A Year of Cybersex and at Last I Wanted to See His Face

In all my years of marriage, I had never been unfaithful to my husband. Not a single lingering look, not one message I had to delete. But the afternoons alone at home are long, and one gets tired of staring at the ceiling. I started going into chat rooms out of curiosity, to pass the time, and without realizing it I ended up talking every day with the same person.

He called himself Adrián. I told him my name was Marina, though that isn’t my real name. With him I built up a trust I had never had with anyone, that strange trust anonymity gives. When you know that whatever you say won’t be said by a married woman with an orderly life, but by a character you invented, you dare to do anything. And sometimes that character is more real than the face we show the world.

—Marina, do you realize we’ve been doing this for almost a year? —he wrote me one night—. Two, three times a week. I know corners of your body your husband doesn’t even know.

—I know —I answered, with the living room light off and the screen lighting up my face—. And I’m even ashamed to admit it, but I come harder thinking about what you ask me to do than with anything I come up with myself.

It was true. I liked his fantasies more than mine. I put myself at his orders with a ease that scared me. The first time he asked me to open my cunt with two fingers in front of the camera so he could see me properly inside, I obeyed without thinking, legs spread on the sofa and breathing in short gasps, while he, on the other end, jerked himself slowly and whispered how pink it was, how wet, how badly he wanted to put his tongue there. He asked me to do things in front of the camera, things I thought at first I would never do, and I obeyed with trembling legs and my heart in my throat.

I still remember the first time we turned on both cameras at once, that mix of panic and excitement at seeing his body and letting him see mine. He had his cock hard, thick, holding it by the base with one hand, and he showed it to me without saying a word, keeping it still in front of the lens so I could look at it properly. I was left dazed, mouth dry, squeezing my thighs under the table, and I wrote him “I’m dying for you, I want to suck it” before I even thought about it. He let out a rough laugh and started masturbating slowly, letting me watch the tip turn darker and darker purple, watching him run his thumb over the head when the first drop came out. He asked me to do the same with my tits, to pull them out of my bra and pinch my nipples until they were hard for him, and I did, with the computer propped on the dining table and my hands on my own flesh as if they were his.

From there we went further, every week a step. He had me sit on a cushion and rub my cunt against the seam, moving my hips for him, until I came biting my wrist so I wouldn’t scream. He had me lick the handle of a toothbrush as if it were a cock, looking at the camera, and then shove it into my mouth until my eyes filled with tears. He had me spread my ass with both hands and show him my hole up close, something that had never once in my life occurred to me to show anyone, not even my husband, not even myself in a mirror. And every time I obeyed, he thanked me by coming against the camera, with those thick white spurts that shot from his cock and splattered his hand, his belly, sometimes even the screen, while he talked dirty to me in a broken voice.

—You’re a gorgeous little slut, Marina. My slut. Say it.

—I’m your slut —I’d answer, biting my lips, with two fingers buried in my cunt to the knuckles—. I’m your slut, Adrián, I do whatever you tell me.

And I came. I came like I had never come with anyone, not with my husband in bed, not alone in the shower, not in twenty years of marriage. I came with those words of his in my ear, with his hard cock on the other side of a screen, imagining it was him opening me up from the inside.

Over time I learned to recognize the way he wrote even before he said who it was. The way he took a little longer to reply when he was excited, the spelling mistakes that showed up when he had one hand busy. I found myself mentally noting his schedule without meaning to. I knew he logged on after dinner, when everyone in his house was already asleep, and that he would shut off abruptly if he heard a noise in the hallway. Those pauses of his, that shared fear of being discovered, bound us together as much as the sex did.

Still, he wouldn’t give an inch about his real life, just as I wouldn’t about mine. It was a rule neither of us had ever spoken aloud and both of us obeyed to the letter. No last names, no old photos, no street names. We told each other the dirtiest desires without shame, but the neighborhood where we lived was a sacred secret. I knew his body by heart (the cock curving slightly to the left, the mole he had in his groin, the way his belly trembled when he was about to come) and I had no idea what face he made when he laughed.

—I never imagined something like this could get me so fucking hot —he confessed—. Every time you do what I say I lose my mind. I thought you wouldn’t dare half the things I ask you. I want to fuck you, Marina. I want to shove it in all the way and come inside you. Don’t you think it’s time we saw each other’s faces for real?

I stared at that sentence for a long while before answering, my cunt throbbing under my pajamas.

—Adrián, I’m married. You’re single, you live with your parents, it’s easy for you. For me, taking that step is complicated, do you understand? And then there’s the distance. I’m from Salamanca and you’re from Santander. We don’t have time to meet without anyone suspecting.

—Then let’s meet halfway —he wrote right away, as if he had had it planned for a long time—. Burgos works for both of us. This week. I can’t take it anymore, Marina. I need to fuck you for real. I need to see what your face looks like when you come with me inside you.

***

It took me two full days to answer him. Two days turning it over, looking at myself in the mirror, making excuses not to go and undoing them one by one. The idea embarrassed me terribly. It’s one thing to get naked behind a screen, where you can turn off the computer if something goes wrong, and something very different to be in front of someone in the flesh, spreading your legs for him and letting him put it in.

—It scares the hell out of me, I swear —I finally wrote—. I’m shy, I’ve got some curves, I’m not the woman from the movies. But you’re right. Enough fantasies. I want something real. I want your cock inside me. I really want you.

—And how far would you be willing to go? —he asked.

—I don’t know. Whatever you want. You decide, you always come up with better things than I do. If you want me in the ass, you get me in the ass. If you want me on my knees sucking you until you come on my face, I’ll be there. You’re in charge.

Then that part of him I loved so much lit up.

—Let’s do something. Do you remember that game we talked about once? Make a list with six fantasies, numbered one to six. When we’re at the hotel, I’ll roll a die and we’ll do whichever one comes up. No arguing.

—And if the roughest one comes up?

—Especially if the roughest one comes up —he replied—. I promise to accept everything, no limits. No matter how intense what I get is, I’ll do it. Swear you’ll do the same. If it comes up that I cover your face in cum, you’ll lick every last drop. If it comes up that I fuck your ass without lube, you’ll spread your legs and take it. If it comes up that I tie you to the bed and use you for hours, you won’t complain.

—I swear it —I wrote, and I felt heat rising up my neck and then dropping straight to my cunt, which clenched around itself as if it already had something inside.

That very night, with the computer closed, I got into bed and made the list. I wrote it on a crumpled little piece of paper, in my worst handwriting, six fantasies numbered one through six: that he’d fuck me from behind while we looked in the mirror, that he’d make me cum with his tongue until I begged him to stop, that he’d cum in my mouth without warning, that he’d slip a finger into my ass while he fucked my cunt, that he’d take me standing up against the hotel wall the second we walked in, that he’d tie my hands to the headboard and do whatever he wanted to me. When I finished I was touching myself, two fingers inside and my thumb on my clit, and I came in less than a minute thinking maybe six would be the one.

—But let me see your face first, even if it’s just a photo —he insisted the next day.

—No way, you pest. I’m dying of embarrassment. We’ll see each other there directly, that way I won’t back out.

We set it for two days later. In Burgos, at a café on Calle de la Paloma called El Sifón, at five in the afternoon. I told him what I would be wearing so he could recognize me: jeans, a light blue shirt, and a denim jacket.

—And you —I added, laughing alone in front of the screen— put on a tracksuit. It’ll be more fun.

—You’re mean —he answered—. What if I get hard, and you know I’m going to get hard? In a tracksuit it’ll show, my whole cock will be outlined from the door. You’re so mean.

—Even better. That way I’ll get straight to the point and grab it over the fabric as soon as I sit down.

I went to sleep that night with my body on fire and a list of six fantasies hidden in my bag, written in my worst handwriting so my husband wouldn’t understand it if he found it.

***

On the day of the date I couldn’t eat anything. I made up some excuse, some errand I had to run in another city, and drove to Burgos with sweaty hands stuck to the steering wheel and the radio on without listening to it. Under my jeans I was wearing a new black lace thong, and I wasn’t wearing a bra under my shirt because he had asked me not to. I parked three streets from the café and still stayed inside the car a while, fixing my lipstick in the mirror, squeezing my thighs to feel the wetness that had already gathered between my legs, wondering what the hell I was doing.

At five o’clock sharp, dressed exactly as we had agreed, I pushed open the door to El Sifón.

I saw him at once. It was impossible not to. He was the only man in the entire café sitting in a tracksuit, on a bar stool, stirring a coffee that must have already gone cold. And yes, the bulge showed over the thin fabric of his pants, exactly as I had promised him. I imagined him as nervous as I was, about to finally meet the woman he had seen come more times than anyone in his life. I knew he wanted me. He had wanted me for almost a year through a screen, watching me open my cunt, watching me shove things inside myself, hearing me gasp his name, and now he was going to find out whether the real face lived up to the rest.

I took a deep breath, crossed the place, and sat on the stool beside him. He slowly turned his head to look at me.

And then I couldn’t hold back a scream that made half the café turn around.

—My God… You’re Adrián?

He went white. The spoon slipped out of his hand and fell into the cup.

—And you… are Marina? —he asked in a thread of a voice that wasn’t his.

We both fell silent. A dreadful silence that lasted centuries, with the coffee machine clattering in the background and some laughter at the next table that suddenly seemed unbearable. He broke it, his voice cracking.

—It can’t be. Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me this isn’t happening.

—You didn’t tell anyone, did you? —was the only thing I could think to say—. Please, tell me you didn’t tell anyone.

—How could I tell anyone? —he replied, covering his face with his hands—. What do you call this between siblings? What have we done?

Because that was him. Not some stranger from Santander. My brother. The one who slept in the room across from mine, on the other side of the hallway, in the same house where we had both grown up.

—You said you were from Santander —I murmured, clutching the edge of the bar so I wouldn’t fall off the stool—. That you lived alone, that…

—And didn’t you say you were from Salamanca? —he cut in, with a bitter laugh that was terrifying—. Liar. You live fifteen meters from me. We sleep under the same roof. We have dinner every Sunday with our parents at the same table.

I had lied about the city to protect myself, just as he had lied to me. The two of us had invented a faraway life so the other could never find us, so none of it would ever leave the screen. And by inventing the same lies, without knowing it, we had ended up meeting halfway to nowhere, both leaving the same house that very morning, each with our own excuse.

I thought of every night of that year. Of every time I had opened my cunt for him with two fingers and he had stared at it for long minutes, whispering dirty things now echoing in my ears with a new voice, my brother’s voice. Of every time he had made me lick a handle, suck my own fingers, straddle a cushion. Of the cock I had watched come against the camera dozens of times and that was now there, outlined beneath the tracksuit, a hand’s breadth from mine. Of the list of six fantasies I had in my bag at that very moment, numbered one through six, each one worse than the last. My stomach turned and, at the same time, I felt something else in the center of my body that made me even more ashamed, because it wasn’t only revulsion: it was my cunt soaking wet, throbbing beneath the lace thong, as if it still hadn’t understood that the party was over.

—How embarrassing, my God —I whispered, not daring to look him in the eye—. How embarrassing if anyone ever found out.

He looked at me with an impossible mix of horror and something else neither of us dared name. I glanced sideways at his lap and saw that it was still showing. More than before, even. The waitress asked if we wanted anything. Neither of us answered.

We were still seated beside each other, at the bar of that café in Burgos, with a cold coffee and a die he had pulled from the pocket of his tracksuit without realizing it, now resting on the wood between us.

Neither of us stood up. Neither of us left.

And now what?