I Paid for the Motel So Another Man Could Fulfill Her Fantasy

That fantasy began months earlier, one winter dawn, when Camila rested her head against my chest and let out the sentence she never quite managed to finish: “If he’d been able to that day…” She didn’t need to clarify. I knew perfectly well who she meant.

Bruno had entered our lives during an improvised threesome, one of those things planned in a pizzeria over two bottles of red wine that end up going well through sheer luck. That night, my girlfriend had stared at what the guy had between his legs like someone discovering something she’d been looking for years without knowing it. She’d lacked the courage or had too much sense—I couldn’t say which. There had been a second encounter arranged, and then a minor accident on his way there—a motorcycle spill, nothing serious—that canceled the date. After that, Bruno vanished off the map.

During the months that followed, every time we fucked, Camila returned to the subject like someone putting on an old record. She barely named him, leaving the name hanging among the moans. I saw what happened to her body when she imagined him. I felt her loosen in a different way, as though the fantasy weighed more than anything I could do to her with my hands. And instead of stopping her, I devoted myself to feeding that horniness like an obedient idiot: I kissed her more slowly, opened her legs patiently, pushed my fingers inside until I found that exact spot where she lost her voice, and then she returned to that name in a whisper—Bruno—as if she were touching herself from the inside.

So one day, without telling her, I looked for him. It wasn’t easy. I had to ask two mutual acquaintances for favors, track down an old number, and send him a message that took almost a week to get a reply. When he finally answered, he didn’t play hard to get. He said he remembered perfectly and that the offer still stood.

I still didn’t tell Camila. I wanted to stretch the tension a little longer.

“What if he showed up again?” I asked her one night, while I had her underneath me, her knees bent against her chest, her pussy spread open by my fingers and her mouth wet from my kisses.

“Don’t say that if it isn’t true.”

“What if it were?”

Her breathing broke. She didn’t answer me with words. She dug her nails into my back and came twice in a row, one orgasm on top of the other, without giving me a moment’s respite, staining my abdomen as she writhed against the mattress and begged me, in a broken voice, not to pull her out of it yet.

The next morning, while we were having coffee, I told her it was all arranged. Camila went still, her cup halfway between the table and her mouth. Then she let out a short, nervous laugh.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“And where?”

That was the problem. Bruno had written to say he’d been out of work since March and was living with his girlfriend in a one-room apartment in Boedo. He had nowhere to offer us. I was going to have to sort it out.

Camila listened in silence. Then she tucked her hair behind her ear, looked at me with a smile I’d never seen before, and said slowly, savoring every word:

“You pay for the motel. So he can leave me spread open. Then you come into the same room and check what I look like afterward.”

I lost my breath. I didn’t know whether it was an order, a joke, or a test. I nodded without thinking.

“Done,” she said, and went back to her coffee as if we’d been talking about groceries.

***

We arranged it for the following Friday. Camila spent the entire night getting ready. She shaved everything, did her nails, and chose a black lace set I hadn’t seen her wear since the year before. When she came out of the bathroom wrapped in perfume, I had trouble recognizing her. She had that look some women get when they know perfectly well what they’re about to do.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” she laughed.

“I am.”

“Well, so am I. But I don’t regret it.”

Before we left, she let me touch her through the lace. I ran my palm over her tits, her waist, the mound of Venus, already damp from the slightest touch. She opened herself on her own, slowly, and kissed me with an urgency I didn’t recognize. Her perfume was mixed with the warm scent of her own arousal, and every time I slipped my tongue into her mouth, she squeezed my bulge through my pants, as if wanting to remind me that tonight was going to be a bloodbath.

Bruno said he was running late. Typical of him, according to Camila, as we drove toward the center. They’d been messaging each other all week, and she read some of the exchanges aloud, as if getting me used to the idea. Explicit things. Concrete promises. Her voice trembled slightly as she read them, but not from fear.

We waited on a corner in Almagro, half a block from my workplace. I’d suggested meeting somewhere farther away, more anonymous, but Camila had taken control of the entire night and chosen the place herself. She said she liked the idea of it being nearby, of my being able to stand three blocks away and hear everything.

Bruno appeared on a motorcycle, wearing a black jacket and carrying his helmet under his arm. Taller than I remembered. Camila got out of the car without looking at me and walked toward him with that slowness women have when they know they’re being watched. They greeted each other with a kiss on the mouth that lasted longer than necessary, a clash of tongues that already looked dirty and deliberate from the street. Then they got into a taxi.

I followed them from a distance. It wasn’t difficult. The motel was fifteen blocks away, on the avenue. When they went inside, I parked around the corner, beneath a tree, with the window open so some air could get in. It was eleven-thirty at night and the neighborhood was dead.

A few minutes later, my phone vibrated.

“We’re in the room. 312.”

Then: “We paid with your card so the bank alert would reach you. I want you to see it.”

The bank alert arrived thirty seconds later. A dry notification, in the language of plastic: amount, merchant, time. I stared at it so long the screen went dark on its own.

The photos began to come in. Camila against the wall of the room, wearing only the black set, the lace straps pushed aside and her hard nipples pointing at the lens. Camila on her knees with her mouth open and Bruno’s hand on the back of her neck, forcing her to look up. Camila looking at the camera with a smile I had taught her under other circumstances, now returned to me a thousand times stronger, her lips shining and her face flushed. In the last one, Bruno could be seen behind her, sitting on the bed with his pants open, one hand buried between her legs while the other squeezed one of her buttocks.

The first video arrived five minutes later. Loud audio, shaky image. Camila sucking his cock. What could be seen of him was, in fact, enormous. Much more than I remembered from that threesome, or perhaps the distance made every detail grow larger. My girlfriend, meanwhile, handled him with a naturalness that hurt me and turned me on at the same time. She ran her tongue along the shaft, sucked the glans with that obscene devotion some women have when they want to show they aren’t improvising, and Bruno held her head without violence, merely setting the pace as if he already knew how that body would react.

I closed my eyes. Then opened them again. The dashboard clock read twenty to midnight. I was sweating with the windows open and the engine off.

***

The next two hours were the longest of my life.

Camila sent me everything. An audio clip in which she asked his permission to penetrate her. Another in which Bruno asked aloud whether he was allowed to fuck her all the way to the bottom. I answered in monosyllables, my throat dry. “Yes.” “Go ahead.” “Whatever she wants.” Every reply of mine opened a door that could never be closed again.

At one point, I got a video call. Camila appeared on the screen with her hair disheveled, her cheeks red, her eyes shining in a way I had never seen before. Behind her, Bruno was kneeling on the bed, waiting, his hard cock pointing at her belly like a living club.

“Can I give him my ass?” she asked, bluntly, without filters, without putting on a show.

I swallowed. The light from the dashboard fell across my face, and I wondered who the hell that man behind the wheel was, what he was doing there, why he had agreed to all this.

“Let him break it,” I said.

Camila smiled. She didn’t thank me. She hung up.

The next videos were a sequence. First, his fingers preparing her, moving slowly, almost medically, sliding in and out while she bit her forearm so she wouldn’t scream right away. Then the first penetration, with a cry from her that changed halfway through when the tip opened her ass and Bruno patiently pushed until he buried himself completely. Then on all fours, with Camila’s hands sunk into the mattress and her buttocks spread open in both hands; then with her legs over his shoulders, the soles of her feet trembling beside his ears; then a change I couldn’t identify clearly because the camera was shaking too much and the lens caught only the brutal rocking of their bodies pounding one another on top of the bed.

In one of the videos, Camila told him in a breathless voice to push it all the way in. In the next, she warned him he was going to split her open like that. In the next, she begged him not to stop. Bruno, meanwhile, maintained the composure of a man who had done this before, many times. He spoke to her without raising his voice, set the rhythm, told her to breathe, pushed deeper and deeper until he left her trembling, her hair stuck to her face and her mouth hanging open like a desperate bitch.

Me in the car. Me with the phone hot between my hands. Me with an erection that wouldn’t go down but that I didn’t dare touch either, because it felt like betraying the moment. It belonged to her, it belonged to him; it wasn’t mine.

After forty minutes, I texted her: “How’s it going?”

She answered with a photo. The camera was aimed between her legs, close-up, her hole spread open as I had never seen it, red, glistening, still marked by the fucking. Beneath it, two words: “Come now.”

***

I entered the motel on weak legs. The receptionist in the lobby looked at me without surprise, wearing the expression of someone who had seen worse. I went up to the third floor. Bruno was coming down the stairs in the opposite direction, dressed, groomed, smelling of cheap cologne. He passed me without saying hello. He didn’t need to.

Camila was waiting for me at the room door, still only halfway into the black set, barefoot. Her breathing was labored and her eyes were bright, but not with sadness. She kissed me on the mouth the moment I crossed the threshold, and the kiss tasted of latex and another man, of someone else’s semen and that heavy dampness left behind when someone has just pounded you for hours.

“Come here,” she said, pulling me inside by my shirt.

The room smelled of sex. The sheets were rumpled, there was a towel on the floor, and the air conditioner hummed in one corner. Camila lay facedown on the bed, opened her legs, and looked at me over her shoulder. I could see her wet pussy, her red ass, Bruno’s finger marks still fresh on one buttock.

“Check,” she said, with a slut’s smile that was mine and no one else’s.

I knelt behind her. I touched her with two fingers first. She was open, hot, still lubricated by what he had left inside her. Camila moaned softly when I pushed my fingers all the way in, without effort, and a brief spasm escaped her, making her jerk her hips against my hand.

“Is it open?” she asked playfully.

“It’s just the way you asked for it.”

“Then put it in. I want to feel how small you seem now.”

I moved her legs apart with one hand and positioned myself behind her, rubbing my soaked glans against her entrance. She let out a long, almost grateful sigh and pushed backward against me with her ass, impatient. I penetrated her without warning. Camila cried out something between a laugh and a moan; it wasn’t pain, but that filthy mixture of being wrecked by one man and then taken by another, of feeling the body still hot and open, obedient, like a door that no longer knows how to close.

I pushed into her little by little until I was completely inside. I gripped her by the waist and began thrusting hard, driving my cock into that hole that was still dilated, wet, sensitive from the previous session. She arched her back, buried her face in the pillow, and started asking me for more, harder, faster, telling me not to slow down, to fuck her as if I wanted to erase Bruno from inside her while keeping his mark there at the same time.

The position changed on its own. I turned her onto her back, lifted one leg, and draped it over my shoulder. I could enter even better that way, deeper, wilder. I watched her chest rise and fall with the effort, her tits bouncing with every blow, her hair stuck to her neck. She looked at me with a crazy smile, the corner of her mouth trembling.

“Like that,” she said. “That’s how I like it. I want to feel you where he was.”

I fucked her angrily, hungrily, with a need that had nothing elegant left in it. The sound of their bodies filled the room: skin against skin, the mattress creaking, her moans coming apart in her throat, my breathing growing more ragged. I put two fingers in her mouth to quiet her a little, and she sucked them eagerly, looking at me as if thanking me for the impact of every thrust.

I couldn’t hold out long. Five minutes, maybe less. When I came inside her, I felt the full pull of my ejaculation, hot and thick, disappearing inside her as Camila squeezed her legs around my hips and came too, trembling from head to toe, with a long moan that ended in a muffled laugh against the pillow.

We lay on the bed for the rest of the booking. Camila rested her head on my chest and began showing me the videos in order, commenting on each one as if it were a movie she had starred in and enjoyed very much. She told me the details the camera hadn’t captured. The smell of Bruno’s neck. The way he had grabbed her hair. What he had whispered in her ear just before he came. How he had opened her ass with his fingers, slowly, until they heard the wet snap of her skin giving way. How afterward he had grabbed her tits while pushing her against the wall, her pussy still dripping.

And I listened to everything, not knowing whether I was still the same man I’d been before or whether something in me had already changed forever.

When we left the motel, dawn was breaking. Camila fell asleep in the car before I started it. I drove home in silence, one hand resting on her knee, thinking about Bruno coming down the stairs, the taste of the kiss, the next time.

Because there will be a next time. After that night, I have no doubt about it.