Lorena’s Confession After Her Dance Class

Lorena had turned forty-one convinced that she already knew all the versions of herself. The wife, the professional, the woman who endured in silence a routine that had become unbearable. Her husband, Andrés, came home late every night, showered, ate dinner in front of the television, and went to bed without saying much more than an automatic good night. They had not touched each other in months.

At first she told herself it was a phase. Then she stopped lying to herself. The bed had become a territory of backs turned and stifled sighs, and she began filling the empty hours with anything that might make her feel alive again.

First it was yoga. Then, almost on a whim, she signed up for African dance classes in a studio downtown. She loved it from the first day: the rhythm of the drums, the sweat, the feeling that her body still responded. At forty-one she kept a figure that many twenty-year-old girls would have envied, and for the first time in a long while she felt proud to look at herself in the mirror.

The teacher was named Mathieu. He was Senegalese, very tall, broad-shouldered, and had a smile that seemed to light up the entire studio. He had all the women students spellbound, and he knew it. He corrected posture with his hands, said their names in a low voice, and when he laughed he let out a deep, booming laugh that hung in the air.

One afternoon, after class, the group went out for drinks, as they had done so many times before. There were laughs, a couple of glasses of wine, and little by little some comments that began to get more and more suggestive. Everything discreet, everything between the lines. But Lorena went home with her body on fire, her cunt wet beneath her leggings, and an idea that would not let her sleep.

Over the following days she caught herself thinking about him at the most absurd moments. In the supermarket line, in a work meeting, while Andrés told her something about his day without lifting his eyes from his plate. She remembered the way Mathieu had corrected her posture, his firm hands on her waist, his warm breath when he leaned in to speak to her. And every time she remembered, something tightened inside her, a hot pulse between her legs that begged for attention.

She told herself it was ridiculous. That she was an adult woman, married, with an orderly life and no room for teenage fantasies. But the fantasy would not go away. It grew. She imagined herself on her knees in front of him, with that dark, thick cock she intuited beneath his clothes shoved to the back of her throat. And a part of her, the part that had spent years in silence, began to whisper to itself what would happen if she stopped repressing it.

***

One night, without thinking too much about it, she sent him a message. Just to say hello, she told herself. They talked for quite a while about dancing, music, travel. And then, almost without realizing it, the conversation changed temperature.

The words became brazen, direct, unfiltered. Mathieu sent her photos. One of his bare torso, shining with sweat. Then another: his cock in his hand, black, thick, veined, pointing upward. Lorena stared at it with her mouth open, gauging the thickness, imagining how it would feel forcing its way inside her.

—Do you like what you see? —he wrote.

—I’m soaking wet —she answered, and deleted the message three times before sending it.

Lorena stared at them with her breath hitching, lying on the sofa while Andrés snored in the next room. This is madness, she thought. But her hand had already gone down between her legs, had pushed the fabric of her pajama bottoms aside, and she discovered she was much wetter than she would ever have admitted out loud. She slipped two fingers into her cunt and pulled them out dripping. She brought them to her mouth, tasted her own flavor while looking at Mathieu’s cock photo, and felt herself come almost instantly, biting her arm so as not to wake her husband.

—What if you came to see me? —he wrote.

Lorena set the phone on her chest and looked at the ceiling. She knew perfectly well that if she said yes, there would be no turning back.

—Give me a date —she replied.

***

On the agreed day she got ready as she had not done in years. She bought new underwear especially for the occasion: a light blue lace set, fine, almost nonexistent, with thigh-high stockings and a bra that enhanced breasts she still felt proud of. Over that, a straight skirt, a crisp white blouse, and high heels that made her walk like a different woman.

She felt daring, brazen, and she liked it. She liked the feeling of being on the verge of crossing a line, of ceasing to be the perfect wife and becoming, even if only for one night, the whore who dared to take what she desired.

The drive was barely fifteen minutes. On the way she felt her nerves mix with desire, an electric blend running through her stomach. At a red light she received a voice note. It was Mathieu, with that deep, measured voice:

—I’m going to fuck you against the wall as soon as you walk in. I’m going to rip off those panties and shove my cock all the way in, without asking whether you’re ready. You’re going to swallow every centimeter, do you hear me? And after that I’m going to make you suck it wet with your cunt, so you can learn what you taste like.

Lorena pressed her thighs together. She felt her nipples harden against the fabric of her blouse, a sharp pull between her thighs, and she had to breathe deeply so she wouldn’t lose her head behind the wheel. She felt her wetness run down the inside of her thigh, warming her stocking.

She parked in front of the building and looked at herself in the rearview mirror. The woman looking back from the mirror was not Lorena the wife, nor Lorena the professional. She was someone else. A woman who had decided, that night, to stop asking permission.

***

She pressed the intercom. There was no answer, but the door opened with a buzz. She went up in the elevator to the third floor, glancing one last time at the mirror in the back. Her heart was pounding in her throat.

The apartment door was ajar. Mathieu was waiting on the other side. He took her hand without saying a word, closed the door behind her, and pressed her against the hallway wall. He kissed her with an intensity that left her breathless, his tongue plunging into her mouth hungrily, his big hands roaming over her waist, her back, her hips. He yanked her skirt up, shoved his hand under her panties, and when he felt how much she was dripping, he let out a deep laugh against her neck.

—I knew you’d come dripping wet —he murmured—. Look at it running down your thighs.

He drove two fingers into her cunt to the knuckles, without warning. Lorena threw her head back and moaned at the ceiling of the hallway. He pulled them out, ran them over her lips, put them in his own mouth, and sucked them while keeping his eyes locked on hers.

—You’re going to be my whore tonight —he said—. Say it.

—I’m going to be your whore tonight —she whispered, surprised by the voice that came out of her.

He led her to the bedroom without rushing, stopping at every step to kiss her, to bite her lip, to whisper filthy things in her ear. There he undressed first, without shame, and Lorena bit her lip when she saw him completely: the huge, dark, hard cock against his belly, with a drop shining on the tip. Bigger than she had imagined. Her mouth watered.

Then he undressed her with deliberate calm, item by item, until she was left only in the blue lace she had chosen thinking of that exact moment. He unhooked her bra, weighed her breasts in his hands, pinched her nipples until she moaned.

—On your knees —he said.

She obeyed. And she discovered, with a mix of vertigo and excitement, that obeying turned her on. That giving up control, after years of carrying everything, was the strangest and most delicious relief she had ever felt.

Mathieu grabbed her hair with one hand and with the other pressed his cock to her lips. Lorena opened her mouth and took him in slowly, savoring the salty taste of the tip, feeling how it filled her tongue completely. She began to suck him hungrily, taking him deep with both hands and mouth, spitting on the head so it would slide more easily. He let her work, looking down at her with a half-smile.

—Deeper —he ordered, and pushed her head.

Lorena felt his cock hit the back of her throat and arched, eyes watering, saliva running down her chin to her breasts. Mathieu did not let go. He held her there for a few seconds, fucking her mouth with short thrusts, until he let her breathe. She sucked in a rough gasp and took him back in on her own, now with fury, taking him deep while she slipped two fingers into her cunt to hold herself back.

***

He yanked her up by the hair and threw her onto the bed on her back. He spread her legs with one hand and stared at her open cunt, shining, pink beneath the lace pulled aside.

—Look how wet you are, fuck —he said, and lowered his mouth without giving her time to answer.

He ate her cunt with the same intensity with which he danced: his lips between hers, his tongue going in and out, sucking her clit with closed eyes, moaning against her flesh. Lorena writhed, clutched the sheets, pushed her hips against his face begging for more. He slipped two fingers inside her while continuing to suck her clit and curled them, searching for the exact spot. He found it.

—Don’t stop, please, don’t stop —she begged, with a voice she did not recognize as her own.

She came with a muffled scream, squeezing his head between her thighs, feeling her cunt contract around his fingers. Mathieu did not stop. He kept licking her while she was still trembling, until he tore a second orgasm from her, almost chained to the first.

When he finally lifted his face, it was shining with her juices up to his chin. He climbed over her, ran his tongue over her lips so she could taste herself, and placed his cock at her entrance.

—Ready, whore?

—Fuck me —she panted—. Fuck me now.

He slammed into her in one thrust, all the way in. Lorena arched her back and screamed. She had never felt anything so thick, nothing that filled her like that. Mathieu held still for a moment, letting her adjust, and then began to fuck her with a slow, deep rhythm that pulled a moan from her throat with every thrust.

—Turn around —he ordered a little later.

He put her on all fours, arched her back with a slap on her ass, and shoved it into her from behind again. Now yes, without mercy. He grabbed her hair and fucked her cunt with dry, brutal thrusts that made his hips crash against her ass with a wet sound. He held her crossed wrists behind her back and used her however he wanted, pulling her back onto his cock.

—Tell me you like it —he demanded, his hand closed around the back of her neck.

—I love it, fuck, I love your cock —she answered between moans, face buried in the pillow—. Give me more, harder.

He spat on her ass and pressed his thumb against her other hole. Lorena tensed for a second and then relaxed, pushing back on her own. It hurt and she liked it in equal measure, that blurred border where surrender and desire become confused. She came again, her cunt clenching around his cock in spasms, while he kept driving into her without slowing down.

—You’re mine tonight —Mathieu told her, and she nodded against the sheet, unable to articulate anything but his name.

For years she had believed herself to be gone out. And there, surrendered and trembling, with the biggest cock she had ever had sunk in to the balls, she understood that she had never been gone out at all: she had only been waiting for someone to turn her back on.

***

At some point, when she lifted her head, she discovered they were not alone. One of Mathieu’s friends had entered the room and was watching from the doorway, already with a hand on the bulge in his pants. Lorena should have been scared, should have covered herself, should have run out. Instead, she felt a wave of something she could not name: power, desire, a wild freedom in being looked at and desired without restraint.

—Come —she said, with a hoarse voice that was not her own—. Come here.

The other man came closer without saying anything, pulled down his pants, and put another hard cock in front of her mouth. Also black, longer and thinner than Mathieu’s, with the foreskin pulled back and the tip shining. Lorena opened her mouth and took it without hesitation, while Mathieu kept fucking her from behind. She let herself be used by both at once, with one cock in her cunt and another in her throat, moaning around the hard flesh that filled her mouth.

They changed her position several times. They sat her on top of Mathieu, astride him, riding his cock while the other man moved behind her and licked her ass. Then they laid her between them, legs spread wide apart, and took turns fucking her. When one finished a set of thrusts, the other took over without giving her a second of rest. Both cunts full of saliva, of slick, of pre-cum, and she not wanting them to stop.

—I’m going to cum —Mathieu announced, his voice tight.

—On my face —she asked, surprised to hear herself—. Both of you. On my face.

She knelt between the two cocks, grabbed one in each hand, and masturbated them with her mouth open and her tongue out, looking up at them with shining eyes. They came almost at the same time: Mathieu’s first spurt crossed her cheek and reached her hair, and the other man’s landed thick on her tongue and dripped down her chin to her breasts. She spread it over her face with her fingers, brought the semen to her mouth, and swallowed it slowly, savoring it, while the two men watched her with their breathing ragged.

When it was all over, she lay there for a good while, legs still open, feeling the semen slide out of her cunt and wet her thigh. She listened to the heartbeats gradually returning to normal and their voices speaking in a language she did not understand. She did not feel guilty. For the first time in years, she felt that her body belonged entirely to her.

***

She dressed slowly, with her soaked panties tucked in her bag because Mathieu had asked for them as a keepsake. She gave them to him, amused, like someone leaving a signature. Before she left, he kissed her forehead with an unexpected tenderness that contrasted with everything else.

In the elevator she looked at herself in the mirror in the back again. She smiled. The woman looking back at her had smeared makeup, mussed hair, a red mark on her neck, and an expression of absolute satisfaction. She liked what she saw.

She got into the car and sent him one last message, thanking him and telling him that, whenever he wanted, he knew where to find her. Then she started the engine and drove back home with the windows down, letting the dawn air dry the sweat and the semen still dry on her skin.

Andrés was asleep as always, oblivious to everything. Lorena got into the shower and let the hot water run over her aching shoulders, over the finger marks on her hips, over her swollen, throbbing cunt. Tomorrow I’ll be back to being the same as always, she thought. But tonight I was exactly who I wanted to be.

And as the steam fogged the bathroom mirror, she knew that confession —the one of the whore who had been hidden for too long— would be her best-kept secret. One she would repeat, no doubt, as soon as he called again.