What Happened That Night in the Paris Woods

I’m back at the kitchen table with a coffee and the notebook open. I promised more than one reader I’d close out the diary of that vacation without cuts, and here I am. If anyone’s looking for discretion, they’d better close this. What happened to me that season was something else.

When Ezequiel came back to the hotel where I was waiting for him, I had done my hair, put on a sheer nightgown, and left the door ajar. I wanted to tell him about the night before before he asked me, and I wanted him to make love to me while I told him.

—Slowly —I asked when he settled over me—, like he did last night.

I told him about Marcos, the way he had asked me for that very particular thing, and how I had agreed. Ezequiel fell quiet for a moment, then smiled against my neck. He opened my nightgown a little more with two fingers, ran his palm over my chest, pinched one nipple until it was hard as a nail, and only then kissed my mouth, slowly at first, hungry after. I pulled down his pants, yanked his stiff cock out in one motion, and felt it hot, heavy, throbbing in my hand.

—And you let him?

—I let him. I’d earned it.

—You’re so beautiful. Someday I want to see him. With him, with my father, with yours. Let them all be astonished together.

—Someday —I answered, and while I kissed him I thought that in fact I was already thinking about how to organize it.

I spread his legs with one knee, lined the tip up against my wet cunt and let him in slowly, with that sweet and brutal pull it always gives when flesh gives way. He moved on top of me carefully at first, pulling his cock out and back in just enough so he wouldn’t break the story, and then he went deeper, firmer, until he filled me completely. I talked in his ear between gasps, telling him every detail about Marcos, and he answered with ragged breathing, digging his hands into my waist.

—Tell me you like it —he asked, his mouth pressed to my ear.

—I love it —I told him—. Put it deeper.

Then he changed the angle, lifted me a little by the hips, and shoved into me with a dry blow that tore a long moan out of me. The nightgown stuck to my body, wet with spit and sweat, and I kept talking to him as if nothing were happening while I felt him opening me up completely, brushing that spot inside that left my legs weak. When he wanted to turn me over, I let him. He put me face down, lifted my ass, and drove into me from behind again and again, one hand open on my cheek, the other buried in my hair. That was how I liked it best: feeling the cock go in and out, the obscene sound of flesh, the smell of both of us mixed with the hotel’s.

That same afternoon, Marcos came to pick us up to talk about the new operation with the northern distributor. The numbers were good, he told me in the car, almost in my ear. There was very little left before he reached the sales target he had set as a condition for being with me in a more stable way. A month, at most two.

On the way back to the city, he parked in front of an exchange office attached to a shopping center and went in without saying a word. I saw him through the glass, talking to a gray-haired man, taking something out of his wallet, signing. He came back ten minutes later with a little box lined in green velvet.

—I want you to keep it always —he said.

It was a half-ounce gold coin, with an antelope engraved on one side. It had a shine you can’t learn to describe until someone puts it in your hand. He wasn’t giving it to me for its value, he clarified. He wanted me always to remember him as the first man to give me something that color.

I kissed him on the cheek, slowly. I left a little lipstick on him and he didn’t bother to wipe it off.

A sweet man, this gentleman who pays.

***

I spent two days in the city, saw the closest clients and Dad. With him, we settled what we already had pending: the next meeting with Ricardo, my new client, was going to be in his presence. He wanted to be there, watch, not interfere. I asked him if he felt okay about that, if it wouldn’t weigh on him later.

—I accepted that a long time ago —he told me—. And since you’re like that, I’d rather see you in your fullness than imagine it from the other side of the country.

I didn’t know what to answer him. I squeezed his hand and changed the subject.

On Thursday I went alone to Costa Brava, a long beach on the coast I’ve known since childhood. I wanted two days of nothing. Of walking, of not answering the phone, of sunbathing without a watch. I put on shorts and an old T-shirt and went down to the naturist area at the calmest hour of the afternoon, when the sun still warms but the sand no longer burns. I was looking for one of the street vendors who walk the shoreline with fabrics, necklaces, and thin dresses slung over their arms.

I found the one I needed on the second day.

He was tall, West African, about forty, with very dark skin and huge hands. I bought two tiny beach dresses from him, held his gaze longer than necessary, and took mental note. He understood everything without my saying a word. Before he left, he asked me my name.

—Next time —I answered.

That night Ezequiel came to get me. We made love with the window open and the murmur of the sea coming in like another voice. I pulled off his T-shirt as soon as he closed the door, sucked his tongue hard, and he yanked my shorts down, slipping two fingers into me before taking me to bed. He opened my cunt with his mouth, unhurried, licking from the clit down, going back in, making me grab his head and push his face against me. Then he turned me over, put me on all fours, and filled me with thrust after thrust, hard, deep, his cock slamming into the bottom of me every time he entered. He grabbed my tits, squeezed them until he made me moan, and when he came inside me I stayed trembling for a while, feeling the heat spilling through me from the inside.

The next morning, instead of heading straight back to the city, I asked him to stop at the same beach.

—There’s someone I want to introduce you to —I said.

We found him where I had left him. I introduced them naturally, as if they were two business partners, and went back to waiting by the car. Ezequiel took ten minutes. When he came back, he was smiling.

—I explained why you were interested. He agreed. He wants to show you something first, he says. If you want.

—If I want.

We walked to the dunes. The man took his pants off as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and the three of us understood in the same second that summer was going to turn out well for me. I sat in the sand, spread my legs, and let him come closer. Ezequiel stayed off to the side, looking at me with that good-boy face he had when he was about to lose control. The African touched my thighs first, then my belly, then opened my cunt with his fingers, checking the wetness like someone examining a ripe fruit. He said nothing until he brought my mouth to his cock, hard and dark, and asked me to suck him. I did it without shame, taking him as far as I could, feeling the salt of the sea on my skin and the rough breathing of both men over me.

***

On Sunday we left on a trip. Five days in Madrid, five in Paris. That was the official plan; the other plan was the one underneath.

I won’t bore you with Madrid. We walked through the museums, ate well even in the simplest places, and I stripped two or three daring clothing shops I already knew from the previous time, on a narrow street near Sol. Almost impossible lingerie, dresses you couldn’t wear to just any gathering, very high heels. Ezequiel watched me try things on in the fitting rooms and kept biting back a smile I know well. When I came out in a tiny bra or panties that barely covered my ass, he’d corner me against the mirror, slip his hand between my legs, and tell me in my ear that he had no intention of letting me go out like that anywhere. I’d answer that that was exactly the point, not going out. And I’d kiss him again until he lost patience.

—For clients? —he would ask me.

—For clients —I’d say—. And for you.

What I do want to tell you about is Paris.

Henri and Margaux invited us to stay in their apartment on the rive droite. It’s a huge flat, with a double living room, a library, two bathrooms, and a view of the inner courtyard where someone is always smoking. They had already hosted us on the previous visit, so it felt like coming back. That first night was calm —calm for us, that is: we went to bed early, and they settled on the living room sofa to watch us make love through the half-open door. We had already talked through that part of Henri’s voyeurism the last time. Ezequiel took me from behind, braced on the bed, while I rested my hands on the headboard and let him fill me slowly, with deep thrusts that made the bedspread creak. Margaux was fingering herself on the sofa without taking her eyes off us, and Henri breathed hard, as if each thrust were passing through his own body too.

The second night was the other thing.

Henri and Margaux had already taken us to roam a certain area of the city’s big woods, where rich men display their women and hand them over to truck drivers and hired-car drivers who park across the street. The first time I had only watched, still undecided. This time I had asked to be the one.

We arrived around eleven. Early October, the air already cold, but still bearable in a light coat. Under the coat I wasn’t wearing anything. No stockings, no underwear, nothing that could serve as an excuse.

Henri, Margaux, Étienne —the driver— and Ezequiel were parked by the car. I stood a couple of steps from the bumper, waited for a truck to pass, and opened my coat in one motion.

The air hit my belly first, then my breasts. I shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. I felt my nipples tighten, two hard points in the middle of all that exposed skin.

Across the avenue, several drivers started pointing at me. I couldn’t tell whether it was because they liked what they saw or because they knew I was new. Probably both. Margaux squeezed my arm and let out a rough little laugh.

—You choose —Ezequiel said from behind me—. Anyone. I’ll stay here.

I looked calmly. There was one leaning against the door of a black sedan, tall, about fifty, with his hair cut close and a gaze that didn’t hurry. I crossed the avenue alone, coat open, and nodded at him. He nodded back, without touching me yet, and walked toward me with his hands in his jacket pockets.

We went back together to the trees. I handed the coat to Ezequiel, handed a condom to the man, and while he took his pants down I touched his face with the tips of my fingers so he would understand there was no rush. I leaned against a tree trunk and spread my legs a little. The bark scratched my back and, for some reason, I liked that.

Before he penetrated me, Ezequiel knelt and kissed me between the thighs, once, like a signature. Then he stepped aside. The stranger pushed in, without finesse, without delay, his hands clamped on my hips. I didn’t come. I almost never come with a condom. But the four people watching got an image they won’t forget, and that was the only thing I wanted that night.

We went back to the apartment in silence. Margaux poured me a cognac without asking. I drank it standing up, still wearing the coat, while Ezequiel looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.

***

Two days later came the last one. Three couples, the hosts, a gentleman invited guest whose profession I never learned, and Étienne. Henri announced the rules at the start, glass in hand, as if reading a menu: no asking permission, everyone has access to everyone, no sex between the men tonight. We were all up to date on our tests. For once, no one had to use condoms with anybody.

I had never been to an orgy. I had been with three and four men at a time —I’ve already told that elsewhere—, but not in something like this. And what was new wasn’t the number of bodies. It was giving up choosing.

I went from one mouth to another, from one set of hands to another. I gave Margaux oral sex for the first time, slowly, while someone held my hips from behind. I felt warm semen on my breasts, on my waist, once on my cheek. I received a tongue where I hadn’t thought a tongue could be received. At some point I was wrapped around one of the blond women —a very tall woman from an eastern country, with marked collarbones— and we laughed for no reason, like two schoolgirls meeting in a bathroom. Then she kissed me on the mouth, very seriously, and I understood that the laughter had been a bridge. Ezequiel held me by the waist, sat me on his face, and I pressed his head against my cunt until my legs trembled. Later he turned me on my side, shoved his cock in without patience, and made me scream softly, covering my mouth with his wrist so no one outside that room would hear me.

They told me later that I had been the most sought after. Maybe because I was the unfamiliar one, maybe because nothing about me has been altered surgically. It doesn’t matter. What matters to me is that the old fantasy finally came true, without a jolt, without remorse, without that little noise in the head that sometimes appears.

Final count for the trip: forty-one men and two women body to body over the years, plus four more women that night.

***

We came back via Madrid. I slept almost the whole flight, laid my head on Ezequiel’s shoulder, and dreamed of the gold coin kept in my safe. Two days resting at home, and on the third I was already on the phone.

I let Damián, who knows everything and keeps quiet about everything, know I was back. He answered that Ricardo —my new client— was traveling to the city for the lab project. I understood his message and he understood mine. The next day Ricardo called me himself.

—Shall we do what we talked about?

—We’ll do what we talked about.

What happened that night —with Dad sitting in the armchair at the back, not speaking, not moving— I’ll tell next week, when my body is quieter.

I promise I’ll keep catching up.