Confessor Secret Series – Part 2
I Came to the Sound of Her Moaning His Name
Because She Was Saying My Words
I wasn’t in the room. But I was everywhere.
In her panties, the ones I selected for her to wear.
In her dirty talk, the one I dared her to say.
In her mouth, every time she moaned, not just for him, but for me.
She was married. He had no idea.
We never fucked in their bed,
but I was in that bedroom more times than he could count.
Actually, we never fucked ever.
We connected through work.
That was the beginning.
What started as casual collaboration quickly became something more.
We had this bond, this weird, electric way of seeing life
and business and chaos that just clicked.
We became fast friends.
Even brought our partners into FaceTimes sometimes, laughing, talking, comparing lives.
But as we kept talking,
something else bubbled underneath.
It wasn’t flirtation at first.
It was alignment.
Resonance.
Vulnerability that cracked open between texts and voice notes.
And eventually, the conversations shifted.
Sex. Desire. Curiosity.
She realized I was more sexual than her.
More taboo. More open.
And she’d tease me for it.
Laugh when I said I had been in open relationships.
Mock the idea of sharing a partner.
Call it absurd. Tell me I was crazy.
And maybe part of that was ADHD.
I think fast. Feel faster.
I don’t compartmentalize desire
I hyperfocus on it.
When I feel safe enough to talk about sex, I talk about all of it.
And that safety pulled her in.
But then…
She’d ask another question.
And another.
Until she wasn’t mocking.
She was imagining.
She’d say things like:
“I used to be wild in high school.”
“God, I forgot I used to think like that.”
“What if I could feel that again?”
We both knew
without ever saying it
that we weren’t meant to be forever.
Our lives didn’t allow it.
But something else was happening.
She was ready to reignite something in herself.
To be guided. Seen. Held.
And I became the one who helped her do it.
Two years.
Daily photos.
Quick videos in her bathroom.
Voice notes whispered between school drop-offs.
Late-night FaceTimes while I stroked for her,
telling her how her husband should fuck her
and what videos and photos she should also send him.
My ADHD brain lives in the loops.
I’d replay the same voice note ten times.
I’d memorize the curve of her whisper like it was scripture.
I wasn’t just jerking off to her moans
I was archiving them.
Holding her pleasure like a map I didn’t want to lose.
She told me everything:
When she felt broken.
When she couldn’t cum with him.
When she wanted to feel like a slut without being punished for it.
And I gave her all of me.
My hands. My words. My orgasms.
Not because I wanted her to be mine or compete with her husband.
But because I never wanted her to feel like she had to hide her desires.
We called eachother “Twin Flames” while knowing without saying
that we could never be more than what this was and
that only increased the naughty forbidden excitement we shared.
I was the reason she started wearing thongs again.
The reason she sent nudes with confidence.
The reason she stopped faking her orgasms
and started demanding them.
I knew she’d never be mine.
But her pleasure?
I was helping her own it and the forbidden desires of her past and helping
Her become the sexual free women she was born to be
and that gave me just as much pleasure as her voice notes cumming while calling my name.
It wasn’t about a cuckold kink but me explaining it was the start.
She had never heard of cuckhold or hotwife.
She resisted it.
She didn’t know how I could be turned on by her husband fucking her.
But I was patient.
Curious. Gentle.
I let the idea sit.
And asked little things like:
“What were you doing just now?
I hope he was fucking your brains out.”
Then one night, she sent a photo.
“He just pulled my bathing suit to the side and fucked me on the bed.
Are you sure you’re okay with me telling you?”
My cock throbbed.
“Only if you give me every fucking detail.
And let me ask questions about that hot fuck you just had.”
That’s when the door blew open.
We created rituals.
I picked her panties.
I wrote her lines to text her husband during the day..
I gave her scenes to play.
I told her how to moan, when to beg, how to make him feel like he was in control—even though I was the one pulling the strings.
She’d message me after:
“You were right I leaned into his
dirty talk and I could feel his excitement
which turned me on to submit even further with him.
I came to that message.
Hard. Proud. Excited.
She started asking for feedback and opening up
in ways I couldn’t have even dreamed of at the start.
Photos of the bed before and after.
Descriptions of his cock.
What he said.
Where he grabbed her.
What she thought of while he slid inside.
We played out scenarios that she wanted her husband to make happen.
We’d role play via voice notes while we both masturbated.
She’d message me in the morning with every detail of their date night.
She started sending photos from the gym, the bathroom.
She’d tell me what made her wet.. sometimes a man,
sometimes a woman, a glance in a coffee shop.
And I’d tease her. Encourage her to touch herself. Right there. Wherever she was.
What we had was so much more than sext friends
it was this outlet and connection that unlocked her with her husband
and hopefully for her new slut era.
She turned his cock into a stage.
And I was the fucking director.
Now I know this will rub some the wrong way
as her husband will never know who brought her back to life.
But I do.
And it was never about jealousy or control or competition.
I took so much pleasure in knowing that she was fucking better,
and her husband’s mind was being blown, and she was enjoying it and sharing it with me.
The beauty of it is, there wasn’t really an ending more just time and distance as
our connection never faded but her love for her husband grew stronger.
She was married for over a decade,
and she would say they fuck better, communicate better,
and even parented better together now.
We weren’t lovers. We weren’t a secret.
We were something people don’t have words for.
I feel we all need that outlet, that sounding board,
that member of the opposite sex (or same sex, that story soon)
to translate
and vent to while also feeling open and vulnerable
Sharing the things we’ve fantasized about but never said out loud.
I see her and her husband now on social media
And I’m proud. Genuinely fucking proud.
I don’t need her to remember me.
In a way I hope her sex with her husband is so wild and kinky
that the things she shared with me become boring
and she doesn’t even remember the role we played in unlocking her.
Because I remember.
I still have a pair of her panties she sent me.
They still give me the memories.
And sometimes?
I go back through the old texts. Listen to the voice notes.
Watch her touch herself in the videos I saved.
And doing so I get turned on by that trust, that becoming,
those moments we shared
and the sexual person she has become now and the part I played in that becoming.
Not because I had her.
But because I helped her unlock the truth she’d buried to be the perfect wife.
And now she moans louder. Cums harder.
Because someone, me
told her she was allowed to want it all.
This is part 1 of many in the Confessor Secret Series (part 1 you can read here)