Just This Once" They Texted

The first time he’d mentioned it, six months ago, she’d laughed. A sharp, incredulous bark that echoed off the tiled walls of their kitchen. “You’re insane,” she’d said, wiping her hands on a dish towel as if cleaning away the very idea. “Absolutely not.”

Mark had let it drop, the seed planted. He’d watered it with careful, casual references in bed—whispered fantasies during the quiet, dark intimacy after they’d made love. Stories he claimed to have read, scenarios that were other people’s kinks. He watched her face in the blue glow of the digital clock. Saw the way her breath hitched, the way her eyes, fixed on the ceiling, grew distant and thoughtful.

Then came the ‘maybe.’ It was a rainy Tuesday. They were on the sofa, a documentary about coral reefs murmuring unnoticed. His hand was on her thigh, her head on his shoulder. He’d been talking about a colleague’s bachelor party, the tame, depressing nature of it.

“What if it wasn’t like that?” he’d murmured into her hair. “What if it was… elegant. Just for you. A date. A real date.”

She’d been silent for so long he thought she’d fallen asleep. Then, soft as the rain against the window: “Maybe.”

That single word had ignited a fire in his gut. It was the crack in the dam. The discussions became more serious, more logistical. Rules were established, like a treaty for a war they both wanted to lose. No one they knew. A hotel, never their home. Protection, always. And he would know everything. He would be… involved. From a distance.

The ‘just this once’ came last week, breathless and frantic, after a particularly vivid fantasy session had left them both sweating and trembling. She’d rolled onto her back, chest heaving. “Okay,” she’d panted. “Okay. Just this once. To see. But you have to find him. I can’t… I wouldn’t know where to start.”

He’d used a discreet app, one he’d researched for months. His profile for her was a masterpiece of suggestion—a single, tasteful photo of her from behind, the elegant line of her neck and shoulders, the hint of her dark hair. “Sophisticated woman seeking a sophisticated experience,” he’d written. “One memorable evening. Discretion paramount.”

The responses were vetted, analyzed, discussed over glasses of wine that did little to calm their nerves. They chose ‘David.’ His messages were confident, not crude. He suggested a restaurant Mark knew she loved but they rarely afforded. He asked about her taste in wine, in music. He treated it like what it was supposed to be: a date.

The night before the date, she’d been quiet. Mark found her in her home office, the blue light of her laptop illuminating her face. She was a curator for a small but respected modern art museum, and the grant proposal for a new exhibition was consuming her. She looked up as he leaned in the doorway.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

She chewed her lip. “I was thinking… about tomorrow. About why I said yes.” She swiveled her chair to face him. “It’s not just for your fantasy, Mark. I need you to know that. It’s… I love our life. I love you. But sometimes I feel like I’m playing a part. The wife. The curator. Everything is so… managed. So safe. I want to feel reckless. I want to be desired by a stranger who knows nothing about my spreadsheets or my mortgage. I want to be just a body. A beautiful, wanted body. For a few hours. Does that make sense?”

It did. It terrified him, but it did. He saw her then, not just as his wife, but as Claire, a woman with her own cavernous wants that his love alone could not fill. He simply nodded and kissed her forehead.

Now, Mark sat in the silent living room of their home. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered from years of weekend cycling, with a perpetually tousled mop of sandy hair and a nervous energy he usually channeled into projects around the house. Tonight, it had nowhere to go. The clock on the mantle ticked, an obnoxiously loud metronome counting the seconds since she’d left. She’d been a vision. The little black dress that clung to her curves, the heels that made her legs look endless, the perfume she wore only on the most special occasions—it was all for another man. The ache in his chest was a physical thing, a hollow, yearning pit. But the hardness straining against his jeans was a furious, undeniable counterpoint. He was more aroused than he could ever remember being, a live wire of anxiety and desperate anticipation. His phone was a cold, dark slab on the coffee table.

It lit up. A vibration that seemed to shake the whole room.

Her (8:07 PM): He’s here. At the bar. He looks… better than his pictures. Wearing a grey suit. He stood up when he saw me.

Mark’s thumb trembled as he typed. Tell me.

Her (8:09 PM): He ordered me a martini. Gin. He remembered from my profile. He’s complimenting the dress. Says it’s a crime how good I look.

Mark closed his eyes, imagining it. David’s eyes roaming over Claire, the proprietary smile. Her blush, the nervous sip of her drink. He adjusted himself, the fabric tight and unforgiving.

Her (8:22 PM): We’re being seated. Corner table. Quiet. His hand brushed the small of my back. It was… warm.

The description was a spark to tinder. Warm. Such an innocent word. He could feel it, the phantom heat of another man’s hand on the dip of her spine, a place he’d kissed a thousand times. He poured two fingers of whiskey, needing the burn.

The next text took an eternity.

Her (8:45 PM): We’re talking. Really talking. Not just small talk. He’s smart. Funny. He asked what I do, really listened. I told him about the grant proposal. He got it. Actually got it. Asked insightful questions.

A sliver of something ugly—jealousy, inadequacy—poked through the arousal. He drank more whiskey. This was the point, wasn’t it? Not just the physical, but the fantasy of her being captivated. He typed, Are you having a good time?

The reply was immediate. Her (8:47 PM): Yes. I’m nervous. But yes. He’s… intense. In a good way.

Her (9:15 PM): Okay, a tiny flaw. He just dismissed an artist I love. Called her work ‘decorative sentimentality.’ I argued with him. It was… thrilling. To disagree. He liked it. Smiled like I’d passed a test.

Mark’s eyebrows rose. This was new. David wasn’t a perfectly compliant fantasy; he had opinions, and Claire was pushing back. The stakes felt suddenly, infinitesimally higher. This was a real person.

Her (9:30 PM): Dinner is done. He just paid. I excused myself to the ladies’ room. My heart is beating so fast, Mark.

Why? he typed back, a desperate need for detail clawing at him.

Her (9:32 PM): Because when I stood up, he looked at me like… like he was already tasting me. And I didn’t look away. I think he knows. About you. About us. I think he likes it.

A groan escaped Mark’s lips. The idea of David’s knowledge, his complicity, added a filthy, thrilling layer. This wasn’t an affair. This was a performance, and they were all actors. He was the director, watching from the wings.

Her (9:45 PM): He suggested a nightcap. At his hotel. It’s the Carlton. Suite. I said yes. I’m in the cab with him now. His thigh is against mine.

Mark stood up, pacing the room. The images were coming faster, more vivid. The dark interior of a cab, the city lights streaking past the window, the solid pressure of a stranger’s leg against his wife’s. He was painfully hard. He didn’t touch himself. This was the sacrament. The waiting.

Her (10:05 PM): In the elevator. Alone. He pushed me against the mirror. He kissed me. Not soft. Hungry. His hands are in my hair. I’m kissing him back. God, I’m kissing him back.

The phone nearly slipped from Mark’s sweat-slick hand. He could see it. The chrome and glass of the elevator, her reflection blurred under the hands of another man. The hungry kiss. Her surrender. The ‘just this once’ crumbling in the heat of the moment. He finally gave in, unzipping his jeans, his own touch a poor, frantic imitation of what she was experiencing.

Her (10:15 PM): In the suite. It’s huge. City view. He poured champagne. I’m sipping it. He’s standing behind me, his lips on my neck. He’s whispering things. Dirty things. About what he’s going to do.

What things? Mark demanded, his own breathing ragged.

There was a long pause. Five minutes. Seven. He stared at the screen until his vision blurred.

Her (10:24 PM): He told me to turn around. He undid his belt. Not to take his pants off. Just to show me. He’s… thick. He asked if I wanted to taste it. I got on my knees. The carpet is soft.

Mark’s legs gave out. He sank onto the sofa, his own hand moving in a frantic rhythm. The visual was devastating. Her, in that perfect dress, sinking to her knees on a hotel carpet. Her lips, which had said ‘no,’ then ‘maybe,’ then ‘just this once,’ parting for another man. The intimacy of the act, the submission, the raw carnality of it. He could hear the silence of the hotel room, broken only by her soft sounds, the rustle of clothing, David’s low, approving groan.

Her (10:35 PM): I did. I tasted him. He tasted different. Clean, like soap and salt. He’s guiding my head. Not rough. Just… in control. He called me a good girl.

Tears pricked Mark’s eyes. Shame, pride, unbearable arousal—a maelstrom. She was his good girl. And she was being someone else’s. The phrase was a brand.

Her (10:50 PM): He pulled me up. Carried me to the bed. My dress is off. My heels are still on. He likes the heels. He’s kissing everywhere. Taking his time. He says I’m more beautiful than he dreamed. He’s… he’s ready. I’m ready. I’m wetter than I’ve ever been.

Mark was close, teetering on the edge, but he forced himself to stop. This was not for him. Not yet. This was for her. He needed to hear it all.

Her (11:05 PM): He’s inside me.

Three words. The world condensed to those three words on the bright screen. All the fantasy, the negotiation, the fear, the hope—it culminated here. Another man was sheathed inside his wife. He could imagine the gasp she must have made, the full, stretching sensation so different from his own, the weight of David’s body settling over hers.

Her (11:08 PM): It’s so deep. He’s going slow. Making me feel every inch. He’s looking right at me. Telling me to watch him take me.

Mark’s mind supplied the scene in brutal HD. The king-size bed, the disheveled sheets. Her dark hair fanned out, her legs wrapped around a stranger’s back, the sharp points of her heels digging into his flanks. David’s focused, intent face above hers, the muscles in his arms corded as he moved. Her eyes, wide and dark with an arousal she’d never shown him, locked on the man claiming her body.

The texts became fragmented, a staccato burst of sensation.

Her (11:12 PM): Faster now. Her (11:15 PM): He’s slamming into me. The headboard is hitting the wall. Her (11:18 PM): I came. I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Her (11:20 PM): He didn’t stop. He flipped me over. On my knees. He’s behind me. My face is in the pillow.

Mark was panting, his own need a frantic drumbeat. The positions, the raw description—it was a catalogue of his deepest, most secret desires made real. She was being used, pleasured, dominated in ways they’d only ever whispered about.

Her (11:25 PM): He’s spanking me. Not hard. Just… possessive. Each time he thrusts. He’s saying you’re watching this, isn’t he? He’s getting off on you watching.

A sob tore from Mark’s throat. The acknowledgment, the violation was complete. David was fucking his wife for him, because of him. Mark was a ghost in the room, a vital, invisible participant.

Then, a new text that chilled the fever for a second.

Her (11:27 PM): He just whispered… asked if we could take the condom off. Said it would feel so much better.

Mark froze, his blood turning to ice. This was a rule. The most important rule. He stared at the screen, waiting, the pause an agony.

Her (11:28 PM): I said no. I said the rules are the rules. He nodded. Said okay. Didn’t push. But god, the way he asked… I’m so close. I’m going to come again.

The relief was dizzying, followed immediately by a hotter, sharper arousal. She had held the line. For them. The power of her ‘no’ in that moment was more erotic than any ‘yes.’ He waited, breath held.

Her (11:32 PM): Now. Oh god, Mark. Now.

He could feel it, a phantom echo of her climax shuddering through his own body. The intense, shattering release as another man drove her over the edge. His own hand resumed its desperate work, spurred by the image of her convulsing around David, her cries muffled by a hotel pillow, her willpower both tested and triumphant.

Her (11:40 PM): He came. Inside the condom. Groaning my name. It felt like forever. He collapsed next to me. We’re both breathing hard. Staring at the ceiling.

The aftermath. The quiet. The shared, stunned silence of two bodies that had just obliterated every boundary. Mark finally let go, his own release hitting him with a force that left him dizzy and spent, a strangled cry echoing in the empty living room. He slumped back, the phone still clutched in his sticky hand. The physical relief was immense, but it left behind a vast, echoing quiet.

Her (12:05 AM): I’m in the bathroom. Cleaning up. My makeup is ruined. My hair is a mess. My legs feel like jelly. I can smell him on my skin.

The visceral detail was a final, exquisite twist of the knife. The mundane reality of the aftermath—the ruined makeup, the shaky legs—somehow made it all more real, more profound than any fantasy.

Her (12:20 AM): He called a car for me. He kissed me goodbye at the door. A real kiss. Told me I was incredible. Then… he looked almost shy for a second. Said he was actually nervous all night. That I intimidated him. He said if it was ever more than ‘just this once,’ he’d be honored.

Mark’s heart stuttered. The confession of nervousness was the final humanizing touch, making David real and the entire experience more dangerously potent. The door was open. The ‘once’ had been breached the moment she said yes to the nightcap. The idea hung in the digital air between them, terrifying and irresistible.

Her (12:35 AM): The car is ten minutes away. I’ll be home soon.

He forced himself up, cleaned himself up, changed into soft sweatpants and a t-shirt. He poured a glass of water, then one for her. He straightened the cushions she’d fluffed that afternoon in her nervous energy. He waited.

The key turned in the lock just after one. The door opened, and Claire stepped in. She looked… transformed. Not just the smudged mascara or the way her dress was slightly wrinkled. It was in her eyes. A sated, heavy-lidded glow. A new awareness in the way she carried herself, a slight wince in her step that spoke of thoroughly used muscles. She met his gaze across the room and a slow, tentative, unmistakably guilty smile touched her lips.

He didn’t speak. He just walked to her, took her bag from her shoulder, and drew her into his arms. She buried her face in his neck. He could smell it—the hotel soap, the champagne, and underneath, the faint, musky, alien scent of another man’s sweat and sex.

“Hi,” she whispered, her voice husky.

“Hi.” His own voice was rough. He pulled back, his hands cupping her face. “Tell me everything. Slowly.”

They moved to the sofa. She kicked off her heels with a groan, tucking her feet beneath her. She started with the cab, the pressure of his thigh, then the elevator kiss. “It was like being consumed,” she said, her eyes unfocused. “I didn’t have to think. I just… was.”

She told him about kneeling, the texture of the carpet under her knees, the unfamiliar taste. “He called me a good girl,” she said, meeting Mark’s eyes. “And a part of me hated how much I liked it. How much I wanted to be good for him, right then.”

Mark listened, his gut churning with a potent mix of jealousy and awe.

“When he was inside me,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It was so different. Not just the size. The… intention. He was so focused. Like he was studying me, learning what made me break. And when he asked…” She paused, swallowing. “When he asked about the condom, I felt this surge of power. Saying no. Holding onto us, even while I was… with him. It made everything more intense.”

She cried then, quiet tears that tracked through the remnants of her makeup. “I feel split in two,” she confessed. “I loved it. I feel guilty for loving it. I feel closer to you and a million miles away all at once.”

Mark pulled her to him, holding her as she shook. He understood. The fantasy was clean; the reality was gloriously, terrifyingly messy. They sat in the emotional wreckage for a long time, the silence comfortable in its complexity.

Her hand eventually drifted to his thigh, then higher, finding him hard beneath his sweatpants. She looked at him, her eyes wide and still wet. “You’re still…”

“I’ve never been more turned on in my life,” he said, the truth raw and undeniable. “Hearing you. Knowing you held our line. It’s all I can think about.”

She kissed him then, and her kiss was different. Hungrier, more aggressive, laced with the experience of the night. She tasted of mint and champagne and something indefinably other. She pushed him back onto the sofa, climbing astride him, her dress hiking up. There was no preamble, no gentle foreplay. She guided him inside her, still slick and loose from her earlier encounters, and sank down with a deep, shuddering sigh that was part relief, part renewed hunger.

It was different. Everything was different. She rode him with a confidence, a raw, knowing need that was new. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, and he knew she was remembering. The comparison was immediate, unavoidable, and it fueled him like nothing else. He gripped her hips, helping her move, watching the play of emotions on her face—the echo of another’s touch mingling with his own.

“Did he…” Mark grunted, the sentence too dangerous to finish.

She opened her eyes, looking down at him with a dark, knowing glint that held none of the earlier guilt, only shared complicity. “Yes.” “Was he…” “Different,” she moaned, increasing her pace, taking him deeper. “Bigger. Harder. He fucked me like he wanted to break me. And I loved it.” She leaned forward, her lips at his ear, her breath hot. “But you feel like home. And right now, I need that more.”

The words were a detonation. Mark came with a shout, his vision whiting out, his body arching up to meet her frantic strokes as he poured himself into her, a reclaiming that was also a surrender. She followed seconds later, clenching around him, her cry a broken, beautiful sound that was part David, part him, and all her.

They lay tangled together on the sofa, a damp, spent knot of limbs and shared history, now irrevocably altered. The silence was no longer anxious, but thick and charged with unspoken futures. Her finger traced the line of his collarbone.

“So,” she said softly, after a long while. “Just this once.”

He turned his head, meeting her gaze. A smile played on her swollen lips. It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. An invitation to a new chapter of their marriage.

He thought of the empty living room, the ticking clock, the agony and ecstasy of waiting for the next text. He thought of her on her knees, of the headboard hitting the wall, of the whispered proposition she had denied, of the words ‘good girl’ hanging in a hotel room’s silence. He thought of her tears on his shirt, and the fierce, possessive way she had just ridden him.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. “We’ll see,” he said.

And in the shared, secret dark of their knowing, surrounded by the ghost of the evening and the solid reality of each other, they both understood it was a lie. The door, once opened, could never truly be closed. The story had only just begun.