He Was Bigger (Behind Closed Doors Book 13)

Chapter 1: Just Pretend

Ben’s weight was a familiar comfort, the rhythm of his hips a song I knew by heart. He was propped up on his elbows, his face tight with pleasure, and I ran my hands down the smooth, warm skin of his back. I loved this man. I loved the way his brown hair fell into his eyes, the soft scratch of his evening stubble against my cheek, the earnest way he fucked me.

It was good. It was always good.

But as he pumped into me, my eyes drifted over his shoulder to the full-length mirror on our closet door. I saw us reflected there—a man and a woman who had been married for eight years, making love on a Tuesday night. His thrusts were steady, loving. My legs were wrapped around his waist, my head turned to the side on my pillow. It was a picture of contentment.

And that was the problem. It was content. Comfortable. Predictable. The fire that had once raged between us had settled into a low, pleasant warmth. It was enough to keep the cold out, but it never threatened to burn the house down anymore.

My gaze settled on my own body in the reflection. I was thirty-two. My stomach was soft, a gentle curve that I couldn’t get rid of no matter how many crunches I did. My breasts, which had once been firm and high, were now fuller, heavier, with faint silvery lines at the sides from when I’d breastfed our daughter. My hips were wider, my thighs thicker. It was a good body. A woman’s body. But it felt less like a weapon of seduction and more like a symbol of domesticity. A mom-bod.

Ben grunted, his pace quickening. I closed my eyes, focusing on the feeling of him inside me, trying to chase the orgasm that was fluttering just out of reach. I arched my back, moaned his name, and a few seconds later, I felt the familiar pulse of his release deep inside me. He collapsed onto my chest, breathing heavily, his heart thudding against mine.

“God, Clara,” he mumbled into my neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I whispered, kissing his sweaty temple. And I did. I loved him more than anything.

But as we lay there, tangled in the sheets, the quiet dissatisfaction hummed beneath my skin.

He rolled off me a moment later, pulling me into the crook of his arm. We lay in comfortable silence, the only sound our breathing and the distant hum of the city outside our window. I saw him follow my gaze back to the mirror. He watched me for a long moment as I took in my own reflection.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice soft.

I sighed, a small, sad sound. “Nothing. Just… getting old.”

He squeezed my shoulder. “You’re not old. You’re beautiful.”

“I’m soft,” I said, the word tasting like an admission of failure.

“I like soft,” he said, kissing my hair. But there was a hesitation in his voice, a new note I hadn’t heard before. He was quiet for a long time, so long I thought he might have fallen asleep. Then he spoke, his voice low and strange.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked. “Something I’ve… never told anyone?”

I turned in his arms to face him. The look on his face was one I’d never seen before—a mix of shame and a desperate, hungry curiosity. It made my stomach tighten. “Of course, Ben. You can tell me anything.”

He took a deep breath. “When we’re having sex… sometimes I think about… other people.”

My heart gave a painful little lurch. “Other women?”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “No, God, no. Not me with other women. It’s… you.”

“Me?”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He stared at a spot on the wall just over my head. “I think about you with another man.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and shocking. My first reaction was a sharp sting of hurt. Was I not enough? Was he bored of me? All the insecurities I’d just been feeling in front of the mirror came rushing to the surface.

“Why?” I whispered, my voice trembling slightly.

“It’s not because of you,” he said, finally looking at me. His eyes were pleading. “It’s because of me. I know… I know I’m not the biggest guy, Clara. I’m average. I’ve always known that.”

I started to protest, to tell him he was perfect, but he put a finger to my lips.

“Let me finish,” he said. “Please. It’s not something I can control. It’s this… fantasy. I imagine you with someone who’s… not average. Someone who’s really, truly big. And the thought of it… fuck, Clara, it drives me crazy.” He paused, swallowing hard. “But it’s not about watching. I don’t want to see it. I want you to… tell me about it. Afterwards. I want to hear every single detail. I want to know what it felt like. How he stretched you. How he filled you up in a way that I can’t. I want to hear it in your voice.”

I stared at him, speechless. My mind was reeling. A part of me was horrified, deeply wounded by the idea that the man I loved, the father of my child, fantasized about me being with someone else, someone better in a purely physical sense.

But another part of me… a secret, darker part… was intrigued. The raw vulnerability on his face was an incredible turn-on. He was laying his deepest shame bare for me, trusting me with it. And the idea itself, as shocking as it was, sent a forbidden thrill through my veins.

“You want me to cheat on you?” I finally managed to ask.

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just know that the idea of you coming home, smelling of another man, and telling me how much bigger his cock was than mine… It’s the hottest thing I can possibly imagine.”

I could see the erection taking shape under the sheets, a hard ridge pressing against my thigh. He was getting hard just talking about it. A flush of heat spread through my body, starting in my chest and moving down, pooling between my legs. The earlier dissatisfaction, the feeling of being in a rut, suddenly seemed like a distant memory. This was dangerous. This was new.

He saw the change in my expression, the flicker of something other than hurt in my eyes.

“Just… just pretend,” he whispered, his voice thick with arousal. He shifted his body, moving on top of me again. His cock, now fully hard, nudged against my wet folds. “Just for a minute. Let’s just pretend.”

My heart hammered in my chest. I should have said no. I should have been angry. But all I could do was nod, my throat too tight to speak.

He slid inside me, and this time it was completely different. His thrusts weren’t gentle or familiar. They were deep, searching, almost desperate. He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear.

“Tell me about him, Clara,” he whispered, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. “Who is he?”

My mind went blank. I had nothing. “I… I don’t know.”

“Make him up,” Ben urged, his hips picking up the pace. “What does he look like?”

An image flashed in my mind, a man I’d seen doing construction down the street. Big, rugged, with dark hair and a permanent shadow of stubble on his jaw. “He’s… tall,” I started, my voice halting and shy. “Broad shoulders. Tanned skin. His hands are… rough. Calloused.”

Ben groaned, a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest. He slammed his hips into me, driving himself deeper. “Yeah? What else? Tell me what he’s doing to you.”

The words started to come easier now, the fantasy taking shape. “He’s pushing me against a wall. He’s so strong, I can’t move. He’s ripping my panties off…”

Ben’s fucking became frantic, punishing. He was fucking me as this fantasy man, his body a stand-in for the image I was building in his head.

“His cock, Clara,” Ben gasped, his voice strained. “Tell me about his cock. Is it bigger than mine? Be honest.”

The taboo of the question was like a drug. The honesty he was demanding was a brutal, beautiful thing.

“Yes,” I breathed, the word torn from my throat. “Oh god, Ben. It’s so much bigger.”

A raw, animalistic sound escaped him. “How much bigger? Describe it to me. I need to see it.”

“It’s… thick,” I said, my own pussy clenching around Ben’s cock at the thought. “So thick I don’t know how I’ll take it. It’s heavy in his hand. Dark. The head is huge, slick with his pre-cum…”

Ben’s thrusts were crashing into me now, over and over, hitting that perfect spot deep inside me that he usually only found by accident. My own pleasure was building with a terrifying intensity, far beyond our normal lovemaking. The words were turning me on as much as they were him. The shame and the thrill were all tangled up together, creating a friction that was about to set me on fire.

“He’s pushing it against my pussy,” I panted, my nails digging into Ben’s back. “Just the head. It’s stretching me open already. I’m so wet for him, Ben. Soaking.”

“Fuck, yes,” Ben growled, his face buried in my neck. “Does it hurt? Tell me it hurts a little.”

“It does,” I sobbed, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable. “It hurts so good. He’s pushing it in… slow… oh god… I can feel every inch… he’s filling me up… I’ve never felt so full…”

My words were fuel. My description of another man’s cock inside me was making my husband fuck me harder than he ever had in his life. The sheer wrongness of it, the beautiful perversion of our intimacy, was pushing me over the edge.

“He’s hitting my cervix, Ben,” I screamed, my hips bucking wildly against his. “He’s so deep… I can feel him all the way in my stomach… I’m going to come…”

“Tell me you’re coming for him!” Ben roared, his control completely gone. “Say his name!”

I didn’t have a name for the fantasy man, but it didn’t matter. As Ben gave one last, monumental thrust, a blinding, white-hot orgasm ripped through my body. It wasn’t a gentle wave; it was a fucking tsunami, a violent, soul-shattering release that made me scream until my throat was raw. My body convulsed around his cock, milking him, and I felt his hot cum flood me as he bellowed his own release into my shoulder.

We collapsed against each other, completely spent, our bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with the smell of sex and broken taboos. My legs were shaking, my mind blissfully blank. It was, without a doubt, the most intense orgasm of my entire life.

We lay there for a long time, our hearts gradually slowing. The danger was gone, replaced by a shocking new intimacy. Ben lifted his head, his eyes dark and wide, filled with a mixture of awe and something that looked a lot like love, but a darker, more possessive version of it than I had ever seen.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. We both knew.

A door had been opened tonight. And neither of us had any intention of closing it. The seed wasn’t just planted. It had taken root.