Mendez Series - Part 0: "Wife's Confessions" (Pilot)
My wife (now 34) and I have known each other for ten years. When I first met her, she was 23 or 24--a tiny waist, curves in all the right places, and a face to die for. She still looks hotter than I deserve, and even now, I remain captivated by her beauty. But in our second year of dating, we hit a rough patch.
One day, while she was at work, she accidentally left her phone at my place. Not unusual--it'd happened before. I never cared to snoop, so I just popped it on the charger and forgot it.
Hours later, it started ringing. I ignored it. Then it rang again--same unknown number, no name. Curiosity nudged me, but I let it slide to voicemail. Third time? Still ignored it.
Then a text pinged in from that number. I couldn't resist the lockscreen peek.
"Hi Summer," it read, "I'm back in town and was hoping to see you. I could really use a massage and, hopefully, a little fun too. Wink wink." Her name is Danielle, so this was strange.
I figured wrong number or maybe an old recycled line. Didn't think much of it--forgot it for weeks, until she left her phone again.
This time, curiosity won. Did she reply?
I opened her messages, and my heart nearly stopped. A full chat stared back at me.
"Hi, Summer," Mark wrote, "So nice to know you still think of me after all these years. I'm sad to say I left the industry, so I can't meet you. But I remember our times together very well--we had great fun. That's why you were one of the few I gave my personal number to. Please don't share this number and delete me from your phone. Take care. Love, Summer."
"Glad you still remember me!" he added. "Can't we have one last meeting? I'm dying to get my balls drained by a stunning woman like you. I'm willing to pay a lot."
Danielle replied, "Sorry, Mark. I have a boyfriend now."
"He doesn't have to know," Mark pressed. "€1,000 upfront for two hours. You know I'm good for it."
"Last time I saw you was three years ago," she said.
"We can change that," he responded.
"Sorry, not interested," she wrote back. "Please delete my number."
My heart pounded, mind racing. 'Industry'? Stripper? Escort? What the hell?
That night, she got home, and I shoved the messages in her face. Shock hit her--tears flowed instantly. But I wasn't furious. She'd rejected him hard--that meant it was past tense. Still, I needed the full story.
I hugged her, kissed her forehead.
"Calm down," I said softly, "just tell me everything. We'll go from there."
"You know how badly I wanted to move out of my mother's house," she began, voice shaky. "Money was tight, and things were always tense. I felt like I had to escape."
She took a breath.
"Annie--a close friend you know and like--was in a similar situation," she continued. "Then, out of nowhere, she suddenly seemed financially stable. When I asked her about it, she told me she was working as an erotic masseuse at a high-end massage parlor in the city."
"At the time, I was working full-time at a gas station, making just €10 an hour," she said. "It barely covered rent to my mom, let alone gave me enough to move out. But Annie? She was making €100-€200 per hour for massaging older men--in the nude--and finishing them off with her hands."
"She wore beautiful dresses to work, met interesting people, and always felt safe because her boss protected the women," she explained. "Two days after our conversation, she called me, saying she had shown my pictures to her boss, who then offered her €1,000 if she could convince me to join."
"That did it," she admitted. "The next week, I started working there. I stayed for almost three years."
"It allowed me to move out within weeks, pay for my studies, afford rent, food, clothes, holidays--everything," she said, eyes distant. "Just before my final exams, when my real career was about to begin, I quit for good."
"I never wanted anyone to find out--especially not you," she confessed, voice breaking. "But I think about it almost every day. Not because I regret doing it, but because I regret keeping it a secret from my family, friends, and you."
Wow. Three years of pleasuring men for money. I respect sex workers, but I never pictured dating one.
Still, I admired how she laid it all out. I believed her--it was in the past. I got why she kept it quiet. But betrayal stung. The thought of her hands on so many guys haunted me. Questions piled up--ones I wasn't sure I wanted answered.
But I asked anyway.
"He was... different," she said hesitantly when she finally spilled about him, eyeing me carefully. "Not just because of who he was, but because of what he had. He was huge. I mean, impossibly big. I remember the first time I saw it, I actually gasped. Thick, long, and with a set of heavy balls to match. I could barely take him. Even when I did, it felt like he was stretching me in ways I had never experienced before. And his stamina--God, it was endless. He would go for what felt like hours, barely needing a break."
She took a deep breath.
"He knew exactly how to use it, too," she added. "Every movement, every thrust was intentional. He wasn't just some guy with a big cock--he was the best lover I ever had. And yes," she swallowed, "sometimes, I still think about him when I'm alone."
Now, five years later, we laugh about it. She makes me happy, and I'm glad she was happy back then. She got her kicks, and I got an incredible wife.
These days, in bed, I nudge her for a story from those days.
"Tell me about him," I say, grinning.
"It always lights us up," she replies, giggling.
Part 1
It kicked off with a simple confession. Four or five years in, I found out my wife--then still my girlfriend--had once had multiple threesomes. And, as it turned out, a completely different sex life than the one she had with me. Shocked? Hell yes. She'd always been reserved when it came to sex, never particularly adventurous, so this revelation completely threw me off.
I had to know more. I pressed her for details--some stung, but she never lied. That was Danielle--always honest, even when it's messy.
"He was... different," she admitted, hesitation in her eyes. "Not just because of who he was, but because of what he had. Mendez was huge. I mean, impossibly big. But it wasn't just his size--it was everything. Tall, broad-shouldered, with an athletic body carved from years of training. Abs cut sharp, arms strong, face chiseled and stupidly handsome. The kind of man who owned a room. And his cock... thick, long, heavy balls to match. First time I saw it, I gasped. I could barely take him. Even when I did, it felt like he was stretching me like nothing else. His stamina--God, endless. Hours, no breaks."
At first, it rattled me. Picturing him over her, pounding away with that monster--it gnawed at me. I compared myself, couldn't help it. But over time? That sting turned hot.
I noticed how she lit up talking about him. Her voice softened, got breathy.
"He could go for hours," she'd whisper, giggling, kissing me. "You... you try hard."
Her thighs squeezed together, subtle but there. She played it cool, but her body betrayed her--lips licked when she mentioned his build, a shiver when she recalled his relentless rhythm. Mention Mendez during role-play, and she'd soak fast.
"Tell me how he took you," I'd push, her body trembling as she relived it.
"He'd pin me," she'd say, breath catching, "thrusting hard and steady--stuff I never knew I'd crave hearing."
She'd stroke my balls gently, whispering comparisons with that teasing edge.
"That's it, baby," she'd coo. "Come for me. You can't last... not like Mendez. He'd go all night. I'd be begging, but you... my sweet little thing... you just need to let go fast."
I knew it was a game. But damn, it worked--every time she teased, I'd lose it.
It was her idea, whispered late one night after a Mendez tale left me hard and restless. She smirked, tracing my chest.
"What if we made you... bigger?" she suggested.
Next day, it arrived--a thick, firm penis sleeve, ribbed, doubling my girth, stretching me longer. I stared, nerves and heat churning. She didn't blink.
"Mendez," she dubbed it, voice low, like she was calling him back.
First time we used it, I felt the air shift. She grabbed it, breath catching as she ran her fingers over it, eyes locked on mine--dark with lust, a flicker of nostalgia hitting me sideways.
"This is him," she murmured, thighs clenching. "This is what I've been craving all these years."
When I slid inside her, sleeve snug, she was wetter than I'd ever felt her--slick and hot, like her body had been waiting.
"Fuck, yes," she moaned, voice cracking as she arched off the bed. "I've missed this--missed him so much."
Her hips bucked, greedy, chasing that stretch, that fullness I'd never given her solo. I thrust harder, torn between pleasing her and feeling his ghost--his size--outmatching me through rubber. Her eyes shut, and for a second, I wondered if she saw me at all.
Our talks have shifted. She misses that wild past--the thrill of a bigger, stronger, dominant man.
