The Silent Pact with My Roommate

It’s been a year since I started sharing an apartment with Camila, and since then my life has been reorganized around an arrangement I still struggle to name. The two of us live in a small flat in a quiet neighborhood, with our desks pressed up against the windows and the kitchen three steps away. We both work remotely: I’m a developer for a European company; she designs interfaces for an American agency.

We met at university, lost touch, and ran into each other again in a group of old classmates. When she was looking for someone to split the rent with and I needed to get out of my parents’ house, the idea seemed obvious.

It seemed obvious too because there had never been anything between us. Camila is, it has to be said, a truly beautiful woman. She spends five days a week at the gym, and you can see it in every gesture: the high, round ass that stands out in her leggings, the small, firm tits that jut out on their own under thin T-shirts, the hard thighs from squats. As for me, I take care of myself only as much as I need to, I’m twenty-nine, I’ve got a belly, and I never thought I deserved the attention of someone like her. I say that without self-pity: it’s the truth. That’s why, when ours began, I felt I was stepping into a parallel world where the rules outside no longer applied.

***

It started with a conversation, just one, on a Thursday night. We had ordered sushi and opened a bottle of wine that looked like it would last us four weeks. She settled into the couch with her legs crossed and looked at me with that serenity I learned to fear.

—I want to tell you something I’ve been thinking about for a long time —she said.

I set my chopsticks down on the plate and waited.

She explained her theory calmly, like someone who had been mulling it over for a long time. For her, if a woman sees a man loaded up, tense, wanting, and can be there for him without anything breaking, there’s no reason to make it complicated. “We fill it with guilt, with drama, with stories,” she said. “And sometimes that’s all it is: a hard cock that needs to be emptied into a pussy and a girl willing to spread her legs. It doesn’t have to be love. It doesn’t have to be anything.”

I listened without knowing whether she was proposing something concrete or just developing an idea out loud. Then she added: “If I ever see you like that, don’t take offense: I’m going to offer you my pussy. And you can say no, of course. But I want you to know it’s not complicated. For me it isn’t. You fuck me, you cum inside me, and then each of us goes back to our own thing.”

I don’t know if she’s serious, I thought that night, staring at the ceiling in my room, with my cock hard as a stick under my boxers. We had finished the wine, watched a couple of episodes of a series, and gone to bed as if nothing had happened. I ended up jerking off thinking about how her breasts moved under her T-shirt when she talked, and I convinced myself it would pass, that the wine was exaggerating it.

***

Three Mondays later, we had already forgotten the matter, or so I thought. The screen flickered with unread emails. I had a delivery due Friday and the timing wasn’t enough. Camila passed behind me with her mate in hand, stopped, and without saying anything, rested her palm between my shoulder blades.

—You’re tense as a wall —she said—. Come on, take a while to relax.

She said it in that soft but firm voice she uses when she’s sure. I stood up like an automaton. I followed the five steps that separate my desk from my bed. There was no music, no dim light, no ceremony: the afternoon light came straight in through the window. She sat on the edge of the mattress, lifted her hip just enough, pulled her panties down her thighs until she took them off over her feet, and hiked her skirt up to her waist. Then she lay back and opened her legs.

The first time I saw her pussy was like that, in the full light of four in the afternoon: pink lips, barely covered by a short line of neatly trimmed hair, the slit already wet just from being exposed. A gym pussy, tight, with the smooth pubis shining from the cream.

—Are you comfortable? —she asked.

—Yes —I said, with a dry mouth.

—I’m not in a hurry. Take all the time you need.

I yanked down my pants and boxers in one motion. My cock sprang forward, hard, the tip purple. I settled myself between her thighs and gripped it to aim. I ran the head over the slit, top to bottom, feeling it lubricate itself just from her fluids. I pushed in slowly, almost asking permission. Her pussy opened around my dick with the smallest splash, tightening around me little by little, as if her body had to make room for it. She sighed, not theatrically, but with that short exhale people make when they settle into a comfortable chair.

—There, easy —she murmured—. Put it all in.

I sank into her balls-deep. I felt the tip bump the back wall and she arched her neck slightly. I started moving and time dissolved. I drove my cock into her with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out to push it back in to the hilt, and the sound of her wet pussy swallowing me mixed with both our breathing. I looked at her face: her eyes half-closed, her lips barely parted, no acting at all. I looked at her tits beneath the T-shirt, moving with every shove. I looked, above all, at the place where my cock went in and out shining with her juices, and I couldn’t hold out much longer.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Twenty minutes, thirty, maybe more. At some point I braced my hands on the sides of her hips and increased the pace. Her pussy got tighter, hotter. I felt the tingle rise from my balls.

—Inside is fine —she said, guessing me—. Empty yourself, nice and easy.

I came with three deep thrusts. The first load was so long my vision blurred; I felt the semen shoot out in thick spurts, filling her pussy until it began to spill around the base of my cock. While I moved, I felt all the tension I’d been carrying since morning loosen. When I got to the end, I didn’t pull out. She squeezed my ribs with her calves, without urgency, and waited for me to finish emptying into her.

—There —she said after—. Go back to work when you can.

I came out slowly. My cock was dripping and her pussy stayed open for a second, with a white thread running between her swollen lips. She stood up, wiped herself between the legs with a paper tissue without any drama, adjusted her clothes, washed her hands, and left the room. I stayed seated on the bed for a couple of minutes, feeling my body return to the world. When I sat back down in front of the screen, the emails were still there, just as urgent. But something inside me was somewhere else.

***

From then on, things settled on their own. We didn’t have a schedule, we didn’t have special codes: Camila simply read my body. She knew when my shoulders were jammed up into my ears, when I moved my leg like a metronome, when I breathed shallowly. I never asked her for anything. She was the one who offered her pussy, and I only decided whether to say yes.

One afternoon, in the middle of a rushed sandwich between two meetings, she came over and sat on the armrest of the couch where I was eating.

—How much time do you have? —she asked.

—Fifteen minutes.

—Enough. Fuck me and cum inside me fast.

There were no more words. She settled onto the sofa, lay down, pulled her panties down with a quick motion, and hiked up her skirt. I set the sandwich on the coffee table, unfastened my pants, and pulled out my half-hard cock. She reached out, grabbed it, and jerked it three or four times until she felt it firm up.

—There, now fuck me.

I entered her without undressing, shoving in with one hard thrust. This time there was haste, a different kind of haste, almost playful, like when two people share an inside joke against the clock. She felt time pressing down on us and hurried me without losing tenderness, hooking her heels into my ass and pulling me forward with each thrust.

—If you have to go faster, go faster —she said—. I’m not going to break. Fuck me hard, come on.

I accelerated. I was driving my cock into her to the hilt in dry, brutal blows, the couch creaking beneath us, her tits bouncing under the T-shirt with each impact. Her pussy made an obscene noise, sloshing from how wet she was. The pleasure was brief and sharp, different from Monday’s. In less than five minutes I already felt my balls tighten.

—I’m going —I said.

—Inside, come on, don’t pull out.

I emptied myself in two brutal thrusts, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound. When I finished, I wiped myself quickly with the small towel she had left on the couch, another little spurt of semen slipped out and smeared across her pubis, I pulled my pants back up, and I sat down again in front of the screen. My meeting started two minutes later. It was a camera-off meeting, thankfully. She, on the other side of the living room, was already typing on her keyboard as if the last twelve minutes had never happened, her pussy full of my load under her skirt.

***

On the worst days, the ones with double deliveries or long arguments with clients, everything got even simpler. Sometimes I was writing, sunk into my chair, and she would appear behind me. Without saying anything, she’d pull off her panties, get on all fours on my bed, and wait with her ass lifted, her cheeks spread, her pussy and asshole on display. Ten minutes. Sometimes eight. I’d stand up without thinking, pull my pants down as I walked, and bury my cock in her with a single shove from behind. Her pussy always took my cock ready, tightening around me at once.

I’d grab her hips and pound her hard, watching her white ass tremble against my pelvis, listening to the sloshing of her soaked pussy and her short gasps against the pillow. Sometimes I’d pull her hair. Sometimes I’d press my thumb into her asshole and she’d clamp down harder.

—Come on, cum —she’d murmur when she felt me tense—. Inside.

And I’d cum with my cock all the way in, feeling the thick stream hit the wall of her pussy. Then I’d pull out, cock dripping, and go back to the desk with red eyes and a mind finally quiet. She’d wipe herself with a tissue, pull her panties back up with my cum still inside her, and go back to her chair.

—Thanks —she’d say every time.

—You’re welcome —I always replied.

There was no drama in her response. No satisfaction either, no triumph. It was a short, neutral answer, like I’d just handed her my phone charger.

There were weeks when we did this twice, others when a full month went by without my body asking for anything. Camila never pushed. She never took offense either. Her philosophy, as I understood it over time, was not one of sacrifice: it was about not putting moral obstacles in the way of what for her was an honest transaction between two friends.

***

Saturdays were different. On Saturdays there were no meetings, no desk, no clock bearing down on us. If anything happened, it happened slowly.

One morning, after breakfast, we stayed in my room. She asked if I wanted to relax, and I said yes. This time it wasn’t just the quick panties-off gesture. This time we both got naked. It was the first time in months, and I was surprised by how much seeing her in full affected me, the small firm tits with dark pink nipples, the way the light settled on her waist, the short triangle of hair above her already shiny pussy.

—You can touch me —she said, and lay down on her back.

I ran my mouth along her neck without kissing her on the lips. That was a rule we had never talked about but both of us respected. I kissed her tits, held them in my hands, sucked them one by one, first gently, then biting her nipples until they turned hard as little stones. I went down her flat stomach with my tongue until I buried my face between her legs. I spread her pussy lips with my thumbs and ran my tongue from bottom to clit. She shuddered and grabbed my hair.

—Ah, like that —she murmured—. Lick it slowly.

I licked her pussy for a long while, alternating broad tongue strokes with tight circles over her clit, sliding two fingers into her and out again with a wet sound. I felt her trembling against my mouth, arching, clenching. She came with a long gasp, squeezing my head between her thighs, and I felt the warm flow flood my chin.

She looked at me with a smile that wasn’t seductive or romantic, but curious, as if she were watching someone learn something new. Then she spread her legs and I climbed over her. I rested the tip of my cock at the entrance to her pussy, still pulsing from her orgasm, and entered her with a calm I didn’t recognize in myself. I sank all the way in with one long motion and stayed there, feeling her pulse around me.

I fucked her slowly, pulling almost all the way out to sink back in, savoring every inch. I came slowly, with my mouth against her shoulder, letting the load spill out in waves inside her. I pulled out, rested a minute on her hip, feeling the semen drip back out little by little, and took hold of her again. In two minutes I had her hard again. I put her on her side, lifted one leg, and entered her from that angle. Then I put her on all fours and gave it to her hard for a while, watching her white ass take my old load mixed with the new sloshing. That morning I went in and out of her three or four times. I wasn’t sure I wanted to finish; I wanted to stretch that Saturday out as long as possible.

In the middle of all that there was a funny moment. I slipped out by accident and, trying to get back in, my cock slid against her thigh, then against the sheet, then against her asshole. Once. Twice. Three times. Camila burst out laughing. A frank, loud laugh that escaped from her chest.

—He doesn’t want me! —she said between laughs—. He’s being rebellious, he doesn’t want to find the way!

I laughed too. Laughing with my cock sliding over someone’s pussy seemed, at that moment, like the closest thing to affection we’d shared in months. When the laughter died down, she grabbed my soft dick, guided it to the entrance of her pussy, and hurried me along with her hand on my ass until I buried it in her again.

***

There was another time, in the middle of the night, after we’d had a horrible day. My father had had a health scare and I couldn’t think about anything else. Camila saw me walk through the hallway three times, my gaze lost. She didn’t say anything. When I ran into her in the kitchen, she squeezed my arm, slowly, once. I understood, and nodded at her.

That night wasn’t quick or recreational. We spent almost an hour in my bed. She undressed without hurry and lay on her back, legs slightly open. I put it in her slowly, almost at a crawl, and sank into her without really knowing what I was looking for. I moved over her with a strange, almost sad slowness, pulling my cock out millimeter by millimeter to bury it in her to the hilt again. She let me move with a patience I still remember, matching me with her hips, squeezing my cock with her pussy on every withdrawal as if she didn’t want to let me out. We didn’t talk. There was only my breathing and the slow, wet slosh of her pussy swallowing me again and again.

I lasted a long time. My climax passed me by twice and rose again. When I finished, I came very deep inside, with a long shiver that shook my whole back, and I didn’t pull out right away. I stayed on top of her, cock driven all the way in, feeling her pulse against her full pussy, my head against her neck, breathing hard.

—Thanks —I said, very quietly.

—Stay as long as you need —she answered.

She rested her hand on the nape of my neck once, and brushed a lock of hair off my forehead. I stayed inside her for a long while longer, softening little by little inside her soaked pussy, until my cock slipped out on its own. Then she got up, got dressed, and went to her room. That night there were no jokes.

***

Sometimes I think about how I’d describe all this if someone asked me. I don’t have an answer. We’re not a couple. We don’t have plans to be one. Camila has boyfriends now and then, men who come around, stay two months, and leave; during those periods we don’t touch each other, and the dynamic comes back when she’s single again. As for me, I’ve tried dating other women. It hasn’t gone badly. But there’s something about how ours is built —that clean arrangement, without negotiations, without manipulation, without promises— that I haven’t found anywhere else.

If someone hears this confession and thinks it’s a fantasy, I understand. If someone thinks she takes advantage of me, or that I take advantage of her, I understand that too. The truth is simpler and stranger: we’ve been living together like this for a year. We share expenses, dinners, series, a gym routine she keeps up and that I’m now starting to join. And in between, this silent pact, this open door between two friendly bodies, a pussy that opens when the cock needs it and a cock that empties without questions.

Sometimes, when I finish a long day and see her from behind in front of her screen, with her skirt wrinkled and her hair tied up, I feel like I have to look away. Not out of desire, but out of gratitude. Some people show up in your life to teach you that the body can be many things at once. Camila is, for me, one of them.