The Trap We Set for Roberto That Night

Friday, eight-thirty in the morning.

I opened Telegram on my phone and looked for the fake contact I had created for Roberto: @reservado_M81. I typed the message without thinking too much about it.

“I’m the one from last night. Shall we keep going today at eight? I’ve got a place for us. Sandoval Street 22, Chamberí. Third floor, left. I’ll be on time.”

Short. Direct. Like someone who does this often. I hit send.

The two blue ticks appeared almost instantly. Then the three dots. He was typing.

“I’ll be there. At eight sharp.”

I put the phone away and took a deep breath. There was no turning back now.

Lucía was in the kitchen, making coffee. I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her.

“It’s done,” I said. “Roberto confirmed. Eight o’clock.”

“Good.” She turned in my arms. “Now I’m going to see Pilar. I have to show her the video and explain the plan.”

“Do you think she’ll agree?”

She looked at me with a certainty I didn’t know she had.

“She’ll agree.”

***

I rang the doorbell on the fourth floor. Pilar opened almost at once. She was wearing a comfortable dress and had her hair tied up. She looked better than she had the week before, more rested.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she said.

“Sorry for showing up unannounced. I need to show you something important.”

Her expression changed. Concern and curiosity at the same time.

“Is it about Roberto?”

I nodded. She let me in. He was at work and wouldn’t be back until two. We sat on the living room sofa, in a cozy flat that smelled of freshly brewed coffee.

I took out my phone, opened the folder where Marcos had saved the video, and handed it to her.

“It’s from last night,” I said. “Marcos recorded it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Roberto. Doing what he’s been doing in secret for years.”

She took the phone with trembling hands. I hit play.

The images began. Roberto on his knees, Marcos standing in front of him, her husband’s mouth working with an appetite Pilar had never seen in twenty years of marriage. The moans. The wet sounds.

She stared at the screen without blinking, her face frozen, as if her brain couldn’t process what she was seeing.

The video went on. Roberto on all fours, Marcos behind him, her husband’s voice pleading for him not to stop, cracked, submissive. Then the end: Roberto swallowing, licking, obedient, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The phone fell from her hands and bounced off the rug.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no...”

Her breathing turned erratic. Her hands were shaking, and then her whole body was.

“Twenty years!” she suddenly shouted, standing up from the sofa. “Twenty fucking years telling me I was disgusting! That who would ever want me!”

She clutched her stomach as if it really hurt.

“And all that time he was doing that.” She pointed at the phone on the floor. “Sleeping with other people while convincing me the problem was me.”

The rage came out of her raw, burning. She had known there was someone else, she told me through sobs; she had always known. But she had thought it was another woman. She thought it was because she no longer measured up, because she was older, because she had stopped taking care of herself.

“And it was never because of me,” she said, her voice in pieces. “Never. It was him. All the time it was him.”

She grabbed a cushion and hurled it against the wall. Then a framed photo of the two of them, her arm already raised.

“Pilar,” I said firmly.

She froze, the frame trembling in her hand, staring at that picture of the two of them smiling on some old vacation.

“I hate him,” she whispered. “I hate him so much.”

The frame fell and the glass shattered on the floor. Pilar collapsed to her knees, and this time, when I moved toward her, she didn’t pull away. I hugged her. She clung to me, crying into my shoulder, repeating “twenty years” over and over again.

I held her without saying anything. Little by little, the crying changed. From despair into something like release.

When she finally pulled away, she was wrecked: swollen eyes, red nose. But there was something new in her gaze. Something harder.

“I can’t go on like this,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “I can’t be the one who endures. The one who waits. The one who accepts it. Not anymore.”

Then I told her about that night. That Roberto would go to a flat believing he was meeting Marcos, convinced his secret was still safe. That she could be there. See him. Decide what to do.

“What if I freeze?” she asked. “What if all this rage turns into fear?”

“Then you do nothing. You leave, or you keep watching, or you do whatever you feel in that moment. There’s no script, Pilar. Just the chance. For the first time in twenty years, you’re the one deciding.”

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath, one, two, three times. When she opened them, something had changed.

“I want to be there,” she said, her voice clear. “I want him to know that I know. That he can’t lie to me anymore.”

“At seven-thirty. In Chamberí. I’ll send you the address.”

“I’ll be there.”

***

Seven in the evening.

The flat was exactly like the photos: small but bright, on the third floor in Chamberí, with that freshly cleaned smell of short-term rentals. Lucía had booked it the night before, paying cash from an anonymous account. No one would ever know we had been there.

The living room was open-plan: a sofa, a large bed against the back wall, and beside it, a door leading to the adjoining room. There was a gap of a couple of centimeters at the bottom. We had checked that in the enlarged photos.

Lucía set the camera on the high shelf, between two decor books that no one had ever opened. The angle captured the bed and much of the sofa. I connected the cable to the laptop, opened the program, and checked the image.

“Looks good,” I said.

She took the rest of the gear and carried it into the adjoining room: the harness, the lube, the towels. On the wall there was a large screen that came with the flat; I connected it to my phone and left a video on loop, with no sound, ready to play with the remote I left on the side table.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked, holding her from behind.

“Completely.”

The doorbell rang. Seven-thirty. Pilar.

I opened the door. She was on the landing, straighter than I had ever seen her, in a dark dress and a tense smile. Lucía came out to hug her.

“Ready?” she asked.

Pilar nodded.

“What time is he getting here?” she asked me.

“Eight. In half an hour.”

The next twenty minutes dragged. Pilar kept looking at the door as if she could make Roberto appear just by sheer force of will. At five to eight, I looked at Lucía and nodded. The two of them went into the adjoining room and pulled the door almost shut, leaving only a sliver open. I heard movement, murmurs, the rustle of clothing. They were getting ready.

I was left alone in the living room. I looked at my phone. Two minutes to eight.

Are we doing the right thing?

I remembered Pilar the Friday before, crying in our living room. “He tells me I’m disgusting. That who’s going to want to touch me.” Yes. We were doing the right thing.

The doorbell rang.

Roberto was on the landing with the same nervous smile as the night before. Freshly shaved, smelling of cologne. He had made an effort.

I looked him up and down without smiling and stepped back.

“Come in,” I said.

It wasn’t an invitation, it was an order, and he understood it. I locked the door behind him. The metal click echoed in the silence.

He looked around: the empty living room, the bed, the sofa. His eyes rested for a moment on the half-open door beside it. He suspected nothing.

“Total privacy,” I said. “I rented the flat just for today.”

I came up to him slowly, without touching him, invading his space until his back hit the closed door.

“Take your clothes off.”

He obeyed with clumsy hands. When he was naked, I pushed him gently toward the center of the living room.

“On your knees.”

He dropped to the floor at once. I pulled out his cock and brought it to his face.

“Suck it. And do it right.”

He opened his mouth and took it all in. He knew what he was doing; he’d done it many times. I didn’t move. I let him work, watching his head go up and down, hearing the wet sounds. Behind the door, Lucía and Pilar were seeing everything on the laptop screen.

When he was hard enough, I grabbed his hair.

“To the bed. On all fours.”

He climbed up and got into position, his ass toward me, his back arched. I gave him a slap. The sharp sound rang through the flat, and he shuddered with a moan. I gave him another, and another, alternating cheeks until his skin was red and hot.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck.”

I spat into my hand, wet my cock, and rubbed the tip against his entrance without going in. He pushed back, looking for me.

“Still,” I ordered. “You want it?”

“Yes. Please.”

I pushed. His body tensed and then swallowed me inch by inch. I started slowly, coming almost all the way out and then driving back in deep, until each thrust tore a moan from him. Then I sped up, grabbing his hips, fucking him for real. The bed creaked. He begged harder, and I gave it to him.

I looked toward the dark sliver of the door. Lucía and Pilar were there, watching everything. The thought made me even harder.

“Are you going to come?” I asked.

“Yes... I’m going to come.”

I pulled out suddenly. He whimpered in frustration.

“Don’t move.”

I climbed onto the bed and knelt in front of his face. He was still on all fours, ass exposed behind him, stretched, waiting. The position was perfect: he was looking at me, focused on my cock, seeing none of what was happening behind him.

“Clean me off,” I said.

He took it into his mouth hungrily, eyes closed, hands gripping the sheets. I held his hair, guiding the rhythm. And then I lifted my other hand toward the door and made the gesture.

Now.

The door opened without a sound. Lucía came out first, naked. Behind her came Pilar, also naked, wearing a black harness fitted to her hips and a dildo already shining with lube. She walked upright, confident, unlike the woman who had collapsed that morning.

Roberto didn’t notice. He kept sucking with his eyes closed. The two of them approached barefoot, making no noise on the floorboards. Pilar had her eyes fixed on her husband’s ass, on that open hole I had just been fucking.

Lucía put a hand on his shoulder. Pilar took a deep breath, looked at me, and I nodded. It’s yours.

She positioned herself behind him, the dildo at the perfect height. She gripped the base and pushed. Hard. In one thrust, all the way in.

Roberto went rigid. He tried to let go of my cock, turn his head, but I grabbed his hair and pushed deeper, down his throat.

“No,” I ordered. “Keep going.”

He moaned around my cock, a muffled sound of total confusion. He couldn’t speak. Only tremble.

Pilar started fucking him without mercy, at the same brutal pace I had used before. Between thrusts she slapped him, over the same red marks, unleashing years of bottled-up rage. Roberto moaned uncontrollably, his eyes huge, fixed on me, begging for an explanation I wasn’t giving him.

“That’s it,” Lucía murmured beside him, a hand on his back. “Give him what he deserves.”

I reached toward the side table, grabbed the remote, and pointed it at the wall screen.

I hit play.

The video came on. Images from the night before: Roberto and me, him on his knees, me fucking him, both of us coming, all of it on loop.

I let go of his hair.

“Now you can look,” I said.

He pulled my cock out of his mouth slowly, panting, and turned his head. And he saw it. His wife fucking him. And Lucía pressed against her, kissing her, hands on her breasts.

“Pilar?” he whispered, voice broken.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t look at him. She kept pounding into him, ignoring him completely, as if he were nothing but a hole to use. Roberto’s eyes jumped to the screen, to his own secret image repeating over and over.

“No,” he whispered. “No, fuck, no...”

He tried to sit up, but Pilar drove in with a brutal thrust that left him propped on his elbows, shaking.

“Still,” she said calmly.

And he stayed still. On all fours. With his wife fucking him from behind and the video of his secret life on the wall. His cock hard again, dripping, betraying him. He was enjoying it, and he knew it.

Pilar bent down to his ear.

“You like it, Roberto?”

He moaned, not answering.

“Answer me,” she ordered, giving him another thrust.

“Yes,” he gasped at last, broken. “Yes.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

It took him a while to answer. Then, in a whisper of total shame:

“No. Don’t stop. Please.”

Pilar smiled. I saw it from where I was: a cold, triumphant smile.

“Now you’re going to suck Marcos’s cock again,” she said. “And you’re not making a sound. You’re just going to suck and let yourself get fucked. Understand?”

“Yes, Pilar.”

She looked at me. I nodded. Roberto turned his head toward me, glassy-eyed, submissive, and opened his mouth. I started guiding his rhythm again while Pilar resumed thrusting. This time there was no doubt in him: he sucked with desperation, driven forward by every удар of his wife.

Pilar sped up. There was no malice in her face anymore, only concentration and a kind of unleashed pleasure. Lucía was kissing her neck, stroking her back, whispering things I couldn’t hear.

“He’s going to come,” I said.

She knew it too. She gave three final thrusts, deep, and Roberto came harder than he ever had in his life, his body convulsing, the muffled cry trapped against my cock, emptying himself all over the sheets while his wife kept him pinned to the hilt.

When it was over, he collapsed onto his elbows, shaking.

Pilar pulled the dildo out slowly and stepped back, breathing hard. I moved away.

“Go to the back of the bed,” I told Roberto. “Sit there and watch. Don’t move.”

He obeyed. He crawled backward and sat against the wall, still half-hard between his legs, eyes empty, completely surrendered.

Pilar turned to Lucía. They looked at each other for a long moment. Then she took Lucía by the hand and led her to the other end of the bed, a meter from Roberto. Close enough for him to see everything. Far enough that he couldn’t join in.

She wiped the dildo with a towel and added more lube. Lucía lay back, legs open, looking at her hungrily. Pilar positioned herself between her thighs and penetrated her slowly, all the way in. Lucía let out a long moan.

She started fucking her with deep thrusts, her breasts swaying and brushing against Lucía’s. They kissed violently, mouths open, moans mixing, sweat making everything shine.

I knelt beside the bed, cock level with their faces. Pilar turned her head without stopping and took it into her mouth. Then she guided it toward Lucía’s lips. And then both of them at once, sharing it, their tongues meeting at the tip, coordinating without speaking.

At the foot of the bed, a meter away, Roberto watched. His cock was hard again. He wasn’t touching himself. He wasn’t moving. He only watched his wife fuck another woman, suck another cock, lose herself in a pleasure he had never given her in twenty years.

Lucía came first, arching, the moan muffled against my cock. Pilar didn’t stop; she took her further, stretching the orgasm until she trembled uncontrollably. When she finally collapsed, panting, Pilar leaned in and kissed her, deep, possessive.

Then the two of them came back to me. And Roberto, in his corner, kept watching.