What Happened in the Guest Room That Early Morning

Diego and Esteban had grown up in the same house, but time had left them on different shores. Esteban was the older one: ambitious, an executive at an industrial machinery company with a staggering salary, married to a beautiful woman, owner of a chalet on the outskirts. Diego was the younger one: bohemian, without formal work for a decade, owner of an inherited apartment he rented out so he could live without making plans. Even so, the two of them cared deeply for each other. Their biweekly visits were a tradition neither of them had wanted to break.

Diego took the train to the capital on Friday afternoons after lunch. His brother picked him up at the station and drove him to the chalet, where he lived with Camila. There they had dinner, played Catan until late, and watched a movie. On Saturday afternoon, after lunch again, Diego went back to Tarancón. It was a comfortable ritual, with no surprises. Until that night.

***

Esteban had been married to Camila for five years. He had met her at the office, where she still worked under his orders. She was a beautiful, voluptuous woman, with a body that was hard to ignore: big, firm tits, a round ass, hips that tightened her skirt every time she bent down to pick something up. She liked wine more than she should, and when it went to her head she became loquacious, unfiltered, capable of blurting out any filthy thing with a smile.

Diego had never crossed that line. Camila was his brother’s wife. And although for months he had been masturbating to thoughts of her — something that had become disturbingly common, with his dick in his hand and her face flashing through his head every other minute — he had not confessed that fantasy, not even to himself. When she strolled around on Saturday mornings in a white tank top without a bra, her nipples showing through the cotton, he pretended to stare at the television with complete composure while inside his groin tightened.

—Your brother’s still snoring —she told him one of those mornings, sinking into the armchair with her legs crossed in the air—. He’s a bear.

Diego smiled and said nothing. Camila’s entire arm was covered by a long tattoo she had gotten over the course of months.

—Is that what draws your attention most about my body? —she asked, glancing at him sidelong.

Diego didn’t answer. He held her gaze for a second and then turned back to the screen. He didn’t want to know whether she had noticed anything.

***

Dinner that Friday had gone on a long time. Camila drank more wine than her head could handle and laughed for two hours at things that weren’t funny. Esteban played along, tipsy, and the two of them danced in the living room with the lights low while Diego, sober, watched them from the sofa. At eleven they went up to the bedroom. At midnight, Diego turned off the television and retired to the guest room.

The room was Camila’s informal storage space. It had stacks of folded clothes on the free side of the mattress: panties, T-shirts, hoodies. Diego moved aside what he needed to lie down and left the door ajar. The handle squeaked when it closed, and he preferred not to wake anyone when he got up to piss in the middle of the night.

Esteban’s snoring started a few minutes later. Diego focused on a set of mental images he usually used to fall asleep: a descending path between vineyards, a full moon, crickets in the distance. He had been tossing and turning for nearly an hour when the mattress sank beside him with a dull thud.

***

—Ay, sorry —whispered Camila—. I forgot you were here.

—What time is it? —Diego asked, still on his back, one arm over his eyes.

—Not even two. Your brother won’t let me sleep. I come to this room when he gets like that.

A snore from the other side of the wall confirmed the alibi. Camila laughed softly.

—I thought you’d be used to it by now —murmured Diego.

—Some nights there’s no way. I need my pajamas. They’re around here somewhere, in one of those piles.

—I’ll take the duvet and go to the sofa —he offered, half sitting up.

—Don’t even think about it. I’m leaving as soon as I find this.

She spoke with that slightly lazy diction that gave away that the wine still hadn’t fully worn off. Diego turned on his phone flashlight and pointed it at the wall. Even so, he caught sight of her for a second: a white tank top, no bra, her tits swaying heavily under the cotton, dark panties sunk between thick thighs. The same top that had already appeared to him too many times in other circumstances.

—Don’t shine that on me —she asked, covering her face with the back of her hand.

***

Camila began to crawl across the mattress, feeling through the clothes. Diego stayed still, holding his breath. For months he had imagined a version of that scene, and the real version had found him completely unprepared. This can’t be happening. As soon as he thought it, he realized it already was happening. His cock was getting hard inside his pajama pants and there was nothing he could do to stop it: every time Camila moved forward on her hands, her tits hung a foot from Diego’s face, and the smell of her shampoo drifted into his nose.

—I can’t find it —she complained—. I’m sure it was here.

—Have you checked that pile right by my head?

Camila shifted toward him. In the middle of the movement, she drove a knee into his groin. Diego clenched his teeth not to shout and let out a muffled groan.

—Ay, sorry, sorry —she said, not looking especially sorry—. Did I hurt you?

—Yes —he spat, bent over himself.

—Come on. It can’t be that bad. Don’t exaggerate.

She moved his hands aside to inspect the area with the casualness of someone examining a shin bruise. What she found beneath the cotton of his pants was an erection Diego could no longer hide, his cock fully hard, outlined under the fabric like an impossible lump to disguise. Camila went very still for a second, one palm resting just above it.

—Jesus Christ —she murmured, almost amused—. I must’ve hit you hard for real. It swelled up.

—It’s not from the blow —Diego answered without thinking—. It’s my balls that hurt.

—Your balls? Let me see.

And she touched them. Over the fabric, first. A longer caress than any diagnosis required. Camila’s fingers circled the testicles, weighed them, climbed from the base of the cock to the glans and back again. Diego felt the air slipping out through his nose.

—I think they’re a bit swollen too.

—It’s not from the blow. They’re just like this.

—Are you a moron? —she laughed—. Like Argentines.

***

Esteban snored again. The sound reached them clearly through the wall. They both went still for a moment, listening, and then she slipped her hand under Diego’s pants. Without warning. With the confidence of someone who had spent years calculating that gesture. Her cold fingers closed around his naked cock and Diego jerked.

—What are you doing? —he whispered, his elbows dug into the mattress.

—Checking whether they’re really fat. That’s fair.

—Fair?

—You’ve been staring at my tits for years. Don’t tell me you haven’t, because I’ve noticed. The fact that Esteban doesn’t know doesn’t mean I don’t.

—That’s not true —he lied, without conviction.

Camila flipped the phone over so the screen faced the mattress. The room sank back into darkness. Diego felt her weight shift and, a second later, both her hands were on him: one on his testicles, weighing them gently, the other stroking his erection from top to bottom as it kept growing. Her fist closed around the base and rose slowly to the glans, drawing out a thick bead she spread over the tip with her thumb.

—Fuck, you’re so wet —she murmured, almost proudly—. And I’ve barely touched you.

—Shut up —Diego panted—. You’re going to make me come in two minutes.

—What color are my eyes? —she asked, her voice almost against his ear, her hand never stopping.

—Blue.

—What size are my tits?

Diego fell silent. Any answer condemned him.

—See? Men can fake it. We can’t.

—I couldn’t tell you without touching them —he murmured, surprising himself.

—Then touch them.

She said it after a very long pause. The line was almost lost between two snores.

***

Diego rested his palm on one of her breasts over the T-shirt. He felt the weight, the warmth, the total lack of support, the hard nipple pressing against the cotton. Camila lifted the shirt without stopping the wank with her other hand, and the phone’s light, aimed again at the wall, lit only half of her naked torso. The two moons Diego had imagined for months were there, a handspan from his face: heavy, white, with dark, erect nipples like rubber tips.

He squeezed them with both hands. One against the other. He pinched her nipples between thumb and forefinger, rolled them, tugged them until she let out a moan. Camila smothered it by biting her lip and took revenge by closing her fingers around his testicles hard enough to make him protest.

—Careful —he whispered.

—Take your own advice.

—You’re the one who made an omelet out of my balls five minutes ago.

Camila laughed soundlessly. Then she leaned down and kissed one nipple, slowly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world in the middle of a Saturday at two in the morning. Her tongue slid flat over his chest, went down his sternum, paused at his navel. Diego sat up and lowered his face to her breast. When he put an entire tit in his mouth, pressing the hot flesh against his tongue and sucking the nipple hungrily, the last shred of his morals surrendered without a fight. He kneaded the other breast with his free hand, squeezing and releasing it in time with his tongue.

—Like that —she panted—. Suck them hard. Bite.

He bit. Carefully, leaving no mark, but with enough force to make Camila arch in his arms. Her other hand had not let go of his cock for a single second: it kept sliding up and down with a slow, firm rhythm, already slick with the pre-cum Diego was leaking nonstop.

—I want a baby, you know? —she murmured, not taking her face away from him—. I think your brother’s sterile.

—What?

—Paternity tests don’t tell brothers apart. Think about it.

Diego didn’t know whether she was serious or if it was just another one of her jokes. He didn’t want to think about it either. He suspected it was one more layer of absurd justification she was offering so he could lie to himself the next morning. The only thing clear was that Camila had just told him, in so many words, that she wanted him to come inside her.

***

Camila shifted until she was kneeling between Diego’s legs and, without asking permission, pulled his pants down to his knees. His cock sprang free, hard and curved against his stomach, shining in the gloom. Diego felt her before he saw her. Warm, wet, determined. Camila’s tongue traced the full length from his testicles to the glans in a slow, measured lick, and then she took him fully into her mouth in one go, all the way to the back, until Diego felt her palate closing over the tip.

She was the same woman who for five years had treated him like an asexual relative, and now she was sucking him off in silence while her husband slept three meters away. Camila bobbed her head up and down with obscene rhythm, her mouth completely open, her tongue beating around the glans every time she came back up. A thread of saliva hung from the corner of her mouth and dripped over her fingers, which kept combing his testicles nonstop.

—You’ve got it so hard —she murmured, her mouth full—. It’s throbbing like crazy.

—Slow down a little —he begged—. I swear I can’t take much more.

Camila ignored him. She pulled off the glans only to spit into her palm and wrap around him again, and she kept alternating mouth and fist in a wet masturbation that made Diego lift his heels against the mattress. She went from his mouth to his testicles, took them into her mouth one by one, tugging softly, and returned to the glans. Diego grabbed the phone back to see her better, and the light painted her forehead and messy hair. Her eyes were closed and there was a restrained smile around his cock. She enjoyed sucking him off as much as he felt her sucking him off.

—Come here —he panted, unable to hold out any longer—. Come here before I fill your mouth.

Camila smiled with his cock between her lips, pulled it out of her mouth with a wet pop, and climbed on top of him. She straddled him, reached a hand back, and pushed her panties aside without taking them off. Diego felt how soaked she was before he even touched her: Camila’s cunt was dripping directly onto the base of his cock, wetting his skin all the way to his testicles. She grabbed his shaft with one hand, centered it at the entrance of her pussy, and slowly impaled herself, sinking in centimeter by centimeter, holding her breath with her mouth open.

—Fuck —she moaned barely above a whisper—. Fuck, how full.

Physical pleasure was the least of it. What left Diego breathless was seeing her backlit, seated on top of him with his whole cock inside her, her tits swinging freely over his chest, her mouth open without a sound. Camila’s cunt hugged him hot and tight, as if it had never intended to let him out.

—Finally —she whispered—. Finally.

***

She moved on top of him with a rhythm that admitted no rebuttal. At first she went slowly, lifting and lowering her hips in wide circles, savoring every inch, then she sped up. Her ass slapped his thighs with a fleshy sound that, in the silence of the house, seemed to Diego the most dangerous noise in the world. Diego tried to stop her with his hands on her hips, but she didn’t want to stop. What came out of her mouth was a mix of gasps and comments about her own body.

—Am I not fat? —she asked, not stopping, her tits bouncing in his face—. Esteban says I’m fat.

—You’re incredible —he answered, and it was true—. You couldn’t be more mouthwatering. You’ve got a cunt that squeezes like a virgin.

—Before him I was thinner. But then I didn’t have these tits. Or this ass.

She took Diego’s hand and brought it back, to her ass cheek. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh, squeezing it, spreading it. His other hand slid up her back to her hair, gathered it into a fist, and pulled downward. Camila arched her neck and let out a long gasp, never stopping riding him.

Diego sat up to bite her neck. She shoved him back with an open hand on his sternum. She was in charge. He accepted it. Camila leaned forward, planted her palms beside his head, and started moving horizontally, rubbing her clit against the base of his cock in a quick, short rocking motion. Her tits hung right above his face. Diego lifted his head and took one nipple into his mouth. She moaned and sped up.

—It’s funny —murmured Camila, her voice broken—. Fat Vidal likes skinny women. Skinny Vidal likes fat women.

Diego covered her mouth with a kiss so she wouldn’t let any more dangerous lines slip out. It was the first real kiss of the night, tongue to tongue, wet, while he kept thrusting into her from below. Camila eased the pace and, for a moment, everything became slow, wet, almost tender. The cock went in and out calmly, wrapped in the flow of her cunt, and their hips met with a low splash only they could hear.

Esteban snored on the other side of the wall. Either of them could have opened the door in that second. Neither did.

Camila rose without taking him all the way out, turned herself around over him, and lowered back down facing away, with her hands braced on Diego’s knees. He watched his entire cock disappear inside her, watched Camila’s ass flatten against his thighs and lift again. He ran his hands over her hips and dug his thumbs into her waist to set the rhythm. Now he was the one driving from below, thrusting upward every time she came down, and the noise of the collision became harder to hide.

—Fuck me like that —she panted, her voice barely audible—. Keep going. Keep going.

—You’re going to wake him —he warned.

—I don’t care. I don’t care. Keep going.

***

—I’m coming —Diego whispered—. I can’t anymore.

—Hold on a little. I’m almost there.

Camila turned again, faced him once more, and sat all the way down, trapping his cock inside with her full hips. She clenched her teeth and sped up. She dug her nails into his chest until they left red half-moons. Diego closed his eyes and let himself go. When he came inside her, the first spurts of semen rose up his cock with an intensity that nearly made him shout. He felt every pulse emptying into Camila’s cunt, soaking her from within, mixing with her wetness, and the contractions of his body matched an orgasm of hers that folded her over him. Camila’s cunt squeezed his cock in spasms, as if trying to wring out the last drop from him. He bit his lip not to scream, and the deep sound that escaped him blended with Esteban’s next snore.

She stayed still for a few seconds, her forehead resting on Diego’s shoulder, his cock still inside, swollen and throbbing. He stroked her back with his free hand. The other still held the phone against the wall. Camila moved her hips a couple more times, very slowly, milking him to the last, and smiled.

—Are you okay? —he asked.

—Better than ever.

She sat up unhurriedly and let his cock slide out of her with a wet pop. A thick thread of semen ran down the inside of her thigh. She caught it with two fingers, brought it to her mouth, and licked it off without looking away. Then she pulled her panties back into place as if that alone were enough to keep the rest inside, and climbed off the mattress. She found her pajamas in the first pile she checked, as if she had always known where they were. She put them on with her back to him, in silence. Before leaving, she kissed his forehead as if Diego were a nephew being tucked in for the night, and closed the door carefully so as not to wake her husband.

***

The next morning, the three of them were sitting at the living-room table with the Catan board between them. Esteban rolled the dice.

—Another six? That’s four in a row. This is mine.

—You’re lucky we’re not playing parcheesi —Camila said, without looking up—. I’d wipe the floor with you.

Diego tried to focus on his cards. He didn’t dare look at her for more than a second at a time. If he did, he was sure everything would show on his face. Esteban laughed.

—My brother’s very quiet. That means he’s about to win.

—Yeah —she said—. That must be it.

Under the table, Camila’s foot found Diego’s and pressed against his instep. She held the pressure for the exact three seconds it takes for a lie you want remembered.

—You’re blocking my route —she complained when he built his next road—. How dare you after what we did last night?

Diego felt the blood rush to his ears. Esteban looked up from the board, amused.

—We said resentment from one game doesn’t carry over to the next —he reminded them.

—Right. Clean slate —Diego repeated too quickly.

—Suit yourself —Camila said, indifferent—. Today I’m only negotiating with Esteban. You’re going to find out.

She looked at him a second before rolling the dice. A tiny smile, just for him. As if promising him another morning like that, and at the same time warning him that it would never happen again.

Diego didn’t know which of the two things was true. And deep down, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.