Lust is a crazy thing, isn't it? My name is Alex, I'm 38 years old, Brazilian, born and raised, and I've always considered myself a normal guy. I married Carla eight years ago, a brunette with light eyes who gave me two children and whom I always swore was the most decent woman in the world. Until, in one of those late-night conversations, we started talking about the past. She'd had a bit too much wine, I was letting my guard down, and the conversation turned to past flings. At first, it was just that morbid curiosity, you know? Who was the first, where was it, that kind of thing. I felt a deep jealousy in my chest, a tightness in my chest, but I couldn't stop asking.
Then she dropped the bomb. “I had a personal trainer,” she said, looking at the ceiling with a little smile I’d never seen before. “We didn’t talk, we just slept together.” Man, the ground disappeared beneath me. I stayed quiet, swallowed hard, and my voice came out a little choked when I asked what she meant by that. She explained slowly, as if she were telling a story from a movie she’d seen. That she went to the gym in the middle of the night, at that hour when only crazy people and people with insomnia are awake. And the personal trainer, a guy named Rodrigo, was in cahoots with her. She’d arrive, sweat a little on the treadmill or with the weights, and then, without exchanging more than a glance, the two of them would disappear into the parking lot.
She described his car, a black SUV, always empty in that secluded corner, away from the cameras. Inside that tin can, with the windows closed and the air conditioning on, the sessions took place. "He was hot, Alex," she continued, and her voice was different, deeper, as if she were getting excited just remembering. "Muscular, of course, with arms that looked like logs. And he had a… rough way about him. He didn't waste time." She recounted how he would pull her into the back seat, that cramped space, and her gym clothes, those leggings and top, would be ripped off in a rush. It wasn't romance, it wasn't affection. It was pure fucking. He would turn her over on all fours on the seat, pull her leggings up to her knees and thrust in. She said she would press her forehead against the cold window, panting, watching her own breath fog up the glass as he pounded into her from behind, with all the strength of those years of weightlifting. The sound of moans muffled by the roar of the running engine, the smell of sweat and perfume mixed with the new car's aroma. She climaxed quickly, saying that the adrenaline of being there, in that forbidden situation, with that man she barely knew, made her explode in seconds.
And it wasn't just once. It became a routine. Two or three times a week, she'd make up an excuse about working out in the early morning to "avoid crowds," and I, the fool, believed her, worried about my wife's health. Meanwhile, she was being taken advantage of in a commercial building's parking lot by a personal trainer she called "the dog." Then she dropped another one. There was one time even closer to home. Rodrigo was in the area and texted her. She made up a story about going to the pharmacy to buy medicine, went to the corner, and he was there, parked. She got in the car, and in less than five minutes, he already had his head between her legs, making her orgasm with his mouth before she even took off her jeans completely. She went home with trembling legs and the medicine she didn't even need.
I listened to all of that, and part of me wanted to scream, break something, feel pure rage. But another part, a part I didn't know existed, started to get… interested. My dick, which had shrunk with jealousy at the beginning of the conversation, was now throbbing, hard as a rock inside my shorts. Her description was so vivid, so dirty, so real. I could visualize the scene, his muscular body on top of hers, the intensity of that quick, forbidden fuck. And Carla, the mother of my children, the woman who made Sunday dinner for the whole family, revealing this inner slut I didn't even suspect. It left me with a mixture of disgust and lust that was almost unbearable.
That's when she mentioned the other one. "There was another personal trainer too," she said, a little awkwardly, as if she knew she'd already gone too far. "This one was different. Tall, very tall, he must have been about 1.90 meters. And it wasn't just his height that was big." She didn't need to spell it out. The image of a huge guy, with a proportionally sized penis, having sex with my wife, flooded my mind and my penis jumped even harder. Carla is a voluptuous woman, with generous curves, and the idea of her being dominated by a man that size, being "small" in front of him, made me sweat.
The conversation ended and we went to sleep, but I didn't sleep a wink. The next day, as soon as she left, I went straight to her old computer, a laptop she barely used anymore. I remembered the password to an old email account and, with trembling hands, I started snooping around. That's when I found the treasure. Threads of old emails, exchanged with an address that must have belonged to this Rodrigo guy. The messages were short, direct, without any "love" or "darling." They were arrangements. "Tomorrow, 2 a.m., at the usual place." "Okay." "Don't forget that thing we talked about." "I won't forget." And there was a longer message she had sent to a friend, detailing one of the times in the parking lot. She described how he pulled her hair back while he penetrated her from behind, forcing her neck back, and how he whispered in her ear: "You like being my parking lot whore, don't you?" And in the message, she wrote: "All I could do was moan yes. It was one of the best fucks of my life."
Reading that gave me a painful erection. I was completely addicted to that sick feeling. The Carla I knew disappeared, and in her place emerged this naughty woman, full of desire, who had a secret and intense sex life. And the most incredible thing? That didn't push her away from me. On the contrary. Knowing about that past, about all that fire, made me see her in a different light. Our own sex life, which was already good, exploded. She became bolder, more uninhibited, and I, knowing what she was capable of, became even more aroused by her.
Now, I can't stop imagining things. When we're having sex, I close my eyes and imagine her on all fours in the back seat of that SUV, with Rodrigo pounding her mercilessly. I imagine the other guy, the giant personal trainer, easily lifting her and thrusting her onto his cock against the wall. I ask her to tell me the stories again while I'm having sex with her, and her moans are louder, more genuine. She turns into an animal in bed, and I love it. I've discovered I have a sick turn-on knowing that my wife, the woman of my life, is a slut in bed. And that other men have already taken advantage of that, and the idea of it, instead of enraging me, excites me in a way I never imagined possible. It's a confusing thing, but the truth is we've never had sex so much and so well. Carla, without knowing it, has become my greatest erotic fantasy. And I, the cuckold who discovered he loves being a cuckold.