Your fantasy led me into another man's arms

Don't ask me to be the woman I was again. Not now, I can't anymore. That woman was left in a hotel room overlooking the sea, and the one writing this letter is someone entirely different. I need you to understand that, even though I know you're not going to forgive me. I owe you that much, at least, written in my own hand.

When I met you, my convictions were neatly arranged, almost as rigid as my father's. Everything in its place, every person with theirs. I used to think the world worked better when no one stepped outside the script they'd been written at birth. You laughed at that. You said that one day life would throw all my drawers into disarray, and that when that day came you'd remind me how stubborn I'd been.

You were right, Gonzalo. More right than you wanted to be.

***

The fantasy wasn't mine. I want that to be clear, not to put the blame on you, but because it's true. You started talking to me about it one ordinary night in bed, in that low voice you used when you wanted something and didn't dare ask for it outright.

—Have you ever imagined yourself with someone else? —you asked me—. With me watching. Another cock inside you while I jerk off beside you.

I laughed. I told you you were sick, that you'd lost your mind, that normal couples didn't talk about things like that. But you kept insisting night after night, week after week. You whispered it to me while you fucked me, your mouth at my ear, describing how another man would spread my legs, how he'd shove his cock all the way in while you watched my pussy stretching around it. You repeated it when you came inside me, panting the word "another" like it was a prayer. You wanted to see me fucked by another man. And not just any man: you had a very specific idea, a desire you'd been hiding long before you met me.

At first it disgusted me. I told you so without beating around the bush. It seemed vile to me, a betrayal you were asking me to commit myself. But something happens when someone repeats the same word in your ear every night: it stops sounding like an insult and starts sounding like a possibility. And one day, without even noticing, it no longer turned my stomach. One day I caught myself thinking about it in the car, my hand between my legs at a red light; at work, squeezing my thighs under the table; in the shower, rubbing my clit against the spray while I imagined an unknown cock entering me.

You noticed before I did. You were always good at reading my face.

***

You were the one who made the meeting happen. Never forget that. You searched, you chose, you wrote messages behind my back and at the same time on my behalf, arranging something you said was for both of us. His name was Demba. You showed me a photo on your phone one Sunday afternoon, like someone unveiling a gift.

—It's him —you said, and your voice trembled a little with excitement.

Demba had a calm smile and eyes that didn't ask permission to look. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a steadiness in his gestures I'd never seen in any man. You'd chosen him on the outside, for the image that turned you on, for the contrast of his skin against mine. I didn't know yet that I was going to choose him on the inside.

—Baby, what if it goes wrong? —I warned you that same afternoon—. What if I regret it? What if I like it?

I said all three. All three. For the record. But you were only listening to your own obsession, that movie you'd been projecting in your head for years. You only saw the scene you wanted to see, with me in the center and you in the armchair, watching. You kissed me and told me you trusted me, that nothing would change between us. How little you knew about what you were about to lose.

***

The first time was at our place, on a summer night with the windows open and the distant noise of the street drifting in. You organized everything: the music, the drinks, the lights turned down halfway. You were more nervous than I was, pacing around, pouring drinks no one had asked for.

Demba sat across from me and didn't rush. That was the difference. You always rushed, wanted to get to the end like someone sprinting to see the result of a match. He didn't. He talked to me for an hour before touching me. He asked me things, really listened to me, laughed at what I said. By the time he finally put his hand on my knee, I'd already been soaked for a good while, clenching my thighs, wanting him to slide his hand higher.

I looked at you once. Just once. You were on the couch, exactly where you wanted to be, breathing hard and eyes shining, your hand already in your fly. And then something happened inside me, something that wasn't in your script. I stopped doing it for you. I started doing it for myself.

Demba lifted my skirt with two fingers, slowly, keeping his eyes on mine the whole time. He pulled my panties aside and ran his fingertips up and down my pussy, unhurried, feeling how soaked I was. He clicked his tongue softly, almost like a compliment.

—Look at how wet she already is —he said to no one, or to you, or to me—. And I haven't even done anything to her yet.

He knelt between my legs and ripped my panties off with one sharp tug. I jerked. Before I could say anything, his mouth was pressed to my pussy, his whole tongue flattened against my lips, sucking, licking from bottom to top with a slowness that made me writhe. He shoved two thick fingers into me to the knuckles and curved them inward, searching for the exact spot, while his tongue punished my clit in circles. I clutched the sofa with both hands, arched, unable to close my mouth. I came in his face in less than five minutes, biting my lip so I wouldn't scream too loud, feeling my thighs tremble around his head.

He pulled back slowly, his chin shining with my juices, and wiped himself with the back of his hand, smiling. He stood in front of me and took his pants down without hurry. When I saw his cock, a sound slipped out of my throat I hadn't known I could make. It was big, thick, dark, with pronounced veins and the swollen head pointed right at my face. I looked at Gonzalo for a second, almost by reflex, and then I forgot you existed.

I knelt on the rug and took it in both hands. It wouldn't fit all the way in my mouth. I sucked it as best I could, spitting on it, taking the head between tight lips, running my tongue down the full length to his balls and back up again. He put one big hand on the back of my neck and started setting the rhythm, pushing slowly until I felt the tip hit the back of my throat and tears blurred my eyes. I didn't stop. I sucked him with hunger, saliva dripping down my chin, moaning with my mouth full because I liked it, because for the first time in my life I actually liked a cock.

He laid me flat on my back on the sofa, spread my legs up toward the ceiling, and put his cock at the entrance to my pussy. He didn't shove in all at once. He rubbed the head along my wet lips, up and down, while I pushed my hips toward him, and only then did he start working his way inside. Centimeter by centimeter. I could feel him opening me from within, my walls giving way to make room for him, and when he reached the hilt he stayed still for a moment, looking at me, letting me feel how deep he went. No one had ever filled me like that. Never.

He started fucking me slowly, with long, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then burying himself to the hilt again. I dug my nails into his back, gasping words I didn't even know I had in my head, "more," "like that," "don't stop," "break me." He turned me face down and put me on all fours on the rug, grabbed my hips and hammered into me from behind with his hand on the back of my neck, pushing my face against the floor. The sound of his balls slapping against my ass filled the room, wet, obscene, and I screamed without caring that you were two meters away with your cock in your hand.

I came twice more in that position, one after the other, squeezing his cock with my pussy until he let out a rough groan. He pulled his cock out, turned my face with two fingers on my jaw, and came in hot spurts across my tongue and cheeks, thick, hot cum that ran down my chin and dripped onto my tits. I swallowed what I could, eyes closed, and ran my tongue over the head, cleaning it of every last drop.

When it was all over and Demba dressed slowly and kissed my temple before leaving, I was left trembling on the rug, half naked, his cum still drying on my skin, and it wasn't from pleasure. It was fear. Because I knew, at that very instant, that this hadn't been a game.

***

I saw your face when the door closed. You looked shattered. You'd gotten your fantasy and realized, too late, that fantasies come true but can't be controlled. That night you didn't touch me. You turned over in bed and pretended to be asleep. I lay there staring at the ceiling, my body still hot, my pussy throbbing from how well I'd been fucked, my mind somewhere else. With him.

During the weeks that followed, you tried to act like nothing had happened. But you were no longer the same and neither was I. You looked at me differently, with a mix of desire and reproach you couldn't hide. You wanted to do it again and at the same time it terrified you. And I, who at first had gone along with your game to please you, was now the one looking for any excuse to feel that cock inside me again.

When you fucked me, I closed my eyes and imagined you were him. When you slipped two fingers inside me, I thought of his three. When you came, I barely noticed it, because my point of reference had been shattered forever.

Demba had broken something inside me. Not the ideals, not the prejudices I'd carried since childhood, though those too. He had broken my idea that what you and I had was enough. He'd shown me, without meaning to, what it was to be fucked like a whole woman and not like a piece of someone else's fantasy.

***

That was why I laughed to myself when you suggested the trip to the beach. "To get us back," you said. You booked that expensive hotel facing the sea, with the terrace and breakfast included, convinced that a few days away from everything would give back to us what your own whim had begun to take away.

What you didn't know was that I booked another room. In the same hotel, three floors below. In Demba's name.

I paid for it with my own money, every day we were there. I arranged it with the same coldness with which you'd arranged that first night. I learned from you, you know? I learned how to plan, how to lie with a smile on my face, how to want something in silence while saying the opposite out loud.

The first few afternoons were almost tender. You made an effort. You took me out to dinner, held my hand along the seafront promenade, talked to me about the future as if it still existed. And I played along, nodded, kissed you on the cheek. But at night, when wine got the better of you and you'd fall half asleep in bed, defeated by the drunkenness of a man who senses he's losing his wife, I'd get up without a sound.

I put on a thin dress, with no panties, carried my heels in my hand so I wouldn't wake you, and walked barefoot down the carpeted hallway. Three floors. The elevator gave me time to look at myself in the mirror and not recognize myself, to slide two fingers between my legs so I'd already be wet. And then one door, two soft knocks, and him opening it in the dim light, waiting awake as if he knew I was coming down.

—I knew you'd come —he told me the first night.

And he was right. Just like you were right when you told me life was going to throw all my drawers into disarray. Only neither of us imagined the disorder would have his name.

***

In that room downstairs I discovered what desire without an audience felt like. With no one watching, no need to perform for anyone, no sense of fulfilling someone else's dream. Just him and me, the waves crashing against the breakwater and the bluish light of dawn slipping through the curtains when it was time to go back upstairs.

The first night there he fucked me as soon as I closed the door. He shoved me against the hallway wall, yanked my dress up to my waist, and took me standing, hauling me up with both hands under my ass, leaving me impaled on his cock while my legs dangled in the air. I bit his shoulder to keep from screaming, feeling how each thrust lifted me a few centimeters and then speared me all the way back down.

Other nights we'd go straight to bed, and he'd spend hours with my face mashed into the mattress and my ass in the air, working my pussy with his tongue, his fingers, his cock, switching off without giving me a chance to rest. He'd make me come four, five times a night, until I couldn't even close my legs anymore. He'd spread my arms and legs like a star and fuck me looking into my eyes, not letting me look away, forcing me to say out loud what he was doing to me.

—Tell me whose pussy this is —he'd whisper with his mouth against mine.

—Yours —I'd answer, and I wasn't lying—. All yours.

He licked my tits while he slipped two fingers in me from behind and his cock in front, filling me in both places at once, until I fell apart on the bed moaning his name. He came inside me without pulling out, pressing me against his body, and then he stayed still, feeling it seep out of my pussy and soak the hotel sheets you had paid for.

Demba didn't ask me to say anything to get off. He didn't use me as the set dressing for some movie he'd invented in his head. He asked me what I wanted, and he waited for the answer. He was territorial, yes, possessive in his own calm way, the kind of man who makes it clear he doesn't share what he considers his. And I, who had spent my whole life fearing men like that, found myself wanting to be his without conditions.

Every dawn I went back to your bed with my pussy gaping, his finger marks on my hips, his cum still inside me, and slid under the sheets beside you. I pretended I'd only gone down to get water, and you murmured something in your sleep and wrapped your arms around me without knowing where I'd been. That was my greatest cruelty, I admit it. Letting you hold me while I still smelled like him, with his spend seeping between my thighs two centimeters from your leg.

***

On the last night of the trip I didn't go down. I stayed seated on the terrace, staring at the black sea, while you slept. I thought about my father and his stock phrases, about the neat, fearful woman I'd been, about the list of things I never thought I'd do. And I understood there was no turning back, that I didn't want there to be.

You opened a door convinced you controlled what was on the other side. You wanted a game, a scene, a story to tell yourself in the dark. And in the end you were left with neither the fantasy nor the woman. It's unfair, I know. But so is asking someone to lean over the edge and then blaming them for jumping.

I'm not writing to hurt you. I'm writing because you deserve to know the whole truth and not a cut-down version. That first night wasn't for you. And neither were any of the ones that came after. I did them because, for the first time in my life, I felt like I owned something that was mine alone.

I'm leaving with him. I don't know if it's forever, I don't know if it'll go well, I don't know almost anything. I only know I can't keep being your woman while I think about his cock every time you close the door. It would be crueller to stay than to leave.

Take care of yourself. And the next time you want something that badly, think twice before asking for it out loud. The words we repeat in the dark have the ugly habit of coming true.

Goodbye, Gonzalo. I'm someone else's.