A married couple in their early forties, married twelve years, decides after a trip to discuss something that has long gone unspoken. A long, explicit pornographic short story about trust, consent, and the fine line between permission and pure, naked desire. 18+.
We had come back from Lisbon, that was in October, and Markus still had the suitcases standing in the hallway when he said he needed to talk to me. Not stern, not heavy. More like the way he sounded when he had been carrying something around with him for weeks and finally wanted to let it go. His gaze was restless, his hands trembled slightly as he took off his jacket. I felt immediately that something was in the air—a tension that made my skin tingle.
“Let’s sit down,” he said.
I sat down. We sat in the kitchen, at the corner window through which the weak October light of Vienna fell. Markus made us tea. He always did that when he wanted to say something difficult—black tea, Earl Grey, with too much milk. It was his way of giving his mouth something to do before the real thing came. But today I could almost smell his arousal, that mixture of fear and lust spreading through the air.
“Klara.”
“Yes.”
“I noticed something in Lisbon that I don’t know how to tell you without you thinking I’m strange.”
“Markus.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
He looked into his cup. He wasn’t a man who sought eye contact when saying something difficult. It was one of the traits I had learned to love in twelve years of marriage—a form of shyness that had never completely faded. But tonight something burned inside me, an undefined desire I couldn’t name.
“On the last evening, in the hotel, when the concierge refilled your wine and put his hand on your back. You didn’t notice he held it there a tick longer than necessary. But I noticed.”
“Yes, and?”
“I wasn’t jealous.”
He looked up now, briefly, checking. I hadn’t interrupted him, so he read that correctly. His gaze wandered over my body, over my breasts, which stood out under the thin sweater, over my thighs, which tensed under the skirt. I felt my cunt get wet, just from that look.
“I wasn’t just not jealous. I—I found it interesting. In that moment I felt a warmth I couldn’t explain. I looked at you, and I looked at him, and I thought: he sees something I’ve been seeing for years, and I want him to see it.”
“Markus.”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me something complicated.”
“I know.”
His voice became darker, deeper. I saw his cock outline under his pants, a hard, thick shape pressing against the fabric. I swallowed, my throat dry.
“You’re saying that you wanted another man to desire me.”
“Yes.”
“And that it didn’t bother you.”
“More than that. It aroused me.”
I took a sip of tea. I considered. I considered longer than the answer needed, because the answer was actually quick. In my head I imagined how that concierge would have touched me—his hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck, his hard cock inside me. My body reacted immediately, my nipples stiffened, and I felt the wetness between my legs increase.
“Are you telling me this now because you don’t know what it is, or because you know what it is?”
“Both. I’ve read too much about it in the last few months, I have words for it. But when I use the words, it sounds like a category I don’t want to put us in.”
“What have you read?”
“Books. Forums. I haven’t talked to people. You’re the first.”
“How long?”
“Since summer. Maybe longer. In Lisbon it became clear.”
I nodded slowly. We’d been together for twelve years, married for nine. We had two sons, thirteen and nine, both at my mother’s in Burgenland this weekend. We’d had a good sex life in twelve years, with phases, with gaps, with rediscoveries. We’d never hidden anything from each other, and we’d never desired anything separately, as far as I knew. But tonight everything was different.
“Markus.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to sleep with another man?”
He set down the cup, very carefully, as if the bottom of the cup were made of glass, which it wasn’t. He looked at me, now with eye contact that trembled a little, but was also full of desire. His hand wandered to his crotch, pressed lightly against the hard bulge.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He nodded. His breathing grew heavier, I heard him inhale and exhale shallowly and quickly.
“When I think about the possibility, I feel warm. When I think about the reality, I feel cold. I don’t know how that works.”
“Nobody knows. Until you try it.”
“Klara.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not shocked.”
“No.”
I stood up. The tea was forgotten. I walked around the table, stood in front of him. My hands trembled as I placed them on his shoulders. He looked up at me, his eyes dark with arousal. I leaned forward, kissed him—slowly, demandingly, with my tongue. He tasted of tea and something wild I didn’t know.
“I want you to tell me exactly what you imagine,” I whispered in his ear, while my hand wandered to his crotch. I pressed against his hard cock, felt it twitch under my touch. “Tell me, Markus. Tell me how you see me with another man.”
He groaned softly as I opened the zipper of his pants. The fabric gave way, and his cock sprang out—long, thick, with a swollen, red glans glistening with lust. I wrapped my fingers around it, felt the heat, the pulse arteries throbbing under the skin. He was hard as stone.
“I imagine,” he began, his voice rough and hoarse, “that another man takes you. That he presses you against the wall, pushes up your skirt, opens your cunt with his fingers. That he fucks you from behind while I watch.”
I let go of his cock and pulled off my sweater. My breasts fell out of my bra, heavy and full, nipples hard and erect. Markus stared at them, his gaze greedy.
“And then?” I asked, unbuttoning my skirt. It fell to the floor, and I stood only in my panties.
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