How I Started Telling the Story of Our Secret Threesomes

“You’re crazy,” I snapped, raising my voice more than I meant to.

I left him sitting at the table and locked myself in the bathroom before he could say anything else. It wasn’t the proposal itself that had shaken me, because what we had lived through together over the years had been anything but timid. What churned inside me was something else: putting it in writing, admitting it, letting other people imagine my open body, my full mouth, my legs trembling for men who weren’t even him.

I leaned over the sink and splashed water on my face. Even so, his words remained lodged in my head.

“I want to tell everyone about all the naughty things we’ve done over the years.”

I hadn’t let him finish, but that one sentence was enough to open the floodgates. I lifted my face and saw my reflection, droplets running down my chin. At another time it would have been only water. That night, though, my mind changed the liquid into something thicker, hotter, and suddenly I saw myself full of semen again, my body used and happy, remembering too many nights.

I remembered the first man we truly shared, a tall, dark-haired man with enormous hands whom I’ll call Darío here. I hadn’t believed a man could have a cock like that until I saw it a few inches from my face, obscenely thick, heavy against his belly. I also remembered Mauro, the foreigner who could make me come just with the way he kissed me, and the night he soaked my face and chest with my own squirt because he gave me oral so rough and so precise that I ended up apologizing, convinced I had pissed all over him.

Then other memories came, faster, dirtier. A group of tourists in a Caribbean hotel. My body completely occupied, not a single empty space, one cock in my mouth, another in my pussy, another thrusting into my ass while my hands squeezed two more. And afterward, the kitchen of that resort restaurant, where what began as a joke with a waiter ended with me braced against a steel table, my dress gathered at my waist, swallowing moans while several members of the staff took turns touching and fucking me.

Just remembering it made me start getting wet. I hiked up my skirt and slipped my hand between my legs. I was wearing a thong, but it was damp and stuck to my skin. I moved the fabric aside and began rubbing my clitoris with two fingers, slowly at first, as if I wanted to fool myself, although I was already breathing hard.

It’s not writing about it that turns me on; it’s having lived it.

My fingers slid more easily as soon as I opened my lips. I felt the heat, the swelling, that thick wetness that comes over me when a memory touches me in exactly the right place. I put in one finger, then two. One wasn’t enough. It never is when I really remember. I plunged them inside and began fucking myself on my hand against the edge of the sink, thrusting my hips forward while my other hand kept working my clitoris.

I came silently, mouth open and forehead almost pressed to the mirror. The orgasm rose quickly, dry at first and then longer, my pussy contracting around my fingers. When I was done, I pulled them out slowly. I smelled them. I brought them to my mouth and tasted my own wetness with a shame that was no longer shame, but pure kink.

I straightened my clothes and left the bathroom.

He was still at the table, waiting for me. The moment he saw me, he knew I wasn’t angry anymore.

“Before you start yelling at me again, listen,” he said calmly. “Afterward, you can say whatever you want.”

I stood in front of him with my arms crossed, even though I was still trembling inside.

“Talk.”

“I found a site where people tell their experiences, some anonymously, others half disguised. And I realized I need to talk about what we’ve done. Not with friends, not with people close to us. With strangers. No names, no real locations, nothing that could give us away.”

He paused and smiled sideways.

“Although, if we’re being honest, the neighbor probably already suspects plenty.”

I laughed despite myself. That laugh loosened my body and brought the heat back between my legs.

“Maybe my reaction was exaggerated,” I admitted. “I just had an orgasm in the bathroom simply by remembering some of it.”

He raised his eyebrows. I brought my hand to his face and held it beneath his nose. I wanted him to smell my fingers; I wanted to see the immediate effect on his body. He didn’t disappoint me. He closed his eyes for a second and inhaled deeply, as if my scent intoxicated him.

“Fuck,” he murmured.

I moved beside him and rested one leg over his. I began rubbing his crotch with my knee. He was wearing lightweight trousers, and I felt him harden almost immediately.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked, his voice already lower.

His hands grabbed my thighs and quickly slipped beneath my skirt to squeeze my ass.

“Several things,” I told him. “Darío. Mauro. The men at the hotel.”

“Mauro?” he asked, interrupting me. “I thought you’d ended up hating him.”

“The last time, yes. But before that, he fucked me like very few men have. I’m not going to lie now.”

I felt his fingers find the edge of my thong and push it aside. When he touched me directly, I was already wet again.

“And the men at the hotel?” he insisted.

He put one finger inside me and moved it with that precision of his that always undoes me.

“Them too,” I answered, biting my lip. “Especially them.”

His second finger slipped in without resistance. He began opening and closing me inside while his thumb brushed my clitoris.

“Tell me about it.”

“Not if you’re going to touch me like that and expect me to talk normally.”

“That’s precisely why.”

He lifted me abruptly and sat me on the table. The impact of my thighs against the wood drew a gasp from me. He positioned himself between my legs, pushed my skirt up to my waist, and left my thong tangled around one ankle. Then he opened his trousers and pulled out his cock, already hard, thick, and shiny at the tip.

“Start,” he said.

He gripped my hips and drove into me in one thrust. He went deep, with a hard shove that forced my head back. I was already very wet, but I still felt that stretch that makes me open my mouth and pant like a happy slut.

“Fuck…” I breathed.

“That’s it. That’s how I want to hear you. Now tell me who you remembered while you came in the bathroom.”

He began thrusting into me standing up, hard and steady, moving the table with every blow. The wood creaked, my ass slid, and his pelvis smacked against my pussy with that wet sound that turns us both on so much. I gripped the edge so I wouldn’t fall backward.

“Darío,” I said between gasps. “Because he was the first one who made me feel truly open… too full.”

“Did you like him opening you like that?”

“Yes.”

He drove into me again, deeper.

“Say it properly.”

“Yes, I loved it. I loved feeling that huge cock pushing all the way inside while you watched.”

His eyes lit up. He kept fucking me without slowing down.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

I wanted to talk too, because saying it aloud was turning me on more than I’d expected. He didn’t just want stories; he wanted my filthy truth, without embellishment.

“The first time, I thought it wasn’t going to fit,” I continued. “He had me on my knees on the bed, the tip in my mouth, and just sucking it was already making my jaw ache. When he laid me on my back and spread my legs, I looked at him and almost changed my mind. But you were beside me, touching my tits, kissing my neck, telling me to breathe.”

His hand rose to my chest and squeezed one nipple through my blouse.

“I remember.”

“Of course you remember. You were the one holding my legs while he pushed his cock into me slowly. First the head, then a little more, while I kept saying I couldn’t, that he was splitting me open. But I was so wet, so hot, that eventually my body gave way. I felt myself opening from the inside and still wanted more.”

My husband looked at me as if he were watching the scene play out again in his head. That turned me on even more.

“And when I finally had all of it inside me,” I continued, “I realized I loved being that full. I wanted to move on top of him by myself. I wanted to feel every inch.”

He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in to the hilt. I moaned so loudly I didn’t even care whether a neighbor heard.

“That full?” he asked.

“Like that… exactly like that. Don’t stop.”

He fucked me faster. Every time he entered, the head of his cock rubbed a spot that made me clench my stomach. My legs were spread, my thighs tense, my skirt a mess, and my blouse pulled up because he had freed one breast to suck my nipple between thrusts.

“And Mauro?” he asked, releasing the nipple with a shining thread of saliva.

“Mauro kissed me as if he were going to eat me alive.”

“Did you like his mouth or his cock better?”

“His mouth. And that’s saying a lot.”

I laughed breathlessly, then swallowed a moan when he changed the angle and began hitting me exactly where I like it most. He grabbed one cheek hard and pulled me closer to the edge of the table.

“Tell me about it.”

“He had me pressed against a wall, remember? You were sitting there watching. He didn’t immediately start fucking me. First he kissed me. He worked his tongue in as if he wanted to steal all my breath, and at the same time he had one hand between my legs. He found my clitoris right away. He brushed it, squeezed it, pulled away, came back. I was desperate.”

My husband lowered his hand and began rubbing my clitoris while he penetrated me. It nearly folded me in half.

“Like this?”

“Yes… yes… like that. Exactly like that.”

“Keep going.”

“Then he knelt down. He opened me wide with his fingers and put his tongue inside, slowly at first, then like an animal. He sucked, licked, put two fingers in me, pulled them out, put them back. I couldn’t keep still. I came, pushing his face away without realizing it. And when I felt so much liquid coming out, I got scared. I thought I’d pissed all over him.”

He let out a rough laugh without stopping fucking me.

“How could I forget? You turned red and kept apologizing to him while you went on coming.”

“Because I didn’t know what was happening to me.”

“And he drank every drop happily.”

A lash of sensation shot through my belly just from hearing him say it. My hands dropped to his waist and pulled him closer.

“Yes,” I admitted. “And he made me come again just by saying he wanted more.”

I was already very close to orgasm. It showed in the trembling of my legs and the way my pussy tightened around his cock. He felt it too.

“Don’t come yet,” he ordered. “I want to hear about the hotel.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re an exhibitionist when you remember.”

I held his gaze. He was right. Having him listen while I described other men fucking me turned me on in a way that was difficult to explain.

“It was on our trip to the Caribbean,” I said, breathing unevenly. “We met them at the pool bar. Four men, all adults, all shameless, all staring at my legs as if they’d already undressed me. You noticed before I did.”

“Of course I noticed.”

We went up to their room after midnight. You kissed me at the door and told me you’d do what we had agreed, that you’d leave me alone with them so they wouldn’t feel watched. I was trembling as soon as you went in and shut the door. They surrounded me immediately.”

His hand gripped my neck, not tightly, but possessively. He kissed me hungrily and then let me go.

“What did they do first?”

“They undressed me. All four of them. One pulled down the straps of my dress, another opened the zipper, another kissed my shoulder, and another was already putting two fingers in my mouth for me to suck. It wasn’t tender. It was direct. And I loved it.”

My husband groaned with pure arousal and increased his pace.

“Keep going.”

“They put me on my knees. One grabbed my hair and brought his cock to my face. I drew it out with my tongue and sucked it slowly, just enough to hear him moan. Meanwhile, another fingered my pussy from behind. A third spread my ass and spat on it to get me ready. The fourth stroked my tits and pinched my nipples. Not one part of my body was free.”

He let out a gritted “shit.”

“That’s what you remembered in the bathroom, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I remembered how full I felt. How much of a slut I felt like. And how much I loved it.”

He pulled out abruptly. Before I could protest, he turned me around on the table and left me bent over, my chest resting on it and my ass raised. He pushed my skirt farther up and spread my cheeks with his hands.

“Keep talking or I won’t put it back in.”

I let out a muffled laugh.

“Liar. You wouldn’t be able to hold back.”

He slapped my ass sharply.

“Talk.”

“One fucked my mouth until my eyes watered. Another put his cock in my pussy while my mouth was still full. And when I was already wide open and lost, I felt the third man’s tip pushing against my ass. Slowly at first. It hurt, yes. But it turned me on even more. Because they were using all of me.”

He penetrated me again from behind in one hard thrust, driving all the way in. I screamed without holding back.

“Fuck, like that,” I said.

“Is that how the one who fucked your ass put it in?”

“More slowly at first. But afterward, yes. Harder. Deeper. And by then I didn’t even know which one to hold on to.”

He began fucking me with a brutal rhythm, his pelvis striking my ass and one hand gripping my hip so hard I knew I’d have marks the next day. The table squealed against the floor. My face was turned to the side, cheek pressed to the wood, and I spoke between moans and jolts.

“I had one cock in my mouth, another in my pussy, another in my ass… and one more man making me jerk him off with my hands. That was it. Every part of my body occupied. Not one empty space. And I was happy, moaning like a whore.”

“That’s what you are when you let go.”

“Yes. Your whore.”

His hand slid between my legs and returned to my clitoris. The orgasm hit so quickly I barely had time to warn him.

“I’m coming… I’m coming…”

I came in a powerful spasm, squeezing his cock with my entire pussy while my legs trembled. He didn’t stop. He kept thrusting through my orgasm, taking advantage of every contraction to sink deeper. I let out broken moans, half-words, nothing coherent.

“Don’t stop… don’t stop… fuck…”

“I’m not done with you yet.”

He fucked me for a few more seconds, then pulled out. He turned me over again and left me sitting on the edge of the table, spread open and panting. He knelt between my legs without caring about the mess, my wetness running down my thighs, or the mixture of fluids already staining my skin.

“Now I want to taste you while you keep telling me.”

He gripped me beneath the thighs and brought me toward his face. His tongue first touched the entrance to my pussy, gathering what was dripping out, and then moved up to my clitoris. The first lick made me arch.

“Shit…”

He knew exactly how to do it: flat tongue, then a precise tip, then short suction. He put his tongue inside, pulled it out, moved back up, and opened me with two fingers while continuing to suck me. I could barely think.

“The restaurant,” he murmured against my skin. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t talk if you keep doing that.”

He sucked harder in response. I gripped the edge of the table and spread my legs wider.

“Yes, you can.”

“It was… it was after noon. I’d been flirting with a waiter all week, and he knew it. He got me through a side door on the excuse of showing me the kitchen. As soon as we went in, he cornered me against a walk-in refrigerator and kissed me as if he’d been thinking about putting his hands on me for days.”

My husband’s tongue plunged inside me when he heard that. I moaned and continued in fragments.

“He wasn’t alone. There were cooks, assistants, two other waiters… even a girl from the staff who never stopped staring at my tits while they opened my blouse. I should have been scared. Instead, I got even wetter.”

His fingers moved inside me in a fast rhythm, curling upward. I was already on the edge again.

“They lifted me onto a steel table. One sucked a nipple, another kissed my mouth, another spread my legs. I felt hands everywhere. Fingers in my pussy. A tongue on my neck. Someone squeezing my ass. And when they pulled my thong aside, the first one to fuck me didn’t even ask whether I was ready. He knew from how soaked I was.”

My husband lifted his face for a second. His mouth was shining.

“And were you?”

“More than ready. I wanted them to use me right there.”

He plunged his face between my legs again, and this time he licked me as if he wanted to make me lose consciousness. I felt the orgasm approaching again, even more violent from the overstimulation.

“The waiter fucked me while a cook made me swallow his cock,” I continued. “And when one finished, another came. I didn’t keep count. I only remember the cold steel against my back, the heat of their bodies, and how wet the table was beneath me.”

I came with his mouth pressed to my clitoris. The second orgasm shook my whole body. I closed my legs by reflex, and he had to hold them open to keep licking me while I trembled and moaned uncontrollably. When he finally slowed, he rose, kissing my stomach, my chest, and my neck.

We kissed hungrily. His mouth tasted of me and of his own desire. I ran my hand over his torso until I reached his cock again, still rock-hard.

“You haven’t come yet,” I told him.

“I was saving myself for the end.”

I pushed him toward the chair and sat him down. Then I knelt between his legs. I liked seeing him that way: disheveled, aroused, looking at me as if I were the center of all his fantasies. I gripped his cock with one hand and ran my tongue over the tip, tasting the clear liquid it was leaking.

“If we’re going to tell our stories, I have conditions too,” I said before taking him into my mouth.

I heard him laugh through his nose, tense.

“Whatever you want.”

I sucked him slowly at first, taking him as deep as I could, then pulling him out to jerk him with my wet hand. My tongue traced the underside vein while my lips squeezed. He held my hair back.

“The account will belong to both of us,” I continued, pulling my mouth away for a moment. “We both write. We both read. We both edit.”

“Agreed.”

I took him back into my mouth, deeper this time. He held my head and gently pushed, setting the rhythm. I let him, swallowing as much as I could and working my throat until my eyes burned.

“No real names,” I said as I pulled him out. “No exact locations. Nothing that could give us away.”

“Yes.”

I licked his balls, then moved back up and sucked him faster. His breathing became ragged. His thighs trembled.

“And if you tell a scene I was part of, I decide what stays and what goes.”

“I accept all of it,” he said. “But don’t stop.”

I smiled and kept sucking him eagerly. I wanted to make him come in my mouth; I wanted to feel the moment when he could no longer hide anything. I squeezed the base with one hand and stroked his abdomen with the other as I moved my head up and down.

“That’s it… like that…” he gasped.

I pulled him from my mouth and stood up. Without stopping stroking him, I climbed onto him, guiding his cock to my entrance. I lowered myself slowly and felt him enter me again, still hard, still hot. We stared into each other’s eyes.

“The last condition,” I told him, “is that if writing these stories gets us as turned on as we are today, we’ll finish by fucking every time we publish one.”

“That’s the best condition of all.”

I began moving on top of him. Up and down at first, feeling him fill me, feeling him rub inside me while I was still sensitive from the earlier orgasms. Then I found a shorter rhythm, rubbing my clitoris against his pubic bone and using his shoulders to propel myself.

He gripped my waist and helped me bounce. Every rise left me almost empty. Every descent drove him into me to the hilt again. I no longer spoke; I moaned. He didn’t say much more than my false name, the one we sometimes used in our games, as if that allowed him to separate the everyday woman from the woman who opened herself for him and his fantasies.

“I’m going to come,” he warned me.

“Me too. Don’t let me go.”

He held me tighter and began thrusting up from beneath, finding his own rhythm inside mine. I felt him swell a little more, hardening to the limit. I lowered one hand between our bodies and rubbed my clitoris in quick strokes.

“Look at me,” he asked.

I did. And I came while watching his face. My orgasm split me in two, leaving me tense over him, squeezing him with my entire body. Only a few seconds later, he let out a deep moan and came inside me, filling me with hot pulses while he kept holding my waist.

We stayed like that, still, breathing hard. His cock continued throbbing inside me for a while, and I enjoyed the sensation of being full, feeling some of his semen slowly begin to escape between my thighs.

He kissed my neck.

“Then we’ll do it.”

I ran my fingers along his jaw, then brought them to his mouth so he could taste some of the mixture running between my legs. He sucked them without taking his eyes off mine.

“Yes,” I said. “We’re going to tell our adventures. But we’ll tell them our way. Without shame, without lies, and knowing that remembering all this turns me on as much as living it.”

I carefully rose from his lap. A thick thread fell down my thigh, and he followed it with his eyes, fascinated. I smiled. If that was only the beginning, I already knew every memory would end the same way: me wet, him hard, and both of us longing to dust off the next secret.

That was how it all began. Not with some solemn grand decision, but with an argument, masturbation in the bathroom, a fuck on the table, and the certainty that our memories were also a form of addiction. And if someone on the other side was going to read it and come imagining me, the truth was that the idea was already beginning to turn me on as much as the stories themselves.