My friend kissed me that morning and my husband never knew

My name is Marisol, and I’ve been married for seven years. I’m thirty-four, I have a four-year-old son, and a life that anyone would say is complete. My husband adores me, my house is tidy, my family is happy. And yet that Thursday morning, when Camila leaned in to give me a goodbye kiss at the door, all the order I had built over a decade came crashing down in a matter of seconds.

I’ve known Camila since our last year of high school. We grew up together, went to the same university, shared our first concert, our first drunken night, and, at eighteen, our first kiss. That first one was almost a game, a curiosity born of boredom and the frustration of not having a boyfriend. Four years passed before we kissed again, this time for real, in my student apartment, right after two parallel breakups. We were secret girlfriends for almost two years. No one at the university ever knew. No one knew we slept naked, that she made me come with her tongue three times a night, that I ate her cunt until my jaw hurt.

Then I got married. Camila didn’t. She found women far too much to her liking to pretend otherwise, and stayed single, looking for something that never quite appeared. Our friendship survived everything. She respected my marriage, I respected her silence. But we both knew what the other left unsaid.

That morning she came over for breakfast, as she did every two weeks. Between warm tears, she told me that a man she’d been seeing for months had vanished without explanation. I held her. I listened. I poured her another coffee. When she stood to leave and I walked her to the door, I kissed her cheek as always. But Camila stayed still, looking at me, and before I could pull away, her lips were on mine.

—Camila, no —I murmured, trying to break away.

She didn’t let go. She held the back of my neck with a firm hand and the kiss deepened, grew more insistent. My hands, without thinking, ended up against her breasts, not to push her away but to feel her. After a few seconds I stopped resisting. I stopped looking for excuses. I opened my mouth and let her tongue in, and it was as if all those years of marriage were erased from my body.

—I missed you so much —I told her, speaking against her mouth.

—I knew you were still mine —she replied—. I knew that cunt was still mine.

My hands slid down her waist to her skirt and I squeezed beneath the fabric. Camila had always had a body that drove me crazy: the flat stomach, the wide hips, that warm skin that smelled like something sweet I could never name. I shoved her against the closed door and we kissed like we were twenty-three again and had all the time in the world. I slipped my hand under her skirt and yanked off her panties in one pull, already soaked, drenched, and shoved two fingers into her cunt right there against the door while she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She was hot, slippery, clenching my fingers the way she always had.

—Look at you —I whispered in her ear—. Look how wet you get at the first touch.

—Because it’s you, idiot. Because it’s you.

I dragged her by the arm down the hallway, my fingers still inside her, and took her to the guest room. Laying her on my marital bed was a boundary I still didn’t want to cross. I shut the door with my foot. I tore off her blouse, bra, skirt, everything, until she was naked on the blue bedspread. I stripped without taking my eyes off her, throwing my clothes on the floor, and climbed on top of her astride. I grabbed her tits with both hands, those tits a little fuller than mine, and bent down to suck each nipple in turn, biting them just a little, feeling them harden against my tongue.

—Marisol, Jesus —she gasped, arching—. You have no idea how much I dreamed about this.

—I dreamed too, my love. I dreamed too.

I worked my way down her body, kissing every inch of her, her collarbone, sternum, flat stomach, navel, groin. I spread her legs with both hands, without asking permission, just as she was going to do to me a while later, and I looked at her pink cunt, shiny, swollen, trembling. I licked my lips.

—Ten years waiting for this —I told her.

—Eat me already, bitch, don’t make me beg.

I ran my whole tongue from bottom to top, slowly, savoring everything, and she let out a long, dull moan that rose from her belly. I sucked her clit between my lips, wrapped it up, bit it just a little. I slid my tongue inside her and moved it, up and down, and in circles, and she pressed my head against her cunt with both hands, tugging my hair. I slipped in two fingers while still sucking her clit and curled them upward, looking for that spot I knew by heart, and thirty seconds later Camila was coming on my face, soaking me to the chin, shouting something I didn’t catch.

—Holy shit —she panted when she could speak—. Holy shit, Marisol.

I lifted my face, shining with her, and laughed.

—Now you —I told her.

***

That same night, Camila was gone. Camila was a secret kept in my skin, a smell that had remained on my neck and that I quickly scrubbed away with perfume before picking up my son from school. Routine returned. I got home. I made dinner. I put the boy to bed. I sat on the sofa waiting for my husband in a short black dress he had given me the year before.

Joaquín arrived after nine. Tired, jacket over his arm, but with that smile I still liked. He kissed me on the lips, briefly, as always, and was surprised when I gave him a long kiss back, tongue and hunger. His hands didn’t take long to find my waist, then my hips, then under the dress.

—That’s some welcome —he said, laughing against my mouth.

—I missed you —I lied. Or maybe it wasn’t a lie. Maybe I missed something, even if it wasn’t exactly him.

He pressed me against the back of the sofa and kept kissing me. I loosened his tie, took off his belt, opened his pants, and grabbed his cock over his underwear. He was already hard. I pulled it out with my hand, stroked it slowly, felt it grow against my palm. Joaquín moaned and threw his head back.

—What’s gotten into you tonight —he panted.

In response I knelt on the rug and took his cock in my mouth. I sucked him all the way, to the hilt, until the tip touched my throat and made my eyes water. I licked his balls, wrapped them with my tongue, went back up the shaft sucking. I’m not thinking about Camila, I told myself. I’m not thinking about Camila. But every time I felt Joaquín’s cock against my tongue, what came to mind was her cunt soaking my face that very morning. I sucked his dick with hunger, with saliva dripping from me, with noise, something I almost never did with Joaquín like that. He grabbed my hair and started moving my head.

—Come on, let’s go upstairs —Joaquín told me in my ear when he pulled it from my mouth.

I followed him. We went up to the bedroom, I closed the door carefully so as not to wake the boy, and sat on the edge of the bed. Joaquín undressed in front of me without hurry. I took off my dress and stayed in my underwear. He looked me up and down and let out a low whistle, the way he used to when we were about to get married. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe he wanted me just as much as he had then.

—Come here —he said, and held out his hand.

***

When he laid me on the bed and got on top of me, what flooded me was not desire for him. It was the intact memory, still hot, of the morning. The recollection came in waves, and I couldn’t hold it back, while my husband’s lips moved over my neck.

Camila against the hallway wall, laughing between kisses, asking me where the room was. Me dragging her down the corridor to the guest room. The two of us falling onto the blue bedspread, both of us tearing off our clothes with the same desperation. Her breasts, a little fuller than mine, finally free. Her mouth seeking mine.

—You’re still just as beautiful —she told me, running her fingers over me after she’d come and before giving me mine back.

—So are you.

—You never stopped being one of ours, did you?

—No, my love. Never.

—Does it still get you wet to think about me when you fuck him?

—Yes. Every fucking day.

Joaquín, on top of me, pulled down my bra straps and kissed my breasts. He sucked one nipple, then the other, biting them just a little. I closed my eyes and let the memory blend with the present sensation. Joaquín’s mouth was warm, skilled, familiar. Camila’s had been something else: softer, more curious, more mine. I arched against him, and he took it as enthusiasm. In part it was. But it was also a way not to stay still, not to betray myself with my face.

—You’re soaked —he murmured, sliding two fingers into me.

I nodded. I wasn’t going to tell him I’d been wet since breakfast. I wasn’t going to tell him that this drenched cunt wasn’t because of him, it was because of Camila’s tongue that I could still feel inside me.

***

Camila had knelt in front of me that morning, with that smile that still made me lose my balance. She had opened my legs with both hands, without asking permission, and put her mouth where my husband was putting his that night. The feeling was different. A woman’s mouth is different. It’s not just softness. It’s patience. Camila wasn’t in a hurry, she didn’t want to finish, she wanted to stay there for hours, licking slowly, sucking my clit like it was candy, looking up at me every so often to make sure I was looking at her.

—Look at me, bitch —she told me—. Look at me while I eat you.

I watched her, mouth open, hair stuck to my forehead. She pulled back, blew on my clit, ran her tongue over the lips of my cunt from top to bottom, slipped the tip of her tongue inside, pulled it out, went back to my clit. She was killing me slowly. When she started to push her tongue into me and work her thumb inside at the same time, I buried my fingers in her hair and let myself go. I came for the first time without warning, without warning myself, shaken by something I hadn’t felt in years. I drenched her mouth, soaked her chin. She lifted her face, shining, and laughed.

—I told you you were still mine.

—Shut up, come here.

I pulled her by the arms and lifted her on top of me. I ran my tongue over her face, tasting myself in her mouth. We kissed like that, filthy, with my release between us. Then I turned her over on the bed, settled myself on top of her the other way around, and we went down on each other sixty-nine style for what felt like hours. Her cunt in my mouth, my cunt in hers, both of us moaning, soaking each other’s faces, coming almost at the same time. Camila was the only woman who had ever made me feel that way, and knowing that after ten years we still fit like that, mouth to cunt, cunt to mouth, was something I couldn’t fit inside my body.

***

—I’m going to eat you whole —Joaquín told me, pulling down my panties.

I snapped back to the present. I looked at him. It was him, my husband, my son’s father, the man I had chosen and would choose again tomorrow. I loved him. I loved him truly. And yet, as his tongue sank into the place where Camila’s had been hours earlier, all I could do was close my eyes and see her again. I closed my legs around his head, grabbed his hair, begged for more tongue. He sucked my clit hungrily, slipped two fingers in, moved them. I was so swollen, so full from the morning, that within a few minutes I was coming again, moving my hips against his mouth, imagining it was hers.

The next memory was Camila lying face down on the blue bedspread, looking at me over her shoulder, her ass raised toward me. It was an image I had carried with me for years, without daring to fully think it. Now I had it again, real, in front of me. I knelt between her legs and kissed the base of her back. Then I kept going lower. I spread her ass cheeks with both hands and ran my tongue from her cunt to her hole, slowly, and she shuddered all over and let out a rough moan against the pillow.

—I remember this —I told her.

—Me too.

—Tell me you didn’t forget.

—I didn’t forget a thing. Fuck me, come on, fuck me.

I kissed her slowly, first on the soft skin of her hips, then deeper, with a patience I hadn’t had in college. I licked her cunt from behind, slid my whole tongue inside, sucked her lips. Camila moaned into the pillow and said my name. Then I slid three fingers into her and started moving them hard, in and out, while my other hand squeezed her clit. She pushed her ass against my hand, begging for more, faster, deeper, harder. I held her hips with my other hand and felt her trembling beneath my hands for a long, long while, until she finished with a muffled cry into the bedding and poured herself out completely into my palm.

***

Joaquín turned me over. Put me on all fours. Squeezed my waist with those hands of his, big and steady, and kissed the base of my spine the way he had learned to do from knowing what I liked. I lifted my ass toward him and spread my legs. I felt the head of his cock against my cunt, testing.

—Like this, my love —I asked—. Put it in me.

—Do you like it? —he said, entering slowly, centimeter by centimeter, all the way in.

—I love it. Fuck me hard.

It was true. Sex with Joaquín had always been good. I never had to pretend with him, never had to lie about pleasure. His cock filled me, touched me inside where it needed to touch me, knew how to move. But that night there was something else, an extra layer of arousal that wasn’t about him, and that he couldn’t guess. While he fucked me against the bed, gripping my hips and driving in to the balls, I kept seeing Camila, kept feeling her smell on my fingers, kept hearing what she’d said before leaving. Every time Joaquín pulled out and shoved back in, I clenched my cunt around him and imagined it was the strap-on Camila kept in a drawer, the one we’d used the last time before my wedding and she had promised to use on me again.

—I’ll wait for you Tuesday —she had whispered against my mouth at the door—. Come alone. We’re going to finish what we started. I’ll have the harness on when you come in.

—I will.

—Promise it. I want to fuck you until you forget your own name.

—I promise.

And now, while my husband sank into me and I answered him with moans that grew ever more genuine, pushing my ass back so he’d drive in all the way, the only thing I could think about was Tuesday. About ringing Camila’s doorbell. About her opening the door with that smile of hers, maybe with the rubber cock already strapped on under her robe. About her throwing me face down on her bed and fucking me until she made me cry. About everything we were going to do when the clock was no longer chasing me around my son’s school schedule.

—Marisol, you’re different tonight —Joaquín said, without stopping, giving me a soft slap on the ass.

I startled. For a second I thought he had read something on my face.

—Different how? —I asked, trying to sound calm.

—I don’t know. More alive. Hotter. You’re squeezing me like never before.

I smiled into the sheets. More alive. Maybe it was true. Maybe she had needed to come back so I could come back too, the woman I had been before diapers, before dinners with my mother-in-law, before bills and the grocery list. The one who had danced barefoot in somebody else’s kitchen at twenty-three, completely naked, with another woman’s release drying between her thighs, laughing with her.

—Maybe I missed you —I told him again, and this time it wasn’t entirely a lie either—. Fuck me harder, come on.

Joaquín laughed and sped up. He drove into me all the way, every thrust jolting me forward, and I told him whatever he wanted to hear, everything he wanted to hear. That I loved his cock, that it was the best, that it filled me completely. And at the same time, inside me, in a place he had never reached, I spoke to Camila. I told her yes, that I was going on Tuesday. I told her I hadn’t stopped thinking about her in ten years. I told her I was willing to live split in two, one half for my family and the other half for her, if that was the only way to have her. In my mind, I asked Camila to fuck me with the harness on Tuesday until she broke me, to make me come in her mouth three times in a row like she knew how to do.

I came again there, on all fours, with Joaquín’s cock inside me and Camila’s ghost licking me. I screamed into the pillow. He came behind me, thrusting hard, emptying himself inside with a long groan.

When we finished, Joaquín stayed stretched out beside me, sweaty, satisfied, with that look of a man who believes he has correctly read his wife. He kissed my shoulder and asked if I was okay. I told him yes, I was very okay, that it had been incredible. He fell asleep in less than five minutes, as he always did.

I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, my heart still out of sync, semen slowly dripping between my thighs. I thought about what had just happened and what was going to happen on Tuesday. I thought about Camila, her hands, her tongue, the way she had looked at me at the door before leaving. I thought about how I wasn’t going to say anything at home, how I was going to keep buying groceries and taking the boy to school and setting the table on Sundays at my in-laws’ house. I thought about how that double life was exactly what I had sworn I would never want.

And I also thought, unable to stop myself, that I hadn’t felt this awake in years. That Tuesday was too far away. That the body beside me mattered a great deal, but the one waiting for me in another house, in another bed, with a harness on and her mouth ready, mattered to me in a different way, older, more mine.

I turned toward Joaquín, stroked his sleeping face, and whispered something he didn’t hear. Something that was true and also a lie, depending on how you looked at it. Something shaped like a promise and textured like betrayal.

Then I closed my eyes and let her come back, once more, before falling asleep. I imagined her sliding two fingers into me, whispering in my ear that there were only four days left. I touched myself lightly over my panties, with Joaquín snoring beside me, and fell asleep wet, thinking about Tuesday.