Confession: The Week Our Third Was Away from Home

Monday morning, Sergio still hung in the hallway. That eucalyptus shampoo of his still clung to the air as if it had decided to stay even though he hadn’t.

I watched him close the taxi door with his suitcase on his lap, press a dry kiss to my cheek, and hug Diego longer than necessary, like someone signing a wordless pact.

—One week in Barcelona, no more —he said with that half smile that made me press my thighs against the doorframe.

When the car turned the corner, the house was ours again and it had never felt so empty. We went back to our morning coffee, our goodbye kisses, the sound of the toothbrush while Diego got dressed. A routine that for months had been enough, until it wasn’t.

That first night, Diego dragged me into the bedroom before we’d even eaten dinner. He tore off my cardigan, shoved me against the mattress with that hunger of his that never let up. His cock was already brushing my stomach when he whispered that he’d missed me all day. I closed my eyes and said yes. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see what was missing.

He opened my legs with the familiarity of six years of knowing my map by heart. He lowered his head and started licking me with those long strokes I knew by memory. His tongue moved up from below to my clit, circled it, went back down. His two fingers went in and out at a rhythm that would normally bring me to orgasm in minutes.

That night I struggled to focus. My mind kept drifting to the last night of the previous weekend, when Sergio had been between us, his beard rougher than Diego’s, his hands broader, the way he bit my nipples like he wanted to leave a mark. I missed the weight of another body on my back while Diego fucked my mouth. I missed the heat of another cock brushing my thigh.

When I came on his tongue, it was a warm, almost polite orgasm. A distant echo of the tremors the three of us had wrung out of me in the previous months. Diego didn’t notice, or he chose not to. He kissed my belly button, moved up, turned me over, and slid underneath.

I rode him hard, my tits bouncing against his chest, his hands gripping my hips. As I sank down onto him, my head invented Sergio behind me. His spit landing right where it touched, his cock opening the other side, filling me twice. Diego thrust from below and let out an animal growl. I sped up to hide what I was missing.

He came inside me with a roar that filled the room. I faked a climax I hadn’t even come close to. Then he curled against my back, his heavy arm over my waist, his breathing settling. I waited for him to fall asleep. I waited half an hour.

When I knew he was asleep, I slid my hand down beneath the sheets. I touched myself with his leftovers dripping between my fingers. I closed my eyes and saw Sergio on the bathroom floor that time, Diego on his knees, both cocks in his face, his eyes closed in pure pleasure. I came biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound. A solitary orgasm, intense, guilty.

Something was missing. It wasn’t just flesh. It was that electricity of knowing we were doing something forbidden together, that shared secret that had gotten under our skin.

***

A week sounded short until it started stretching out. The first morning without Sergio was almost normal: coffee, a kiss, off to the studio, a promise that I’d cook. At night, though, the house felt too big. Carla and I had spent months learning how to fuck as three, and going back to fucking as two was like going back to an empty pool.

I devoured her with everything I had that first night. I licked every fold of her pussy, tasted that slightly salty wetness she got when she’d spent hours thinking about sex without saying it. She moaned my name and grabbed my hair. But while I fucked her, my head kept slipping to the previous weekend. To Sergio behind me, his thick cock opening me slowly, his low command: “don’t move.”

I put her on all fours. I spread her ass with both hands so I could watch myself go in and out. My balls slapped against her clit every time I drove into her.

“Harder,” she begged.

I obeyed without thinking, fucking her with that slightly ridiculous rage of someone trying to plug one hole with another. I imagined Sergio kneeling in front of her, his cock in her mouth. Or even better: behind me, spitting into my entrance before sinking in all the way, syncing with my thrusts. I came hard, filling her until it spilled down her thighs. The pleasure was hollow. A shadow of the submission Sergio had dragged out of me the Friday before.

The next morning, in the shower, I pinned her against the tiles. I lifted one of her legs to rest on my hip and fucked her standing up. Hot water poured over us while I drove into her with a rhythm that got faster and faster. Her walls tightened and milked me until she came with her nails in my back. The roughness was missing. The idea of Sergio behind me was missing, his hand on my nape, pushing me against the fogged glass so he could fuck me while he told me in my ear what he was going to do to me later.

Now I was the one dominating Carla. And yes, she came, and yes, I came. But inside I only wanted to be the one who surrendered again.

That week we fucked like never before and like never before. Carla sucked my cock to the hilt, swallowed my semen hungrily, offered herself in positions she’d never asked for. I licked her ass while I fingered her until she came all over my face. And when it was over, the two of us would stare at the ceiling in silence.

Sergio had worked his way into the center of desire. Not only into our bodies, but into something older and more fucked up to explain. When Carla fell asleep the fifth night, I slid my hand down and started touching myself thinking about his return.

Five more days. Five days of pretending two was enough.

***

Barcelona simmered with its usual chaos. Neon lights flickered over asphalt wet with a thin rain that didn’t cool anything down. Three days had passed since I’d left Carla and Diego’s building, with the taste of both of them still clinging to my tongue and the echo of his moans still pounding somewhere inside me.

The shoot had kept me hostage during the day. It was a documentary about neighborhood chefs for a platform: long hours, hot lights, food that smelled better than it tasted. At night, though, the hotel got too quiet, and I opened the dating app with fingers that were too quick. “Couple looking for an experience with a bi man,” said a profile that caught my attention. A burly guy named Adrián, in his thirties, and his wife, Mireia, brunette, curvy, with that kind of look that doesn’t need explanations.

I accepted the date without thinking. The bisexual appetite Diego had awakened in me months earlier wasn’t going to be soothed by two hand jobs in a hotel.

We met at a discreet bar near Plaça Reial, one of those places where conversations are whispered and hands brush under the table. Adrián was tall, with a trimmed beard, a shirt stretched tight across his broad chest. Mireia wore a red dress that left little to the imagination, her breasts pressing against the fabric like a promise. We made small talk at first: trips, work, the last long weekend they spent in Mallorca. It didn’t take long for the air to thicken.

—We’re open —said Adrián with a wolfish smile, his knee brushing mine—. And you seem to know what you’re doing.

Mireia laughed. Her hand slid up my thigh slowly, stopping a finger’s width from my zipper. My cock hardened instantly, remembering how I had dominated Diego in the bathroom the night we met.

Half an hour later we were in their hotel, a bland building overlooking the Rambla. The door clicked shut and Mireia kissed me first. Her tongue invaded my mouth with urgency. Her hands undid my shirt while Adrián watched from the armchair, palming himself over his jeans. I undressed her fast. I pulled her dress down off her shoulders, took her breasts out of her bra, bit her dark nipples until they hardened.

I knelt and licked her shaved pussy. My tongue sank between her swollen lips, tasting a thick wetness that pulled small guttural moans out of her as she yanked my hair. Adrián came closer with his cock in his hand, stroking slowly while he watched me devour his wife.

—Suck me —he ordered.

I obeyed. I turned on my knees and took him all the way in, his veins throbbing against my palate, his hairy balls brushing my chin every time I went down. Saliva dripped from my chin. Mireia settled on the sofa behind me and licked the back of my neck while I sucked her husband’s cock.

It was exciting, yes. That raw, clean dynamic of three strangers who owe each other nothing. Mireia ended up riding me on the sofa, her tight pussy sliding down my cock until her ass hit my thighs. Adrián positioned himself behind me, spat into my entrance, and pushed his lubricated cock inside. I moaned against her mouth while he fucked me with short, brutal thrusts, his hairy belly slamming into my back.

—What a tight ass —he growled, and sped up.

We switched positions several times. Me fucking Mireia on all fours while Adrián licked my ass from behind. Him replacing his tongue with two thick fingers. Me with my hands on his hips, driving in to the hilt while she screamed and came, soaking the sofa. Adrián turning me around again so I could suck the cock that had just been inside me, a musky taste in my mouth while Mireia rubbed her cunt watching us.

He speared me on his lap and opened me again. I let myself fall, feeling him fill me. Adrián came inside me with a low roar, hot spurts flooding me from within, his semen dripping down my ass cheeks when I pulled away. I exploded in Mireia’s mouth and she joined the climax with her fingers buried in her cunt until she came all over the carpet.

And yet, while the three of us panted tangled together, sweaty and exhausted, something shifted somewhere in my chest. It was pure physical fire, yes: the rub of hard cocks, the taste of cocks and cunts, the roughness of bodies crashing together without a filter. My bisexuality reveled in that dirty freedom, in being the one who takes and the one taken in the same night. But that deeper spark was missing. That invisible bond that had been appearing between Diego, Carla, and me over the last few months.

It wasn’t just the pleasure of dominating Diego, of watching him break under my thrusts and beg for more. It was that look of his when he surrendered. It was Carla’s silent complicity while she watched us, her eyes shining in a way no hotel light could ever match. Adrián was strong. Mireia was hot. But they weren’t them.

I got dressed with a quick excuse about an early session. I stepped out into the cold Barcelona night with Adrián’s semen still sliding around inside me. I walked aimlessly through cobbled alleys, my cock half asleep in my pants, remembering the last weekend the three of us had spent at home. Fucking that couple had been a temporary balm. An adrenaline hit that confirmed my new appetite. But it had only stoked the other one. The one that mattered.

I wanted to go back. I wanted to burst into their routine and claim them both. I wanted to fuck them together until the emptiness filled with their shared moans.

Five more days.

Five days were an eternity. I rode the hotel elevator up, collapsed onto the bed still dressed, and slid my hand down to my cock, still sticky. I closed my eyes and imagined the two of them. The exact way Diego would surrender when I crossed the door. The exact way Carla would be waiting for me afterward, with that smile of someone who already knows what’s coming.