What Happened in Mar Azul with My Best Friend

My name is Sebastián, and this is the confession I’ve wanted to put into writing for years. The story of how I ended up sharing my wife with my best friend in a house in Mar Azul, and how that weekend changed us forever.

The fantasy began long before reality. We’d been married for five or six years when I finally worked up the nerve to tell Camila. I wanted to watch her with another man. Not out of lack of love, boredom, or because something was missing for me. It was a specific, primitive horniness that overtook me whenever I watched her sleep and thought about what other men would have given to be in my place.

“What if it were for real?” I asked her one night, after sex, with the lights off and my voice low, as if the walls might be listening.

She laughed at first. Then she fell silent. And then, slowly, she began asking me questions.

It took us months to talk about it without shame. There were arguments, retreats, nights when it seemed the subject would die on its own. But the bed was where the idea kept coming back. I’d whisper scenarios to her while I held her legs open, with two fingers buried knuckle-deep in her cunt, feeling her thick juices run over my palm. I made up situations for her, gave them real names, and she would roll her hips against my hand with an urgency she couldn’t hide. And in one of those games, when I asked her which of my friends she would choose if she had to pick one, she bit her lip, squeezed her cunt around my fingers, and told me, almost embarrassed:

“Lautaro.”

I felt my whole body heat up. My cock grew so hard it hurt against the elastic of my underwear. Lautaro had been my best friend since college. Taller than me, quieter, with that look of a man who had no idea of the effect he had on women. Once, at a barbecue, I’d seen him come out of the bathroom in his underwear, and I never forgot the bulge hanging inside it—thicker than mine, much longer, outlined against the white cotton as if the fabric were too small for him. Camila choosing him didn’t offend me. Quite the opposite. It made me grit my teeth, climb on top of her, and shove my cock into her in one hard thrust, without warning, all the way to the bottom.

“Say it again,” I asked her, moving slowly inside her. “Tell me who you want to fuck.”

“Lautaro,” she whispered, her face flushed as she arched to take all of me. “I want Lautaro’s cock, Sebas. I want it.”

I came right there inside her, in four short thrusts, biting her shoulder so I wouldn’t shout. Camila came right after me, two fingers on her clitoris and his name stuck to her lips.

From that night on, Lautaro was the name we said when we were in bed. At first Camila said it shyly, then guiltily, and afterward with a desire she no longer bothered to hide. I told her what he would do to her, how he would spread her ass with his big hands, how he would fuck her from behind, how he would make her suck him all the way down her throat. She would end up coming while thinking about him, with my cock inside her but her mind somewhere else, which drove me out of my mind in the best possible way.

But playing with words was one thing. Crossing the line was another.

***

The opportunity appeared on its own, as things do when you want them too badly. My parents had a house in Mar Azul, right in the middle of the woods, and they lent it to us whenever we asked. For the long weekend in January, we arranged to leave the kids with my mother-in-law and drive down there alone. The night before the trip, Camila was in the bedroom deciding what to put in the suitcase when my cell phone rang.

It was Lautaro.

“Where are you going?” he asked, because I’d told him about our plans in the college group chat.

“Mar Azul. What are you doing this weekend?”

“Nothing. Mariana kicked me out two months ago. I spend all my time alone.”

“Come with us.”

I said it without thinking, but I said it. I hung up with my hand trembling and walked to the bedroom. Camila looked at me from beside the suitcase, wearing a short camisole, her eyes serious.

“You invited him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“If you don’t want him to come, I’ll cancel it.”

She stayed like that for a long while, a white bikini in her hand, her gaze fixed on some point in the closet. Then she slowly let out her breath.

“Let him come.”

We didn’t sleep that night. I stripped her naked in the darkness, spread her legs, and buried my face between her thighs. I licked her cunt hungrily, my whole tongue pressed against her clitoris, two fingers moving in and out while I spoke softly against her wet flesh.

“Tomorrow he’ll be in this house,” I told her, my lips pressed to her pussy. “Tomorrow you’ll fuck him.”

“Yes,” she said, clutching my hair and pushing me deeper. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Tell me what you’re going to do to him.”

“I’m going to suck him all the way, Sebas. Every inch. I’m going to suck his cock until he comes in my mouth.”

I climbed on top of her and shoved my cock into her. Camila screamed into the pillow. I fucked her hard, my hands on her tits, squeezing her nipples between my fingers, while she asked for specific things: for him to pull her hair, to fuck her from behind, to fill her with cum while I watched. I made her specific promises. When I came inside her, in hot spurts that ran down her thighs, I whispered that it was going to happen, that there was no turning back, and she squeezed my hand without answering, her cunt still throbbing around my softening cock.

***

We picked Lautaro up at six in the morning. He got into the car with a duffel bag, the smile of a boy who had just woken up, and the smell of shampoo. Camila had put on a thin cotton dress that showed the outline of her bikini underneath, and when she greeted him with a kiss, I saw him linger against her cheek for one second longer than necessary.

The drive took five hours. We talked about everything and nothing: work, his breakup with Mariana, the last time the three of us had shared a dinner. At times, while I drove, I spied on them in the rearview mirror. Camila had taken off her sandals and rested her feet on the dashboard. Her dress had ridden up to mid-thigh. Lautaro stared at her legs as if he couldn’t remember how to stop looking at them, his jaw tight and one hand resting suspiciously on his jeans.

“Hey, Lautaro,” I said on a straight stretch of road, my heart pounding in my throat. “Cami told me the other day that you’re the best-looking of my friends.”

Camila turned and fixed me with her eyes. Lautaro laughed awkwardly.

“Come on, what are you talking about?”

“No, seriously. I asked her which of my friends she’d sleep with if she could, and she said your name.”

The temperature inside the car changed. Camila bit her lip and looked out the window. Lautaro cleared his throat. I kept driving, my cock hard beneath my jeans, knowing I’d just pushed over the first domino.

“Well,” Lautaro said after a while, quietly. “It’s a compliment.”

Camila didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

***

We arrived at noon. The house stood on a sandy street, surrounded by pine trees, with no neighbors in sight. I showed Lautaro the guest room, right next to ours. Camila disappeared into the bathroom and came out in a bikini, a sarong tied around her waist. I loaded the beach chairs onto the ATV, and the three of us headed into the woods.

There weren’t many people on the beach. I unfolded the chairs on the cool sand and went into the sea before they did. From the water, with the sun shining straight into my face, I watched them. Camila lay facedown on the towel, and Lautaro, sitting beside her, had accepted the bottle of sunscreen.

He applied it to her shoulders first. Then he moved down her back with both hands. He reached the base of her spine and paused there for a second, waiting for a signal. Camila lifted her hips slightly. Lautaro continued downward.

I floated with the water up to my chest. My cock was hard, and beneath the water I grabbed it and stroked it slowly without taking my eyes off them. He caressed her ass over her bikini bottoms, squeezing her cheeks, running his thumb along the cleft. Camila turned her head toward me. She searched for me with her eyes. She saw me watching, saw my arm moving beneath the water, and understood. She stayed like that, holding my gaze, while Lautaro pulled the fabric of her bikini to one side and buried two fingers deep inside her cunt.

I watched her bite her lip. I watched her squeeze her eyes shut for a second and open them again, locking them onto mine. I watched Lautaro move his fingers inside her, almost his whole hand disappearing between her buttocks, and watched her begin to roll her hips against that hand, slowly, discreetly. She came right there on the towel, biting down on the fabric so she wouldn’t scream, with two stranger’s fingers inside her and her husband watching from the sea while he jerked off beneath the water.

I didn’t go over to them. I didn’t have to. It was exactly what I had asked for.

***

We returned to the house at sunset. Camila was quiet, her skin salty and her eyes bright. Lautaro looked at me as if I owed him an explanation I wasn’t going to ask him for. The three of us cooked together in the open kitchen: he cut tomatoes, she rinsed the lettuce, and I uncorked a bottle of chilled white wine.

We ate outside beneath some hanging lights. The wine disappeared quickly. I opened another bottle. Camila sat across from me, with Lautaro beside her. Beneath the table, sometime between the second and third courses, I saw their knees touch and not separate. Then I saw his hand disappear beneath the tablecloth. Camila spread her legs slightly without lifting her eyes from her plate. He talked to me about anything and everything, but he was short of breath, and her face had turned red in a way I knew well.

“Sebas,” Camila said, her voice a little broken. “Are you okay?”

“I’m better than ever.”

Lautaro looked at me. I held his gaze.

“Now’s the time, if there ever was one,” I said.

Camila got up first. She walked into the living room, poured herself another glass, and sat on the long sofa. Lautaro followed her. I stayed at the table for two endless minutes, listening to the first sounds: a low laugh, a whisper, the rustle of her dress against the leather sofa, a stifled moan. When I went in, he already had his hand beneath her panties and his mouth against her neck.

I sat in the armchair opposite them and watched.

***

Camila took his T-shirt off first. She kissed his chest with a slowness I had never seen from her, lowering her tongue along the line of his navel, lightly biting the skin of his belly. When she pulled down his shorts, she let out a short sound, almost a nervous laugh, and looked over her shoulder at me. She was seeking permission. I nodded from my chair without saying a word.

She pulled his underwear down, and there it was: the cock I had seen outlined in the cotton years ago, now exposed, thick and long, its head red and glossy, pointing toward the ceiling. Camila stared at it for a moment. Then she took it in both hands, weighed it, stroked it, and ran it along her cheek as if she were measuring what she had in front of her.

“Sebas,” she said, turning her head toward me, my best friend’s cock pressed against her face. “Sebas, look.”

“I’m looking,” I told her, my voice hoarse. “Suck it.”

She opened her mouth and took all of it inside. Not little by little, not slowly: all of it, until the tip touched the back of her throat and she made a wet, muffled sound. Lautaro threw his head back and let out a long moan, gripping the back of the sofa with both hands. Camila began moving her head over his cock, one hand at the base and the other resting on his thigh for balance. Saliva ran down her chin, falling in thick drops onto the tits that had slipped out of her dress. Every so often she pulled it out, breathed, looked at it, and put it all back inside her.

“It’s so good,” she murmured between sucks. “So good, Sebas.”

Lautaro was looking at her, not at me. At some point he turned his head, met my eyes, and asked for permission too. I made a short gesture with my hand.

He yanked her up from the floor. He pulled her dress over her head. He tore her panties off with two fingers, roughly, and spread her buttocks with both big hands as he sat her down on top of him, facing me so I could see everything. Camila gripped his shoulders, positioned his cock at the entrance to her cunt, and slowly lowered her hips, her mouth open and her eyes locked on mine.

All of him went inside. I watched her swallow him whole, watched her close her eyes and arch her back, watched her release a guttural moan from deep in her chest. She stayed like that, impaled, adjusting to him. Then she began to move.

“Oh, Sebas,” she said, looking at me. “Oh, my love, look at me taking him.”

“I’m watching you,” I answered, without touching myself, my hands resting on my knees. “Fuck yourself. Fuck yourself with all of him.”

She began slowly, rising and lowering herself over his cock with her mouth open. Then with less shame, bracing her hands on his knees, arching her back, letting her tits bounce. Then as if I weren’t in the room: she moved with a fury I had never known in her, her thighs spread as wide as they could go, her clitoris striking his pubic bone with every downward thrust. Lautaro grabbed her hips and began thrusting his pelvis up against her, fucking her from below, and the sofa made a rhythmic sound that filled the entire house.

“Turn me around,” Camila begged, panting. “Turn me around. I want you to fuck me from behind.”

He lifted her off his lap and put her on all fours on the sofa, her face turned toward me, her eyes on mine. He stood behind her, took hold of his cock, rubbed it over her wet cunt to coat it, and shoved it inside her. Camila screamed. A long, shameless whore’s scream. And there, on all fours, her head pressed against the leather of the sofa and her tits hanging down, she let my best friend fuck her while I watched from three yards away.

“Harder,” she begged. “Harder, give it to me harder.”

Lautaro grabbed her hair, pulled her head back, and began fucking her the way she was asking: his pelvis slamming against her buttocks, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the house, his breathing ragged. Camila opened and closed her mouth, unable to speak. Her eyes filled with tears from the effort, or the pleasure, or both.

When she came, she said it. She said his name. She said it twice.

“Lautaro, Lautaro, I’m coming, I’m coming,” she repeated, and her cunt clenched around his cock with such force that he lost his rhythm.

He followed her after a few more thrusts. Panting, he asked her where. Camila turned her head and looked at me. I answered for her.

“Inside,” I said. “Come inside her.”

Lautaro gritted his teeth, gripped her hips with both hands, impaled her to the hilt, and emptied himself there, inside my wife’s cunt, with a long moan that rose from his chest. Camila stayed still, her face pressed against the leather, feeling every spurt. When he pulled out, a thick string of cum ran down the inside of her thigh to her knee.

I didn’t touch myself. I didn’t need to. My underwear was soaked.

***

That night I didn’t sleep in my bed. I stayed in the armchair until the sky over Mar Azul began to lighten, listening to them on the other side of the hall. The guest-room door had been left ajar. I heard them a second time, around three in the morning: the creaking bed, her voice begging, his deep voice answering. Then a third time, at dawn, slower and quieter. I didn’t go look. I didn’t want to see it again. I’d already seen what I needed to see.

The next morning, Camila came downstairs barefoot, wearing one of my shirts crookedly, her hair tousled. She sat on my lap, held my face in both hands, and kissed me as if she were afraid I would leave her. I could smell him on her neck.

“Do you regret it?” she asked me.

“No.”

“Do you want him back?”

I thought about the answer. Not for long, but I thought about it.

“I want whatever you want.”

Lautaro appeared afterward, looking as if he didn’t know where to step. We served him coffee. The three of us looked at one another over our cups. And we understood, without saying it, that the trip had only just begun.

What happened in the months that followed is another story. But that one—the first weekend in Mar Azul—remains the most charged night of my life. I’m confessing it now because enough time has passed, because Camila knows about it and thinks it’s funny that I’m writing it down, and because there are desires you only fully understand when you dare to live them.