My Boyfriend Doesn’t Know That the Woman in the Video Is Me
I was fed up. Bored to the bone. Telling Bruno my fantasies had stopped doing anything for me months ago. I knew the sequence by heart: first the startled look, then the ragged breathing, and finally that rushed, pathetic climax that lasted as long as a sigh. I needed more. I needed something that would gnaw at him from the inside without him being able to name the wound.
And one night, staring at the ceiling while he snored, the idea came to me whole, perfect, like a sentence. If he couldn’t know that the pain was coming from me, then the pain would never end.
That was how Selena was born.
Selena isn’t me. Selena is something else. A nameless body, a mouth without a history, a pure and ancient hatred of the men who touch her. I went to a costume shop downtown and bought a cheap black canvas balaclava, one of those with three openings: one for the mouth, two for the eyes. I tried it on in the fitting-room mirror and felt a shiver at the nape of my neck. With that fabric on, I stopped being Renata, the sweet girlfriend who made coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar. Under the canvas, only she remained.
I opened an account on a junk-mail server, one of those impossible to trace. “TheTruthAboutSelena,” I wrote, and the address felt like a promise.
I planned everything with the patience of someone assembling a watch. I chose the locations for how anonymous they were: a bathroom in a roadside bar, the sofa of an apartment rented by the hour, a motel room with mirrors on the ceiling. I found the men on one of those apps where nobody asks for last names. I explained only what was necessary: the mask was not to be touched, her face was not to be filmed, and everything I said was part of the game. None of them asked questions. Men like that only need a woman to show up willing to open her mouth and her legs.
The first time I put on the canvas in front of a stranger, I felt something I hadn’t expected. Not shame, not fear. A frozen freedom, like jumping into dark water knowing no one would ever find out it was you. Under the balaclava, I could say anything. I could be anyone. I could let a stranger shove his cock down my throat and call me a whore to my face, and the next day I would go back to being the perfect girlfriend who folded Bruno’s shirts. And while I filmed, all I could see in my head was Bruno’s face watching the screen, week after week, sinking a little deeper.
***
The first message was brief. In the subject line I wrote: “So you know what a real woman is capable of.” In the body, nothing but a link.
That night I watched him open it on the sofa. I pretended to read in the armchair opposite him, but I didn’t miss a single one of his gestures. Bruno put on his headphones out of habit, and a second later his face changed. The skin on his arms broke out in gooseflesh. He swallowed as if it were difficult.
The video began with a trembling hand filming the bathroom of some random establishment: cracked tiles, a flickering bulb. On the floor, kneeling, was a woman. That was all: a body with firm thighs, bare tits with hard nipples, and a black balaclava. Selena.
A man’s hand entered the frame and grabbed her by the hair at the nape. From outside the shot, a hoarse voice told her to open her mouth for once, and she obeyed without hesitation. The guy’s cock appeared in the frame, thick and heavy, and he shoved it all the way in with a single thrust until the canvas pressed into her face. Selena arched her neck and let him fuck her throat. He went in and out without rhythm, searching for the bottom, and strands of saliva mixed with pre-cum hung from the edge of the mask. When he pulled out to let her breathe, she licked his entire cock from balls to tip, very slowly, staring at the camera. Then she took it back into her mouth and began sucking him with both hands, squeezing his balls, pulling it out only to spit on it and swallow it again. The voice distorted by the fabric pushed through the gags, loaded with a poison I knew well because it was mine.
“That’s it, just like that, deeper, choke me with that cock! Treat me like what I am, like a whore whose mouth was made for this! My boyfriend thinks he has a saint at home. He thinks I’m saving myself for him. And here I am, on my knees for a stranger, swallowing every last drop, and enjoying it more than anything in the world. Come on my face, I want to wear it home. I wish I could see myself. I wish you knew.”
The guy clenched his teeth and emptied his entire load over the black canvas and her open lips. Selena ran her tongue over the corner of her mouth, put her stained fingers in it, and sucked them clean, all without taking her eyes off the lens.
Bruno lowered the phone. He looked at me. There was something new in his eyes, an incredibly fine crack.
“What is this, Renata? One of those spam messages?”
I shrugged without looking up from my book.
“No idea. Garbage. Delete it and forget it.”
He didn’t delete it. I knew because that early morning, thinking I was asleep, I heard him play it again with the volume turned all the way down, breathing heavily, his hand moving faster and faster beneath the sheet until he smothered a moan against the pillow. It took all my effort not to smile into mine.
***
The second video arrived a week later.
This time Selena was on a leather sofa, on all fours, naked except for the balaclava and a pair of ripped black stockings. The fixed camera on a tripod showed her in profile, ass raised, tits hanging and swaying with every thrust. Behind her, a stocky guy held her by the hips and shoved himself all the way in, mercilessly, with a brutal rhythm that made skin slap against skin like dry applause. Every thrust lifted her off the sofa; every time he pulled out, his cock gleamed wet with her pussy. At one point he grabbed her hair over the canvas and pulled her head back to fuck her deeper, and she moaned like a bitch in heat, spitting out words between every moan as if throwing stones.
“Harder, break me, I want to feel it tomorrow! My boyfriend would never dare shove it into me like this. Poor thing gets embarrassed; he thinks I’m fragile. He comes in three minutes and asks me if I’m all right. He has no idea that I offer myself to anyone who asks, that I spread my legs for strangers whose names I don’t even know. Pull it out, spit on my pussy, and fuck me in the ass. That’s it, right there. Tell him, tell the camera: am I easy or not?”
The man pulled his cock from her pussy, spat between her buttocks, and drove it into her ass with one clean thrust. Selena let out a long howl and buried her face in the leather. He fucked her ass deep, both hands spreading her cheeks so the camera could clearly see how he went in and out, then he looked at the lens, laughing, and said that this girlfriend was the best gift life had ever given him. He finished inside her and then slowly pulled out, letting his cum stream down her thighs onto the sofa while she touched her clit with two fingers and came in spasms that shook her entire body.
Bruno wasn’t aroused anymore. This time he went pale, holding the phone as if it were burning him. And then he began looking at me differently. With a distrust he tried to choke off before it could take shape. I watched him think; I watched suspicion climb up his throat and watched him force it back down. No, he told himself. It couldn’t be. His Renata, his sweet girlfriend. It was a macabre coincidence, some random internet hoax, some random woman in some random balaclava.
I let him wrestle with it. I served him tea, stroked his hair, asked if he’d slept badly. Every tender gesture was another turn of the screw. I wanted doubt to live with us, sit at the table, sleep between us.
The days that followed were my favorite part. Bruno began watching me in a new way, as if studying me. When I laughed, he searched my laughter for an echo of the other woman. When I got out of the shower, his eyes traveled over my body, comparing it to the one in the video, measuring the curve of my hips, the weight of my tits, the color of my nipples. One afternoon, in a tone meant to sound casual, he asked me where I’d been the previous Thursday. I told him in detail, inventing coffee with a friend who didn’t exist, and watched him force himself to believe me.
“You’ve been acting strange lately,” he told me one night, playing with the edge of the sheet.
“Strange how?” I kissed his shoulder, slowly, without hurrying.
“I don’t know. More… calm. Too calm.”
I smiled in the darkness. The hunter’s calm, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I told him it was love, that I felt safer with him than I ever had, and he clung to that phrase like a life raft. That night he fucked me with a desperation I’d never known in him, searching my body for proof that I still belonged only to him. He tore off my nightgown without undoing it and yanked my legs apart. He ate my pussy as if he wanted to memorize it, his flat tongue searching wildly for my clit, moaning against me. I closed my eyes and thought of Selena, of the sofa guy’s cock, of the taste of that other man’s semen he would never know I had swallowed. Bruno lifted me astride him and made me ride him while looking into his eyes, squeezing my tits, begging me between gasps to tell him I was his, his alone. I told him. I told him a thousand times, my voice breaking with a pleasure that wasn’t for him, and he came inside me with a shattered moan, clinging to my hips like someone holding on to something already slipping through his fingers. When he collapsed beside me, still inside, I stroked his damp hair and thought that he hadn’t even realized I hadn’t come.
***
The third video was the final blow, the one I had planned from the beginning.
The recording was shot from the floor, looking upward. Selena sat naked on the face of a man lying on his back, moving slowly, rubbing her pussy against his mouth and nose, smothering him with her juices. The camera saw her ass rocking, the man’s fingers buried in the soft flesh of her buttocks, and a second cock appeared at the side of the frame, which Selena took in her free hand and brought to the mouth opening in her canvas to suck while she kept sitting on the other man’s face. Two men at once, and she was mistress of both. From time to time she lifted her hips to let the man beneath her breathe, and in that gap he would stick out his tongue and drive it between Selena’s glistening lips, and she would come all over his face without stopping sucking the other cock. Her words were no longer isolated insults: they were a letter, and I knew exactly who it was addressed to.
“That’s it, clean it all with that tongue, get it in deep. Clean off what someone else left me before you, taste it. It smells like betrayal, doesn’t it? That’s how I like it. And you, give me that cock, give me all of it to the back of my throat, open my mouth. My boyfriend is at home, probably worried about me, sending me little good-night texts. Meanwhile, his princess is sitting on a stranger’s face and sucking another man’s cock at the same time, getting wetter than she ever did with him. Come for me, both of you, one in my mouth and the other in my pussy. I want to wear it home. I wish you could see me, Bruno. I wish you knew that when I tell you I love you, I’m thinking about this.”
When his name came out of that masked mouth, Bruno let out a short, animal cry. The phone fell to the floor. He jumped up and began pacing from wall to wall, his hands on his head, like a wild animal in a cage that was too small.
“Renata! Renata, come here, come right now!”
I entered the living room rubbing my eyes, pretending I had just woken up.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong, my love? You’re scaring me.”
“This!” He pointed at the phone on the floor with a trembling finger. “This… this woman! She said my name! She said Bruno, she said it clearly!”
I knelt beside him with all the calm in the world. I picked up the phone, rewound it, and played the ending again. I listened with feigned attention, furrowed my brow, and then let out a soft, relieved, almost tender laugh.
“Oh, my love. You scared me. Listen carefully. She doesn’t say ‘Bruno.’ She says ‘brute,’ lowercase, as an insult. Like when someone shouts ‘idiot’ or ‘animal.’ It’s just a word, darling. She’s saying it about that guy, not you. It’s a horrible coincidence, I know, but that’s all it is.”
I looked into his eyes with all the tenderness I was capable of manufacturing.
“Do you really think I could do something like that to you? To you, of all people? I love you, Bruno. You’re my whole life.”
And he crumbled. He let himself fall against my chest and burst into tears like a child. He wanted to believe me. He desperately needed to believe me, because the alternative was too much to bear. He hugged me so tightly my ribs hurt, clinging to me like the last plank in the middle of a shipwreck.
“Forgive me,” he murmured against my neck. “Forgive me for doubting you. It’s just… she’s exactly like you, her body, her voice…”
“Shhh.” I stroked his back in slow circles. “It’s all right. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
***
And while I comforted him, while I wiped his tears and kissed his forehead, I smiled over his shoulder, where he couldn’t see me.
Bruno didn’t know many things. He didn’t know the tripod was stored at the back of my wardrobe, beneath the winter sheets. He didn’t know the email account was still open, waiting. He didn’t know the recording had three more minutes that I had never shown him, an ending where Selena removed the canvas and stared at the lens just long enough for anyone, anyone except him, to recognize her.
Every moan had been for him. Every insult, a poisoned caress. Every cock I swallowed, a message. Every load I carried home on my body, a signature across his forehead. Every “I love you” of mine, a lie so perfect that even I no longer knew where the performance ended.
I hugged him tighter. My boyfriend. My cuckold. My unfinished work of art.
Because the best part, I thought as I stroked his hair while he fell asleep in tears, was that the fourth installment had already been recorded. And this time, Selena wasn’t going to be so careful with the names.
