The Trap We Set for Roberto That Night

Friday, eight-thirty in the morning.

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

“I’m the guy from last night. Shall we go ahead for eight tonight? I’ve got a place for us. 22 Sandoval Street, Chamberí. Third floor, left. I’ll be punctual.”

Brief. Direct. Like someone who did this often. I hit send.

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

“I’ll be there. Sharp at eight.”

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

Lucía was in the kitchen, making coffee. I approached her from behind 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 had never seen in her before.

“She’ll agree.”

***

I rang the bell on the fourth floor. Pilar opened almost immediately. She was wearing a comfortable dress, her hair tied back. She looked better than she had the week before, more rested.

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

“Sorry for showing up without warning. I have to show you something important.”

Her expression changed. Concern and curiosity at once.

“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 apartment that smelled of freshly brewed coffee.

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

The footage began. Roberto on his knees, Marcos standing in front of him, her husband’s mouth working with an eagerness 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 continued. Roberto on all fours, Marcos behind him, her husband’s voice begging him not to stop, broken and submissive. Then the ending: Roberto swallowing, licking, obedient, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The phone fell from her hands and bounced against the carpet.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no...”

Her breathing became erratic. Her hands trembled, and then her whole body.

“Twenty years!” she suddenly screamed, getting up from the sofa. “Twenty fucking years telling me I was disgusting! Telling me, who would ever want me!”

She clutched her stomach as if it genuinely hurt.

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

Her rage poured out pure and burning. She told me through her sobs that she had always known there was someone else; she had always known. But she thought it was another woman. She thought it was because she wasn’t good enough anymore, because she was getting old, 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. It was him all along.”

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

“Pilar,” I said firmly.

She froze, the frame trembling in her hand as she stared at the picture of the two of them smiling during some old vacation.

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

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

I held her without saying anything. Little by little, her crying changed. From desperation into something resembling 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 puts up with everything. The one who waits. The one who accepts. Not anymore.”

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

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

“Then you do nothing. You leave, or you stay and watch, or you do whatever you feel like doing in that moment. There’s no script, Pilar. Just an opportunity. For the first time in twenty years, you’re the one who decides.”

She closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, once, twice, 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.”

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

“I’ll be there.”

***

Seven in the evening.

The apartment was exactly like the pictures: 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 far 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 it in the enlarged photos.

Lucía placed the camera on the high shelf, between two decorative books 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.

“It looks good,” I said.

She took the rest of the equipment into the adjoining room: the harness, the lubricant, the towels. There was a large screen on the wall that came with the apartment; I connected it to the phone and left a video playing on a loop, without sound, ready to start with the remote I left on the bedside table.

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

“Completely.”

The bell rang. Seven-thirty. Pilar.

I opened the door. She was standing in the hallway, straighter than I had ever seen her, wearing 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 passed slowly. Pilar stared at the door as if she could make Roberto appear through sheer force of will. At five to eight, I looked at Lucía and nodded. The two of them went into the adjoining room and left the door slightly ajar, leaving barely a crack. 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 previous Friday, crying in our living room. “He tells me I’m disgusting. That who would ever want to touch me.” Yes. We were doing the right thing.

The bell rang.

Roberto was standing in the hallway with the same nervous smile as the night before. Freshly shaved, smelling of cologne. He had prepared himself.

I looked him up and down without smiling and took a step back.

“Come in,” I said.

It wasn’t an invitation; it was an order, and he understood that. I locked the door. The sound of the metal echoed through 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 apartment just for today.”

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

“Strip.”

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

“On your knees.”

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

“Eat it. And do it properly.”

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

When I was fully hard, I grabbed his hair.

“To the bed. On all fours.”

He climbed up and positioned himself, his ass toward me, his back arched. I slapped him. The sharp sound echoed through the apartment, and he shuddered with a moan. I gave him another, and another, alternating between his 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 backward, seeking me.

“Hold still,” I ordered. “Do you want it?”

“Yes. Please.”

I pushed. His body tensed and then swallowed me inch by inch. I began slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then thrusting deep again, until every stroke tore a moan from him. Then I sped up, gripping his hips, fucking him hard. The bed creaked. He begged louder, and I gave him what he wanted.

I glanced toward the dark crack in 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 abruptly. He moaned in frustration.

“Don’t move.”

I climbed onto the bed and knelt in front of his face. He remained on all fours, his ass exposed behind him, dilated and waiting. The position was perfect: he was looking at me, focused on my cock, unable to see anything happening behind him.

“Clean it,” I said.

He took it into his mouth hungrily, eyes closed, hands clutching the sheets. I held his hair, guiding the rhythm. Then I raised my other hand toward the door and made the signal.

Now.

The door opened silently. Lucía came out first, naked. Behind her came Pilar, also naked, wearing a black harness strapped around her hips, with a dildo already shining with lubricant. She walked upright and confidently, transformed from the woman who had collapsed that morning.

Roberto didn’t notice. He kept sucking with his eyes closed. The two women approached barefoot, making no sound on the floorboards. Pilar’s gaze was fixed on her husband’s ass, on that open hole I had just fucked.

Lucía placed a hand on her shoulder. Pilar took a deep breath, looked at me, and I nodded. He’s yours.

She positioned herself behind him, the dildo at exactly the right height. She gripped the base and thrust. Hard. In a single stroke, all the way in.

Roberto went rigid. He tried to let go of my cock and 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. He could only tremble.

Pilar began fucking him mercilessly, at the same brutal pace I had used before. Between thrusts, she slapped him over the same red marks, releasing years of pent-up rage. Roberto moaned uncontrollably, his huge eyes fixed on me, begging for an explanation I didn’t give him.

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

I stretched my arm toward the bedside table, grabbed the remote, and aimed it at the screen on the wall.

I pressed play.

The video came on. Footage from the previous night: Roberto and me, him on his knees, me fucking him, both of us coming, everything playing on a loop.

I let go of his hair.

“Now you can look,” I said.

He slowly pulled my cock from his mouth, gasping, and turned his head. And he saw it. His wife fucking him. And Lucía pressed against her, kissing her, her hands on Pilar’s breasts.

“Pilar?” he whispered, his voice broken.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t look at him. She kept thrusting, ignoring him completely, as if he were nothing more than a hole to use. Roberto’s eyes darted 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 gave him a brutal thrust that left him on his elbows, trembling.

“Stay 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 playing on the wall. His cock was hard and dripping, betraying him. He was enjoying it, and he knew it.

Pilar leaned toward his ear.

“Do you like it, Roberto?”

He moaned without 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 absolute shame:

“No. Don’t stop. Please.”

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

“Now you’re going to eat Marcos’s cock again,” she said. “And you’re not going to make a sound. You’re just going to suck and let him fuck you. Understood?”

“Yes, Pilar.”

She looked at me. I nodded. Roberto turned his head toward me, glassy-eyed and submissive, and opened his mouth. I began guiding his rhythm again while Pilar resumed thrusting. This time there was no hesitation in him: he sucked desperately, each thrust from his wife pushing him forward.

Pilar sped up. There was no malice left on her face, only concentration and a kind of liberated pleasure. Lucía kissed her neck, caressed her back, and whispered things I couldn’t hear.

“He’s going to come,” I said.

She knew it too. She gave him three final, deep thrusts, and Roberto came like never before in his life, his body convulsing, his cry muffled against my cock, emptying himself completely onto the sheets while his wife kept him impaled to the hilt.

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

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

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

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

Pilar turned toward Lucía. They looked at each other for one long second. Then she took Lucía’s hand and led her to the other end of the bed, three feet from Roberto. Close enough for him to see everything. Far enough that he couldn’t participate.

She wiped the dildo with a towel and added more lubricant. Lucía lay on her back, legs spread, 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 began fucking her with deep thrusts, her breasts swaying and colliding with Lucía’s. They kissed violently, mouths open, their moans mingling, sweat making everything shine.

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

From the end of the bed, three feet away, Roberto watched. His cock was hard again. He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t move. He only watched his wife fuck another woman, suck another man, lose herself in a pleasure he had never given her in twenty years.

Lucía came first, arching, her moan muffled against my cock. Pilar didn’t stop; she pushed her beyond it, prolonging the orgasm until Lucía trembled uncontrollably. When she finally collapsed, gasping, Pilar leaned down and kissed her, deeply and possessively.

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