the very first semester.

My family was prospering. In my town, that was enough to put us among the respectable surnames, and of course I believed that made me even more desirable. So I made myself hard to get. I flirted a little with some men, a lot with others, but I let no one in. I wanted to be sure that whoever aspired to have me would sell his soul to the devil just to possess me.

I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. I was looking for a subject, an admirer, mud to sculpt into my own toy. I needed someone who would make me forget the wound was still open.

The chosen one was named Damián.

Good guy. Too good a guy.

He was the one the girls in town wanted and so did the ones in his faculty in the provincial capital. He courted me in an old-fashioned way: he visited my house a hundred times, brought me flowers my mother put in water without my asking, and one afternoon, with trembling hands, he took mine and asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes. Without a kiss, without a touch, without passion and without love.

My parents decided he was a good match, and that was how the strangest relationship anyone had ever seen in that town began. Damián took me to university almost every day. I always got the best grades; I was the top student in my class. And alongside the perfection I was chasing for myself, I wove a web of inventions and silences in which sex never appeared.

I have to explain something so you’ll understand me. We were in the middle of the twenty-first century, but in my town, and in families like mine, the myth of virginity still survived like a relic. Damián was convinced I was a virgin. He believed it, my family believed it, and so did the people who greeted me in the square. And I, with my head split in two, fed that character with an unhealthy devotion: an immaculate woman, who knew and understood nothing about the body, who offered explanations no one had asked her for.

What’s curious is that for a while I genuinely stopped feeling desire. As if I had put myself under voluntary anesthesia. I didn’t touch myself, didn’t slip my hand between my legs at night, didn’t dream about cocks or other people’s mouths, and all that appetite I was repressing I sublimated into one thing: controlling the people around me.

Damián believed me. And he stayed by my side for three years without going beyond a kiss, and not even a deep one. He insisted, of course. He needed much more; he loved me, I’m sure of that. But that man was nowhere near ready to discover that I loved being fucked until I was split apart.

What he didn’t know was that I was already in love with someone else.

***

His name was Andrés and he changed everything.

I’ll speak at length about him in another confession, because he deserves his own. For now it’s enough to say that that crush kept my relationship with Damián from becoming something normal. I fell in love with one man, but it was the other one who got my panties wet; that’s what many women do and almost never admit out loud.

Damián needed to get laid. And if he couldn’t do it with me, sooner or later he was going to stick his cock somewhere else. Women know how to sniff out those moments. So I started reacting more strongly, more loudly, to his kisses and his hugs. I faked orgasms while we rubbed our clothed bodies together in the dark of his pickup, with his hard bulge pressing against my cunt over my jeans, and then I faked enormous guilt for having “crossed the line,” when in reality I was pushing him to cross it a little more each time.

When he groped my tits over my clothes, I closed my eyes and imagined they were Andrés’s hands squeezing my nipples. When I finally let him get close enough to my mouth, I pretended it was Andrés’s tongue licking me, that it was his teeth biting me.

The years passed and the end of the degree approached. Damián looked after me, drove me, picked me up, went to get me wherever I needed. I let him move forward just enough not to lose the privileged place he offered me, and I used his own guilt as a leash: I had built the virgin myth and I worked as hard as I could to sustain it.

I let him touch me and go crazy from it. My back, my legs, everything outside was his. Only one territory was denied him — my cunt, virgin or not, was mine — and he knew it. Little by little I went from making him finish with my hands to trying, timidly, something else.

The first time I jerked him off was in the back seat of his pickup, on an ordinary night, with the window fogged up by our breath. I undid his pants with clumsy fingers, pulled out that cock that had been twitching inside his trousers for months, and stared at it for a second. It was rock hard, thick, with an swollen head and a clear drop on the glans. I started to move it with my hand, slowly, squeezing too hard because I didn’t know how to do it, and he moaned like an animal, eyes closed, the back of his neck resting against the seat. He stopped my hand a couple of times — “not like that, more gently” — and I learned in that very seat how to work the foreskin up and down, how to twist my wrist over the tip, how to squeeze the base. When he came, he filled my fingers and the inside of the window, and I put on a scandalized face while inside I was laughing with pleasure at the sight of a man coming apart in my hand.

The first time I sucked him off, we were already in the third year. We had the house to ourselves for an entire weekend. We spent it kissing in every corner: the couch, the garden, my bed. The pretext was putting on another movie, and he spent the whole time running his hands over me, telling me again and again that he loved me.

I knew he needed to unload. I could tell by his breathing, by the way his cock tightened inside his pants and pushed against my thigh. I also knew, because I’m not stupid, that the son of a bitch was relieving himself with someone else, that there was another woman opening her legs for him and swallowing what I was denying him. I wasn’t going to lose the control I had over him. So I did my part.

I knelt between his legs on the couch, pulled his pants down to his knees, and took out his cock already soaked in fluid. I looked at it closely, almost with the curiosity of a diligent student, and ran my tongue from his balls to the tip in one slow lick. He let out a muffled curse. I took the entire glans into my mouth, closed my lips, and started sucking him for real, giving him head with my tongue wrapped around his head while my hand worked the base. Saliva ran down my chin, dripped there, and I used it to lubricate his whole shaft. I held his balls with my other hand, squeezed them softly, and looked up at him from below so he could see me with his cock filling my mouth. He loved it; he told me so in broken whispers: “like that, like that, don’t stop, my love.”

I remember perfectly the face he made when he came. He took a deep breath, held it, and didn’t last long at all. He filled my mouth with a hot, thick stream that almost made me choke. I pulled away the instant I felt him finish, let the rest of his load fall onto his stomach, and gave him my dumbest smile, the one of the girl who doesn’t fully understand what she’s just done, with a thread of semen at the corner of her mouth. I let him gather himself, and he dissolved into declarations of love.

I felt amazing. My cunt was soaked under my skirt, throbbing, and I thought that from there I could begin, little by little, to let go of the saint disguise. But the idiot didn’t even try to return the favor. He pulled me onto his lap, hugged me, kissed my hair, and didn’t even slip a hand between my thighs. I went into the bathroom ten minutes later, still clenching my legs together, and I finished myself off alone, two fingers inside me, biting the towel so he wouldn’t hear me.

***

There is something I learned in those years that has never left me: we are aromas. The smell left behind by desire registers in men’s minds without their knowing how to name it. When I saw Damián on the days I came to him after being with Andrés, with the other man’s scent still soaked into my skin and my underwear, I noticed he was disoriented, anxious, as if something inside him were demanding its weekly turn. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t need to understand it.

During that year my town boyfriend was happy with his Saturday ration. We called it “love day.” We’d have dinner somewhere, drink something, and on the way back, in the pickup, we would kiss for half an hour before he dared to do more, always afraid I would stop him. I always ended with his cock in my hand or in my mouth, swallowing or letting him come on my tits, depending on my mood and on how much I wanted to punish him for his cowardice.

I kept myself inside the character even in that. I didn’t let go, I didn’t give myself over completely, even though I was dying to sit on his cock and shove it into me to the hilt. I made him finish and, with feigned shame and lowered eyes, I acted as if it cost me the world. And there was Damián, my knight, always there to assure me everything was fine, that we were doing it for love.

The day everything changed wasn’t with him. It was the afternoon Andrés kissed me for the first time.

It happened in an empty office. We greeted each other, he hugged me, brushed a lock of hair off my forehead, and I smelled his cologne, his breath, the heat of his chest against mine. I had been waiting so long for him to get close enough that my body reacted on its own. Heat slid from my head to my belly and from my belly lower, straight to my cunt. I felt my panties dampen in a matter of seconds. I moaned, and it was a real moan, the first in years. He noticed.

He played with my mouth for several minutes before sliding his tongue against mine. He pressed me against the desk, lifted one leg over his hip, and ran both hands down my back while he kissed my neck. One of those hands went lower, slipped under my skirt, and squeezed my ass over my soaked panties. I felt his hard cock against my pubic bone, thick, insistent, pressing against the bone as if asking to get in. No more was needed. I, in a borrowed office, forty seconds in, with my clothes still on and without him even touching one nipple, had my first true spasm. I came apart with just a couple of rubs, biting his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream, shaking, my legs failing me, coming against his thigh like a bitch.

When I caught my breath, with a stammering voice and my panties still dripping, the only question that came out of me was: “Are you going to leave your life for me?” I needed that answer to give him everything I was, to kneel right there and pull out his cock and suck it until the last drop. In response I got half a smile and, “If we’re not even together.”

I lowered my gaze. That feeling of the ground opening under my feet, the one I had already felt once years ago, settled in my stomach again. And once more, like then, I didn’t say a word. I gave him a small kiss on the lips and, for the first time, I told him: “I love you.”

And it was true. I loved him. But I wasn’t going to swallow the insult and let it go.

***

That same afternoon I called Damián and told him I needed his love. He came to get me at once, obedient as always, and I asked him to take me somewhere where we could be alone. We ended up in a rented cabin on the outskirts of town, the one his cousin lent out for free, with a big bed and a wood stove and no neighbors who could hear me.

I kissed him like never before. I ripped open his shirt and ran my tongue over his chest, bit a nipple, dug my nails into his back. I let myself go more than I had ever allowed myself, and while he still couldn’t believe what was happening I made up a story for him. I told him a friend had explained a way for us to be together “without losing what we had taken such care to protect.” I talked about anal sex in a very low voice, as if I were shy about saying the word, and I swore I had read that this way I would still be a virgin on our wedding night.

His eyes shone like a child’s before a gift. He finished undressing me, trembling. He looked at my tits as if he had never really seen them before, sucked my nipples one by one, clumsily, eagerly, and went down my belly with his mouth until he hit the line of my panties. There he stopped, as if he needed permission. I slid them aside with one finger, grabbed the back of his neck, and pushed his face against my cunt. “There, with your tongue, like that,” I told him, and gave him, one by one, all the instructions necessary to take me to the edge. I taught him to lick my clit in slow circles, to put his whole tongue inside me, to suck my lips, to move up and down without rushing. He obeyed like a diligent student, puffing between my thighs, his face soaked in my juice.

And yet I didn’t come. I was on fire, of course I was. The memory of that afternoon’s kiss burned in my body and I still had Andrés’s fingerprint marks on my ass. But I couldn’t finish with Damián.

So I turned him over, put him on his back, and sucked him for a while longer so he would be rock hard. Then I lay on my stomach, offered him my ass, and told him to push in slowly with a little saliva. It took him a good while to get positioned. I squeezed my eyes shut, more from concentration than from pain, and asked him to go little by little. When the tip finally went in, I moaned louder than necessary to encourage him. He pushed into me centimeter by centimeter, afraid of hurting me, while I slid one hand between my legs and rubbed my clit without him seeing.

I used the trick so many women use. While Damián struggled, holding back, afraid of breaking me, I summoned Andrés’s mouth with all my strength. His smell. The taste of his tongue. The cock I had felt pressed against my pubis in the office. The orgasm he had pulled from me without meaning to. I put Andrés in Damián’s head: it was his cock opening my ass, it was him with me facedown calling me a whore in my ear. And it worked. I started moving my hips against him, telling him to fuck me harder, not to take pity on me, and when I whispered in his ear, “Fuck me, don’t hold back,” the poor bastard lost control and started driving into me to the hilt with a violence I had been waiting months for. My fingers flew over my clit, my ass was burning, and I came screaming into the pillow, with spasms ripping through my whole body, clenching his cock inside me until he, with no will of his own left, came in three thrusts and collapsed on my back.

“Did it hurt?” he asked later, covering me in kisses on my hair, my neck, my hands, while his load dripped down between my thighs.

“Just a little,” I lied, acting innocent, guilty, in love, the girl who had just lost something she had actually not had for years.

***

I had always thought I was the sanest person in the world. The one with the best mental health, despite the old wound and despite the saint disguise I had been dragging around for years. But that night, after an orgasm I had secretly dedicated to a man who wasn’t there, with another man’s cock still inside me and the wrong name at the tip of my tongue, I thought for the first time that maybe I was a little crazy.

And maybe I had been for a much longer time.

Damián kept believing I was his, pure and untouched up front, while he split my ass open every Saturday from behind and convinced himself that was proof of love. Andrés kept being the owner of everything I truly felt, of every time I fingered myself alone thinking of him, of every real orgasm. And I kept playing both games at once, with one boyfriend on his knees and another inside my head, convinced I controlled the board, not wanting to see that for a long time now the board had been controlling me.

But that one, Andrés’s, is another confession. And I promise to tell it in full.