The Fantasy My Boyfriend Confessed to Me After Too Much to Drink

My name is Lucía, and I still can’t believe how far we went. I’m twenty-nine and I’ve been living for three years with Bruno, my boyfriend, in a small apartment that feels huge when it’s just the two of us. I always thought I knew him by heart: how he breathes when he sleeps, what each silence means, what he’s thinking before he says it. That certainty cracked one ordinary night, one of those nights when you open a bottle for no reason and the conversation drifts on its own toward unsuspected places.

We were on the sofa, barefoot, with our second glass of red wine halfway gone. We talked about nothing and everything, until we ended up on the subject of fantasies. I confessed that mine, the ones I had ever imagined, we had already fulfilled together: sex on the beach at dawn, in the car with the windows steamed up, in the back row of an empty movie theater. I had nothing left pending.

—And you? —I asked, resting my feet on his legs—. Do you have one you haven’t told me about?

Bruno stared at his glass longer than necessary.

—I have one —he said—. But it’s weird. Better forget it.

—Not now you can’t leave me hanging like that. Tell me, you can tell me anything.

I had no idea what I was about to hear.

It took him a good while to get started. He shifted on the sofa, ran a hand over the back of his neck, and finally asked me if I knew what it was called when a man likes it when his partner is with other people. I told him yes, that I’d read something about it. Then he explained that there were people who felt pleasure precisely from that: from the idea of their woman enjoying herself with someone else, from knowing it, from imagining it.

—Are you telling me you like that? —I asked, between nervous laughter and disbelief.

—I do —he admitted, without looking at me—. And there’s more.

He searched for something on his phone and handed me the screen. It was a paragraph, one of those texts that circulate in forums, talking about men who enjoyed being humiliated by their partners, being told they weren’t enough, that someone else would give them better sex, that they were just idiots watching while their woman let someone else fuck her. The dirtier and crueller the treatment, the more pleasure. I read it twice, incredulous, while he waited for my reaction, holding his breath.

—I can’t believe it —I said at last—. How long have you known this about yourself?

—Always. I started reading similar stories and realized it was my biggest fantasy. I never thought I’d tell you. It must be the wine.

Suddenly a thousand things clicked into place. That he was never jealous. That he let me go out alone with my friends, encouraged me to dress provocatively, never once made a scene. It wasn’t indifference. It was desire.

—Thank you for telling me —I said, and I meant it—. That couldn’t have been easy.

He went quiet for a moment and then let out, almost like a joke that wasn’t really one:

—If you ever felt like it…

—No —I cut in right away—. I understand your tastes, I swear, but I could never be with someone else. It’s just not for me.

Bruno nodded and lowered his gaze. He looked sad in a way that hurt me, because he’s the kindest man I know, the one who indulges me in everything. I only wanted to see him happy, and yet what he was asking was miles away from what I was capable of doing. Then an in-between idea came to me.

—Wait —I said—. Maybe there’s a way. What if we play it?

—How do we play it?

—Like a game. When I go out, I’ll text you things. That I’m going to leave with someone, that I’m doing it. Or in bed, I’ll tell you in your ear while I touch you. Without anything really happening, just so you can imagine it.

His face lit up like a child’s. He reached out, and I realized, brushing him through his pants, how turned on he already was by the idea alone.

—You’re the best —he murmured.

That very night we started. I felt strange saying out loud things I would never have said otherwise, but the response of his body was so immediate, so honest, that something in me ignited too. I spoke in his ear while I caressed him over his pants, told him that someday I’d look for someone else, that he had permission to see me with another man, that he should imagine my legs spread for a guy who wasn’t him while he watched, drooling because he couldn’t touch me. I didn’t recognize my own voice. And he, beneath me, breathed in ragged bursts, his hard cock straining against the fabric, trembling like I’d never seen him tremble before.

—More —he panted—. Don’t hold back.

I unbuttoned his pants slowly, feeling the tension shaking his belly. When I slid my hand in and pulled out his cock, hard, hot, throbbing, he let out a muffled groan that made me squeeze my thighs together. I ran my thumb over the wet tip, and he arched his back, digging his fingers into my waist as if he needed to hold on to something so he wouldn’t come apart. I kissed his mouth while continuing to talk dirty to him, telling him he was enjoying imagining me with another man, that he was a horny bastard watching me get fucked by someone better. The cock in my hand pulsed like a living animal.

He came with an intensity that left me stunned. His legs shook when he came between my fingers and a thick rope of cum smeared his hand, his stomach, and the waistband of his pants. Then he held me, kissed my forehead, and thanked me as if I had given him something enormous. I laughed, a little awkwardly, a little proudly. I didn’t fully understand what had just happened, but I liked the effect it had on him.

***

The game became a habit. Over the weeks I lost my embarrassment and, without realizing it, started enjoying it on my own. I liked having the control. I liked the feeling of power in every message I sent him from a bar. Something in me changed: I felt freer, more confident, more in command of my body. I flirted with men at parties without guilt, knowing nothing would happen, just for the pleasure of feeling desired.

Until Tomás appeared.

I met him one night at a friend-of-a-friend’s party. He’s thirty-two, with an easy smile and a way of listening that makes you feel like the only person in the room. We danced, talked until dawn, there was chemistry from the first minute. The remarkable thing was that he never tried anything: not a stolen kiss, not a wandering hand. When we said goodbye, he asked for my number. I never give it, and yet that night I did.

I didn’t tell Bruno. Not out of fear —I knew he’d love it— but because I was sure nothing would happen, and I didn’t want to get his hopes up for nothing. Tomás and I talked every day, ran into each other at gatherings, kept up that constant flirtation that tastes like danger. He knew I had a boyfriend. He didn’t seem to care. And me, less and less.

Two weeks later he invited me to a get-together at his place. I accepted without thinking too much. There were several people, music, drinks, a relaxed atmosphere. At some point in the night we ended up dancing face-to-face, staring at each other, and the distance between our faces shrank on its own. I don’t know who made the first move. We kissed. A long, deep kiss, one of those that erase the rest of the world. He took me by the waist and pressed me to his body, and I wrapped my arms around him without thinking of anything else.

—Let’s go to my room —he said in my ear.

I said yes. He locked the door and everything turned urgent. While he kissed my neck, I thought about Bruno, about his fantasy, about how I was about to make real what I had whispered to him as a lie so many nights. That idea, far from holding me back, only turned me on more.

Tomás pressed me against the wall and lifted my shirt up over my waist, his hands firm, roaming my back, my sides, my breasts over my bra until he made me moan. He fumbled open my bra with eager clumsiness and, when he bared my tits, he paused for a second, looking at them as if he were hungry. He lowered his mouth to one nipple and sucked hard, first gently, then rougher, while I buried my fingers in his hair. Heat was pooling thick between my legs and he noticed right away, because he smiled against my skin before sliding a hand down to my crotch.

—You’re soaking wet —he murmured.

I didn’t answer. I opened my legs wider with my knee and he slipped his hand under my skirt, pulled my panties aside, and rubbed my pussy over the damp fabric. That touch was enough to make me shudder. Then he moved my panties aside, ran two fingers between my folds, and found all the wetness I was no longer hiding. He dirtied his fingertips with my juices and looked at me as if that really mattered to him. I couldn’t stop thinking about Bruno, about what I’d tell him afterward, about describing every second of this scene while he’d keep it in his head until he came.

—I want to see you spread open —Tomás said.

He led me to the bed and gently pushed me to sit on the edge. He knelt in front of me, parted my legs with his hands, and kissed my mound before lowering his tongue to my clit, direct, precise, no detours. I moaned loudly and gripped the sheets. He ate me with hunger, alternating slow licks with harder sucks, slipping in a finger, then two, fucking me with his hand while his tongue kept pressing where it made me vibrate the most. I was so wet the sound was obscene. My hips arched without permission and I ended up trembling when I hit my first orgasm, deep, shaking me all over. Tomás didn’t stop; he kept licking until he made me come again, with my legs spread wide and my breathing shattered.

When he turned me onto my back and took his clothes off, there was no game left. He had a big cock, hard, veined, and he stroked himself for a second before positioning it between my thighs. He rubbed the head against my entrance, soaking it with my fluids, and entered me slowly, centimeter by centimeter, while I dug my nails into his back. I felt myself opening, felt myself filling, felt the heat of his body invading me to the core. When he was all the way inside, he went still, breathing hard, and kissed me with an open mouth, as if we were testing a new kind of gravity. Then he really started moving, sliding out and in with an ever rougher rhythm, hitting that exact spot that made me lose control.

—Tell me you like it —he asked, squeezing my hips—. Tell me this guy is wrecking your body.

—Yes —I answered, breathless—. You’re driving me crazy.

He changed positions, turned me over, and put me on all fours. He grabbed my hips and entered me from behind with delicious violence, sinking all the way in, making the bed slap with every thrust. I pressed my face into the pillow so I wouldn’t scream, but I couldn’t hold back and ended up moaning his name, feeling him punishing my pussy from an angle that left my arms shaking. He gave me one sharp slap on the ass, then another, and told me in my ear that I looked gorgeous like that, open, spent, fucked by a man who actually knew how to use me. I clung to the edge of the mattress and came again, with strong contractions squeezing him inside. He kept moving, faster and faster, until he filled me with a hot, long load, buried to the hilt.

When it was over, I lay there for a while looking at the ceiling, taking in what I had just crossed. For the first time in my life I had cheated on my partner. And the strange thing was that I didn’t feel guilty, only a weird mixture of adrenaline and tenderness, because I knew exactly who it was going to matter to, and in what way.

***

I got home a little after nine in the morning, my hair damp from a shower I hadn’t taken alone and a mark on my neck I hadn’t bothered to hide. Bruno was awake; he had made me breakfast. The moment he saw me, he knew. I didn’t need to say a word. His face was a poem of astonishment and a desire he could no longer disguise.

—What happened last night? —he asked, his voice rough.

—Sit down —I said—. I have to tell you something.

I sat beside him and told him everything, slowly, leaving nothing out. Who Tomás was, how I’d met him, how it had happened without my planning it. He listened with bright eyes, hanging on every word, and I could see on his face that this was, for him, the most exciting confession he had ever heard in his life.

—You can’t imagine how hearing you talk makes me feel —he said when I finished.

—I know —I replied, taking his face in both hands—. That’s why I tell you everything. Because I love you, even though now there’s someone else.

That morning we made love differently from all the others. I whispered in his ear, but this time it wasn’t a game, it wasn’t a lie we invented together. It was real, and we both knew it. Bruno asked me to tell him again how Tomás had licked me, how he had filled my mouth and my cunt with that filthy stranger’s hunger, and while I did I pulled down his pants, took out his hardened cock, and slowly sucked him, licking the base and squeezing his balls with one hand. He grabbed my hair, panting, and fucked my face while I kept sucking him, until he threw me against the table and opened my legs with ferocious urgency. He entered me hard, without pausing, with the same desperation as other times but with a different mind, because this time every thrust was accompanied by the image of me moaning beneath another man. I scratched his back and kept repeating in his ear that yes, I had liked it, that Tomás had fucked me better than anyone had ever fucked me before, and that sweet poison made him squeeze harder, drive deeper, and come with a violent shudder, buried to the hilt, breathing like an animal.

Bruno found his fantasy made real and I found a part of myself I hadn’t known existed: the woman who decides, who chooses, who honestly holds a desire that to anyone else would have seemed impossible.

I don’t know where this is going. I know Tomás has written to me again, that Bruno asks me about him every night with a knowing smile, and that the two of us are, against all odds, more united than ever. Maybe one day I’ll tell you how it continues. For now, I’ll keep the certainty that the secret my boyfriend confessed to me on that wine-soaked night ended up bringing us closer in a way I would never have imagined.