I Confessed My Threesome Fantasy to My Boyfriend

My name is Daniela and I’m twenty-nine years old. I’m tall, with a narrow waist and hips that show even when I try to hide them. I have fair skin, dark brown hair, and coffee-colored eyes. I’ve lived with my boyfriend for two years now, and I still like looking at him when he doesn’t notice.

Marcos is the kind of man who fills a room the moment he walks in. He’s broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, with eyes somewhere between green and honey that change with the light. He wears his hair wavy and always a little mussed, as if he’d just gotten up. He’s funny, attentive, and has a way of looking at me that undoes me. After all this time together, we still crave each other.

A few months ago I signed up for a Thursday afternoon pottery workshop. I wanted to clear my head, to do something with my hands that had nothing to do with work. That’s where I met Carolina.

Carolina is thirty-one, and the curious thing is that she looks a lot like me. Same height, same hair color, even similar gestures. The first time we saw each other we both laughed at the resemblance. From that afternoon on we always sat together, smeared with clay up to our elbows, telling each other things I didn’t tell anyone else. We became friends fast, the kind of friendship that feels as if it came from far away.

One night I invited her out with us. We met several people at a bar downtown, but little by little the group fell apart and, in the end, the table was down to three: Marcos, Carolina, and me.

Between rounds of drinks, laughter, and conversations that jumped from one subject to another, I noticed something. Marcos talked to her a lot. He asked her things, listened closely, laughed at her comments. It didn’t bother me. On the contrary, I thought it was sweet to see them get along so well.

—I really like your friend —he told me later, while Carolina was in the bathroom—. And she’s gorgeous.

—I know —I replied, amused—. They say we look alike.

He looked at me a second too long, with a smile I couldn’t quite make out.

—A lot —he said.

I didn’t think any more of it at the time. Carolina came back from the bathroom, ordered another round, and the conversation drifted elsewhere. But somewhere in the back of my mind, that look of his stayed there, that extra pause before saying “a lot.” I kept it without knowing why.

The truth is that for the rest of the night I surprised myself by looking at the two of them differently. I saw Carolina laugh with her head thrown back, completely unashamed, and I saw Marcos enjoying her company, and for a moment I imagined what would happen if that table for three turned into something more. I dismissed it right away. Or so I thought.

That night we drank more than we should have. Carolina said goodbye with a long hug and a kiss on the cheek, and Marcos and I took a taxi home. During the ride we stayed silent, but it was a charged silence. At the bar we had been flirting with double meanings, with those lines people say as a joke but that leave your skin burning. My body was restless, and by the way his hand rested on my thigh, I knew he was too.

As soon as we closed the apartment door, we went after each other urgently. There was no time for words. His mouth found mine and we kissed as if we hadn’t done it in months, even though it had been that same morning.

The first kisses were slow, almost like a recognition. Then they grew deeper, more impatient. His hands roamed my back, slid down my waist, pulled me against him. I felt him taking off my clothes without hurry but without pause, while my breathing grew heavier and heavier.

He took me to the bedroom without stopping kissing me. He laid me down on the bed and stood there for a moment looking at me, as if he wanted to memorize the scene. Then he came down. He bit my lip gently, then my neck, my shoulders, my breasts. He lingered on each one, taking his time, until I felt his tongue moving down my belly.

When he reached between my legs, I closed my eyes. I love when he does that. He started slowly, playing with the tip of his tongue over my clit, slow circles that made me arch my back. I was already wet before he started; with every move, I got wetter.

He went up and down, varied the pressure, sometimes fucking me with his tongue and then coming back up. I clutched the sheets and let out a long moan. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I only felt his mouth, his breath, the heat building below and threatening to overflow.

—I want you inside me —I asked him, my voice breaking—. Now.

He lifted his head and looked at me from below, his lips wet and a half smile on his face. But instead of climbing up right away, he leaned toward my ear. His voice came out low, rough, with that tone he saves for the moments when he wants to tease me.

—Can you imagine a threesome with Carolina?

The question shot through me like an electric current. I shuddered all over. It didn’t bother me, and I didn’t get jealous. On the contrary: it lit something in me I hadn’t known was there, lying in wait. It felt filthy, forbidden, and precisely because of that I liked it. The idea stopped being a question and became part of the moment, part of the desire, part of the game we were playing.

I gently pushed him until he lay on his back and climbed on top of him. I guided him slowly inside me, and when I felt him all the way in, I stayed still for a moment, enjoying it. Then I started to move, slowly, never taking my eyes off his.

—Tell me —I said—. Tell me what you’re imagining.

And then I understood it: I didn’t just want to make it real someday. I wanted to play it now, with our imaginations, both of us at once. I licked two fingers and brought them down to my sex, soaked them with my fluids, and brought them to his mouth.

—Imagine that while I’m riding you, you’re licking Carolina’s pussy —I whispered—. That these fingers are her. That this taste is hers. That what you smell is her.

Marcos closed his eyes and took my fingers into his mouth. He sucked them with an intensity that surprised me, slowly, savoring them, lost in the image I was painting for him. I felt him getting even harder inside me, his breathing speeding up under my weight.

I kept moving, faster and faster. I took his hand and brought it up to my breasts.

—One afternoon, when we were changing clothes in the workshop, I saw her breasts —I told him in his ear, without stopping riding him—. They’re medium-sized, pale, with pink nipples. Imagine they’re the ones you’re touching. Imagine she’s moaning while you lick her, just like I’m moaning.

I could feel him going out of his mind beneath me. He gripped my hips hard, pushing upward to bury himself deeper, while with his other hand he caressed my breasts as if they really were hers. The fantasy had wrapped itself around us both. I no longer knew exactly where what we were imagining ended and what we were actually doing began.

I lowered one hand and touched myself while I kept riding him. Pleasure rose in waves, closer and closer, harder and harder to hold back. Marcos looked at me with glazed eyes, repeating my name, but I knew there were two women in his head and that, far from turning me off, drove me to the edge.

I couldn’t hold on any longer. I came with him inside me, feeling my whole body clench around him. Barely a couple of thrusts later, I felt him tense up, grab me hard, and spill inside me with a rough groan that escaped from deep in his chest.

We stayed still, still joined together, breathing hard. The moment had been a strange and perfect mix of pleasure, imagination, and complicity. We had let ourselves go to a point where nothing existed except the heat between us and that fantasy still floating in the air of the room.

***

Afterward we stayed wrapped in each other, wearing that stupid, satisfied smile that only appears after a good long fuck. I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heart calm down.

—You’re such a pervert —he told me in my ear, laughing.

—And you love it —I replied, giving his shoulder a soft bite.

He didn’t say anything else for a while. But I knew we were both thinking the same thing. What that night had been—a game, a shared fantasy whispered between kisses—now had a name and a face. And I wasn’t sure I wanted it to stay only in my imagination.

What if one day it stops being a game?, I thought, still warm all over.

In a few days I have workshop again. I’ll sit next to Carolina once more, hands full of clay, telling each other things. And I don’t know if this time I’ll be able to look at her the same way as before.

I’ll keep you posted about what happens. Thanks for reading.