My Confession About My Cheating Fantasy

I'm telling this because I'm still ashamed of it, but also because it was the first time I understood that your mind can turn you on more than any body in front of you. That night I fell asleep on a video call with my girlfriend, something we'd been doing regularly for years. We were both adults, each living on our own since we finished university, and yet we still kept that old habit of talking until we dropped off.

That day we'd spent the afternoon together at my apartment. We'd fucked twice before she went home, once slowly against the kitchen wall and once in my bed, sweating, laughing, and biting each other as usual. I was drained, tired, and satisfied, so I never imagined that a few hours later I'd end up jerking off to a fantasy that left my chest burning and my conscience in ruins.

I woke up suddenly at one-thirty, or maybe a little later. The phone screen was almost black, barely lit, and the call was still open. I was about to hang up without a thought when I heard something that wasn't the hum of the air conditioner.

It was a rhythmic rubbing. Soft. Uneven. Like a hand moving over fabric or skin. I stayed still, the phone pressed to my ear, trying to make out whether I'd really heard it or was still half asleep.

Then another sound came. A brief, muffled moan, so quiet I could have imagined it. But it was too late: my entire attention was trapped there.

—Is she touching herself? —I murmured to myself, my voice thick with sleep.

It made no sense. If she'd wanted to masturbate in peace, she would have hung up. Or that's what I thought at first. Then I remembered what she was like when she was horny: capricious, playful, capable of getting turned on just by knowing I was on the other end. That memory was enough to make me sit up in bed, turn up the volume, and hold my breath so I could listen better.

The rubbing started again. That same rhythm that seemed to stop and start. And again, in the background, breathing that didn't sound like sleep. It took my imagination seconds to put an image to it all: her on her back, one leg bent, her shirt pulled up to her chest, her fingers between her legs, still wet from what we'd done that afternoon.

I knew her body by heart. The way she spread her knees farther when she wanted to come. The way her nipples hardened when I barely brushed them with the tip of my tongue. How she pressed her lips together to keep from moaning loudly when she knew someone might hear.

That knowledge fucked me up. Because the better I knew her, the more real what I was imagining felt.

Small movements could still be heard on the other end of the call. A bedsheet. A faint bump against the mattress. A whisper I couldn't make out. That's when everything twisted inside me.

I remembered an old conversation, one of those that seem irrelevant until one night they come back to drive themselves into the place that hurts most. Some time before, she'd told me that a neighbor in her building used to stare at her too much whenever they ran into each other in the elevator. She'd said it jokingly, as an anecdote. She'd also told me that a couple of times the guy had tried to make more conversation than necessary, in that tone of a confident man who thinks he's irresistible.

I didn't know what he looked like. I'd never seen him. And maybe that's why my mind filled him in with anything it could: a tall man, bigger than me, tiptoeing into her apartment in the middle of the night. Her opening the door to him barefoot. Leading him silently to her room. The two of them holding back their noise while the rest of the building slept.

I felt the first blow of jealousy like a punch in the stomach.

—Don't be an idiot —I told myself—. That's not happening.

But I didn't hang up.

Instead, I kept listening with a sick mixture of rage and need. Because while my mind told me it was impossible, my body was already reacting. I felt the blood gathering between my legs, my briefs tightening, my cock slowly hardening against my thigh.

The contradiction turned me on even more. It outraged me to imagine the woman I loved with someone else, and at the same time that very image got me hard as a rock. It was a dirty, uncomfortable arousal, almost offensive to the idea I had of myself. But it was real. And it kept growing.

Another cut-off breath sounded in the earpiece. Then a faster rubbing. I closed my eyes and let the scene assemble itself.

I saw her in my mind in profile, receiving that stranger in bed. I saw her legs spread, that way she had of lifting her hips when a cock searched for her entrance. I saw the wet head sliding between her lips, slowly parting them, and her biting the pillow to keep from screaming when he fucked her all the way in.

I muttered a curse under my breath. My hand had already moved down over my stomach on its own.

I slipped my fingers inside the elastic and grabbed my cock. It was completely hard, hot, throbbing in my palm. I felt ashamed even before I started, but I didn't let go. I squeezed slowly, sliding my hand from base to tip, just once, as if I could still stop myself.

I couldn't.

The call was still open. The air conditioner humming in the background. Some distant movement. And me, in my bed, breathing through my mouth while I imagined my girlfriend being fucked by another man a few miles away.

I started jerking off slowly. I closed my hand tighter and repeated the motion, using the pre-cum already wetting the tip. Each upward stroke made me see something new. I imagined her with her nightgown gathered around her waist. That guy's cock sliding in and out of her wet cunt with a slick sound I had never actually heard. Her navel trembling. Her tits bouncing with every thrust. Her face turned to the side, flushed, aroused, filthy with desire.

—That's it, that feels so good... —I imagined her saying in a broken voice.

I knew that phrase hadn't come from her mouth. But my brain was no longer listening to reality. It was making porn in real time out of nothing but faint noises and half a suspicion.

The jerk-off stopped being slow almost immediately. I started moving my hand faster, squeezing for real, feeling the veins taut beneath the skin. The tip slid more easily with every stroke. My breathing became short and nervous, just like when I'm about to come but still want to hold out a little longer to draw everything out.

The worst part was that the more jealous I felt, the more turned on I became. I imagined the neighbor putting her on all fours at the edge of the bed, spreading her ass with one hand to watch his cock disappear inside her. I imagined my girlfriend throwing her head back, offering herself completely, her hair stuck to her neck and her mouth open. I imagined her buttocks slapping against that man's pelvis with a dull, fast, forbidden rhythm.

My hand sped up.

I could feel my swollen glans brushing my palm with every stroke. My balls were tight. My abdomen was hard. Desire rose in waves. The rage no longer took away my arousal: it made it thicker, more animal. The idea of her enjoying another cock was turning me on, of her opening herself for someone else the way she opened herself for me, of her coming while trying not to make a sound as I listened from the other end, not knowing whether I was a willing accomplice or a cuckold.

I felt disgusted admitting it, even then. But it made me even harder.

I loosened my hand for a second to spread the pre-cum more thoroughly along the shaft, then squeezed again. Up, down. Up, down. I began moving my hips against the air, as if somehow I needed to accompany the rhythm of that invented scene. My jaw was tight. The phone was pressed to my ear. My other hand clutched the sheet.

And my mind was running wild.

Now I imagined her kneeling in front of him. Her back straight, her eyes shining, holding his cock with one hand before putting it in her mouth. I saw her sucking it slowly at first, wet and obedient, licking the head, letting him push it in until she gagged lightly. I imagined her drooling all over his cock, looking up at him, aroused by the risk of someone hearing her in the middle of the night.

I moaned. A hoarse, ugly, involuntary sound.

My hand was working him hard now, with no gentleness at all. It was no longer a caress. It was an intense, tight, almost desperate wank. My shaft throbbed with every stroke. I felt the tingling building at the base, that clear warning that I was reaching the point of no return.

Then, as if my mind needed to deliver the final blow, it changed the scene again.

I saw her lying on her back, her thighs spread wide and her cunt swollen from being used so much. The stranger between her legs, thrusting into her again and again, all the way to the hilt. Her gripping the sheets. Her nipples hard. Her mouth twisted in an expression of pure depravity. And suddenly I heard her in my imagination with obscene clarity, telling him what she sometimes told me when she was completely surrendered:

—Don't stop. Fuck me all the way.

That sentence pierced me.

I jerked off faster, almost brutally. My hand moved up and down without stopping, the skin of my shaft stretching wetly, the tip so sensitive it hurt deliciously. My heart was pounding in my ears. My abdomen was clenched and my thighs rigid. I wasn't thinking anymore about whether it was true or false. I just wanted to come with that image lodged inside me.

I imagined the man grabbing her legs and spreading them wider. I imagined my cock replaced by his, another dick entering where I had entered so many times. I imagined her cunt squeezing him, swallowing him whole, and her coming without calling me, without thinking of me, surrendered to another body. That was what destroyed me and made me explode at the same time.

The first contraction folded me over slightly.

I came with a dry moan, squeezing my cock with my whole hand. The semen burst out in thick, hot spurts, shooting across my chest and spattering my neck. I didn't stop moving; I kept jerking off through the next waves, squeezing more milk out over my stomach, feeling each pulse of the orgasm empty me while the image of her with someone else kept shining behind my eyes.

There were several spasms in a row. Intense, dirty, almost violent. My glans was left extremely sensitive, and I finally had to loosen my grip, breathing in ragged gasps, my body trembling and the semen cooling on my skin.

I stayed motionless. The phone was still against my ear.

There was nothing strange to be heard on the other end anymore, just the steady air conditioner and a normal, boring, harmless silence. A silence that made me feel ridiculous immediately.

I looked at my stained chest, and a shame as sudden as the orgasm before it washed over me. I hadn't merely been aroused by an absurd suspicion. I'd come thinking about an invented infidelity, recreating it in detail, enjoying a scene that would have destroyed me if it had been real.

I hung up with clumsy hands and went to the bathroom to clean myself. Under the white mirror light, I saw my tired, still-flushed face and semen running down my abdomen. I turned on the faucet, wet a towel, and began wiping my chest, avoiding looking at myself for too long.

What the fuck is wrong with you?, I thought.

I had no answer. Just a strange mixture of relief, guilt, and residual arousal that was still there, hidden beneath the shame. Because no matter how much I wanted to deny it, the scene was still circling in my mind. I'd already come, yes, but if I closed my eyes again, I could see it all over again: her legs spread, fucking another man in silence while I listened from far away.

I cleaned myself slowly and went back to bed. I stared at the phone's dark screen on the nightstand as if it were guilty of something. I wanted to convince myself that it had all been the fatigue, the early-morning hour, an overactive imagination, and the memory of that afternoon's sex. I wanted to decide that by dawn I'd laugh about it and never think of it again.

But I knew myself too well.

Because even before falling asleep again, my body relaxed after coming and my mind still in turmoil, I caught myself retrieving little fragments of the fantasy. No longer with panic, but with a dark curiosity. What if that imagined humiliation was precisely what had turned me on so much? What if there was a part of me that wanted to see her desired by others, hear her, spy on her, suffer it and enjoy it at the same time?

The mere idea made me swallow hard.

The next day she texted me early, affectionate and normal, asking whether I'd slept well. I told her yes, that I'd woken up in the middle of the night but that it was nothing important. I didn't tell her the truth. I didn't tell her I'd spent nearly half an hour listening to insignificant noises until I'd turned them into a movie about betrayal. Much less did I confess that I'd come thinking about her cunt spread open for another man.

I kept the secret. I did so for quite a while.

Still, whenever we had a video call afterward and a long silence fell, I felt the same flutter in my stomach. Sometimes I wished I wouldn't hear anything. Other times, though, I wanted to hear just enough for my mind to betray me again. A rubbing sound. A breath. A doubtful moan. The bare minimum to reignite that mixture of jealousy, kink, and lust that had left me so confused.

That's why I call it a confession. Because it wasn't an innocent accident or just another wank. It was the discovery of a part of me I hadn't known existed. A part that gets turned on imagining the woman he loves being watched, desired, or even fucked by someone else; a part that suffers through the fantasy and at the same time milks it until he comes.

I don't know whether my imagination betrayed me that night or whether, in reality, it told me the truth about what truly turns me on. The only thing I'm sure of is that ever since then, I never hear an ambiguous noise on the other end of the phone in quite the same way.

And the most honest thing I can admit is this: if it happened again, I'd probably feel rage first. Then jealousy. And almost immediately, my hand would find its way to my cock again.