Myles* hovered above me, propped on his elbows, a sheen of sweat glistening across his muscled chest. Naked beneath him, I locked my legs around his waist, keeping him buried inside me.
“Put your hands together above your head,” he growled, leaning down to bite my nipple before grasping both my wrists in one of his massive hands.
Myles placed his other hand tentatively around my neck and I nodded my consent.
“I want you to kick when you’ve had enough.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I gasped, begging.
He steadily tightened his grip. The blood pumped so loud in my neck I could hear it like a heartbeat.
“Good girl,” he smirked, removing his hand from my throat when I kicked.
Then he slapped my face. And I came. Hard.
He didn’t know it, but he’d just introduced me to kink. And I was hooked.
Of all the people you’re not supposed to fuck, your best friend’s ex-husband falls toward the top of that list of forbidden lovers. It’s betrayal. It breaks the unwritten rules of girl code. And even though my BFF had already separated from her ex when I met him, it’s messy.
But listen, if you’d seen Myles the night we met, you’d have fucked him too.
Melody* was a new friend. I accepted the invite to her birthday party at a craft beer bar even though I didn’t know anyone else there. Not wanting to monopolize Melody’s time, I took a seat among her friends, who were all talking about the good times they had in high school and other people I didn’t know. After half an hour of awkwardly scrolling on my phone and debating whether I should leave, a man sat down across from me.
Myles was tall, tan, and broad-shouldered in a way that hinted he worked out casually. He had thick, dark brown hair at a length that could lean either emo or tastefully unkempt and smoldering eyes behind silver wire-rimmed glasses. He had a permanent furrow in his brow that gave him a distinguished, professorial look—with that face he could be the star of a 1940s detective movie. Myles wasn’t hot in a trendy or hipster way—no tattoos, no ornate facial hair, no tight t-shirt—but in the classically handsome, old Hollywood way. Think Rock Hudson and Marlon Brando.
Which is to say, Myles had major daddy energy.
Before that night, I honestly couldn’t picture myself calling anyone “daddy” in a sexual way. It felt too familial, which grossed me out, and all the guys I’d been with before seemed just as weirded out by the prospect as I was. But from the moment I saw Myles, it made sense. I wanted him to bend me over the bar table and spank me, then call me a good girl for letting him do it. I wanted him to tell me I’d been bad and give me a deep dicking as “punishment.” Things my husband James* would never do.
But none of that came up in our first conversation. I don’t remember what we talked about, only that I wanted him—BAD. We never even got each other’s names. All I knew was I wasn’t supposed to want someone like this. I’d gotten married just six months before—we were still in the honeymoon phase!
The next night, Melody and I had dinner.
“Who was that handsome guy at your party?” I asked.
She had no idea who I was talking about, insisting she hadn’t invited any handsome men. But after I described him…
“You mean my ex-husband?!” she screeched, incredulous.
OMFG. Myles was the ex Melody told me about. They’d divorced after Melody realized she was a lesbian. She was always quick to mention that Myles wasn’t a bad guy, they just wanted very different things and ended on friendly terms.
Still, I tried to put Myles out of my head.
…And then, a month later, he showed up at my book club.
I must’ve mentioned it the night we met, but I had no memory of doing so. I was busy blabbing nervously because having a man so deliciously my type pay undivided attention to me filled me with hope and heat and yearning. When I saw him walk into the library, my pussy throbbed with want. Every fantasy I’d ever had about being picked up and fucked against a bookshelf played out in my mind.
But I knew I shouldn’t want him. Out of the relatively small number of people I definitely, absolutely could not have, he was one.
And yet, there I was, fantasizing about calling Myles “Professor Daddy” as he bent me over a desk.
You know what they say about the forbidden….
We saw each other once a month over the course of the next three years. During the pandemic, my book club met virtually and Myles and I habitually stayed on Zoom just to talk, long after everyone else had hopped off. I told him about my cats—creatures he loves but is allergic to—and he told me about all the concerts he’s been to—a lot—and how much he missed live music. Sometimes he talked about how lonely being divorced in a pandemic was and I wanted so badly to be in his pandemic bubble.
I was still married, but I understood something of the loneliness Myles experienced. My husband and I got along great, we hung out like old friends, but we didn’t fuck. While it seemed like every other couple we knew was getting it on constantly during lockdown, our sex life petered out. He was too efficient—always wanting the one position that was sure to make him come as quickly as possible so he could go off and do other things, like gardening and playing Madden on Xbox. I felt like a chore, and a boring one at that. I stopped making advances and he never picked up the slack, so weeks would go by where we lived like roommates, platonically coexisting.
When our book club finally met in person again for the first time in over two years, Myles was there, looking handsome as ever. I’d dressed up—makeup, push-up bra, scoop neck tee, tight jeans showing off my thick ass—hoping he’d notice, and my stomach knotted when I caught his eyes widening in delight. He hugged me and I relished the hard line of his body pressing against mine, realizing just how starved I was for sensual touch.
At the end of the night, he mentioned that a goth/industrial dance party he liked was starting up again and I quietly suggested we go together, praying the other members wouldn’t overhear and invite themselves.
Prayers answered. A few weeks later in a grungy Ohio music venue, Myles and I danced as the EDM blared—coordinated movements that kept our bodies pressed together. We both wore all black, making where he ended and I began indistinguishable in the dim, strobe-lit room. He trailed his fingers from the back of my neck to the peak of my ass, weaving his other hand in my hair as I buried my face in his muscular chest.
Finally, unable to keep my composure any longer with the chemistry between us so hot I felt I’d burn alive, I pulled his face to mine.
“I want you.”
We left.
“Want to be my good girl?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I cooed, biting my lip.
“Strip.”
I stripped slowly, making him savor every flourished movement, taking my time as his thick cock grew more stiff with each article of clothing I removed.
When I finished undressing, he bent me over, shoving my face into the mattress. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him yank a silk tie from his nightstand and tie it in two loops—one for each wrist—with a knot in the middle. He tied the knot with one hand and his teeth while he kept the other hand on the back of my neck. Then he pulled my hands behind my back, restraining my wrists with the tie, and entered me, stretching my pussy to its limits as I moaned into his sheets. Each thrust made me scream with pleasure.
He leaned forward and grabbed me by the throat as we both came at the same time.
“What do you say?” he grunted.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I sighed in ecstasy.
“That’s my good girl.”
In case you’re wondering, no, there is no nice way to tell your best friend—with whom you’ve shared countless laughs, movie nights, and gossip sessions over several dozen pizzas and cocktails—that you’re fucking her ex. Especially when, on the day you planned to just come out with it, she tells you she’s in love with you and wants you to leave your husband and move in with her.
I knew that when I told Melody I couldn’t reciprocate her feelings, she’d never speak to me again. On the bright side, our friend breakup also meant I wouldn’t have to hurt her even more by confessing I’d banged her ex-husband. I conveniently kept that little detail to myself.
There’s also no nice way to tell your husband that you’re dissatisfied with your sex life together and now that you’re having the best sex of your life with someone else, you’d prefer if you each fucked other people while staying married. Somehow I did it. Somehow he took it better than I could’ve hoped.
Before Myles, kink didn’t make sense to me. I couldn’t conceive of how pleasure could come from pain. But I was drowning in complacency and had had enough sweet, sensitive lovemaking to last several lifetimes. Myles fucked me back to life. He showed me just how much power I had in being submissive.
My pleasure was important to Myles in a way that it had never been to any man I’d had sex with before. And I quickly learned that just because he was dominant didn’t mean I wasn’t actually the one in control. He was bigger and stronger than me, could easily overpower me, but my consent defined our sex. I felt powerful. And fucking sexy.
So, as messy and complicated as my (now ex-)best friend’s ex-husband introducing me to kink sounds, I regret nothing.
*Name has been changed.
Editor’s Note: This story features a sexual encounter that includes choking—a form of breath play, which, like all sex acts, carries certain risks. You can read more about the specific risks of breath play here.