The Night Tomás Let the Neighbor Into His Living Room

It was Tomás who suggested it. Not with words, not face to face, but in his own way: quiet and calculated, letting things fall exactly where they needed to fall. He had been setting up that night for weeks without naming it, like someone arranging pieces on a table and waiting for someone else to decide to move them.

On Thursday, Esteban came down from upstairs when the workday ended, and the three of them went out into the street with that casual naturalness that had already become their language. They bought wine at the corner shop; Esteban chose the bottle, Tomás paid. At the apartment, Marina put on low music and the three of them settled in as always: Tomás on the sofa, Esteban in the armchair, Marina on the floor with her back against the sofa and her legs crossed.

Two bottles later, the conversation had grown slow and honest, the kind only good wine produces after eleven. Esteban spoke less than the other two, as usual, but he listened with an attention that at times felt more present than any sentence. At some point the conversation died down on its own and all that remained was the music, the wine, and the weight of everything none of them dared say.

That was when Tomás stood up.

He went to the bathroom without saying anything. He took longer than necessary. When he came back, he didn’t sit on the sofa, but in the armchair Esteban had left, since Esteban had moved to the sofa while he was gone. Tomás looked at him for an instant. Then he looked at Marina. Then he went back to his glass.

—Go on —he said softly.

He said it as if they’d interrupted something, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen and had already decided in advance where he wanted to be when it did. Marina looked at him. He didn’t look away from the glass.

Esteban looked at her. Marina held his gaze for a moment and then climbed onto the sofa beside him. She placed her hand on his thigh, slowly, unhurriedly. Esteban didn’t move it away. Tomás, from the armchair, stared at the dark television screen with a concentration that had no real object.

Marina kissed him. Esteban put one hand on her waist and the other on her neck, and returned the kiss with a calm she now knew how to read as a form of dominance. Tomás didn’t move. But he didn’t look away either. Out of the corner of his eye, without making it obvious that he was watching, he followed every gesture with an expression Marina couldn’t fully decipher from where she was, but it wasn’t anger. It was something closer to the concentration of someone processing something new in real time.

Esteban unbuttoned her blouse slowly. Tomás turned his head just a little, a centimeter, enough to see better without seeming to. When the blouse slipped from Marina’s shoulders and her breasts were bared, Tomás took a long sip of wine.

Esteban laid her back on the sofa. He ran his hands over her breasts, weighing them, pinching her nipples until Marina arched her back with a low moan. He pulled down her pants along with her underwear, centimeter by centimeter, exposing the wet cunt, open and shining under the dim light of the living room. He knelt in front of her and lowered his face between her legs like someone entering a promise. Marina opened her legs wider without thinking, and when Esteban’s tongue passed over her clit, Tomás saw the clean spasm that ran through her body from head to toe.

Marina turned her head toward Tomás by instinct. He was looking directly at her now, without hiding it, his glass still in his hand. Their eyes met. Neither of them said anything.

Marina didn’t look away from him when Esteban kept licking her, alternating his tongue with short, precise sucks, sinking two fingers into her cunt while he sucked her clit with filthy patience that slowly unraveled her. She writhed on the sofa, thighs trembling, one hand buried in Esteban’s hair and the other gripping the edge of the cushion. Her moans no longer fit in her throat. They came out broken, wet, unfiltered, while she kept looking at Tomás as if she knew that attentive eye was part of what was making her come like that, open and exposed, in front of both of them.

Tomás set the glass down on the table. Slowly. Very carefully.

Marina saw his hand drop toward his own pants. She saw him unfasten them without getting up from the armchair, with slow, almost mechanical movements, as if his body were making decisions his head was still evaluating. She saw him take out his cock, already hard, thick and heavy in his hand, and start touching himself slowly without taking his eyes off the sofa. He massaged the glans with his thumb, rubbing the base with breathing that grew more pronounced, his fingers glistening slightly with moisture.

It was an image he didn’t know where to file away.

Her boyfriend of two years, the man with whom she shared morning coffee and the bathroom bulb they’d gone a month without replacing, touching himself in the armchair while another man ate her pussy on the sofa. What she felt wasn’t guilt. It was something closer to power.

Esteban sat up, positioned himself between Marina’s legs, and took out his cock. He held it for a second, heavy and violent in his hand, and Marina spread her thighs even wider, wet, ready. Tomás saw her from the armchair and something in his head stopped for a second. It was the first time he’d seen her like that, head-on, in the light, in her full dimension: long and thick, the veins pronounced, a size that answered questions he hadn’t asked out loud but had been asking himself silently for days.

He wondered if it had already happened before. The answer came on its own, without anyone saying it, in the way Esteban positioned himself without hesitation and in the way Marina opened her legs with an anticipation that was not that of the first time. The familiarity between them confirmed everything.

Esteban pressed the tip against her entrance slowly and Marina exhaled immediately, that specific sound Tomás recognized even though he’d never heard it like that, so close, so unfiltered. He advanced centimeter by centimeter and she opened her legs a little more by instinct, taking him in, adapting to that dimension with a fluency that told Tomás, beyond any doubt, that her body already knew exactly what it was receiving. When Esteban was all the way inside, they both stayed still for a moment; Marina arched her back slightly, eyes closed, lips parted, feeling the initial burn give way to a deep fullness that made her breathe in shuddering pulls.

Tomás watched from the armchair without blinking.

They started moving.

Marina looked at Tomás. Tomás looked at her.

Esteban thrust with a rhythm that gradually grew stronger, his hands on her hips, marking the sway with dry pelvic blows against pelvis. The sofa chair creaked under the impacts. Each entry tore a louder, dirtier, more animal sound from Marina. Tomás touched himself to the same beat, almost without realizing it, following the pulse of something he didn’t control. His face was that of someone on the edge of something that still had no name.

Marina lifted her hips to receive him better. Esteban leaned over her, bit her shoulder, held one wrist against the backrest, and drove his cock deeper with a firm motion that drew another strangled moan from her. She kept looking at Tomás, eyes wet, mouth half open, her breasts moving with every thrust. Tomás was masturbating now with broken breathing, his hand gripping his cock in time with the scene, as if he needed to feel on his own skin the friction he saw in her body.

When Marina came, she did it looking straight at him, eyes open, letting the whole sound out without covering it with anything. The orgasm tightened her stomach and shook her legs; her cunt contracted hard around Esteban’s cock, which kept moving inside her to stretch the tremor to its very last shudder. Tomás clenched his jaw. His hand moved faster for an instant and then stopped, as if he had decided not to finish, as if he wanted it to last longer.

***

Esteban changed her position. He put her face down on the sofa, lifted her hips with one hand, and entered her again from behind. Marina buried her face in the cushion, but turned her head to one side, toward Tomás, and found him leaning forward in the armchair, elbows on his knees, watching everything with total attention. His cock still in his hand, still hard, still unfinished.

Their eyes met again.

Marina stretched out her arm toward him from the sofa. Her hand open, palm up, an invitation that said nothing and everything.

Tomás looked at her for a long moment.

He stood up from the armchair.

He crossed the three meters separating them with his pants unbuttoned and knelt in front of the sofa, in front of Marina’s face. She took him in her hand, pumped him a couple of times firmly, and put him in her mouth. Tomás closed his eyes. Esteban kept thrusting from behind without changing rhythm, as if this were the natural continuation of something already underway.

And it was.

Marina had Esteban inside her and Tomás in her mouth, and the small apartment held all of it without breaking: the background music, the wine half-finished on the table, the bathroom bulb still not replaced. Marina sucked Tomás with hunger, squeezing his cock with her tongue and lips while the other man opened her from behind with increasingly deep thrusts. The sound of the wet mouth, the muffled gasps, the slap of pelvis against ass, all of it mixed into a single broken, obscene breath.

Tomás didn’t last long. Two years of knowing Marina had taught him her rhythm, but this version of her —moving with Esteban from behind and taking him in her mouth with her eyes open— was a version he didn’t know. He came quickly and silently, one hand on his own neck and the other gripping the back of the sofa. Marina took everything and swallowed without breaking eye contact, then licked her lips with insolent slowness that shook something deep inside him.

Tomás noticed it with a clarity that hit him straight in the chest: in two years, that had never happened. It had always been another way, a gesture of distance he had accepted without question and that now, seeing her do it without thinking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he understood had not been distance but the absence of something Esteban had taught her to want.

When Tomás pulled away and sat on the floor with his back against the sofa, Esteban finished shortly after, his hands firm on Marina’s hips, deep and without ceremony. She took him inside this time, feeling the hot pulses while she stayed still against the cushion, her cunt still throbbing around him until the release filled her walls and her whole body went soft.

Silence.

The three of them on the floor, eventually, each arriving there in his or her own way. The music kept playing. The wine on the table, nearly gone. Tomás looked at the ceiling with an expression that was neither guilt nor confusion, but something closer to the specific calm of someone who has just crossed a line he had been staring at from the other side for weeks.

Marina had her head against the sofa and her feet on the floor. Esteban was beside her, his arm over his eyes.

No one spoke for a long while.

It was Tomás who spoke first. Without moving, still looking at the ceiling.

—Any wine left? —he asked.

Esteban laughed first. Marina after him. And Tomás at the end, that sound of his that almost never quite came out, but when it did filled the whole room.

The apartment remained the same apartment. Only now all three of them knew exactly what kind of apartment they lived in.