My Friends’ Advice That Changed Everything That Night

Every Wednesday I get together with my friends for coffee, which almost always turns into wine. We talk about work, money, other people’s kids, and sooner or later the conversation ends up where it always does: on what happens—or doesn’t happen—between the sheets. One afternoon I mentioned that my partner and I had sex two or three times a week, and instead of applause I got a collective grimace.

“It’s not about quantity, dummy,” the most direct one told me. “It’s that you always just let yourself be carried along. When was the last time you decided how, when, and where? When was the last time you told him: I want you to fuck me like this, in this position, and move over here?”

I turned red all the way to my ears and didn’t know what to say. And that question lodged in me like a splinter.

For weeks they bombarded me with advice: loosen up, ask for what you want, take the initiative, stop waiting for him to get things started. At first I was embarrassed even to imagine it. Then it started making me feel something else. Every time I imagined it—me on top, deciding, his hard cock in my hands, making him watch me while he fucked me at my pace—I felt a heat below my navel that wouldn’t let me think of anything else. It happened at work, on the subway, while I was cooking; my panties would suddenly grow wet and I’d have to cross my legs to hide it. So one day I told them, half joking and half serious, that the following Saturday I was going to do something different.

***

Saturday arrived, and the girls’ words had been circling in my head since breakfast. Let go. Don’t think. You take charge. I decided that night I wasn’t going to wait for anyone. I chose a black lace set I’d had tucked away for months, waxed myself neatly, sprayed perfume between my breasts and between my thighs, and put on a short dress without a bra that outlined my nipples whenever the fabric brushed against them.

I started early, with little details. A hand lingering too long on his back as I passed through the kitchen, a double entendre when he asked what I wanted for dinner, a gaze held for one second longer than necessary. As I passed behind him while he stirred the pot, I pressed my tits against his shoulder and bit his earlobe. Martín laughed, amused, but watched me strangely, as if he were trying to figure out what had changed in the woman he’d lived with for years.

During dinner I was direct. I put down my fork, looked at him over the rim of my glass, and told him that tonight I wanted to try something different.

“Something different like what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Like today I’m the one who decides,” I replied. “How, when, and where. And you do what I tell you.”

He choked on his wine. I played mysterious, got up, walked around the table, and stood behind him. I bit his neck, ran my tongue along the edge of his ear, and slid one hand down the front to squeeze the bulge over his pants. He was only half-hard, and that touch was enough to make him fully erect. I whispered in his ear that I had a couple of ideas and that he’d better get used to them. He played along with a smile, but I noticed that something in the air had already shifted. We finished the wine unhurriedly, talking about anything and everything, both of us knowing the real conversation was something else—and that beneath the table my pussy was already dripping.

When we got up from the table, I took him by the hand and led him into the living room without saying a word. I dimmed the lights, put on soft music, and for the first time in a long while, I felt that I was the one in charge. I wrapped my arms around his neck and we began to move slowly.

“Mmm, what’s gotten into you tonight?” he murmured in my ear, his hands on my waist. “I like it.”

I didn’t answer with words. I moved my hips against him, slowly, in time with the music, rubbing my pubic bone against the cock already pressing against the fabric of his pants. I felt him grow even harder against my belly, and the first drop of sweat ran down the back of my neck. We kept dancing and kissing with tongues, soft bites, saliva, while his hands moved down my thighs and pushed my dress up to my hips. I caught one of his hands and guided it straight between my legs, over my soaked panties.

“Touch how wet I am,” I told him. “I’ve been like this since we started eating.”

He felt it. While he kissed my neck, he slipped the dress straps down with calculated tenderness, and the fabric fell to the floor. I stood in front of him in my panties, nipples erect, and instead of covering myself, I brushed his ear with my lips.

“Tonight let’s forget everything,” I told him. “No thinking. Until we can’t take any more. Until you don’t have a single drop left inside.”

His answer was a long sigh that I felt vibrating against my skin.

One of his hands closed around the nape of my neck and gently pulled my hair, leaving my neck exposed to his mouth. The other moved slowly and possessively down my back, slipped beneath the elastic of my panties, and cupped my ass. He squeezed one cheek, then the other, and his fingers slid forward until they found me open, swollen, and wet. One finger sank in without resistance, then another, pulling a moan from me that surprised even me. But before he could take control, I pulled free of his grasp.

I lowered myself slowly, kneeling in front of him without stopping my gaze. My fingers, still trembling slightly, undid his belt. When I freed his pants, his excitement was already showing through the boxer briefs, a wet stain at the tip where pre-cum was already leaking out. I ran my hands up his tense thighs, caressed him through the fabric, feeling his heat and his pulse, and only then yanked everything down. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, its red, gleaming head exposed.

I didn’t give him time to react. I gripped him at the base, stuck out my tongue, and licked him from underneath upward, following the thick vein. When I reached the glans, I took him all at once, until I felt the tip strike the back of my throat. I watched his astonishment wipe away every trace of smugness. A tremor ran through his thighs. That image was exactly what I’d come looking for.

I moved with a determination that surprised even me, sucking him deep, letting saliva run down my chin and soak his balls. I pulled all the way off, swept my broad tongue over the head, played with the frenulum, and sank back down to my throat. With my free hand I caressed his balls, squeezing them gently, feeling them tighten in my palm. Every tremor in his abdomen, every ragged sigh, every fingernail digging into my shoulder told me which way to go.

“That’s it… yes,” he murmured, his voice broken. “God, just like that, don’t stop…”

I felt him pulsing in my mouth, growing firmer, the vein on top swollen against my tongue. I found a rhythm, synchronizing the pressure of my lips with the hand pumping his base, and he tensed like a bow about to snap. His balls drew up against his body, a sign that he was about to explode.

“I’m close… I’m going to come,” he said, almost moaning, both hands buried in my hair.

I didn’t stop. I sped up, sucked him deeper, squeezed the base with my fingers like a ring, and just when I felt him about to explode in my mouth, I stopped dead. I pulled him out with a wet pop and rose, leaving him there, his cock dripping with saliva and throbbing by itself in the air, panting against the wall with an utterly bewildered expression.

“We’re only just getting started,” I told him, smiling as I wiped the corner of my mouth with my thumb.

***

I guided him to the sofa and made him lie down. I finished taking off his pants and shirt, then knelt between his spread legs. I removed my soaked panties, rolled them up, and held them beneath his nose.

“Smell me,” I told him. “That’s the scent you’re going to be wearing all night.”

He smelled them, closed his eyes, and moaned. I tossed them onto the floor. I grabbed his cock again and masturbated him with slow, long strokes, squeezing from base to tip, spreading the pre-cum all over his glans with my thumb, watching him regain his firmness beneath my hands. Every so often I lowered my head and gave him a slow lick, or spat a little saliva on him and went back to stroking. When I had him ready, I climbed onto him, one leg on either side of his hips, never taking my eyes off his.

“You have no idea what you make me feel,” I whispered, taking his cock, placing it between my lips, and sliding it along my entire soaked slit, wetting it with my juices before positioning it at my entrance.

I lowered myself slowly, one centimeter at a time, feeling my pussy open to make room for him. A sigh escaped me when I felt him fill me, his head scraping my inner walls and moving down, touching every corner. When I had him all the way inside, until my buttocks were pressed against his thighs, I stayed still for a moment, adjusting to him, squeezing him with my inner muscles. Then I began to move. Slowly at first, savoring every second, rising until only the tip remained inside and then sinking all the way down again, my hands braced against his chest. I decided the depth, the speed, the angle. I had absolute control, and that turned me on more than anything.

“Do you feel it?” I asked between moans, speeding up. “This is how I like it. This deep, all the way in.”

“God… your pussy’s squeezing me,” he replied, his hands digging into my hips. “I don’t know how long I can last.”

“Don’t you dare come yet,” I ordered him. “Hold it.”

I deliberately tightened my muscles around him and watched him close his eyes and bite his lip. I leaned forward until my nipples touched his mouth, and he grabbed them at once, sucking and tugging them with his teeth while I kept moving. Sweat ran down my back, between my tits, over my belly. Pleasure accumulated somewhere deep inside, the place where his glans struck me on every downward stroke, and when I came, it shook me in waves that made me lose my rhythm. My pussy clenched around his cock in uncontrollable spasms, and I screamed against his neck. But he still hadn’t finished, and I wasn’t willing to stop.

I drew breath and started moving again, now with a different urgency, trying to drag him along with me. I straightened up, braced my hands behind me against his knees, and began bouncing on him, letting my tits jump, giving him the full view. Our bodies collided with a wet, obscene sound that filled the room, that slap slap slap of wet skin against wet skin. His hips began thrusting upward, meeting mine with force, until a hoarse growl came from his throat.

“I’m coming, I’m coming inside,” he panted.

“Yes, inside, fill me all the way,” I told him, squeezing him with everything I had.

I felt him pulsing inside me, one hot jet, then another, and another, and with every one of his spasms I came apart over him again. I collapsed against his chest, both of us drenched, our hearts racing almost in unison, his semen running down my thighs onto the sofa.

***

Later, after we’d showered, we ended up in the kitchen making ginger lemonade. He sat in the chair, while I sat on the table wearing nothing but his shirt, and the conversation went where it had to go.

“You were incredible,” he told me. “What brought on the change?”

I blushed a little and told him a half-truth: that I’d been talking with my friends, that they said sometimes having sex without so much romance, more directly, more dirtily, was fantastic. That I wanted to add some new spice to the night.

“Well, now you know me better,” I added, laughing. “Or didn’t you like it?”

“I loved it,” he said, then paused for a second, looking at my legs spread on the table. “So now I know you like this more than the usual romance.”

I made him burst out laughing when I threw the towel over his head, and things heated up again right there on the kitchen table. He spread my legs with both hands, knelt between them, and without warning planted his mouth on my pussy. He began to lick slowly, with his broad, flat tongue, from bottom to top, stopping at my clitoris to draw circles. He drove two fingers inside me, crooked them in search of that inner spot, and kept working my clitoris with his tongue at the same time. I arched over the table, threw my head back, grabbed his hair with one hand, and squeezed one of my tits with the other. He sucked my clitoris with his lips, barely bit it, then licked it again with the tip of his tongue, and I screamed his name until I was hoarse, soaking his mouth with my juices while he kept going without letting me go.

But it was when we returned to bed, some time later, that the night took the turn that truly made it different.

***

We were tangled in the sheets, kissing like two teenagers, the taste of me in his mouth and his taste in mine, when the idea occurred to me. I moved down his body, took him in both hands, and brought him to my mouth again. While I sucked him, I began touching myself, two fingers buried in my pussy and my thumb circling my clitoris. He watched me, abs tense, hands opening and closing over the sheets, struggling not to finish. And then I proposed a deal.

“Let’s do something even more different,” I told him, letting him go for a moment, my hand still moving slowly over his base. “If you come before I do, you lose.”

“And what do I win if I hold out?” he asked, amused and aroused at the same time.

“If you win,” I replied, holding his gaze and sucking my own wet fingers, “you get me however you want. No rules. Every hole. Any way you please.”

“However I want?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Literally,” I told him, and watched the idea light up his eyes.

I knelt between his legs again and applied myself enthusiastically. I sucked him deep, pulled off, ran my tongue over his balls, took him back into my mouth, and let saliva dribble down my chin. At the same time I kept masturbating, burying three fingers in my pussy, letting him hear the wet noise they made going in and out. I brought him right to the edge again and again: I sped up until I felt him pulsing and contracting, then squeezed his base hard with my hand, cutting off his orgasm and leaving him trembling. I had him exactly where I wanted him: struggling, panting, lost. But at some point, looking at him like that, I realized something. Winning the bet meant watching him finish alone while I looked on. And what fun would that be for both of us?

So I changed my plan without telling him. I began to fake it. I sped up my hand over myself, let increasingly loud moans escape, exaggerated my breathing, tensed my thighs, and when I felt him at the limit, I released him, plunged my fingers all the way in, and let out a long, broken sigh as if I had just finished.

He relaxed, relieved, and let everything go with a growl, coming in hot spurts that splashed across his belly and chest.

“You couldn’t hold out, sweetheart,” he said triumphantly.

“I got overconfident,” I lied, laughing inwardly. “All this new stuff turns me on too much.”

I ran a finger over his chest, gathered some of his warm semen, and put it in my mouth. He caressed my cheek and told me we were perfect like this, that he was going to return the favor because I deserved it. And he did. What came next was a succession of orgasms I lost count of. He spread my legs and ate my pussy for what seemed like hours, alternating his tongue with two, then three fingers, touching my G-spot until my vision blurred. He made me come with his mouth, then with his fingers, then put me facedown and fucked me from behind, gripping my hair and pressing me against the mattress, until I was begging him to stop and begging him not to stop at the same time. With his mouth, his hands, his cock, his whole body, until he left me trembling and breathless on the mattress, my pussy raw and my face wet with saliva and sweat.

***

By then I was destroyed, in the best possible sense, and thought things were ending there. But with a smile he reminded me that the bet was still in effect. I had lost, which meant he was the one setting the terms now.

“Your ass,” he said bluntly, looking me in the eyes. “Tonight I’m fucking you in the ass.”

Everything inside me clenched. I nodded.

He took me by the hand to the wide sofa, the same one we’d used for so many games, and had me brace myself against the back, my ass sticking out and my legs spread. He started slowly, patiently. He covered my buttocks with lubricant, opened me up, and let a stream fall right onto my hole, watching it run down between my cheeks. Then he began massaging the ring with his thumb without penetrating, using gentle circles, until I stopped clenching. One finger went in first, up to the knuckle, making me breathe deeply. Then two, moving them in a scissoring motion to open me up. Every so often, in a low voice, he asked if I was all right, if I was relaxing. I nodded, concentrating on breathing, on loosening every muscle that tensed instinctively. While he opened me from behind, his other hand searched for my clitoris in front and worked it slowly, keeping me wet and aroused.

“This time it’ll be different,” he murmured behind me. “Slowly, as far as you can take it. But I’m going to put it all the way in.”

I felt the head of his cock, thick and slick with lubricant, press against my hole. He pushed slowly, an immense, gradual pressure opening a path millimeter by millimeter. I held my breath, my nails digging into the sofa’s fabric. I felt the ring give all at once and the head slide fully inside, and I let out a sharp cry. The first moment was sharp and burning, but he stayed still there, letting me adjust, not moving, breathing against my ear, one hand drawing gentle circles over my clitoris that spread pleasure through my whole body. Little by little he pushed in the rest, centimeter by centimeter, until I felt his hips pressed against my buttocks and his balls brushing my pussy.

“All the way in,” he panted. “You’ve got all of me.”

When he began to move, his thrusts were short and precise, searching for an inner spot that made my legs tremble. He withdrew only slightly and sank back in to the hilt, in a slow rhythm that was driving me crazy. His fingers never stopped on my clitoris. I began pushing my ass backward to ask for more, and he understood: he grabbed my hips with both hands and started moving faster and deeper, every thrust a hard smack against my buttocks.

“Do you like it, sweetheart?” he panted. “Do you like the way I fuck your ass?”

“Yes… yes… harder,” I answered, my voice breaking against the backrest.

The orgasm caught me by surprise, different from all the ones before, deep and visceral, a tremor spreading from inside me and rising up my back. I screamed, and all my muscles squeezed him so tightly—my ass, my pussy, my thighs—that they nearly dragged him over the edge too.

But he stopped in time. He carefully lifted me from the sofa, still hard and shining with lubricant, sat on the armrest, and made me lower myself onto him facing forward, leaving me in control of the depth. I lowered myself slowly, guiding his cock with my hand, pressing it against my open hole, managing every centimeter until I reached my limit, while he held my waist and exhaled sharply with every descent. When I had him all the way inside again, I stayed still, sitting deep, my legs spread on either side of his and his face level with my breasts.

“It’s all yours,” he panted, sucking one nipple. “Now you’re in charge again.”

I moved carefully at first, rising and lowering only slightly, then faster, sweat running down my back. I gripped his shoulder with one hand and began frantically touching my clitoris with the other while I fucked myself on his cock. He dug his fingers into my buttocks, helping me rise and fall, biting my tits and growling every time I buried him completely. When I reached the bottom one last time, we both cried out almost simultaneously. I felt him spill inside me with a guttural roar, a hot jet filling me, and I let myself fall with all my weight, taking advantage of every spasm, squeezing him with my ring to wring out every last drop, until there was nothing left to give.

We stayed like that, connected and motionless, panting until our breathing fell into rhythm. His hand found mine and laced our fingers together. No words were necessary. When I finally got up and he slipped out of me, I felt a warm thread run down my thighs.

***

A while later, with my head resting on his shoulder, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and confessed.

“You know? I deliberately lost the bet. I wanted you to win.”

He went still for a second, then let out a low, disbelieving laugh.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I wanted to feel that I was yours even in that way. That there was no escape. That you were going to fuck me wherever you wanted.”

He pulled me against his chest.

“I’d already figured it out,” he said. “I played along. But since we’re confessing… I cheated too.”

I lifted my head and looked at him.

“I took a pill while you were showering,” he admitted, somewhat embarrassed. “So I could last, so I could give you everything you were asking for. I understood that if you lost, it was because you wanted exactly this.”

I stared at him, then laughed. We had both cheated, both for the same reason: to make that night unforgettable, without limits.

“Next time,” I told him, still laughing as I ran a hand over his still-sticky cock, “we’ll play without cheating or little helpers. And then we’ll see who lasts longer.”

He held me tighter, that spark of complicity in his eyes, and we both ended up laughing our heads off. My friends had been right about one thing: what changed that night wasn’t what we did, but who dared to decide it.