At Romi’s Farewell Party, I Crossed a Line with a Stranger

My name is Camila, I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my own body. I have wide hips, a heavy bust, and arms I’ve never really liked. Julián, my boyfriend of almost four years, keeps telling me that he’s in love with precisely those things—the curves I try to hide beneath dark blouses. That night, Romina’s birthday, I left home wearing a black dress he himself had chosen the week before, along with the silent promise not to have more than two drinks. I was going to a bachelorette party, not a funeral, but I framed it that way for myself: two drinks, an hour of dancing, a taxi home before two.

Romi lived in a large apartment, inherited from her father, in a quiet neighborhood in the north of the city. When I arrived, there were already about fourteen women in the living room. University friends, cousins, neighbors, two coworkers of the bride’s, and, in one corner, Romi’s mother, whom we all called Aunt Marta. Aunt Marta was in her early fifties, but she’d spent years acting as if she were one of us. She was always the first to order tequila, the last to go to bed, and the only one who never got tired of dancing.

“Camilita, you’re here,” Romi said, hugging me as soon as I walked through the door. “You’re going to drink with me, right?”

“One and a half, no more. I’m seeing Julián tomorrow.”

“One and a half,” she repeated, with that laugh of hers that always ended up sounding like an order.

At first, it was the usual stuff. Silly games with straws and bananas, group photos, a pink feather boa draped over the bride’s shoulders. We ate canapés, toasted the future Mrs., and someone put on reggaeton at a volume that made the glasses vibrate. I danced very little. I stayed near the fruit table, talking to one of Romi’s cousins about nothing in particular and keeping an eye on the clock.

“Girls, the surprise is arriving in fifteen minutes!” Romi shouted from the center of the room.

“What surprise?” someone asked.

“A very handsome, very tall surprise. You’ll see.”

The group applauded, and I laughed out of politeness. I imagined a guy dancing in very little clothing, cheap bills, compromising pictures that would make everyone laugh in some chat the next day. I sent Julián a message: everything’s fine here, I’ll let you know when I leave. He replied with a heart and a “behave like a good girl.” I smiled. I still believed in that part.

***

The stripper’s name was Mateo, or so he said. He appeared dressed as a firefighter, helmet tucked under one arm and a smile that knew exactly what it was doing. He was tall and tattooed, with the kind of back built over years in a gym, not a couple of months. He led Romi to the center of the room, sat her in a chair, and began unbuttoning his jacket to the rhythm of a song I didn’t know.

The girls screamed like teenagers. Romi covered her face, laughing, and every time he came too close, the others clapped and tossed small bills onto the chair. Aunt Marta was in the front row, with a drink in each hand. She was wearing a red dress pulled too tight around her waist, and she was looking at Mateo with an attention that was no longer merely festive.

“Camila, come over here!” They tugged at my arm.

“I’m going to get some water,” I replied, slipping away toward the kitchen.

When I came back, the atmosphere had changed. Mateo was already in his boxers. The living-room lights had been dimmed, the curtains were closed, and the music was different—slower, denser. Romi had gotten up from the chair and was touching his chest as if he were a toy she’d just bought. Aunt Marta kept drinking, lips parted, and every now and then she licked her upper lip with the tip of her tongue without realizing she was doing it.

One more drink, I thought. Just one, so I won’t be the odd one out.

And that was the mistake.

***

I don’t know exactly when the party stopped being a party. Maybe when Mateo took off his boxers, or maybe a little earlier, when Aunt Marta got down on her knees and everyone cheered her as if it were the funniest thing they’d seen in years. The truth is, at some point during the dancing, what had been beneath the boxers stopped being a cartoon and became something real—huge and exposed in the middle of the room, in full view of fourteen women who had lost all sense of shame. A thick, fat cock, broad at the base, veins standing out all the way up to a shiny, purplish glans pointing straight at the ceiling. It moved on its own every time he took a step, and every step drew a collective moan from the girls.

Aunt Marta was first. She grabbed it with both hands without asking anyone’s permission, weighed it, ran it along her cheek as if comparing it to the size of her face, and then opened her mouth and took it all the way in with the naturalness of someone who had been imagining it for years. She swallowed it until a gag could be heard, and instead of pulling away, she pushed it farther inside, holding on to the man’s tattooed thighs. Saliva dripped from her chin in thick strands, soaking the neckline of her red dress, and she didn’t wipe it away: she was sucking a stranger’s cock in front of her daughter, and she loved it. There was a second of silence, a physical silence, almost solid, before the room erupted. The girls screamed and pounded on the furniture; someone raised a phone to record. Romi laughed uproariously, clutching her stomach.

“Come on, Mom, come on, suck it all the way!” she shouted, laughing nonstop.

Aunt Marta obeyed. She pulled the saliva-slick cock out, spat on it, and masturbated him hard with her fist while licking his balls one by one. When she put it back in her mouth, it was worse: she made noises in her throat, sucked with her cheeks hollowed, pulled away only to run her tongue from the base to the tip and swallow it again. Mateo held her head and began fucking her mouth without care, his entire cock moving in and out, and she offered no resistance, letting herself be used as if she had been waiting for that ever since the invitation arrived.

I stood rooted to the floor. My heart pounded in my throat. It wasn’t horror, not exactly; it was something stranger, a mixture of discomfort and curiosity that I was ashamed to feel. I felt my panties grow damp and hated myself for it. Aunt Marta finally pulled away, her mouth shining and a strand of saliva hanging from her chin, and collapsed onto the sofa amid the applause, panting, eyes glazed, one hand already beneath the skirt of her red dress. Mateo remained standing in the middle of the room, completely naked, his erect, wet cock pointing toward his navel, wearing the look he must have known by heart: the look of a man who knows what comes next is inevitable.

I slipped back into the kitchen. I closed the door behind me, planted my hands on the counter, and tried to think. My phone weighed heavily in my pocket. Call Julián, tell him you’re uncomfortable, get a taxi. But also: What are you going to tell him? That your friend’s mother just sucked off a stripper in front of fifteen people? I laughed to myself, a nervous laugh, and then the door opened.

“There you are,” Romi said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Behind her came two of her friends, both holding drinks, their eyes glassy.

“Romi, seriously, I don’t feel well.”

“Liar. You’re fine. Come on, I want to introduce you to Mateo properly.”

“Romi…”

“One picture, just one, and I’ll leave you alone.”

It wasn’t a picture. I knew it the moment her hands closed around my wrist. The other two positioned themselves behind me, laughing, gently pushing me toward the hallway. I could have screamed. I could have dug my heels into the floor. I didn’t. I walked.

***

When they brought me back into the living room, Mateo was sitting on the sofa with his legs spread, his body gleaming with sweat, his hard cock resting against his stomach. Aunt Marta was still beside him, her red dress rumpled and her breasts half spilling out of the neckline, fanning herself with a magazine while staring at the man’s cock with a silly smile. The girls formed a circle around me and began chanting my name. Camila, Camila, Camila. I felt my cheeks catch fire.

“Come here, gorgeous,” Mateo said in that deep voice that was obviously part of the act. “Come say hello properly.”

I thought of Julián. I swear I did—in his smile when he chose the dress for me, in the heart he’d sent me less than an hour earlier. I thought of our bed, the table where we ate breakfast on Sundays, the key to his apartment on my key ring. I thought of all that, and at the same time I let Romi push me two steps closer.

One hand lowered the zipper of my dress down my back. Another pulled off my stockings. I never knew which hands belonged to whom. The dress fell to the floor, leaving me in the black underwear Julián had also chosen that very morning, unaware of what was going to happen to it. The girls applauded as if I’d just sung a song. Someone unclasped my bra from behind and pulled it down my arms: my large, heavy breasts, nipples already hard from sheer fear and from something else that wasn’t fear, were exposed to everyone. Louder applause. Romi whistled.

“Look at those tits, girls. Look what the little innocent was hiding.”

Mateo stood up. His cock bounced hard against his thigh when he took the two steps toward me. He kissed my neck first, slowly, knowing exactly how to do it. His hands were enormous, much bigger than my boyfriend’s, and they gripped my breasts with a new firmness, squeezing and weighing them, pinching my nipples between thumb and forefinger until a moan escaped me. It was as if every light in the room had been focused on me.

“That’s it,” someone murmured.

“Look at her giving herself over,” Romi said. “Look at the little saint’s nipples getting hard.”

She pushed me down by the shoulders. I dropped to my knees without resisting. Mateo’s cock was level with my face, thick and still wet from Aunt Marta’s saliva, throbbing before my eyes. Someone grabbed the back of my head and pushed my face against it.

“Open your mouth, Camilita,” Romi whispered in my ear. “Let everyone see you suck it.”

I opened my mouth. I didn’t even think about it. My tongue came out on its own to lick the head, and the salty taste made me squeeze my thighs together. Mateo pushed slowly, sliding it in one inch at a time, and I took it, sucking with my lips closed, feeling the thick veins scrape my tongue. The girls shouted, applauded, and took pictures. Aunt Marta had come closer and was stroking my hair while I sucked her stripper’s cock.

“Take it deeper, sweetheart. Come on, everyone wants to see.”

I pushed it farther in. It lodged in my throat; I gagged, my eyes filling with tears. Mateo held my head with both hands, exactly as he had done with Romi’s mother, and began fucking my mouth at a slow but steady pace, sinking in until my lips bumped against his shaved pubis. Saliva streamed down my chin and dripped onto my bare breasts. I couldn’t breathe properly, and I didn’t want him to stop.

“Look, look, she loves it,” a voice laughed. “Look at Camilita opening her mouth.”

They lowered me to the floor, onto the living room’s plush rug. I didn’t resist. That’s the hardest part for me to tell: I didn’t resist. Someone spread my legs, while another held my arms above my head. Mateo settled between my thighs and, with a movement I barely felt, tore off my panties. I was wet. I was soaked, dripping, and that shamed me more than anything else. My body was deciding for me. Romi crouched down, ran two fingers along my open slit, and raised them so everyone could see them shining.

“Look at the little saint. Girls, she’s ready to be split open.”

“Easy,” Mateo said, rubbing his thick tip against the lips of my pussy, up and down, soaking it in my own wetness, striking my clitoris with his glans every other pass.

“Wait, no…” I managed to say.

“No waiting,” a voice beside me laughed. “Just spread your legs and let yourself get fucked.”

He pushed. Once—deep, complete, all the way in. The stretch was so intense that a scream escaped me, and I couldn’t tell whether it was from pain or pleasure. Mateo’s cock was twice the size of Julián’s, thicker and longer, filling me in a way I hadn’t known was possible. I dug my nails into his shoulders. I felt him opening me from the inside, felt every inch forcing its way in, and when his pubic bone struck mine, there was no air left in me. The girls screamed around us, someone recorded, and Aunt Marta had sat on the sofa facing us, her skirt hiked up to her waist as she fingered her pussy while watching us, no longer hiding anything.

***

The worst part—or the best, I don’t know—was that my body surrendered before my mind did. Mateo began moving slowly, pulling almost all the way out until his glans caressed my entrance, then driving back in with a sharp thrust that shook my breasts against his face. After three or four thrusts, I was pushing his hips upward, seeking him, silently asking for more. Before I could think about Julián again, the first orgasm shook me—brutal, a current that left my legs trembling and my ears deaf for several seconds. I screamed. I screamed loudly, mouth open, without holding back, and the girls applauded the scream as if it were part of the show.

“She came, Camilita came,” Romi sang. “And this is only the beginning.”

Mateo didn’t stop. He grabbed my ankles and spread my legs into a V, leaving me exposed and pinned to the floor, and began fucking me with a practiced rhythm, holding my hips so he wouldn’t slip out, sinking all the way in each time. The sound of skin striking skin, obscene and wet, mingled with the music and the others’ screams. Every thrust tore a moan from me, and I no longer tried to silence it. I felt his cock enter me completely, hitting something deep inside that Julián had never reached.

“Get on all fours,” he suddenly ordered, turning me over with both hands as if I weighed nothing.

I ended up on my knees on the rug, face against the floor and ass raised toward him. Before putting it in again, he gave me a sharp, hard slap that made me jump. Then another on the other cheek. The girls laughed.

“Again, again. Mark her properly.”

He marked me properly. He gripped my hips and shoved himself into me from behind, and in that position he felt even bigger, even deeper. He fucked me hard, without any polite rhythm, pushing my head against the rug with one hand on the back of my neck, pulling out only to spit on my open pussy and drive back in. I wasn’t Camila at that moment. I was a borrowed body, a body responding on its own, arching its back, spreading its legs wider, accepting every thrust with an increasingly animal moan. Aunt Marta had knelt beside me and was squeezing my hanging breasts with both hands, tugging my nipples in time with the thrusts.

“You’re so tasty, little girl. What an ass you have,” she whispered. “Fuck her, Mateo, fuck her good.”

Romi came over and brushed the hair away from my face, almost tenderly, as if she knew what was happening inside me.

“Relax, friend. This doesn’t leave this room.”

Lie, I thought, cheek pressed against the rug while a stranger’s cock pounded inside me. This doesn’t leave this room, but it enters every last corner. This stays. This changes something.

The second orgasm came, longer and dirtier. My thighs trembled, my pussy clenched around him, and I screamed an “I’m coming” into the rug, surprising even myself by saying it. Someone recorded it up close. Someone put two fingers in my mouth for me to suck while I came. Mateo sped up. I heard him grunt behind me, felt him grow harder inside me, felt his cock swell even more before bursting, and when he said, “I’m coming, inside,” he didn’t stop. He didn’t ask me, either. No one around me told him no. Quite the opposite.

“Inside, Mateo, leave it all inside her,” Romi shouted. “Give her boyfriend a little souvenir.”

He dug his hands into my hips, sank all the way in, and came. I felt every pulse inside me, one by one, thick, hot jets filling my belly. His cock throbbed between my walls, and I felt it beating, counting each spurt as if marking me. My body answered with a third orgasm, gentler and sadder, squeezing his cock to draw out every last drop, and then it was over.

He pulled out slowly. When he withdrew, I felt it sliding out inch by inch, followed by the warm stream of his semen running down the inside of my thigh. Someone applauded that—specifically that. Aunt Marta crouched down and, without asking anyone’s permission, ran her tongue along my thigh, licking up what was dripping, moving up to my pussy and sucking me there for one long second before pulling away with a shining face and a smile. The girls screamed. Someone handed me my dress, crumpled into a ball.

***

I locked myself in Romi’s bedroom. I locked the door, sat on the edge of the bed, and spent an incredibly long time staring at my thighs. His semen slid slowly down the inside, mixed with mine, a thick white smear that seemed to mock me. I could still feel the cock inside me, the echo of that thick thing opening me, the sting in my buttocks where he had slapped me. I thought about pills, late-night pharmacies, and what I would invent if Julián asked me the next day why I was acting strange. I thought about the ugliest part of all: that a very small part of me, a part I didn’t want to acknowledge, wasn’t sorry. That if Mateo knocked on the door at that moment and asked me again, I would open it.

Downstairs, the party continued. I heard the laughter, the reggaeton, another collective scream when one of the women joined in what I had started. I didn’t go back down. I stepped into Romi’s shower without asking permission, washed myself until my skin turned red, and put my fingers inside myself to remove whatever I could. Even so, warm semen kept coming out every time I squeezed. I put on one of her pajama bottoms without panties because mine had been torn to shreds on the living-room rug. Then I curled up beneath the blanket and left my phone facedown, far away, on the bedside table.

Julián had sent me another message. I saw it out of the corner of my eye without picking it up. It said: let me know when you get home so I can relax, I love you.

I didn’t answer him that night. I didn’t know how. Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I’ll know what to do. Tomorrow I’ll be able to look him in the eyes and decide whether to tell him about this or keep it to myself forever. Tomorrow I’ll know who I am after tonight. But not that night.

That night I only closed my eyes, felt the unfamiliar weight still throbbing between my legs, the unfamiliar semen still slowly leaking out despite the shower, and knew that somewhere, at some exact moment between the fourth drink and the living-room rug, I had stopped being Julián’s girlfriend and become something else—something that still had no name.