Three Mature Men Divided Up My Body

That morning I opened the banking app and reality hit me without mercy. The accounts were hovering around zero. The credit cards were maxed out. A stack of bills on the dining table that I’d been deliberately ignoring for two weeks. There wasn’t much room for self-deception: I needed money, and fast. Only one way out occurred to me.

Rodrigo owned an art studio in the old quarter. We’d met three months earlier through a mutual contact, and what had happened between us that first afternoon had left me unsettled for days. I hadn’t looked for him since then, just as he’d asked me not to when we parted. But that Tuesday morning, staring at the numbers on the screen, I dialed his number.

He must have heard the urgency in my voice, because he didn’t ask for explanations.

“Come tomorrow, late in the evening. I’ll be with a select little group. A few mature men who like to watch and… well, depending on how you behave, that’s what you’ll get out of it,” he said in that calm way of his that always put me on edge.

I spent the rest of the day trying not to think too much about it. I went to the gym, cooked something, watched half a series. But at three in the morning I was still awake, the ceiling staring back at me. My wife was asleep on her side, her back turned to me, oblivious to everything. I hardly ever get a woman’s hand on me these days. I also thought about how much that contrasted with where I would be heading the next day.

***

The next day, as the sun was already going down, I took the metro to the old quarter. I walked the last three blocks on foot, hands in my pockets and my mind fairly quiet. Sometimes the body simply accepts what the mind is still processing.

Elena, Rodrigo’s wife, opened the door for me. She must have been in her mid-fifties, with dark hair cut to the jaw, a calm, calculated smile that left nothing to chance.

“We’re both bisexual,” she remarked as we walked down the hallway, as if that were the sort of thing you mention in passing, between coffee and the door—“Rodrigo is waiting for you.”

She didn’t take me to the large studio where we had worked the first time, but to a smaller room at the end of the corridor. When I pushed the door open and stepped inside, it took me a second to process what I was seeing.

Rodrigo was on the bed, naked, leaning on his elbows with the expression of someone who had been waiting a while and didn’t mind. And distributed around the room’s corners, each in a different position, there were three men in their sixties. Still dressed. Each with a camera hanging from his neck.

“These friends are going to document what happens,” Rodrigo explained, sitting up without the slightest shame. “Don’t worry: it’s not your face they’re interested in capturing. If you don’t mind, we can begin.”

I didn’t say anything. But I didn’t protest either. I supposed that was a form of consent.

Elena closed the door behind me and remained in the room.

She came up to me and began helping me take my clothes off with an efficiency I found, for some reason, more exciting than any deliberate eroticism. She did it as if it were completely normal, as if this happened every Tuesday. When she took off my T-shirt and then my trousers, she paused for a moment when she saw the dark boxer briefs I was wearing.

“Rodrigo,” she called without raising her voice much. “Look what we’ve got here.”

She yanked them down to my ankles.

Rodrigo got off the bed and walked toward me. His fingers circled me slowly, feeling the weight of things, then he looked up and said to me:

“Last time I was left wanting more.”

Before I could answer, he took me into his mouth.

The contact was direct, wet, hot, with the slightest trace of fake delicacy. He opened wider and swallowed a good part of me while gripping me at the base, and I had to brace myself on the edge of the dresser so I wouldn’t lose my balance. His tongue worked my tip with obscene precision, while his hand moved up and down slowly, with just enough pressure to drive me mad. The sound he made sucking me off, that noise of saliva and flesh, went straight through me.

While he did that, Elena ran her hands over my back, my buttocks, and then, with a gentle, unhurried exploration, went further. There was no shame in her: she opened me with two fingers, felt me from behind, made it clear she knew exactly where to touch to pull a gasp out of me. In the corners, the three men had lifted their cameras. I could hear the sound of the shutter in the silence of the room, over and over, methodically.

What turned me on most was not Rodrigo’s mouth, but a ridiculous, specific detail: his wedding ring, broad and gold, pressed into my skin every time he moved his hand. That little detail excited me more than anything else.

When he made sure there was no doubt about my state, he took me by the shoulders and laid me out on the bed.

He got on top of me. His body weighed differently from a woman’s: more solid, denser, without curves that would anticipate the next movement. He kissed me with his mouth open, hungry, as if he’d been waiting a long time to do it. My eyes were half-closed and I could hear the cameras moving around us, footsteps on the wooden floor, the dry sound of clothes falling.

I opened my eyes and saw that the three men had stripped off. It wasn’t an image I would have expected to find myself looking at at forty-two, but there it was: three older bodies, with their bulk and their gray hair and the looks of men who were in no hurry at all. One of them, the tallest, had a build I couldn’t fail to notice.

What followed was, in the best possible sense, organized chaos.

Hands I didn’t know whose they were. Mouths on different parts of my body. Rodrigo lifted my legs and entered me without pause, direct, with a certainty that left no room for doubt. He went in slowly at first, opening me with firm pressure and then sinking deeper, until he made me let out a hoarse moan. He held me by the thighs and started driving into me with brutal, deep cadence, making the mattress creak with every thrust of his hips. I could feel his hard cock going in and out of me as if he meant to split me in two, and that exact roughness left me shaking.

One of the other men stood in front of me and slipped his hand between my legs, stroking me with wet fingers while he watched my face up close, as though he wanted to read every reaction on it. The second took my mouth without asking, with a rough tongue that forced me to open wider and swallow my saliva, while the camera hung from his neck and bumped against his chest. The third knelt at my side, spread my legs even wider and kissed my groin, licking my skin, then sliding down my thigh until he nearly made me convulse.

In one corner, Elena had sat down on a chair and was watching us intently. She wasn’t taking part. Just observing, one hand between her thighs and an expression of complete concentration. Her dark hair fell over one side of her face and she didn’t brush it away. She touched herself slowly, never taking her eyes off Rodrigo burying himself in me, off the other men surrounding me, off my body drenched in sweat and saliva beneath that siege.

Rodrigo changed the angle and pushed my knees toward my chest. The next thrust tore a louder, more shameless sound from me. I felt the weight of his testicles striking my skin, the rough friction of his hips against my thighs, the heat gathering in my belly. When he pulled his cock out to go back in, he rubbed my hole with the tip, as if he enjoyed making me wait one more second before driving into me all the way again.

“Like that, fuck,” he murmured near my ear. “Don’t hold back.”

And I didn’t hold back. I begged him for more with a cracked voice, with an obscenity I would never have allowed myself anywhere else. One of the men gave a low laugh and started rubbing his crotch against my face, offering me his cock without saying a word, until I sucked him off eagerly, tasting the salty flavor of his skin and feeling the pull in my neck muscles as I took him deeper.

Rodrigo finished first. His body tensed over mine and flooded me with a hot release that filled me from within with a wet, sticky violence impossible to ignore. He stayed there a moment, rooted in place, breathing hard, while I felt the semen spreading inside me and making me shudder. Then he pulled away, dripping with sweat, and stroked my stomach with an odd, almost domestic tenderness.

Then they took turns with a logic of their own that I didn’t need to understand. When one finished, the next took his place. The cameras kept rolling. One made me kneel so he could fuck my mouth until it made me tear up; another put me face down and opened me from behind again, entering with a dry, steady rhythm that made me clutch the sheets with my fingers; another sat me on top of him and held my ass with both hands while I rode his cock up and down, giving me time to feel every centimeter. Elena kept watching, touching herself harder as the room filled with gasps, sweaty bodies, and broken breathing. I’m not going to give any more details of what happened in that room during the next hour: some silences are necessary. I’ll only say that the envelope Rodrigo put in my hand before I left had enough to cover the next few months.

And that I left there with my whole body aching in ways that kept me present in my own thoughts for several days.

***

I took the metro back without sitting down. I got home, went into the bathroom, and turned the shower up to its hottest. I stayed under the water for a long time, letting the steam fill the space until the mirror was completely clouded over. Then I wrapped myself in a towel and sat on the edge of the bathtub doing nothing for several minutes.

My wife wasn’t there. She had gone to meet Patricia, a coworker she saw from time to time and with whom, as I had understood at some point without anyone ever explaining it directly to me, she also slept. Her husband was a formal kind of guy, the sort who goes to mass on Sundays. Patricia and my wife were meeting at a small hotel downtown. Everyone had their own business.

I opened a bottle of red wine and poured myself a glass in the living room.

It was nearly eleven at night. The apartment across the way had a light on behind translucent curtains. My neighbors, a married couple who had lived in that apartment for years, had a habit of staying up late. I knew because some nights, when I leaned out the window, I could see their silhouettes moving behind the fabric.

That night I drank the second glass standing up, in front of the window. I didn’t think about it too much. I went up to the window under the excuse of pulling the curtain aside, like someone checking the state of the sky, and stood there, without the towel, with the room light on behind me. Visible, if anyone looked.

Someone was looking.

The silhouettes behind the curtains stopped. The one I recognized as her moved toward him, and he did not pull away. The moon came in at an angle from the left and allowed me to make out, between the dimness and the fabric, enough to understand what was happening on the other side.

I sat down in the armchair facing the window.

I touched myself slowly, without haste, knowing both of them were watching me. It didn’t take long. The day had been too long for that.

When I finished, I saw the small glint of a lighter across the street, and then the orange point of a lit cigarette.

I poured myself the last glass and toasted them in silence. To them, for having spent so many years together and still finding reasons to stay awake.