A couple of months ago, I had lived an experience that still resonated in every fiber of my being, fulfilling a fantasy of my husband’s that had united us in unexpected ways. Since then, our relationship had flourished like never before; the sex was a whirlwind of passion and perversion, with caresses that stretched out in the darkness of the night as we whispered secrets that ignited our souls. However, deep in my mind, during some of those moments of ecstasy with my husband, I couldn’t help but fantasize about other men, their bodies merging with mine. It wasn’t that Andrés left me unsatisfied—on the contrary, he made me fly—but that adventure had awakened an insatiable hunger, a desire to repeat that forbidden excitement that made me tremble just thinking about it.
Personally, it had transformed me. The inhibition that once bound me had vanished, replaced by a radiant confidence that radiated out into the world. My social media became a canvas for my new self: at first, innocent photos of special events or picturesque places, capturing spontaneous smiles under the afternoon sun or in the warmth of a family dinner. But soon the urge grew; I photographed myself in any corner of daily life—in the car seat with the wind tousling my hair; at the gym, sweaty and triumphant after an intense session, the reflection of my tense muscles in the mirror; in front of any reflective surface that gave me back an empowered image. Dressed in the company’s tight uniform that accentuated my professional curves; in tight jeans that molded my hips; in short skirts that danced with every step. Each post attracted a wave of likes, new followers who appeared out of nowhere, friend requests from strangers. The comments flowed like a river: sweet compliments that made me smile, morbid pick-up lines that ignited a heat in my belly, and some that skirted the edge of respect but, in secret, made me feel alive, desired, powerful.
Even my husband noticed the change one day while we were scrolling through my feed together on the couch. He asked with a raised eyebrow why this sudden exhibition, although he added with a mischievous smile that, for now, it didn’t bother him at all. His words encouraged me to continue, knowing I was walking a fine but exciting line.
One day, among the usual notifications, a follower request on Instagram appeared that made my heart pause: it was Gustavo, my ex-boyfriend from years ago. Our story had ended abruptly because of a trip that forced him to leave, leaving behind broken promises and a void that took me a while to fill. I hesitated for days, my finger hovering over the screen, but in the end I accepted. As expected, he started liking my photos and old stories, a constant drip of silent approval. But he didn’t comment, didn’t write. He didn’t dare. I continued posting photos: riding a bike in a sunny park with the wind sticking my t-shirt to my torso; or in a tight dress that flowed like silk over my curves during a night out; also the classic top-down shot, leaning slightly so my breasts hinted elegantly; or posing in front of the bathroom mirror, turning to show the firm contour of my ass in tight leggings. Always careful not to fall into vulgarity, keeping an air of mystery and class. I wanted him to be the one to break the silence first. Sometimes, before posting, I showed the photo to my husband in bed, the phone lighting up our faces in the dimness. I asked if it was okay with him, and on some occasions, he nodded with a wink, his hand brushing my thigh in tacit approval.
Finally, one day he got up the nerve. A simple message: “Hi.” I left it on read for two days; I didn’t want to seem anxious. When I replied, I was curt, dry phrases like “Good” or “Same as always.” I answered hours later, sometimes days, keeping my distance. His questions were the typical ones: “How are you?”, “What’s new in your life?”, “I see you’re happy,” “What are you up to?”, “What happened with that project?”
But little by little, the conversation flowed like a river gaining volume. I started asking about him: his job, where he lived now. He gained confidence, and his reactions to my posts changed: heart-eyes emojis, fire emojis burning on the screen.
The comments became admiring, complimenting my beauty with words that bordered on flirting. Inevitably, we touched on the past: I reminded him how shitty he had been, the times he stood me up in empty restaurants, waiting in vain. He admitted everything, his texts full of regret: “You’re completely right, I regret it every day, especially now that I see the incredible woman you’ve become.”
His messages became loaded with lust, focusing on parts of my body—“That smile of yours kills me,” “I remember how your curves felt”—reminiscing about intimate moments that had united us in the past. He invited me for coffee again and again, and I refused with elegant excuses. But, as the saying goes, the pitcher goes to the well so often that eventually it breaks. I ended up accepting.
We met at a cozy café with the aroma of espresso floating in the air, and we talked for a couple of hours about nothing and everything. It was a normal conversation, like old friends, without insinuations. We agreed to see each other again. But that innocence didn’t last long. He insisted on going for drinks at a dimly lit bar with jazz in the background and glasses clinking. I always made him beg, inventing commitments, postponing again and again, or simply telling him it wasn’t right. Andrés—my husband—knew every time I met up with Gustavo. We had an open relationship, so he knew all the details of my “innocent” outings: “I’m going for coffee with an old friend,” I’d tell him, and he would smile, kiss me, and reply: “Have fun, love.” He even joked: “If he gets too pushy, call me and I’ll come get you.”
There was never jealousy, never reproaches; that was our rule and we lived it with freedom and trust.
But deep down, something in me resisted fully crossing the line while Andrés knew exactly who I was with. It wasn’t that he forbade me anything—on the contrary, he enjoyed hearing about my adventures—but the idea of him imagining Gustavo, my ex, touching me, fucking me, produced a strange mix of lust and shame. If one day I decided to truly let myself go, I wanted it to be on ground he couldn’t place with a name and surname; I wanted to protect that fantasy, that corner where the desire was mine alone for a few hours.
Until fate played in my favor: for work, my husband had to go on a trip for a couple of nights, or so they had told him. I coordinated with Gustavo for that same night. I prepared myself carefully, wanting to leave him breathless. I put on a delicate, provocative black lace thong that clung to my skin, and a matching bra that enhanced my breasts with intricate lace. Over that, a long, loose white top that fell like an improvised skirt, brushing my thighs. I’ve always loved high-heeled boots with shafts that go above the knees, so I chose my favorites in beige, paired with a trench coat in the same tone that gave me an elegant and sober air, but with an irresistible touch. I took an Uber, my heart pounding hard against my chest as the car snaked through the illuminated streets.
He took me to dinner at an intimate restaurant, with candles flickering on the table and the murmur of other conversations. We talked about banalities: the weather, recent movies, work anecdotes. Nothing serious, nothing compromising. At the end, he took me home; his plan was to drop me at the door and leave. But I invited him in with a playful smile I didn’t expect to use. He accepted without much resistance, his eyes shining with surprise. We entered the apartment, the warm, familiar air enveloping us. I slowly took off my trench coat, hanging it on the rack so he could appreciate my silhouette outlined by the white top. I uncorked a bottle of red wine, the cork coming out with a soft pop, and we toasted, the glasses clinking while one of my erotic playlists started playing. We sat on the sofa, talking about distant memories and current dreams, the wine warming our veins.
The alcohol quickly worked its magic, loosening inhibitions. He would get up to pour another glass, go to the bathroom, or any excuse, and when he returned he sat closer each time, his thigh brushing mine. I waited for him with my legs crossed, the beige boots shining under the dim light, letting him glimpse the soft skin of my thighs. Finally, we were side by side. He put his left arm behind my neck, hugging me warmly, and we kept talking as if nothing. A few seconds later, his right hand casually rested on my right leg, his warm fingers against my skin. Soon he began to caress gently, tracing lazy circles that sent nervous tingles down my spine, an electric shiver that made me bite my lip. He knew it; he hadn’t forgotten how that subtle touch lit me up like a fuse. With the hand behind my head, he brushed my left ear, his warm breath close to my neck. I had him right where I wanted him: close, touching me, with palpable desire in the air, ready to devour me.
He kissed my ear delicately, a wet kiss that made me close my eyes. He moved forward, seeking my mouth, and I quickly turned my head to offer it to him. Our lips met in a deep kiss loaded with years of separation. The hand that had been brushing my leg now squeezed it firmly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh. It only took a few seconds for him to move decisively toward my breasts, squeezing them gently through the fabric and sending waves of pleasure through my body. I lay down on the sofa, completely stretched out, inviting him with my open posture. I raised my hands, grabbed a cushion to support my head, and left my body at his mercy like a living canvas. He understood instantly. He lowered his right hand back to my legs, but this time he didn’t stop: he pulled the top up to my waist, exposing my flat navel, my curved hips, and the black lace thong already soaked with anticipation. He kissed my abdomen with trembling lips; you could tell he was nervous, his breathing ragged as he squeezed my legs with both hands, exploring the soft texture of my skin. I closed my eyes, letting myself be carried away by the torrent of sensations, the scent of wine and his cologne mixing in the air.
He stayed like that for what felt like eternal seconds, savoring my skin, then moved down to kiss my legs, licking from my knees upward, where I’m so sensitive that electric shocks ran through my body, making my muscles tense involuntarily. While doing this, he brought a hand to my thong; he felt it soaked, the fabric sticky against his fingers, and over it he began moving his thumb in precise circles, seeking and finding my swollen clit, rubbing it with pressure that made me arch my back. He masturbated me like that, masterfully, while with his other hand he pulled the top up over my breasts and lowered the bra to free them into the cool air of the room. His mouth ascended my abdomen, wet and hot, until it reached my nipples. He licked them tenderly, his tongue swirling in spirals that drew sighs from me. All without stopping the stimulation on my clit, a constant rhythm that made me moan softly. While licking one of my hardened, sensitive nipples, with his left hand he massaged the other breast, squeezing and releasing in a hypnotic rhythm. I was already moaning uncontrollably, eyes closed, focused on the pleasure invading every cell: the heat of his mouth, the friction of his finger, the brush of his palms on my skin.
Suddenly his hands stopped, leaving a momentary void. He stood up, gently took me by the hands, and sat me upright. He lifted my arms and, in a fluid movement, pulled the top off over my head, leaving me only in the boots, the thong, and the fallen bra. Sitting in front of him with my legs open and him standing between them, my boots brushing his calves, I began to unbutton his pants with fingers trembling with excitement. I lowered the zipper with an audible zip, and the pants fell to his ankles. Over his boxers, the erect bulge stood out prominently, visibly throbbing. I took the waistband of his underwear and pulled it down too, freeing his hardened cock, veiny and hot to the touch. I began to stroke him slowly, moving the skin up and down with soft but firm pressure, feeling it swell even more in my hand. He brought his hands to my head, intertwining his fingers in my hair—a subtle gesture I understood perfectly. I moved closer, running my tongue from the base to the tip, licking slowly while looking him in the eyes with a coquettish, playful expression. I smiled discreetly, a naughty wink, and proceeded to take it all the way into my mouth. I sucked it gently, my lips enveloping it in wet heat, sucking with rhythm while one hand caressed his balls, gently rolling them between my fingers. He was going crazy, his low moans echoing in the room, his hands in my hair not pressing, just guiding to the rhythm of my head as my lips slid tenderly along his length, savoring the salty taste of his arousal.
A few minutes of that intense exchange passed, time dissolving in pleasure. He lifted me carefully and brought me to the dining table, solid and cold under my palms. I leaned over it, offering him the view of my arched back and exposed ass. I rested my elbows on the surface, the polished wood against my skin, while Gustavo licked my back, his tongue tracing wet lines that raised the hairs on my body. He grabbed my ass cheeks hard, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and rubbed his erect cock between them, the hot, promising friction. He knelt behind me, slowly pulled my thong down without taking it off completely—still with the boots on, which gave me a sensual height—and began eating me out from behind. That sensation was a whirlwind of pleasure: his tongue passing over my swollen clit, licking greedily all the way to my asshole and back in an endless cycle, the heat of his mouth mixed with my wetness, making my body twist uncontrollably. The only thing I could do was grip the edges of the table tightly, my nails digging into the wood, moans escaping my throat like a bursting river.
He stood up, breathing heavily, and placed the tip of his cock at the entrance of my asshole, pushing slowly while murmuring in a hoarse voice: “This ass will always be mine.” Gustavo had been the one who introduced me to anal sex years before, and now his cock made its way with a delicious, familiar pressure, stretching me until he filled me completely. He grabbed my hips with firm hands and began a rhythmic, deep thrusting, each stroke sending waves of pleasure and an initial slight pain that dissolved into ecstasy. He stayed like that for some time, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room. Then, with one hand, he grabbed my hair and pulled hard, making my head snap back; it really hurt, a sharp tug that mixed pleasure and pain, while he drilled my ass with savage force. I asked him to let go, but when I tried to raise a hand, he grabbed my wrist and pinned it behind my back, immobilizing me. Eternal moments passed like that, dominated by his urgency. Then he lifted me, and almost without pulling out or releasing my hair or wrist, he carried me a few steps to a table at the perfect height. He pulled out only to lay me on my back on it, my boots hanging in the air.
I hadn’t even finished raising my legs when, with one deep thrust, he penetrated me from the front, his cock now sliding into my pussy, wet and eager. Of all the lovers I had had, none had been as violent as he was in that moment; he did it with contained rage, as if avenging the lost years, thrusting with a force that made me gasp. But in this new position, I began to enjoy it again: each entry and exit of his cock filled me with burning pleasure. I moaned like crazy, sweat beading on my skin, my body twisting uncontrollably beneath him. Every now and then, I opened my eyes and saw him there, dominant and empowered, his muscles tense, gripping my hips firmly, only releasing them to squeeze my tits that bounced to the rhythm of his thrusts, my hardened nipples under his rough palms.
I was so immersed in the pleasure, the overwhelming sensations—the internal rubbing, the heat of his body, the scent of sex and sweat—that I didn’t notice when Gustavo was approaching climax. I love seeing a man in that point of no return, but I only felt him pull his cock out, place it over my pussy lips, and press it with his thumb, masturbating with them, rubbing his length against my swollen clit, masturbating each other in a frenzy. He began to cum: hot spurts that splashed my abdomen, but most hitting directly against my clit. The heat of his cum triggered an explosive orgasm in me. I felt his load mixing with my wetness, spreading with the persistent movements of his cock, waves of pleasure radiating from my center to the tips of my fingers.
We stayed motionless for a few seconds, catching our breath, chests rising and falling in sync, while his cum began to drip from my lips toward my ass cheeks—a sticky, warm sensation. He helped me up, murmuring in a hoarse voice: “You’re as delicious as always.” He went to the bathroom to clean himself, the water running in the background, and returned with toilet paper so I could clean up, passing it gently over my sensitive skin. He told me how great the next two nights without my husband would be, but that wasn’t my interest. I asked him to get dressed and leave, with a tired but firm smile. I lay down naked as he had left me, my body still vibrating, and fell into a deep sleep.
A couple of hours later, I felt a hand sliding over me, a familiar touch that woke me with a start. I thought terrified that Gustavo had found a way to come back, but no: it was my husband, his soft voice in the darkness: “I didn’t need to leave the city. I worked from the office.”
