My Boyfriend Faked Love While Pushing Me Toward Another

Camila left Marco’s apartment on Sunday afternoon with her body still buzzing and a smile she couldn’t wipe off her face. The weekend had been intense, exhausting, and, above all, far more pleasurable than she had ever allowed herself to imagine. It wasn’t just the sex—though that already surpassed anything she had ever experienced—it was the way he looked at her, listened to her, laughed with her, held her afterward as if he didn’t want to let her go. With Marco she felt seen, desired, alive. And that was exactly what confused her most.

When she got back to her rental, she threw herself onto the bed without taking off her clothes. Guilt no longer weighed on her the way it used to; now it was just a small, tired voice reminding her of her commitment to Esteban. But that voice hardly hurt anymore. What did hurt was the idea of going back to a relationship in which she felt more like a roommate than a girlfriend.

She touched the skin of her neck, where the night before a set of teeth had bitten her slowly, and smiled despite herself. Her thighs burned deep inside, a sweet, almost wet ache from having had her legs open for hours. Her breasts had pink marks from fingers, her nipples were still sensitive against the brush of fabric. Her cunt throbbed, swollen, as if it held the memory of every thrust. She slid her hand under her skirt almost without thinking, brushed her lips over her panties, and felt the sticky wetness, a mixture of him and her, born back into existence just from remembering. She sighed, got up, and stepped under the hot water. She soaped herself slowly, and when she ran her fingers between her thighs she felt the sweet sting of the bites inside, the tiny bruises Marco’s mouth had left while he sucked her for minutes. The water relaxed her muscles, but not her thoughts. She closed her eyes and saw him on top of her again, sweaty, his cock buried to the hilt, whispering in her ear, “Like that, slut, squeeze me.” A low moan escaped her under the stream, and she had to brace herself against the tiles so she wouldn’t come right there.

That same afternoon, around six, Esteban showed up unannounced. He let himself in with his key, as always, wearing a brown jacket and that neutral expression that almost never changed. He had his briefcase in one hand and his phone in the other, checking something on the screen before looking up.

“Hi,” he said, setting the briefcase down by the entryway and giving her a dry kiss on the lips. “I was in the area and thought I’d see you for a while.”

Camila stood up from the sofa, trying to sound normal even though her heart had lurched.

“Hi… I thought you weren’t coming anymore.”

He hung his jacket on the coat rack and came closer, but didn’t sit near her. He left a careful space between them, as if this were a formal visit.

“How are you?” he asked, in a calm, almost professional tone.

She sat beside him, hugging her knees. She wanted to talk. She wanted to understand why everything with him felt so lukewarm, so distant.

“Esteban… can I ask you something?” she said softly.

“Of course. Ask.”

Camila drew a deep breath, fiddling with the hem of her T-shirt.

“Sometimes I feel like we’re more like friends than boyfriend and girlfriend. The way you treat me feels like that, like something’s missing. And when we talk it’s like you’re somewhere else. Is something wrong? Am I doing something wrong?”

She saw him tense for a second: his shoulders stiffened, his fingers tightened over his knee. But he recovered his usual calm right away.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m just very stressed with work. You know how my family’s company is: there’s always something to solve. And you’re perfect like this, Camila. I like that you’re independent, that you don’t ask me about every little thing. That gives me peace of mind. Not everyone can give me that.”

She frowned. That wasn’t the answer she had expected. She wanted to feel that he needed more too, that he missed her in a real way.

“But… doesn’t that seem weird to you? Don’t you want more closeness? Sometimes I feel like I’m the one who always initiates, and you only respond when I reach out.”

Esteban gave a sideways smile, a polite, cold smile that never reached his eyes.

“Don’t make such a big deal out of it. Affection doesn’t always have to be physical. Sometimes it’s just being there, knowing the other person is there. And you are there. That’s what I value.”

Camila nodded slowly, though she wasn’t satisfied. Something didn’t fit, but she couldn’t put it into words. She had no relationship experience; she didn’t know whether this was normal or not. Maybe he was just like that: reserved, practical, not very expressive. Maybe she was the one expecting too much.

“Okay…” she murmured. “I just wanted to know. Sometimes I feel a little lonely, that’s all.”

He got up, came over, and kissed her quickly on the forehead, like someone kissing a sister.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. Rest. I’ll let you know about dinner with my parents.”

He left shortly after, leaving her with more doubts than before. Camila stared at the closed door for a long while. She didn’t suspect anything concrete. She just felt a void she couldn’t explain. And that void, to her shame, centered itself between her legs: she’d been fucked for two days like never before, and her fiancé hadn’t even brushed against her. He hadn’t even tried to touch a breast over her clothes. She crawled into bed with her hand between her thighs, pressing her cunt with her palm as if she could crush desire that way.

She lasted five minutes. Then she yanked her panties down, spat on her fingers, and started masturbating thinking about Marco. About Marco’s thick cock sliding in slowly, about his tongue licking her clit until she screamed, about his rough voice saying, “Come on my mouth, country girl.” She slid two fingers in, then three, and with the other hand she pinched a nipple, arched her back, bit the pillow so she wouldn’t moan too loudly. She came soaking the sheet, mouth open and eyes full of tears, and in the orgasm the word that escaped her wasn’t Esteban’s.

***

The next day, in the afternoon, her phone rang. It was Marco.

“Hi, country girl,” he said, in his usual warm, playful voice.

Camila smiled despite everything and sat up on the bed.

“Hi, idiot.”

“How are you after the weekend? Does your little body still hurt?”

She let out a soft laugh, a pleasant warmth rising through her chest.

“A little. But fine. And you?”

“Missing you already. It’s not the same sleeping without you stealing the sheet.”

“Liar. You’re the one who kicks.”

Marco fell silent for a second, then lowered his voice, more serious.

“Hey… and when do you want more ‘therapy’?”

Camila pretended to be offended, though her smile was obvious in her voice.

“Therapy? What we do is anything but therapy, Marco. I may be a little stupid sometimes, but not that stupid.”

“I know,” he said, lowering his voice even more, almost a rough whisper. “What we do is fuck you until you can’t speak. And even so, just thinking about you makes me hungry. Last night I jerked off remembering how your legs were shaking when I took you from behind. I came like a teenager, Camila. Just from seeing you in my head.”

She bit her lip, feeling her cunt get wet again so fast it almost made her angry.

“Don’t say things like that,” she whispered. “I’m alone at home.”

“Exactly why I’m saying them. You got a free hand, country girl?”

“Marco…”

“Take your panties off. I want to hear you.”

Camila closed her eyes. She should have hung up. But she lay back, spread her legs, and brought one hand down to her soaked cunt. She rubbed herself slowly, clenching her teeth.

“There,” she panted softly. “I’m not wearing them anymore.”

“Good girl,” he growled on the other end. “Now touch your clit. Slowly, in circles, like I do with my tongue. Do you remember?”

“Yes…” she moaned. “I remember…”

“Put two fingers in. Think it’s my cock. Deep inside, until your toes curl.”

She obeyed. She pushed her fingers all the way in, felt her cunt tightening around them, wet and burning, and started pumping while she rubbed her clit with her thumb. A long moan slipped out of her.

“That’s it, like that, don’t stop,” Marco told her, his voice rough with arousal. “I’ve got my cock in my hand, Camila. I’m hard from hearing you. Tell me how it feels.”

“Big… thick… stretches me all the way…” she panted, already not thinking.

“And who’s in charge there, tell me?”

“You… you are, Marco…”

“Say it properly. Say who owns that cunt.”

“Yours… it’s yours… all yours…”

Her breathing faltered. She changed from two fingers to three, shoved them deeper, moved her hand so fast that the wet, slapping sound could be heard over the phone. Marco was moaning on the other end, breathing hard, and she knew he was coming too.

“Come with me, country girl,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Now, now, now…”

Camila arched hard, clamped her thighs around her hand, and came moaning his name, soaking her fingers, biting her arm so she wouldn’t scream. She heard Marco’s muffled groan on the other end, his ragged breathing, and knew he had finished too.

They stayed silent, both breathing. Then he gave a soft laugh.

“Fuck, Camila. You’re going to kill me.”

“Idiot,” she whispered, with a tired laugh, still trembling.

There was a brief silence. When he spoke again, he sounded genuinely nervous.

“Camila… you’re not stupid. You’re incredible. Sweet, curious, brave. You drive me crazy, and not just physically. The way you are when you talk, when you laugh, when you go quiet thinking. I don’t want you to think I only care about one thing. You matter to me, really.”

She felt a warmth in her chest she hadn’t expected. She bit her lip.

“I don’t think that…” she whispered. “I like you a lot too. More than I should. A lot more.”

Another silence, longer this time, loaded.

“So… when?” he asked, almost shyly.

“Soon… I’ll let you know. I need a couple of days to think.”

“Okay. Take care. And if you need to talk, you know where I am.”

They said goodbye affectionately. Camila hung up with her heart beating hard, her fingers still sticky, and stared at the screen for a while, with a small, confused smile.

***

That same night she had an impulse. She couldn’t sleep. Doubts were suffocating her. She decided she had to end everything: the therapy, Marco, the lies. She couldn’t keep going like this. She put on a jacket, took her keys, and headed to Aníbal’s office without warning him. It was late, but she knew he sometimes stayed until the early hours reviewing notes.

She arrived at the building. The office light was on. She went up the stairs with her heart in her throat. When she reached the door she heard voices. Two voices. One was Aníbal’s. She couldn’t make out the other very well.

She approached the little window in the door carefully, so as not to make any noise. She was about to leave—she didn’t want to bother anyone—but then she heard her name. She froze, pressed against the wood, listening. The words came muffled by the echo of the hallway, but they were clear.

“It’s working perfectly,” Aníbal said in a calm tone. “She’s hooked. She thinks all of this is for her marriage. She doesn’t suspect a thing.”

The other voice, cold and controlled, replied:

“Good. But make sure she stays that way. I need her to be calm. After that… we’ll see.”

Camila’s legs almost gave out. She covered her mouth to keep from making a sound. They were talking about her. About a plan. About keeping her distracted. With her heart pounding in her ears, she leaned a little closer and looked through the window.

There was Aníbal, sitting in his chair. And across from him, with his back to the door, was a man she recognized instantly.

Esteban.

The world stopped. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She slowly backed away, shaking, while inside the conversation continued.

“Something happened yesterday I didn’t like,” Esteban said, his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. “She came at me with uncomfortable questions. She says she feels like we’re more like friends than boyfriend and girlfriend, that I seem distant.”

“And what did you tell her?” Aníbal lit a cigarette despite the no-smoking rule there.

“The usual. That I’m stressed, that the family company is a mess, that she’s perfect because she’s independent and doesn’t ask too much. That affection doesn’t have to be physical.” He paused, looking at the dark window. “She went quiet. I didn’t quite convince her. She’s naive, but sometimes not that naive.”

Aníbal let out a low laugh, exhaling smoke.

“That’s her best quality. She doesn’t question anything. She just wants to believe everything is fine.”

Esteban leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“I need you to convince her that what we have is normal. Tell her a lot of couples are like that: reserved, practical, without so much fire. That true love is stability, not passion. That if she expects more it’s because therapy has confused her. Since she’s so naive, she’ll believe it. I don’t want her doubting now, so close to the wedding.”

“No problem,” Aníbal nodded, putting out the cigarette. “In the next session I’ll pull her aside. I’ll talk to her about ‘healthy relationship models,’ about how mature love doesn’t need constant displays. I’ll tell her what she feels with Marco is just ‘controlled exploration,’ but that you’re the solid base she needs. She’ll swallow it whole. She always does.”

Esteban stood, adjusting his jacket.

“I hope so. Keep her distracted. And make sure Marco doesn’t go overboard. I don’t want her falling for him. If it gets complicated, tell her I don’t need him anymore.”

“Relax. Marco does what I tell him. And all she wants is to believe she’s doing the right thing.”

The back door shut with a soft click. Aníbal was left alone, staring at the empty space.

“Naive… and stupid,” he muttered to himself, sending the last thread of smoke toward the ceiling.

Outside, in the dark hallway, Camila had already disappeared down the stairs, her heart in her ears and tears burning her cheeks.

***

She went down almost stumbling on the last step. The hallway was barely lit by a flickering bulb that moved the shadows as if they were following her. She couldn’t feel her legs. Only a coldness rising from her stomach to her throat, squeezing her chest until it hurt.

She went out into the street. The night air was cool, but to her it felt icy. She walked quickly, aimlessly, clutching her jacket around herself. The streets were almost empty. Her steps quickened on their own, as if her body wanted to flee before her mind could process anything.

Why? The question hit her again and again. Aníbal, the man she had trusted, the one who had promised her it was “for her marriage”… talking to Esteban as if they were part of a script. Talking about keeping her distracted until the wedding.

She stopped at a corner, leaning against a streetlamp. Tears rolled silently down her face. Now everything fit together in a horrible way: the vague excuses, the nights he came home late “because of work,” the polite distance. It wasn’t stress. It was a plan. He was using her. And the thought came with a jolt of disgust: Esteban had asked her to marry him to have a cover, and she had spent months feeling cold, defective, guilty for wanting more. Months touching herself alone at night thinking she was the strange one. Months swallowing the hunger.

But what hurt most, what broke something inside her, was Marco.

Marco, who made her laugh with his stupid jokes. Who held her after coming inside her as if he didn’t want to let her go. Who had looked her in the eyes, soaked in sweat and him, to tell her he really cared. Was he part of the lie too? She remembered how he had gone quiet just to listen to her talk about her hometown, how he had kissed her slowly after eating her cunt until she cried. Was all of that fake? Every moan, every “you’re mine,” every hot load inside her just paid work? A tool to keep her “distracted”?

She sat on a curb and wrapped her arms around her knees. The street was cold, but she didn’t feel it. All she noticed was the hollow in her chest growing larger. She regretted believing in therapy, in the polished words about “preparing for marriage.” She regretted letting her legs be opened for pleasure, for curiosity, for the feeling of being desired. She regretted moaning things she had never said before, kneeling to suck Marco’s cock while looking him in the eyes, asking him to come on her face. She regretted being a damn fool.

But above all she regretted Marco. Because with Esteban she had never felt real heat. With Marco she had. And if that had been a lie too, then what was left that was real?

She stood slowly, her legs trembling, and walked toward her apartment as if each meter cost more than the last. At the door she stopped, key in hand, not daring to go in. She looked at her phone: she had a message from Marco from an hour earlier.

Thinking of you. Rest up, country girl.

She stared at it until the screen turned itself off. She didn’t answer.

She went inside, locked the door, and slid down against it onto the floor. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know whom to believe. She only knew that, for the first time in her life, everything she had built—her engagement, her trust, her dream of the future, and above all her feelings—had shattered into pieces.

And that, at the center of those pieces, the greatest pain was not Esteban’s betrayal. It was the possibility that Marco had used her too. Camila wrapped her knees in her arms and cried silently, in the darkness of her small rental, while the city kept moving outside, indifferent to everything.