A woman recounts the summer her husband asked her to lie to him – and what this game taught her about their relationship. 18+. Explicit, direct, dirty.
It was in July, a Thursday evening, when Stefan told me what I had suspected for months. The air in our old apartment near Mexikoplatz was heavy and warm, and I stood at the stove, stirring a soup I no longer wanted. He came in, took off his jacket, and I saw that look – half embarrassed, half determined – that I knew from our games.
“If you go out tonight,” he said quietly, “I want you to tell me nothing.”
I turned around. “What do you mean?”
“You’re going to the bar with Cordelia tonight. You’ll be home around half past twelve or one. And I want you to act like nothing happened.”
My heart beat faster. “But nothing is happening.”
“Exactly. But act like something did.”
I turned off the stove, leaned against the counter. He looked at me, and I knew this was one of his games again. I’d known him for ten years: he called them games, but they were always desires he couldn’t admit to without a detour.
“Stefan, you’re asking me to lie to you.”
“I’m asking you to play a game with me.”
I sighed. “What am I supposed to make up?”
“Nothing specific. I want you to come home and act like you experienced something you’re not telling me.”
“You want me to be secretive.”
“I want you to pretend.”
“Why?”
He drank a glass of water. Looked at me. “I don’t fully understand it myself yet. I think I want to see what it’s like to fuck someone who might have just come from someone else’s bed.”
A shiver ran down my spine. “That’s crazy.”
“I know.”
“It’s not real.”
“No.”
“But you want it to feel real.”
“Yes.”
I thought about it for a long time. But I knew him – he never asked for anything that would hurt me. Just challenge me. And somewhere, deep inside, I felt a strange arousal that surprised me. “Okay,” I said.
“Okay?”
“I’ll leave at half past seven. I’ll be home at half past twelve. I’ll play your game.”
He nodded, went into the living room. I went to shower. As I stood under the hot water, I let my hand slide between my legs. I was already wet – just from the idea, from what he wanted. I massaged my clit, slowly, and imagined coming home later, with that secret on my skin. I didn’t come, I held back. That would be the reward for later.
I put on a light summer dress, nothing underneath. Breasts free, cunt free – just thin fabric between me and the world. I went to the bar with Cordelia. We had two of those alcoholic lemonades, and she told me about her new colleague. But my thoughts were elsewhere. A man came by, offered me a cigarette. I declined. He moved on. That was it. Not even a touch.
But on the way home, I let the fantasy grow. I imagined the man had pushed me into a corner, slid his hand under my dress. I imagined how he would have felt my wet cunt – because it was wet, just like that, just from walking and thinking. I imagined him pulling out his cock, pushing me against the wall and thrusting into me. Hard. Deep. Bareback. I imagined his cum running inside me, warm and sticky.
I was breathless when I stood at the door. I had the key in my hand, and I hesitated for half a minute. Then I opened it quietly.
Stefan sat in the living room, reading. He looked up. “Have a good time?”
“So-so,” I said. My voice sounded hoarse, different. I went to the bathroom, fixed my hair. I smelled of the bar – lemonade, a bit of tobacco from the man. I smelled of myself, of that wet arousal I had imagined. I stepped into the living room, sat down on the sofa, not too close to him.
He put the book away. “You smell different.”
“Yeah.”
“Of what?”
“Don’t know.” I shrugged, looking at him through half-lowered eyes. “Of the bar.”
“Only the bar?” His voice was soft, probing.
I was silent. A long silence, during which the air grew heavy. Then he stood up, came to me, knelt before me. He looked at me, and I knew the game had begun.
“Tell me nothing,” he whispered. “Just act like you weren’t here. Like you’re still somewhere else.”
I let my hands fall into my lap, looked past him. I acted like I was somewhere else. Like I was in a dark corner, with a stranger who had his cock inside me. I let my cunt remember a touch that had never happened, but that I had imagined so vividly I could almost feel it.
Stefan pushed my legs apart. Gently, but firmly. I let him. His hands slid under my dress, and when he felt my bare skin, he paused briefly. “No panties,” he murmured.
“No,” I said. “I took them off before I left. I knew…”
“What did you know?”
“That I might not put back on what I take off.”
His eyes darkened. He pushed the hem of my dress up, slowly, pulled it over my hips, my waist, over my head. I was naked before him, on the sofa, and he was still fully dressed. His fingers ran over my breasts, over my hard nipples, and I let my head fall back.
“Was he good?” he asked softly. “The stranger?”
“Yes,” I whispered. I played along. “He was different from you. Bigger. Harder. He didn’t ask what I wanted. He just took it.”
Stefan sucked in a sharp breath. His fingers traveled lower, over my belly, through my pubic hair. I was already wet, dripping wet, from the fantasy, from his game. He stroked my labia, and I moaned softly.
“You’re so wet,” he said. “Was that from him?”
“Yes. He took me with his fingers first. First one, then two. He made me so hot that I begged.”
Stefan pushed a finger into me. I was so wet that it slid in to the knuckle immediately. I flinched, and he pushed a second finger in after. He moved them slowly inside me, and I closed my eyes, imagined it was the stranger. I imagined it was that big, hard cock inside me, not Stefan’s fingers.
“Go on,” he whispered, while his fingers moved inside me, slowly, deep. “Tell me how he took you.”
“He pushed me against the wall
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