Cheating Girlfriend Phone Sex Confession

I want to be clear about something before I tell you this, because I know how it sounds. I would never actually cheat. Not on him, not ever. What I'm about to confess is my cheating-girlfriend phone sex fantasy, the game we play on the nights when he calls me and his voice has that low edge to it, the one that means he wants me to be bad for him.

It started a few months ago. He was away for work, and we were on the phone late, and he asked me what I'd been doing all day. I was feeling mischievous, curled up in bed in nothing but one of his t-shirts, and instead of telling him about groceries and laundry, I told him a story. I told him I'd run into an old flame at the coffee shop. I told him he'd walked me to my car. I told him what his hands felt like on my waist.

He went completely silent. Then he told me to keep going.

So I did. I described it all, every invented detail, my voice getting breathier with every sentence. How the old flame had pressed me up against my car door in the parking lot. How his mouth had found my neck. How I'd let his hand slide up under my skirt right there where anyone could have seen. I was making it up as I went, spinning it filthier and filthier, and I could hear my boyfriend's breathing change on the other end of the line, getting heavier, rougher.

By the time I got to the part where I let the imaginary man slip his fingers inside me, I was doing it to myself for real, my hand down my own panties, soaked and shaking. He told me I was going to pay for being such a bad girl when he got home, and I whimpered, and we both finished within seconds of each other, miles apart, undone by a story that never happened.

Now it's our thing. Our favorite thing. Some nights he'll call and say he had a dream I was cheating on him, and that's my cue. I get into bed, I get my hand between my legs, and I confess. I tell him about the personal trainer with the big hands who supposedly adjusted my hips during a stretch and didn't move them away. I tell him about the delivery driver I supposedly invited in for water and ended up on my knees for. None of it is real. All of it is real, if you know what I mean, because by the time I'm describing it, I'm living it in my body.

The trainer story is the one that ruins me every time. I tell him how the session ran long, how the gym emptied out, how he stood behind me while I was bent over the weight bench and pressed himself against me so I could feel exactly how much he wanted me. I describe unzipping him right there, taking him in my hand, the sounds he made. I describe climbing onto the bench on all fours and letting him take me from behind while the mirrors showed me everything. My boyfriend listens without interrupting, and I can hear him, I can always hear what it's doing to him, and that makes me wetter than the story itself.

Last week he came home a day early and caught me mid-fantasy. I was on our bed, phone pressed to my ear, his name on the screen, my fingers deep inside myself, whispering the delivery driver story to his voicemail because he hadn't picked up. He stood in the doorway and listened to me finish the whole filthy confession before he said a word. Then he crossed the room, took the phone out of my hand, and showed me exactly what happens to cheating girlfriends in this house.

He didn't let me come for an hour. An hour of his mouth and his hands everywhere except where I was begging for it, an hour of him reminding me who I belong to, until I was crying with it, actually crying, pleading into the pillow. When he finally gave it to me, when he finally pushed inside me and pinned my wrists over my head, I screamed so loud the neighbors probably thought someone was being murdered.

Afterward, curled up against his chest, wrecked and happy, he asked me where I come up with this stuff. I told him the truth. I told him it's easy to imagine being bad when I know exactly who's waiting to punish me.

He's traveling again next week. I've already started thinking about what I'll confess. The trainer might be making a return appearance. Or maybe someone new. Someone with a motorcycle, maybe. Someone who doesn't ask permission.

I can't wait to be bad again.