I Came Back from the Trip and My Boyfriend Already Knew Everything

The light of dawn entered the suite through a slit between the curtains, a pale line dividing the bed into two unequal halves. Camila woke with her body numb, sore in places she had never imagined could hurt that way. Every time she tried to clench her muscles, she felt the emptiness between her buttocks, a dilation that refused to subside, as if her ass had been left with the exact shape of the cock that had opened it for hours. A warm, thick thread slowly ran down the inside of her thigh, semen mixed with lubricant and her own juices, escaping from a pussy that was still swollen too, its lips inflamed from so much sucking, biting, and pounding. She smelled of him. Of someone else’s skin, expensive whiskey, dried milk stuck to her nipples, and a surrender she could no longer undo.

She ran her tongue over her lips and could still taste the salty flavor on her palate, that sticky residue from the last load he had emptied into her mouth before going to sleep, forcing her to swallow it all while squeezing her cheeks so she would open wide and show him her clean tongue. She closed her eyes for a second and the memory made her dizzy: Adrián’s hand on the back of her neck, his cock striking the back of her throat, the gagging, saliva streaming down her chin onto her tits, and her asking for more with tears filling her eyes.

She heard the sound of a zipper and opened her eyes fully.

Adrián was standing beside the bed, dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt. His leather jacket hung from his forearm and his hair was still tousled, though no longer from the passion of dawn but from the few hours of sleep. He put his phone into his back pocket, the same phone that had filmed her licking every drop of semen as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world, her face smeared with it as she smiled at the camera like a happy whore.

Camila slowly sat up and the sheet slipped down to her waist. Her small breasts were exposed, her nipples still purple from all the biting, the red marks still visible on her neck, her thighs stained with whitish crusts, her smeared mascara forming gray shadows beneath her eyes. She felt tiny. Tinier than ever.

—Are you leaving? —she asked, her voice hoarse and broken from having screamed, begged, and had a cock lodged in her vocal cords for half the night.

Adrián turned and looked at her for a moment. There was no tenderness in his eyes, nor possessiveness. Barely a polite indifference, like someone studying the breakfast menu before choosing a croissant.

—Yes. I have an early flight.

Camila felt a knot tighten in her throat.

—Why didn’t you wake me? We could have breakfast, or… I don’t know, talk.

He sighed as if the question exhausted him before he even answered it.

—There’s nothing to talk about, Camila. —He took a step, but not to touch her, only to see her better—. Last night was sex. Good sex. The best I’ve had in many months, if you want me to be honest. You fuck like few women do, you suck cock as if your life depended on it, and you take it up the ass like a professional. But it’s nothing more. I don’t want you, I don’t love you, and I’m not going to come looking for you again. I never wanted to.

The words fell like freezing stones onto the rumpled sheet.

Camila blinked, waiting for it to be a cruel joke, for him to suddenly laugh and say, “It was a lie. Stay with me.” But he didn’t.

—I always do the same thing —he continued, as calmly as someone ordering coffee—. After a premiere or an interview, I take a woman to the suite. I fuck her however I feel like, mark her, break her, make her beg. I fill all three holes and disappear the next day. It’s nothing personal. You’re gorgeous, you gave yourself to me like few women do, you let me do things many wouldn’t even dare say out loud. But you’re no different from the rest. None of them are.

Camila felt the air running out of the room. The world collapsed around her in slow motion: the linen sheets stained with semen and saliva, the body that still refused to close, the dried traces on her thighs like a taunt stuck to her skin, a purplish bruise in the exact shape of his fingers around her neck. Everything she had lived through during the night—the surrender, the fire, the feeling of belonging—was turning into cold ash.

—And the videos? —she whispered, trembling.

Adrián shrugged.

—I keep them. I watch them whenever I want to remember a good night, whenever I want to jerk off thinking about how you begged me to blow out your ass. I’m not going to publish them; I’m not one of those guys. They’re for me.

He turned toward the door.

—Wait… —she said, almost shouting—. What about me? What do I do now?

Adrián stopped with his hand on the doorknob, without turning his whole body around.

—Go back to your boyfriend. Tell him you got lost in the crowd, that your battery died, that someone helped you. Or tell him the truth, if you want to destroy him. Tell him another guy put it up your ass and made you beg for it screaming. You decide. But don’t come looking for me. Don’t write to me. Don’t call me. This ends here.

He opened the door.

—Take care, Camila.

And he left.

The door closed with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot inside her head. The silence that followed was worse than any slam.

Camila stared at the closed door for several minutes. Then she lowered her gaze to her own body. Her legs were still spread, sticky traces drying on her skin, her pussy swollen and red, her inner lips showing between the folds as if they didn’t know how to close again. She reached a hand behind her and felt the dilated opening. She slipped in the tip of one finger without any resistance, then a whole finger, then two, and didn’t feel even the slightest squeeze. She clenched her muscles and managed only a weak spasm before it opened again. A little more warm fluid escaped then, white and viscous, staining the white sheet with a thick drop that opened like an obscene flower.

Without thinking, she brought her stained fingers to her nose and breathed in the smell of him mixed with her, while a wave of disgust and impossible arousal shook her at the same time. She angrily wiped her fingers on the sheet.

And she thought of Mateo.

Of how he had searched for her desperately among the crowd at the premiere. Of how he had given her that trip just to see her happy. Of how gently he held her, kissed her forehead every morning, and prepared her coffee exactly the way she liked it. Of how he had never, not even once, made her cry with pleasure or pain. Of how he truly loved her. Of how he penetrated her carefully, always with her on her back, always asking whether she was all right, while she had just finished living through a night in which a stranger had put her on all fours and vomited insults into her ear while opening her ass with his dry cock.

And she had traded everything for one night with a man who wouldn’t even remember her name tomorrow.

The tears returned, this time genuine. Not the tears of feigned pleasure from the night. This time they were pure regret, the kind that crushed her chest.

What have I become?

She stood slowly. Her legs trembled as if she were only just learning how to support herself. She walked to the bathroom with her buttocks clenched, and even so she felt another warm drop run down her thigh. She looked at herself in the mirror. The girl in the reflection was a wreck: tangled hair, smeared makeup, marks scattered over her neck and shoulders, a violet hickey beside one breast, the imprint of a bite on her hip, eyes swollen in a way that would take hours to conceal. Almost without meaning to, she spread her buttocks in front of the mirror and looked at her reddened ass, still slightly open, with a white trace at the mouth of the opening. She closed her eyes in shame. She tried to clean herself with a damp towel, but every brush of it brought the memory back. The burning between her buttocks made her grit her teeth with every step, and when she passed the cloth over her swollen pussy, a short, involuntary moan escaped her, embarrassing her even more.

She dressed in the black velvet dress, which now smelled of sex and expensive alcohol. She didn’t put on underwear because her panties had been destroyed somewhere in the room, ripped apart by the same rough tug with which he had torn them off before sitting her on his face. Every movement reminded her that something inside her had been left open, that it wasn’t going to close just like that. The dress brushed against her wounded nipples with every step and sent little jolts through her that mingled with her shame.

She went down in the elevator alone. The lobby was nearly empty at that hour and no one gave her a second look; in hotels like that, they probably saw worse things every night. She went out into the street. The Miami sun was already beating down on the asphalt. She ordered a car through the app, her finger trembling over the screen, and sat in the back seat with her legs pressed together as hard as she could so she wouldn’t stain the upholstery.

During the ride to the airport, she thought about everything. About landing in Buenos Aires. About looking Mateo in the eyes. About whether she would tell him the truth or repeat the lie she was already rehearsing until she was sick of it. About whether she would ever again be the shy Camila who only fantasized about that actor from the safety of her bed.

When she reached the airport and sat in an uncomfortable chair to wait for boarding, the burning still present and the residue drying against her skin, she understood something with frightening clarity: she had crossed a line that could never be erased. And though it hurt like hell, a very dark part of her—the same part that had made her beg for more during the night, the same part that had moaned, “Harder, break me”—didn’t want to go back.

But now she had to face what was waiting at home.

***

The flight home was a silent hell. Camila spent the nine hours with her legs pressed tightly together, feeling every patch of turbulence like a low stab. She had improvised a pad out of toilet paper in the airplane bathroom, and when she lowered the borrowed panties a compassionate flight attendant had given her, she had seen the dense, whitish stain at the bottom, a trace that was still coming out of her hours later. Shame burned worse than the physical soreness. Every time she tightened her muscles to hold something in, her body answered with a weak spasm and betrayed her, and another warm thread stained the fabric.

She landed at Ezeiza after ten at night. She took a taxi straight to the apartment in Belgrano. When she opened the door, Mateo was there, sunk into the sofa with the television on mute. He had deep dark circles under his eyes, tousled hair, and his cell phone in his hand as if he had checked it every five minutes throughout those days. When he saw her, he sprang to his feet.

—Camila… thank God.

He hugged her tightly without asking questions at first. He simply pressed her against his chest as if he feared she might vanish again. He smelled of cold coffee and accumulated anxiety.

—I was worried sick. I called the police, the hotels, every number I could think of. No one knew anything about you.

Camila let him hold her, but her body remained rigid. She felt a warm thread run down the inside of her thigh and tensed even more, praying it wouldn’t soak through the fabric of her dress and leave a visible stain.

—I’m sorry… I got lost in the crowd. It was chaos. They pushed me and I ended up on the other side of the barrier. Then I met an Argentine girl who was alone too, and she invited me to her place because my phone had died and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t call you. I’m sorry.

The words came out automatically, rehearsed throughout the entire flight. Soft, believable lies. Mateo looked into her eyes, searching for a crack, just one, in that facade. But all he found was the Camila he knew: small, frightened, with wide, guilty eyes. He was more relieved than angry. He hugged her again.

—It doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s all I care about. Come on, sit down. I’ll make you something.

Camila shook her head.

—I just want to shower. I’m dirty from traveling.

Mateo nodded and kissed her forehead.

—Okay. I’ll heat something up for you in the meantime.

She went into the bathroom and locked the door out of pure instinct. She took off the black dress, which now smelled of stale sex and another man’s cologne, and let it fall to the floor. She looked at herself in the mirror: the marks still visible on her neck, the faint bruises on her hips where Adrián had held her on all fours, her nipples darkened by bites, the skin of her pubis irritated by the stranger’s beard that had scraped between her legs for hours, her whole body telling anyone who cared to read it a story she could not erase. She spread her buttocks in front of the mirror and checked, with a shudder, that her ass still did not close completely, and that a whitish thread still appeared when she clenched. She turned on the shower and let the hot water fall over her shoulders. She washed slowly, trying to drag everything away: the smell, the touch, the memories. She soaped her pussy with both hands, pushed her fingers all the way inside trying to remove every trace, and there, without meaning to, felt her own body betray her and send a stab of pleasure through her that made her bite her lip. Every time she moved her hand behind her, she found that opening that no longer responded as it had before.

She didn’t hear the door open. Mateo entered quietly, worried because she was taking so long and hadn’t answered when he called to her over the sound of the water. The curtain was translucent. He saw her from behind: her slender body beneath the stream, her hands braced against the tiles, her head lowered in a posture he had never seen from her, her legs slightly apart, one hand lost between her buttocks. And then he noticed it.

Camila’s body did not close as it had before. When she moved to rinse herself, something between her buttocks contracted faintly and opened again, as if the skin no longer remembered its original shape. Mateo saw, with complete clarity, the white trickle that ran down the inside of her thigh and disappeared with the water. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought he was going to faint. He took a silent step backward. He lowered his gaze to the dress lying on the floor, approached it instinctively, and smelled the faint trace of masculine cologne that was not his, and something deeper in the fabric, something sour and unmistakable, that froze his blood. Nausea rose into his throat.

Without thinking too much, he picked up the phone Camila had left on the sink. The screen unlocked with her fingerprint, the same fingerprint he had known since the first month of their relationship. He opened the gallery. There was nothing new at first glance. But in the downloads folder he found several files she had not opened yet, sent from an unknown number the night before.

He played them one by one. He saw Camila’s body in positions he had never seen in his own bed. He saw her on all fours on a dark rug, her face pressed against the floor and her ass raised, while a stranger’s hand slapped one buttock after another and her skin reddened before his eyes. He saw her with her mouth open and her tongue out, receiving a thick stream of semen across her face while she smiled at the camera with her eyes half-closed. He saw her sitting on top of him, moving her hips frantically, her tits bouncing and one hand squeezing her neck. He saw another man’s cock halfway down her throat, tears running down her cheeks, and yet she moved forward on her own to take it deeper. He heard her say another man’s name with a desperation he had never drawn from her. He heard her say, “Fuck me, break me, I’m your whore,” in a voice that was hers and wasn’t. He heard her say cruel things about him, about their relationship, about how little he satisfied her. “Mateo never puts it in me like this,” he heard her moan. “Mateo doesn’t know how to fuck me. With you, I finally feel something.” He saw her spread her buttocks with her own hands and beg the other man to put his cock in her ass, without a condom, all the way in. He saw her take it with a hoarse cry, bite her arm to keep from screaming louder, and then start pushing her ass backward, asking for more. He saw her weep with a pleasure that had never belonged to him, and then remain still at the end, her face shattered, letting him empty everything he had inside her while he whispered into her ear what a whore she was.

He saw every second. Every moan. Every word. Every tear shed for someone else. Every drop of semen the other man had left on her face, her tits, her tongue, her pussy, and her ass.

When the last video ended, he left the phone on the sink. The screen remained lit on a frozen image he would remember forever: Camila’s open mouth, her tongue sticking out like a communicant’s, and a thick white thread falling from the tip of her nose to her chin.

He said nothing. He did not shout. He did not smash the mirror. He simply left the bathroom in silence, grabbed his jacket and the apartment keys, and closed the front door with almost tender care, as if he still wanted to avoid waking her.

Camila came out of the shower ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel. She saw the phone lit up on the sink. She saw the paused video on the screen. She saw her own face: lost, obsessed, humiliated, and euphoric all at once, her mouth open and someone else’s semen sliding down her skin.

She understood everything in a single second.

She collapsed onto the cold tile floor and the towel slipped to her ankles. She wrapped her arms around her knees, her hair still dripping water, her irritated pussy and ass pressing against her own heels. The tears came without warning, deep sobs shaking her entire body.

Mateo was gone.

Adrián had used her and forgotten her before he even crossed the hotel lobby.

And she had given herself completely—with all three holes, with her voice, with the most treacherous words she had ever spoken—to a man who would never love her.

She stayed there alone in the bathroom, crying until she had no tears left. The shower water continued falling onto the empty ceramic. The reflection in the mirror showed her a woman who was no longer the one who had left on the trip five days earlier.

He isn’t coming back.

The thought lodged inside her like a hook that could no longer be removed. Mateo was never going to forgive her for this. Not after the videos. Not after hearing her say what she had said about him, seeing her open her ass for another man, hearing her beg for a cock that wasn’t his. And even if he came back for his things, even if he sent her a message asking for explanations, nothing would ever be the same.

She remained there for a long time, sprawled on the floor, her skin still damp and her heart open like a wound that refused to close. She thought about writing to him. She thought about looking for him at his mother’s house. She thought about kneeling at the door and waiting for him to return. And deep beneath all the regret, a much darker voice whispered that her night with Adrián had been worth it, that she had never felt anything like it in her entire life, that none of Mateo’s ejaculations would ever fill her the way she had been filled that dawn, that some part of her would never be able to forget what it had been like to lose herself that way, legs and ass spread, screaming the wrong man’s name.

That voice was what frightened her most.

Because it meant that even if Mateo came crawling back down the hallway tomorrow, even if she swore a thousand times that she had made a mistake, deep in her body the memory of that dawn in Miami would continue to pulse like an echo impossible to silence. Every time her boyfriend touched her with his usual tenderness, she would close her eyes and imagine other hands spreading her buttocks, another cock forcing its way deep inside her, another voice calling her a whore in her ear while it came inside her.

She rested her forehead against her knee and stayed that way for a long time, listening to the water fall and the silence of the empty apartment. Without meaning to, one of her hands slowly lowered to her swollen pussy, and her fingers remained there, still, feeling the pulse, acknowledging her own defeat.

Outside, the city went on. Inside, she no longer did.