It was a little after midnight when he heard the key opening the door, and he got off the couch to greet her.

“Oh… you’re still awake, honey?” she said with a radiant smile.

He hurried to help her with the coat, as if to get near her, trying to catch any hints. But he could find nothing. Like always, he loved the waiting hours, imagining her in countless ways, but most of all he loved this moment, when she was back home. The mystery of it.

She turned to him to plant a kiss on his cheek and asked, “How was your evening?”

He mumbled something about it being quiet, trying to look unaffected. He lied that he had read a novel, but he knew she wouldn’t believe him.

She set her bag on the counter and began rummaging idly for something. The flap stayed open for a few seconds, and he strained to see, but it was just the usual stuff. A moment later, she closed the bag with a soft snap, as if the object she had searched for was there, and then looked at him as if nothing had happened. Maybe it was a clue, and he missed it?

He hesitantly asked, “How was yours?” again trying to appear composed and pretending indifference.

“Oh, honey,” she murmured in that pussy-cat voice she knows he likes. “It was wonderful, like always,” she said while slowly turning her back to him and going towards the bedroom.

“Wait,” he pleaded. “Can you tell me more?”

“He asked me not to say. He said it would ruin the experience,” she said, watching his expression. “I think he’s right. Tonight will be a mystery.”

He felt the heat rise in his face. “Please,” he whispered. “I need to know.”

She straightened, studying him with amusement. “And I do need a good sleep.”

He excused himself and tried his best not to beg. Just a few moments, if she could.

“All right, my love. Because I adore you and can’t say no to that face… I’ll give you a game instead. You can guess.”

He blinked. “Guess?”

“Yes. You get one chance, only one, to tell me exactly what you think happened tonight. Make it full, make it detailed, make it everything you’ve been picturing while I was gone. Then, when you’re finished, I’ll tell you how close you came to the truth.”

She settled into the armchair across from him, crossed her legs, and let one foot dangle and rock idly. “Go on. Tell me the story.”

As she spoke, she blew him a gentle kiss as her eyes filled with loving playfulness.

Before even starting to speak, he tried to read her like a map. She looked happy, relaxed, not too tired, playful even. There were three possibilities. Three men whom she chose to fill what he lacked. And tonight… tonight smelled of money.

He knew, or feared he knew, which one it had to be. Not the sex god, not the romantic one. The rich one. The one who made his inadequacy feel like a wound. He had to risk it. He would construct the story around him and what he knew of him from her previous stories.

“You arrived at the penthouse around seven,” he started, looking at her expression to see any confirmation. “The doorman knew you by name, waved you straight up in the private elevator. He was waiting with champagne already poured, caviar and other delicacies he loves to offer you.”

She leaned back against the counter, listening without interruption, her expression unreadable.

He continued: “He had two Thai masseuses there, waiting to pamper you both. You undressed together and lay down side by side on the benches as their hands worked over your bodies with scented oils, kneading away the day’s tension. After the massage, he dismissed them with a big tip and invited you into his massive Jacuzzi tub, bubbles foaming under mood lighting.”

He didn’t stop, but observed her taking the phone and typing a message. A reply came instantly, and she smiled. She quickly put it down, as if nothing had happened.

He kept telling the story with a convinced voice, like he was there, watching. He started to wonder if his erection was visible to her, that is, if she looked for it.

“He blindfolded you with a silk scarf before leading you to the tub, tying it tight so you saw nothing, and then he helped you step into the hot, foaming water. You both lay there in silence, enjoying the hot water and the intoxicating perfume.”

He observed her playing softly with her hair, like maybe confirming that he was on the right track, or it was something unconscious.

He continued, “He pulled you onto his lap, your legs straddling his thighs, breasts brushing his chest as the jets pulsed against your back. He fed you slowly, maybe a juicy strawberry pressed to your lips until you took it, followed maybe by a praline that melted on your tongue. Each bite ended with a deep, hungry kiss, his tongue pushing in hard. His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples before pinching them, making you gasp into his mouth.”

“His fingers kept drifting to your mouth, rubbing your lower lip until it felt swollen, then slipping inside for a few seconds, pressing against your tongue like a preview of his dick. You sucked each time before he withdrew, teasing you. Champagne spilled directly into your mouth, bubbles running down your chin and over your breasts.”

She looked at him and said, trying not to reveal anything, “OK, and after that?”

He sensed she was losing her patience, or maybe he was on the wrong track.

“He then took you out, dried your skin, and led you to the bedroom. He laid you on the satin sheets, on your back, knees pushed up and wide, and stood between your legs. His cock was hard, slick from the water, and he rubbed the head along your slit a few times before pushing in slow and deep. He started thrusting steadily and hard while his hand worked your clit. You felt every inch stretch you, and you cried out his name in a way you never do with me.”

“Then he pulled out, flipped you over onto your stomach, and pulled your hips up so you were on all fours facing the mirror. He finally took off the blindfold and entered you from behind in one thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The new angle made you moan, begging for more.”

“He fucked you harder now, skin slapping, one hand tangled in your wet hair, the other on your hip, pulling you back to meet him. You watched it all in the mirror, how your breasts swung with every thrust. You saw him behind you, eyes dark with lust, watching your body take him. Your eyes met in the mirror, and he groaned as he came, pushing deep and holding there, pulsing inside you, filling you while you watched his face twist with pleasure.”

Her phone buzzed once more on the counter. She picked it up, read the message, and this time a faint smile curved her lips as she typed a short reply and set it face-down again.

Then she looked at him, eyes gentle, and finally spoke.

“My love,” she said flatly. “You got the big idea. The heart of it. I was adored tonight. Spoiled in ways you wouldn’t ever could.”

She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. “And the sex…” she said with a shaky breath that seemed a little performative. “I promised him I wouldn’t say anything. But God…” She stopped and again moved slowly toward the bedroom, like an actor waiting for the public to applaud for the encore, and as expected, he begged for more. He always did. She added, trying to sound bored, “It was one of the deepest, longest orgasms I’ve ever had. The kind that starts somewhere low and rolls through you in waves until you’re shaking and breathless and spent.”

“I’m so glad you can enjoy this freedom to the fullest,” he declared, almost proud of himself. “You deserve it.”

She tilted her head, eyes warm and gleaming with amusement.

“Yes, I do, I do deserve it,” she declared. Then she pinched his cheek like a loving aunt indulging a sweet, earnest little boy. “Would you mind taking the couch tonight?” she asked with indifference.

She turned toward the bedroom without waiting for him to answer.

She won’t even shower, he started to imagine. To keep every drop of him inside her.

He stayed rooted where he was, silently hoping she might pause in the doorway, beckon him with a finger, or at least leave the door open so he could watch her undress.

Instead, she stepped inside, blew him a kiss from the doorway, whispered, “Sweet dreams, my love,” and closed the door.

He slumped onto the couch and thought back to the early days, when this all started. She'd come home and practically rip his clothes off before the door even closed. "Fuck me now," she'd demand, already wet and ready. She'd ride him hard, moaning about how big the other guy was, how he stretched her, how she came so hard. Those nights he'd felt like the luckiest man alive.

But lately, nothing. She'd just ignore him. Tonight, she'd said that he asked her not to say anything. Was that true? Did he really command her silence, marking his territory even in their home? Or was that just her line, a new way to twist the knife, watching him squirm while she kept every detail locked away?

Either way, the result was the same. She held all the power.

The truth was, there were no bulls yet. Not a single one. All those nights she had come home after her playdates, she fed him fantasies. Tonight, for the first time, he was the one who gave her the story.

And that made her wet!

As she touched herself, slow and deliberate, she finally admitted it to the darkness: Maybe it was time to stop only imagining for him. Maybe it was time to make his story real… for herself.