The Trap I Set for My Best Friend’s Boyfriend

My name is Lucía, though in the group everyone calls me Luci. I’m a natural blonde, my lips have never been touched by a surgeon, my body has never set foot in a gym, and my breasts grew all on their own until they became the first thing men look at when I walk into any place. I’ve been playing that advantage since I was eighteen and, frankly, it works for me: I choose whoever I want and replace them when I get bored. None of them last more than two weeks. My friends lecture me sometimes, tell me I’m going to end up badly, but they know better than to keep talking once I remind them who they’ll be calling to get home the next night.

I’m twenty-six and our group has known each other since the first month of college. I wasn’t like this before. Before, I was a normal girl who went to class and came home without getting into trouble. Until I met Diego, a guy from Veracruz who passed through my life for six weeks and left without warning. He wasn’t my first boyfriend, but he was the only one who left me. He taught me everything I know about enjoying my own body and, when he left, I decided the next scare was going to be someone else’s. I don’t want to dwell on that story; it isn’t the one I’m here to tell.

There are about sixteen of us in the group, more guys than girls. Almost all of them are paired up, and some have brought their official partners into the group. I admit without blushing that I’ve slept with every guy in the group at one point or another, at some party, after some birthday, or on some trip. All except one: Andrés. Andrés fell in love with Carla in the first week of college and hasn’t looked at anyone else since. They’ve been together eight years and are engaged, just waiting for him to get promoted at the consulting firm so they can get married.

Andrés is different. I don’t think he’s especially handsome; he’s not the type to make people turn their heads on the street. What’s strange about him is that he doesn’t look at my cleavage when I talk to him. He looks me in the eye. He treats me like I’m his older sister, with no double meaning, not overly friendly. I’m convinced he’s never jerked off thinking about me, and that, for months, drove me crazy. It infuriated me that a girl like Carla—pretty, discreet, brunette, with a good body though not as good as mine—had trapped the only man in the group I couldn’t get into bed.

Two summers ago I lost my patience. One night on a terrace I threw myself at him. I told him point-blank that he could have me whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted. Andrés moved my hand off his leg, looked at me with a mix of pity and anger, and told me he expected more from me. I didn’t dare look him in the face for months. When we finally ran into each other again at another dinner, I apologized. I asked him whether he’d told Carla. He said yes. I called Carla that same week and apologized to her too. Both of them forgave me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I got something better than a quick fuck: I turned him into my confidant. I told him I regretted the life I led, that I felt trapped in something I didn’t know how to get out of. He believed every word. He thought I only wanted his friendship now. The naïve idiot didn’t realize I was waiting for the right moment. I wasn’t looking for a relationship with him; I had no interest in leaving Carla without a boyfriend. I only wanted to prove to myself that I could have him whenever I felt like it.

I know how all this sounds. I know, and I don’t care. Being obsessed with him for so long meant that just seeing him got my panties wet. Besides, I’d also been fantasizing about Carla for months, but that’s another story I’ll tell when I feel like it. I like a bit of filth, that’s all. I wasn’t trying to break them up. I just wanted a piece of something that didn’t belong to me.

Last summer the stars aligned. I happened to find out they were going to Salou for fifteen days, and I’d planned to head down to the coast around the same dates. I didn’t tell them anything specific; I just dropped into the WhatsApp group that I’d be around the area. They invited me to spend a couple of nights at their apartment. I didn’t confirm, but I already knew I was going. Carla works for a magazine and I know her boss: she owed me a favor from an interview I’d landed her years ago. One phone call was enough to make Carla have to rush back to Madrid on Wednesday afternoon to cover a meeting. She’d be back Thursday night. I showed up in Salou on Tuesday.

The three of us spent a whole day together. Beach in the morning, paella at noon, wine in the shade until the sun went down. The next morning Carla got into the car looking irritated and left. I gave her a long hug and told her what a shame it was. I promised I’d take care of her man. Andrés laughed. Carla laughed too. I smiled inwardly.

I told Andrés that I’d be leaving on Thursday too. So he wouldn’t worry—though he wasn’t going to worry—I told him I had a date somewhere that night, that I’d met a guy on the beach the day before and was going to sleep out. Around nine I got ready for my “date”: a mauve one-piece dress, absurdly tight. It was deliberately too small for me; I’d packed it for this. It left half my back bare and my tits almost completely out at the top. If I sat down, my ass showed. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I planned to take the thong off in the bathroom of the first bar.

I asked Andrés how I looked while he tried to keep his eyes on the TV. He told me “you look beautiful” without looking up. He offered to drive me over, but I told him someone was already coming to pick me up at the square. I ordered a taxi and got dropped off in town.

The plan was clear. I had two drinks in a pub, let a couple of tourists buy me some more, and left on my own after a while. I went through a public restroom and got rid of the thong. In a dark alley beside the seafront promenade, the performance began. I ripped the hem of the dress and broke the zipper at the back by yanking with both hands. I messed up my hair, smudged my mascara with two fake tears, snapped one shoe’s heel in half by smashing it against the curb, and threw the other into a dumpster. I rubbed my crotch with my fingers until I made myself sore, just enough for it to show. It was almost two when I stepped into a phone booth and dialed Andrés’s number.

I spoke in broken sobs, crying, barely able to breathe. I told him some guy had tried to rape me as I was leaving a club, that he’d ripped off my panties and wrecked my dress, that he’d shoved his fingers into me by force before a couple passed by and I managed to run away. If they’d filmed me, I’d have won an award. Andrés told me to wait where I was, that he was coming to get me. I checked that the dress would fall open on its own if I let go of my chest. I hiked the hem up even more so that as soon as I sat down my shaved pussy would show. I waited. It took him fifteen minutes.

I threw myself into his arms the moment he got out of the car. I cried on his shoulder, repeating that I’d never learn, that he’d been right about everything he’d told me years ago, that this time I’d been saved by a miracle. He asked me three times if I wanted to go to the ER. Three times I told him no, that I just wanted to shower and sleep.

I sat in the passenger seat making a show of not revealing anything while, at the same time, letting everything show through. I pretended to be wrecked and let go of the hand holding up the dress as if I no longer had the strength. My tits spilled out of the neckline as soon as he took the first roundabout. I felt the sudden swerve. I closed my eyes, pretended to sleep. I could feel him looking at me, not daring to take his eyes off the road for long. I heard him swallow twice before parking.

“We’re here,” he whispered, nudging my shoulder.

When I got out of the car, I managed to leave the dress bunched up above my pubis. I took three steps and pretended to stumble. I fell to my knees and really hurt my ankle. I didn’t overdo it: I moaned just enough. Andrés picked me up in his arms without thinking. I was half-naked against his chest, my pussy out in the night and dripping from how well everything was going. He laid me on the sofa and said he was going to get hydrogen peroxide to clean my knees.

He came back with a wet cloth and knelt beside the sofa. He touched my ankle and asked if I minded if he gave me a massage. It would matter more to him than to me. I said yes in a broken little voice. I covered my eyes with my arm to pretend I couldn’t see anything and to silently give permission for everything. His hands started at my instep and moved upward. My thighs were slightly open. When he reached my calf I whispered for him to keep going, that he was relaxing me. He opened my legs and moved between them to reach better. He ran his palms over my thighs. I could feel my wetness running down the inside of my leg. I let out a moan without even trying to hide it. I asked him if he was tired.

—You’ve been good to me. I owe you one more.

I made him take off his T-shirt. I stood behind him, pressed my tits against his back, and started massaging his shoulders. I looked at him over my shoulder: he had an erection showing through his shorts. We were both sweaty, the night sticky, the kitchen extractor fan the only sound. I made a sudden move to complain about my ankle again, lost my balance, and fell to one side. Andrés turned to catch me and my hand, accidentally on purpose, brushed his crotch. I didn’t pull it away. He didn’t move it. Our faces were a hand’s breadth apart.

He kissed me first, his head asking forgiveness. When I kissed him back hard, he opened his mouth and our tongues tangled as if they’d been waiting eight years for this. I yanked his shorts down. He had a gorgeous cock, neither too big nor small, thick and very hard. I took the head into my mouth before I even thought about it. He tore my dress off and devoured my nipples. We ended up sixty-nining on the rug, drinking whatever the other gave us. But I wanted more.

“Fuck me already, Andrés.”

He sat up, turned me over on the sofa, and entered me in one single thrust. I screamed and begged for more. I reached back for his ass and put a finger in his ass. He tensed completely and froze for a second, surprised, until he reacted and started moving again with more fury. I sucked my fingers and asked him to give them back to me. He shoved them in. I moaned nonstop. I told him I wanted him, he told me he wanted me. We kissed while we said it. He warned me he was going to come. I shoved my finger in deeper and he emptied himself inside me with a growl.

Since I knew that night was the only one I was going to have with him, I gave him no rest. I cleaned his cock with my tongue, lubed it up completely, sucked it to the back of my throat until he got hard again. I sat on top and started bouncing. He grabbed my ass and tits with both hands, squeezed too hard, hurt me, and I didn’t care. I told him, “Yes, yes, I want your cock deep inside me.” I asked if he wanted to see me on all fours. I got into position and he came in from behind. After a good while like that, I asked him to keep opening my ass with his fingers, that I wanted him to put it in there.

At last his shame broke. He started talking dirty. He called me a slut. He told me my asshole was wide open. He slicked it with his tongue. I asked him if Carla had ever let him fuck her in the ass. He said no and shoved his whole cock in at once. It hurt. A lot. I asked if he wanted more cock and he gave it to me. I could feel his balls slapping against my ass cheeks. He’d pull all the way out and ram back in in one motion. I insulted him and that only turned him on more. I ended up with four of his fingers in my cunt while he fucked me from behind. I got him to say, panting, that right then he wanted me more than Carla, that my body, my tits and my cunt turned him on like nothing else. I said “yes, yes, yes” to everything and begged for more. He came a second time with a shout that must have been heard from the apartment next door.

***

I suggested we shower together and we did it again under the water, my legs wrapped around his waist, him holding me by the ass. We collapsed onto the bed soaked through and fell asleep embracing each other as if we were something else. I woke at seven, before him. I found him naked beside me, his cock soft and small between his legs. For a second I felt tenderness. Then I wanted it. I touched his balls with my fingertips and stroked him until I woke it up. I took it into my mouth. He pretended to still be asleep.

I sat on top and rode him again. He told me twice to stop. The third time, he kissed my tits and gave in. When he was about to come I asked him to do it outside, over me, on my face and my tits. He emptied himself over my neck and mouth and I smeared his cum all over my skin.

We haven’t fucked again. Andrés avoids me at the few dinners where we happen to cross paths and has never, not once, mentioned what happened in Salou. As for Carla, months later I scored my second victory at a bachelorette party for a mutual friend. I got her thoroughly drunk, convinced her to try the stripper they’d hired, and then convinced her to try me too. She cried the next day, swearing she’d never tell Andrés. I know she kept her word. Now I barely see them. The last time was at their wedding. They’re happy and expecting a child. I don’t dare ask whose. It doesn’t matter. They love each other.