What Started as a Business Deal Ended Up in His Bed

I’d been married to Nadia for fifteen years, a smart, affectionate woman who made my life easy. I had no reason to complain. One Saturday in October we hosted a dinner at home with three couples who were friends from work. There were eight of us around the table when Tomás and Verónica arrived with a couple I didn’t know: the man was called Rodrigo.

Forty-seven years old. Six foot one, maybe more. Broad back, square jaw, a close three-day beard that gave him the look of a man who didn’t waste time on things that didn’t matter. He wore a dark gray shirt rolled up to the elbows and spoke little, with that quiet confidence that doesn’t need to raise its voice to take over the whole room. Beside him, his wife —Patricia— looked out of place: small, sour-faced, with that heavy energy of someone who has been miserable for years and makes sure everyone near her knows it.

I disliked Patricia within ten minutes of conversation. Rodrigo, on the other hand, unsettled me from the start in a way I preferred not to analyze too much.

I watched him throughout dinner with more discretion than I actually had. I had some experience with men before, nothing too serious, episodes I filed under curiosity and preferred not to revisit. A cock sucked in the dark on a school trip, an older guy who fucked me against the sink in a roadside bar when I was twenty-three. I told myself it was a youthful thing. But this man wasn’t a curiosity, and he wasn’t young. He was a solid physical fact occupying space in the room in a way that was hard to ignore, and by dessert I already had a hard-on under my trousers without having done anything to bring it on.

By the end of the night we exchanged numbers almost as a formality. Rodrigo worked in logistics for imported construction materials; I worked in regional distribution. There was common ground for a business conversation. I told myself that was all it was.

***

Almost a month passed before his message arrived. Brief, direct, like him: he wanted to visit my warehouse, he had a proposal that might interest me. I replied yes without thinking too much about it. The following Friday he showed up on time, with a slim leather briefcase and that same dark shirt, or an identical one.

I took him on a tour of the facilities. Outside the social context, Rodrigo was different: more expansive, more present. He started laughing when I showed him the cataloging system I’d built on my own over the years and which was, I admit without pride, a mess with good intentions. He had a restrained, almost private laugh that made you feel as if you had earned it. When he smiled, the tension in his jaw softened and the serious man from Saturday dinner turned into something harder to manage.

We ate at the industrial estate bar. A no-frills place, with plastic chairs and a television blaring at an unnecessary volume. Before coffee, Rodrigo set the briefcase aside, rested his elbows on the table, and looked at me with a frankness that caught me off guard.

—My marriage has been a sham for years —he said, without preamble—. Patricia and I stay together out of habit, nothing else. She confessed a long time ago that she likes other men fucking her in front of me. I know it and I accept it. What I don’t accept is standing there watching.

I listened without interrupting.

—I’m looking for someone I can trust —he went on—. A man who gets along well with both of us. Who fucks her properly while I’m there. That’s what she wants. She says she comes harder if I’m in the room.

I was almost about to tell him it seemed like a complicated situation. Instead, I asked what he got out of all that.

—That’s my business —he replied, and there was neither sharpness nor evasion in his voice. Just a very clear boundary drawn with complete calm.

I spent two days thinking about it. I convinced myself I’d do it for Patricia, that in the end it wasn’t so bad if you ignored the expression on your face. I convinced myself of many things that were only half true. The truth was simpler and far more uncomfortable: I wanted to be in the same room as Rodrigo again, I wanted to see his cock, I wanted to know what the man was like when his calm ran out.

***

The night we agreed on was a Friday in November. Rodrigo arrived with Patricia at my mountain cabin, a small property I use when I need distance from the city. I welcomed them with a light dinner and a good bottle of wine. Patricia made an effort to seem pleasant and almost pulled it off. Rodrigo stayed calm all evening, drinking slowly, observing everything with that cool composure of his that by then felt more charged than relaxed.

The three of us danced after dinner. I touched Patricia, noticed her body was slight, taut, with the stiffness of someone trying to seem natural in a situation that wasn’t. I slid my hand under her skirt almost immediately and rubbed her pussy through her panties. She was wet. I didn’t find it unpleasant. It was simply there, fulfilling its role in a scene whose true lead had spent the entire night seated in the armchair with his legs crossed, watching everything in detail, the bulge of his cock clearly outlined in his dark trousers every time I looked up at him.

Shortly after midnight the three of us had drunk enough for the edges of the situation to blur. We went upstairs to the bedroom without anyone saying it aloud.

In bed, Rodrigo and I undressed Patricia between us. She let us do it with that total passivity of someone who decides not to participate but to receive. She had small breasts, very dark hard nipples, almost completely shaved pussy already shining with moisture. I knelt between her legs and ran my tongue up her pussy from bottom to top, looking for her clit, sucking it until I heard her let out a low, rough, contained moan. I slipped two fingers inside her and felt how tightly she clamped around them. I closed my eyes for a second, pulled myself together, focused on what was in front of me, but the truth is I was listening for the sound Rodrigo made behind me as he took off his belt.

Then Rodrigo started undressing.

I have no other way to describe it: it was extraordinary. Broad chest covered in dark hair, flat stomach, arms that made everything else seem built with second-rate materials. He had the kind of body you see on other men and wonder how it’s possible for someone to be built that well. When he pulled down his boxers, I stopped for a second that lasted too long. His cock hung half-hard, thick, heavy from the base, veins already standing out and his balls low and weighty underneath. He grabbed it with one hand and gave it two strokes while looking me in the eyes, and after those two strokes he had it fully hard, long, pointing at me like an accusation. It was big, very big, and what I felt at the sight of it wasn’t abstract admiration: my mouth went dry and I felt a pull in my ass, a hollow needing to be filled.

I got to work on Patricia. I spread her legs, spat into my hand, spread the saliva over my cock and shoved it into her in one thrust. She was so wet I went in all the way with no resistance. I started fucking her with slow thrusts, leaning on my arms, while she took everything with absolute passivity, as if her body were a borrowed space for the occasion. Her tits bounced a little with every hit of my hips. The rhythm was mine. Beside me, Rodrigo positioned himself over his wife as well, slid into her with the same calm he did everything with, and started fucking her alongside me, shoulder to shoulder, both of us sinking into the same pussy in turn because there was no way both cocks could fit at once.

And at that moment, without planning it, I pulled mine out, shifted to one side, slid my hand underneath, and touched him.

It was like grabbing something designed to throw you off balance. Thick, firm, hot under my fingers, so fat my hand couldn’t fully close around it. I stroked him up and down slowly, feeling the swollen head, the thick vein running underneath, the heavy hot balls against my wrist when I came down. My breathing caught. Rodrigo said nothing. He didn’t pull away. He kept moving inside Patricia and I kept my hand where it was, jerking him off while he fucked his wife, feeling both their rhythms, feeling how his cock got harder and harder between my fingers until Patricia began trembling, let out a long moan, her whole body tensing, and then went still and silent, with that surrender of someone who has finished and has nothing left to give.

***

I stayed facing Rodrigo.

Patricia had her eyes closed. Her breathing became slow, deep, regular. Rodrigo looked at me from the other side of the bed with an expression that wasn’t a question but an expectation. He sat back against the headboard, legs spread and his cock wet with his wife’s juices, stiff against his stomach. I moved toward him. I knelt between his legs and lowered my face slowly until it was right in front of him, so close I could smell sex and hot skin. I ran my tongue from his balls to the tip in one long lick, and he exhaled through his nose without looking away.

I took him into my mouth slowly, without hurry, exploring every inch. At first just the tip, sucking the head, feeling the thick taste fill my mouth, swallowing the viscous drop already beading from the slit. Then I kept going down, taking more and more of him until I gagged and had to pull back to breathe, a thread of saliva hanging between my lips and his cock. I took him back in, this time deeper, forcing my throat, holding back the gag reflex until the hairs of his pubic patch tickled my nose. He rested his head against the headboard and let out the breath he’d been holding. His hands didn’t guide me or push me away. I sucked him for a long time, bobbing my head up and down, licking his balls one by one, licking the vein that ran underneath, letting myself sink down over his cock to the base and staying there. There was something in that attitude of his —restrained yet demanding— that turned me on more than anything he could have said or done. My cock was straining between my legs, hard and dripping, without anyone having touched it all night.

I kept at it for a long while until he, with two fingers under my chin, lifted my face.

—Turn around —he said, very quietly.

After that Rodrigo changed my position with an economy of movement that showed he knew exactly what he wanted. He set me on all fours at the edge of the bed, spread my ass cheeks with both hands, and spat on my hole. I felt the saliva run down my crack and then his finger, thick, entering me slowly, to the knuckle, then two. He moved them inside without haste, opening me up, while with his other hand he jerked his cock against my thigh. I arched without meaning to and he let out a low, approving growl.

—Hold on —he murmured.

I felt the head against my ass, round and hot, and then the pressure, that tremendous pressure of something much bigger than the body believes it can take. He penetrated me slowly, very slowly, with that same calm that defined him in everything. Every centimeter was a question and I answered it with my body, clenching my teeth at first, biting the sheet, letting out a rough gasp when the head passed the ring, and then relaxing into something that was pain and intensity mixed in a way I hadn’t known existed. When he had me completely inside, he stayed still for a moment with his hands on my hips, letting me feel him, letting me get used to the hard bulge filling me completely.

Then he started moving. Long pulls, almost all the way out, and thrusts to the hilt with a sharp slap of his hips against my ass. At first slowly, then harder, then with a steady rhythm that made the bed creak beneath us. His hands held my hips with enough force to leave a mark. I gripped the sheet with my fists and pushed back against him without realizing it, seeking him, wanting more. I could feel his balls hitting me every time he drove in all the way. Mine, forgotten between my legs, twitched with every thrust, dripping onto the sheets without me touching them.

—That’s it —I heard him say very low behind me—. That’s it, quiet, taking it properly.

He dug his nails into my waist and sped up. The blows became harder, deeper, and something in me broke and started moaning without being able to help it, my mouth against the mattress so as not to wake Patricia. I felt the orgasm rising without even having touched my cock. I came like that, with him inside me, shooting thickly over the sheets while my ass clenched in spasms around his cock. He let out a rough gasp and his thrusts became erratic. He buried himself to the hilt two, three more times, stopped, and I felt his cock jerk inside me, filling me with hot cum in long pulses, pressing me against his body with both hands until the last drop.

When he finished, he stayed over me, still inside me, breathing against the back of my neck, and I didn’t ask him to move. I could feel the semen sliding inside me and then down my thigh when he finally pulled out. I stayed face down, open, feeling emptied and full at the same time, unable to move for minutes.

Patricia slept beside us without having noticed anything. I found out later she had mixed the wine with anxiety pills, something she’d done for a long time because of her nerves. What happened that night between Rodrigo and me existed only for the two of us.

***

The next day we had breakfast as if nothing had happened. Patricia made comments about the weather and the drive back. Rodrigo drank his coffee standing up, looking out of the cabin window. Before leaving, when Patricia had already gone down to the car, Rodrigo squeezed my arm for a second in the hallway. Just that. My ass was still stinging when I shut the door.

Patricia called me two days later. She wanted to do it again. We met a couple of times at my apartment in the city, just her and me, and it was fine but nothing more. I fucked her on the sofa with the same technique I’d use for a chore: ate her pussy, fucked her from the front, came on her tits the second time. That body without Rodrigo beside it did nothing for me worth mentioning. I cut it off without giving her an explanation.

With Rodrigo it was different. One afternoon he texted me: “Do you have time this week?” We met at a downtown hotel. A clean, impersonal room, with the blinds down at five in the afternoon. He came in, closed the door, looked at me for a moment and, without saying anything, pushed me against the wall, pulled my trousers down to my knees, and slid two fingers into my ass using the saliva he took from his own mouth. Then everything happened with the same calm as always: not rough, but not hesitant either. He laid me on my back on the bed, lifted my legs over his shoulders, and fucked me to the hilt looking me in the eyes, fucking me slowly at first and then at a rhythm that made me bite the pillow so I wouldn’t cry out. He came inside. I came over my own stomach with his cock still buried in me. He knew exactly what he wanted and I knew I was willing to give it to him.

Since then, Thursdays are his.

We haven’t talked about what we are or what we do when that door closes. Rodrigo isn’t the kind of man who needs to put names to things, and I’ve learned not to need them either. I arrive, check in, go upstairs. Ten minutes later I hear the soft knock of his knuckles at the door. He comes in, undresses me without hurry, sometimes makes me kneel to suck him the moment he closes the door; other times he throws me face down on the bed and opens me with his tongue before he fucks me. He makes me his for a couple of hours with that mix of authority and care that still throws me, even though I know exactly what it’s about by now. I leave the hotel with my ass stinging, his cum drying inside me, and a strange calm that lasts until the following Thursday.

Nadia has started to notice that on Thursdays I come home late and different. She hasn’t asked directly, but there are questions in the way she looks at me when I walk through the door. Sooner or later she’ll have to ask them out loud and I’ll have to answer something. I still don’t know what to tell her.

The truth is I don’t fully understand it myself either. How a man who thought he was perfectly settled in his life ended up at a dinner with friends a year ago and walked out with something that had no name but that he hasn’t been able, nor wanted, to let go of since. How that something has the exact shape of a forty-seven-year-old man with a close beard and rolled-up sleeves who barely speaks, but when he opens that room’s door he fucks me as if he’d known all along that I was made for it.