What Happened the Night My Lover Came Home

I went four days without answering him. Not a message, not a call, and I didn’t even go out into the street so I wouldn’t run into him around the neighborhood. I was angry with Bruno, although even I wasn’t quite sure which part of him I was angry at. Maybe how easy it was for me to say yes to him.

On the fourth night he sent me a single line: “I’ll be at your house at midnight.” I didn’t reply. But I got dressed up anyway.

I put my son to bed early, took a long shower, and put something pretty beneath my robe, something easy to remove, just in case. Then I sat on the living-room sofa and waited. Ten o’clock came. Eleven. By quarter to twelve, I was convinced he had left me dressed like a fool, and I got up and headed toward the bedroom with a mixture of anger and disappointment.

Then the doorbell rang. Twice.

I opened the door and didn’t have time to say anything. Bruno gently pushed me against the hallway wall and kissed my neck while his hands slid down my back. I tried to pretend I was indignant for two seconds. I didn’t even last one.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” I murmured with my mouth against his.

“I told you I was coming.”

I pulled him toward me and stopped thinking. I could feel his tongue thrusting deep inside my mouth, his several-days-old beard rasping against my chin, his fingers digging into my hips as he pressed me against his body. I could already feel his hard cock against my belly through his jeans, thick, insistent, outlined beneath the fabric. I yanked his T-shirt off, and he opened my robe with the same urgency, practically tearing it from my shoulders. We stood there together in the half-dark, him bare-chested, me in a black lace set I’d bought that afternoon, breathing as if we’d been running.

He kissed my shoulders, the top of my breasts, then yanked down the bra cup and put one nipple in his mouth. He sucked it slowly, nibbled it, tugged it with his teeth until he drew the first moan of the night from me. I kept my back against the cold wall and ran my hands over his arms, his broad back, that solid strength of his that unraveled me. Without taking my eyes off him, I slipped my hand inside his pants, took hold of his cock directly, and began massaging it slowly, feeling it grow even harder in my fist, feeling the tip already leaking a drop that I wiped away with my thumb. A growl escaped him against my breast.

“That’s it, don’t stop,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Suddenly he grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off the floor as if I weighed nothing. I clung to his neck, startled, a little frightened by how easily he did it, my legs spread around his hips and his bulge pushing right between my thighs, against my already-soaked panties.

God, I loved this, and I’d missed it so much.

He carried me like that to the sofa, and we fell onto it together. He kissed me with a roughness that wasn’t violence but hunger, and I answered him in kind. He tore off my panties with two fingers, without the slightest hesitation, and his hand found its way straight to my pussy. He began caressing me slowly, with a patience that contrasted with everything that had come before, drawing circles over my clitoris with his thumb while he pushed two fingers deep inside me. I was soaking wet; the squelching could be heard every time he pulled his fingers out and pushed them back in. I arched my back. He smiled against my neck.

“You wanted this so badly,” he said softly. “You’re dripping. You can’t get enough.”

I didn’t answer him. I didn’t need to. I dug my nails into his shoulder and opened my legs wider so he could continue.

***

He moved down my body, leaving a trail of kisses and bites over my tits, my belly, the jut of my hip, until he settled between my legs. He lifted my knees onto his shoulders and spent a second looking at my open pussy in front of his face, as if deciding where to begin. Then he lowered his mouth and licked me from bottom to top, in one long, slow stroke, flattening his whole tongue against me, and I thought I was going to die. Another stroke, then another, faster. Then he focused on my clitoris and sucked it as if it were candy, wrapping his lips around it, gently tugging it with his mouth, while he pushed his fingers inside me again and curled them, searching for that spot he knew better than anyone.

I had to bite a cushion to keep from screaming and waking half the building. I came with an intensity that left me trembling, soaking his face, my legs closing around his head, my hands tangled in his hair and squeezing hard. He didn’t stop. He kept licking me while I came, drawing it out, until the pleasure became almost painful and I had to push his head away myself.

As soon as I caught my breath, he yanked down his jeans and underwear, pulled out his cock—hard, thick, the tip already gleaming—and opened my legs again.

“This isn’t over yet,” he said, and drove into me all the way.

I let out a moan that I had to swallow halfway. I felt every inch inside me, the way he opened me, the way he filled me completely. Bruno started fucking me fast, too fast, the sofa creaking beneath us, and I cupped his face in both hands.

“Slower,” I begged him. “You’re going to wake my son.”

He slowed down, but only a little. He kissed me, licked my neck, covered my mouth with his every time a sound escaped me. He drove into me all the way and stayed there, pressed tightly against me, rolling his hips in circles, crushing my clitoris with the base of his cock, and I came undone beneath him. We changed positions several times on that sofa, which I would never look at the same way again. At one point he put my legs over his shoulders, bent almost against my chest, and thrust so deep that I lost my head and begged him not to stop, whispering because I couldn’t scream. I felt him reach a place inside me I hadn’t even known existed, and every thrust drew a little tear from the corner of my eye.

Afterward I sat on top of him, the two of us facing one another, his cock buried to the hilt and me impaled on it. I was the one who set the pace, rising and lowering myself slowly at first, feeling him come almost all the way out and then slide back in to the limit. He sucked my tits, squeezed my ass with both hands, helping me move. We looked at each other, laughed between kisses, brushed the hair from one another’s faces. There was something about mixing sex with that silly tenderness that drove me crazier than anything else. I quickened the pace, riding him, and he dug his fingers into my hips hard enough to hurt.

“I’m going to come,” he whispered.

“Not yet,” I replied, and climbed off him before it was too late.

We ended up sweaty and exhausted, laughing quietly at the mess we’d made. He sat up and held out his hand.

“We need to clean up,” he said.

That was something else I liked about Bruno: how sweet he was afterward. He helped me up, and we walked to the kitchen to get some napkins, both of us half-naked in the dark hallway.

***

In the kitchen we dried ourselves off side by side, and I couldn’t stop stealing glances at him. The line of his abdomen, his back wet with sweat, his tousled hair, his cock still half-hard hanging between his legs, glistening with my fluids. I don’t know what came over me. I left the napkin halfway through, knelt in front of him on the cold kitchen floor, and took him into my mouth without another warning.

He leaned against the counter and threw his head back, letting out a gasp that echoed through the silence. I took my time, unhurried, licking him from top to bottom first, wrapping my tongue around the tip, sucking slowly with my lips tight around him. I took him deeper and deeper until I felt him hit the roof of my mouth, then pulled him all the way out to start again. I ran my tongue over his balls, one and then the other, carefully took them into my mouth, and went back up along the vein throbbing beneath his shaft. I sucked the tip, looking up at him from below while I had him in my mouth, saliva running down my chin. I enjoyed the power I felt when I noticed his whole body tense with every movement. His fingers gently tangled in my hair, not forcing me, just guiding me.

“Come here,” he said after a while, his voice hoarse. “Turn around.”

He pulled me up, kissed me, and turned me toward the kitchen island, bending me over the cold marble against my skin. He nudged my legs apart with a gentle kick, gripped my hips, and entered without preamble, all the way, in a single thrust that tore a muffled moan from me. He began fucking me hard, the impact of his hips against my ass echoing through the silent house in a way that terrified and aroused me in equal measure. He pulled my hair back, arching me, and whispered things in my ear—“what a delicious pussy you have,” “that’s it, squeeze me,” “you can’t take it all”—asking me for more while I begged him for more too. He slipped his hand underneath me and rubbed my clitoris at the same time, and I was already about to come again with my cheek pressed against the marble.

And then, in the middle of it all, I heard a bedroom door opening.

“Stop,” I whispered, my heart in my throat. “Stop, stop.”

Bruno stopped dead, pulled out of me at once, and moved away. My son had come out of his room, half-asleep, rubbing his eyes. I gestured for Bruno to crouch behind the island and walked toward the hallway, covering myself as best I could, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I asked, crouching down to his height.

“I’m thirsty,” the boy said, his eyes almost closed. “And I had a nightmare.”

I kissed his forehead, got him a glass of water, and walked him back to bed. My heart was racing. I tucked him in, waited for him to close his eyes, and tiptoed back into the hallway. When I entered the kitchen again, Bruno was still crouched behind the island, trying not to laugh, and seeing him like that, I couldn’t help laughing too, silently, with my hands over my mouth.

“That was close,” he said.

“Too close,” I replied. “If he’d seen you, I would have died.”

As I walked back from the bedroom, I thought that neither in my adolescence nor in my marriage had I ever experienced as many emotions at once as that man made me feel. Guilt, fear, desire, all at the same time. And yet I didn’t want him to leave.

***

I found him in the kitchen eating a banana from the fruit bowl, perfectly calm, naked, his cock once again half-asleep between his legs, as if the place were his home. The sight made me laugh and turned me on all over again. I came toward him without saying a word, knelt on the floor again, and took him back into my mouth, this time soft, feeling him grow between my lips until he was hard again. I sucked him slowly, looking up at him from below, until he was ready, dripping with saliva.

He lifted me onto the island, spread my legs, and entered me again in a single thrust. I was already in another world. He fucked me with his cock buried to the balls, holding me behind the knees, while I gripped the edge of the marble so I wouldn’t slip. Then he took me to the sofa, put me on all fours, and pushed into me from behind again. I felt the weight of his balls striking my pussy with every thrust, his hands squeezing my buttocks, spreading them apart. Between thrusts and firm hands, he slid a wet finger over my asshole. At first I flinched, but little by little I began to enjoy the sensation and ended up asking him for more. He pushed his whole finger inside, to the knuckle, while he kept fucking my pussy, and I almost came from the shock and the pleasure. When he tried to go further, pulling his finger out and replacing it with the tip of his cock, the pain made me stop him immediately.

“Wait, wait, it hurts,” I said, sitting up.

“A lot?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “We’ll stop. It’s okay.”

That concern of his, the way he stopped everything if I needed him to, melted me. I sat him down on the sofa, climbed astride him, and took control. I lowered myself onto his cock slowly, feeling it enter inch by inch, and began moving at my own pace, as I wanted, looking him in the eyes, deciding every movement myself. I rose until only the tip remained inside and then sank down hard, drawing a growl from him each time. He sucked my breast, ran his tongue along my neck, and let me do whatever I wanted. I sped up, riding him hard, my tits bouncing in front of his face, and came like that, gripping his shoulders, squeezing my pussy in spasms around his cock, then collapsed beside him on the sofa with my legs trembling.

“I came inside you,” he told me afterward, laughing. “I was telling you, but you weren’t listening.”

“I couldn’t hear anything,” I admitted, feeling the semen begin to run down my thigh.

I still laugh when I remember how shameless he was, and how little I cared.

***

We showered together, soaping each other between kisses and hands that wouldn’t stay still. He ran his sudsy hands over my tits, my ass, between my legs, slowly rinsing me beneath the hot spray. I grabbed his cock again with my soapy hands and masturbated him under the water until he was hard again. I thought that would be the end of the night. I was wrong. As soon as we left the bathroom, Bruno lifted me into his arms again and carried me to bed, announcing that he still wasn’t finished with me.

What came afterward was slower, more tired, almost clumsy from sheer exhaustion, but also more intimate. He lay me on my side, pressed himself against my back, and entered me from behind very slowly, embracing me, one hand on my breast and the other moving down to caress my clitoris while he moved inside me at a lazy pace. We kissed by turning our faces toward each other, in no hurry at all, and I came one last time almost without realizing it, in a long, silent tremor, while he spilled inside me for the second time that night. We fell asleep in each other’s arms without realizing it, his arm around me, my hand resting on his chest as it rose and fell with his breathing.

My son woke me the next morning, asking for breakfast. It took me a second to react, and when I did, I nearly died: the boy was standing in the bedroom doorway, I was naked, and Bruno was asleep beside me with nothing covering him. I desperately pulled the sheet over him and got up to take the little one out of the room before he noticed.

I gathered the clothes from the hallway, sat my son in front of the cartoons, and started making breakfast with my pulse still racing. Bruno appeared a little while later, changed hurriedly in the bathroom, and came out as if nothing had happened. The three of us had breakfast, the adults exchanging knowing smiles while the child remained oblivious to everything. When he left, he kissed me at the door with one hand on my waist and promised to come back.

And he did. Many times.

***

What Bruno and I had lasted almost three years. To our families, we were a couple; to the neighbors and everyone else, just two friends. He was twenty years older than me, but beside him I felt more alive than I had in my entire life before. We traveled, tried things I never would have imagined, laughed like idiots, and wanted each other until the very last day.

My son, fortunately, never remembered that night or any of the visits. He was too young. And I, who carried the guilt of those midnight awakenings for years, now tell it without shame, because it was mine and it was real.

It all ended when Bruno moved abroad for work and I decided to stay. There was no drama, no reproach, just one last long embrace at a train station. Sometimes, when the house falls silent at midnight, I still think I can hear the doorbell ring twice.

I hope you enjoyed my confession. This time, do leave me your comments.