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I still don’t know what made me pick up Will’s phone that night. He was in the shower after work, humming away like always, and his phone was just sitting there on the bedside table, screen lighting up with a notification. We’ve never been the type to snoop—we trust each other completely—but something tugged at me. Maybe curiosity, maybe boredom. I unlocked it (his passcode is my birthday, sweet as ever) and opened his browser.
At first it was just the usual—football scores, Reddit, work emails. Then I saw the folder in his notes app labelled “Stories.” My heart flipped. I thought maybe he’d been writing sweet things about us, little fantasies or future plans. I clicked it.
Oh my God.
Page after page of erotic stories he’d written himself—detailed, filthy scenes of me (obviously me: blonde, green eyes, 24, called Eliza in every one) cheating on him. Me sneaking off with stronger guys, bigger guys, more dominant guys. Me coming home afterwards, telling him every detail while he touched himself, desperate and grateful. Cuckold stories. Dozens of them. Some with strangers in hotels, some with his friends, even one where I hooked up with a guy on my hen do while he waited back home.
I should have been angry. Or hurt. But my stomach flipped in a completely different way. Heat rushed between my legs as I scrolled, reading how turned on he got imagining me being “taken” by someone else. I couldn’t stop. I sat there on the edge of the bed, thighs pressed together, reading until I heard the shower turn off.
I locked the phone quickly and pretended to be scrolling on my own, but my mind was racing. Will came out in his towel, kissed my forehead, and went to make dinner like nothing had happened. I smiled and acted normal, but the whole evening I kept glancing at him, wondering how long he’d been hiding this side of himself.
By the next morning I knew I had to talk to someone. I couldn’t keep it inside. So I called my sister Isabella.
She came straight over that afternoon. Bella’s always been my confidante—two years older, protective, a little wilder than me. We sat on my bed with cups of tea and I blurted it all out.
“Bella… I found something on Will’s phone.” I told her everything. Showed her a couple of the tamer excerpts (my face burning the whole time). Her eyes went wide, then she started giggling, then full-on laughing.
“Oh my God, Eliza. Your sweet, polite Will is a secret perv? This is brilliant.”
“It’s not funny!” I protested, but I was laughing too. “I don’t know what to do. Should I be mad? Turned on? Both?”
Bella put her cup down and looked at me seriously for a second.
“Listen. He’s clearly obsessed with you. This isn’t about wanting someone else—it’s about wanting YOU to have everything, even the thrill of someone new, and then coming back to him. That’s kind of… hot, actually.”
I bit my lip. “You think?”
She grinned mischievously. “I think you need to stop overthinking and start having some fun with it. Tonight. You and me. We’re going out.”
“Out? It’s a Tuesday.”
“Exactly. No one expects anything on a Tuesday. Perfect night to be bad.” She stood up and started rifling through my wardrobe. “Where’s that tight black dress—the sequined one?”
An hour later I was standing in front of the mirror, barely recognising myself. The black sequined mini dress clung to every curve, plunging low at the front, barely covering my thighs. Thigh-high boots, hair loose and wavy, red lipstick. I looked like trouble. Bella wolf-whistled. “Will wouldn’t stand a chance if he saw you right now. Come on, Uber’s here.”
We grabbed our coats and headed to Velvet Pulse in Soho—neon lights, thumping bass, bodies everywhere. Bella dragged me to the bar for tequila shots. “To bad decisions!” One became three became five, and soon the room was spinning in the best way. I felt loose, bold, the sequins catching every flash of light. Guys started noticing immediately—flirty chats, drinks bought, dances that got too handsy. I laughed it all off, loving the attention, Will’s secret stories flashing in my mind every time someone looked at me like that.
Bella and I were catching our breath on the edge of the dance floor when I saw him. TJ.
Tyrese Johnson—from secondary school. He’d filled out into something unreal: tall, broad, muscular, dark skin glowing under the lights, that same killer smile now paired with a sharp jawline and confident eyes.
“Eliza?” He made his way over, parting the crowd effortlessly.
We hugged, caught up shouting over the music, then moved to the smoking area even though neither of us smokes. He bought me a drink, we talked properly—his rugby career, my engagement, life since school. His eyes kept flicking to my lips, my legs, the way my dress clung when I moved.
Eventually we headed back inside. The DJ had switched to deep, sexy house. TJ took my hand and pulled me onto the floor. God, could he dance—hips rolling perfectly, hands confident on my waist. Hours blurred. Bella texted she was off with some guy in VIP and to “live a little.”
By almost 2 a.m. we hadn’t stopped. We were pressed together, moving in sync. I could feel his heartbeat through his shirt… and then, as I rolled my hips into him, something else. Something huge. Thick. Hard.
My breath caught. I pressed closer on purpose, feeling him twitch against me. His hands tightened, thumb brushing bare skin under my hem. The tension was electric.
I couldn’t hold back. I kissed him—hard, desperate. He groaned into my mouth, hands sliding down to squeeze my ass, gathering my dress higher and higher until cool air hit my bare cheeks. We snogged messily on the dance floor until a bouncer kicked us out.
In the Uber we didn’t stop—me straddling him, rubbing his massive bulge through his jeans while we devoured each other’s mouths. The driver cleared his throat more than once. We ignored him.
At his flat in Clapham the door barely closed before he carried me to the sofa, kissing hungrily as I fumbled with his belt. When I finally freed him I gasped—it was huge, at least 10 inches, thick and perfect. I grabbed his tape measure from the kitchen just to be sure: 10 inches and five sixteenths. I was nervous, but I started worshipping it—licking, sucking, both hands stroking. At one point I looked up and saw he was filming. Instead of stopping, I got even more into it.
He laid me back, lined up that monster, and entered me slowly. It hurt at first—stretching, overwhelming—but he was gentle, encouraging, until pleasure took over and I begged him to fuck me properly. That’s when he turned filthy: “Take this big black cock, you cheating little white slut… your fiancé’s never gonna fill you like this… you love being my snowbunny whore, don’t you?” I loved every word. We fucked passionately for two solid hours—every position, sweat, spanking, hair-pulling, more filming, more racial dirty talk that made me come five times. Finally he painted my face, hair, and chest with thick ropes of cum. I licked it up giggling while he recorded, loving the taste. He pointed out the shower. I skipped there naked, blissed-out. In the shower he joined me—hard again. We fucked against the tiles, water cascading, until he came deep inside me. Then we towelled off, he cooked sausages and eggs shirtless, and we talked properly. He admitted he’d had a huge crush on me at school. It was sweet, intimate, perfect. We went to bed. I slept on his chest. A few hours later I woke and started kissing down his body, taking his soft (but still huge) cock in my mouth until he woke, hardened, and guided my head deep until I gagged. Then slow, passionate morning sex—me on top, coming twice—until he filled me again, the feeling of his cock twitching and pumping into me sending me into pure ecstasy. I kissed him fully and fell asleep again with him still inside me. I woke properly around 3 p.m. He was stroking my hair. We kissed, and he fucked me again—slow and loving at first, then hard and rough, treating me like his whore, more dirty talk, more filming. He came inside me, stayed hard, and kept going for another hour of raw power until he finally exploded across my face. By 5 p.m. I realised I had to leave. My dress was ruined, so I pulled on one of his hoodies. He kissed me goodbye at the door. It wasn’t until I was at the bus stop, catching my reflection in a shop window, that I saw it: dried cum streaked through my hair, on my cheek, my forehead. I just smiled, heart racing, and stepped onto the bus. This is what really happened on December 23. And Will still has no idea… yet.
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