What Happened with My Father’s Married Friend

I woke up with my body still buzzing from the party, my skin sensitive in places I didn’t remember exposing, and two red marks on my neck that burned every time I turned my head on the pillow. Tomás was still sleeping beside me, face down, oblivious to everything, as if the entire night had been a dream only I had had. My head hurt from the pisco, and guilt was beginning to surface, slowly, but beneath it all there was a stubborn heat between my legs that wouldn’t go away, a sticky pulse in my pussy that reminded me, with every movement of my thighs, of Lucía’s tongue buried deep inside me the night before.

I got dressed in silence, left him a note on the nightstand so he wouldn’t worry, and ordered a car through the app. While I waited on the sidewalk, I looked through the previous night’s stories on my phone. There we were, Lucía and me, pressed too closely together, laughing against a wall, her mouth almost at my ear. I deleted the last one before anyone else could see it.

I got home when the sun was already beating hard against the living-room windows. My throat was dry, so I went straight to the kitchen for a glass of water. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone awake that early on a Sunday.

Renata was sitting at the counter, a coffee between her hands and that courtroom expression of hers, the one she wore when she already knew something and was just waiting for me to confess.

—I saw you in the stories with Pau’s cousin —she said without preamble, raising an eyebrow—. Really close, huh. I didn’t know you liked women.

I laughed nervously, poured myself some water, and sat down across from her. There was no point lying to her. Renata had known me since before I knew myself.

—It was good, sis. Very good —I admitted, feeling the heat rise into my face—. Something happened. She ate me out completely. She made me come three times with her tongue.

She burst out laughing and shook her head, half scandalized, half amused.

—You’re crazy. And Tomás?

—Sleeping like a log. He didn’t notice a thing.

We laughed for a while, talking about the party, who had ended up with whom, and the hangovers we were both dragging around. But at some point Renata fell silent, staring at her cup as if she were gathering the courage for something. When she looked up, her tone had changed.

—Hey. I’ve felt a weird vibe between you and Esteban for a while. —She paused—. Please respect it. He’s been Dad’s friend forever. And he’s married.

The glass froze halfway to my mouth. I felt the cold water slide down slowly, as if my entire body had stopped.

—Married? —I asked, my voice coming out higher than I wanted—. Esteban is married?

Renata nodded, serious.

—You slept with him, didn’t you?

I couldn’t hold her gaze. I lowered my head and nodded slowly, feeling my face burn all the way to my ears.

—Yes. But he never told me anything.

—Mara, please. —She straightened, now openly angry—. Dad is helping him bring his wife into the country. He says she’ll be here in a couple of months. He claims she’s difficult, that they’re half fighting, I don’t know. But he’s married. Don’t get involved in this. If Dad finds out, all hell will break loose. Esteban is like an uncle to us.

I felt awful. A heavy guilt, as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice water over me. Tomás had asked me to be his girlfriend two weeks earlier, on the beach, with the sea behind him and a smile that didn’t deserve a no. And I had said no because my head was occupied by someone else. By a man who, as it turned out, slept with someone on the other side of the ocean.

And now it turns out he has a wife?

I stood up without saying anything. Renata called my name twice, but I was already climbing the stairs barefoot, my heart pounding in my throat like a fist.

***

I knocked softly on Esteban’s bedroom door. I didn’t wait for an answer. I went in.

He was on the bed, leaning against the headboard, reading something on his phone, wearing nothing but boxer briefs. The morning light fell obliquely across his chest and shoulders, and for a second I had no idea what I had come there to do. The outline of his cock showed through the gray fabric of his underwear, already half-hard, as if he had been waiting for me. He looked up and gave me a crooked smile, with that calm of his that always disarmed me.

—What’s wrong, Mara?

I closed the door behind me. I took two steps toward him, trembling, my arms crossed over my chest as if that could protect me from something.

—Are you married? —The words came out in a rush—. Why didn’t you tell me? My dad is helping you bring her here, and I’ve been thinking that…

I didn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t know how to finish it.

Esteban placed his phone face down on the sheet. He sighed, sat up, and settled on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, looking at me with a patience that made me angry.

—Yes, I’m married —he said, without drama—. But it isn’t what you think. She’s difficult, which is why I came alone. What we have hasn’t been anything for a long time. —He ran a hand through his hair—. It isn’t serious, Mara. This thing between you and me is something else. We’re having fun. And I love the way you are.

—You shouldn’t have let me find out like this —I murmured.

—You’re right. —He stood up. He was closer than I had calculated—. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.

That was his only defense, and it shouldn’t have been enough. But he took me by the waist, gently, with both hands, and I didn’t pull away. That was always the problem with Esteban: I knew exactly what was wrong, and my body chose not to listen to me.

—Let me show you why it’s worth it —he said softly against my temple.

He kissed my neck, right over the mark Lucía had left the night before. If he saw it, he said nothing at first. He moved down over my collarbone slowly while his hands pushed up my T-shirt. When he pulled it over my head and saw my marked skin, my tits bare with their nipples already hard, he growled something hoarse, a single syllable, and looked into my eyes for a second, a question neither of us voiced. Then he continued.

—Someone had fun last night —he whispered in my ear while sucking one nipple until I arched—. Tell me. Who left these marks?

—A girl —I panted, my head thrown back—. She ate me out completely.

—What a hot little slut —he growled, biting my other nipple hard enough to draw a cry from me. He pinched the one already wet with saliva, tugging it between his thumb and forefinger—. Knowing that makes me even hotter.

He laid me back on the bed with a care that contrasted with everything else. He pulled down my pants and panties in one motion, then stayed there for a second, staring at my soaked pussy, spreading my lips with his thumbs for a better look. I covered my face with my arm, embarrassed by how wet I was after coming there to fight with him.

—Don’t cover yourself —he said, pulling my arm away—. I want to see your face while I eat you.

He opened my legs with his palms, slowly, and lowered his mouth without hurrying. When his tongue reached me, it was flat and hot, sweeping over me from the entrance of my pussy to my clitoris before closing over the exact spot and sucking it. I arched my back. I didn’t want to moan; I did anyway, softly, biting the back of my hand so Renata wouldn’t hear me from downstairs.

He pushed in two fingers, curling them upward, searching for that rough spot only he knew how to find, while his mouth kept working in slow circles over my clitoris. He knew by heart how to undo me, and that made me angry and gave me pleasure in equal measure. Then he added a third finger, and the stretch made me let out a sharper moan. He was fucking me with his hand while sucking me, moving in and out with a wet, obscene sound that filled the entire room.

—You’re pouring, Mara —he said, lifting his face just enough to look at me, his mouth shining with me—. You love it.

—Don’t stop —I begged, grabbing his hair and pushing his head back against my pussy—. Please, don’t stop.

The orgasm rose quickly, faster than I wanted to admit, and when it came it left me trembling, my thighs clamped on either side of his head and my breathing broken. Everything tightened around his fingers, and he kept licking me slowly as I came, stretching out each spasm until I had to push his face away because I couldn’t take any more.

He gave me no respite. He sat up, pulled off his underwear, and his cock sprang free, thick and hard, its red tip already beaded. He settled between my legs and ran the head over my pussy lips, wetting it thoroughly, rubbing it against my hypersensitive clitoris until he made me moan again.

—Put it in me —I begged, shameless now—. Fuck me already.

He entered slowly, deep, driving all the way in with one thrust that tore a long moan from me, and I dug my nails into his forearm. He caught my wrists and held them above my head against the pillow, pinning me down with a firmness that cut off my breath.

—Stay still —he said, and I obeyed.

He fucked me with measured thrusts, unhurried, burying his cock to the balls every time, looking me in the face the whole time as if he wanted to record every expression. The mattress creaked beneath us, his balls slapped against my ass with a dry sound, and I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. He released one of my wrists, spat into his palm, and lowered his hand between our bodies, rubbing my clitoris in time with his thrusts.

—Tell me it’s mine —he growled against my mouth—. Tell me who this cunt belongs to.

—Yours —I panted—. It’s yours, all yours. Don’t stop.

He pulled his cock out abruptly and turned me face down, yanking my ass up before thrusting back into me from behind, gripping my hips. From that angle he reached deeper, and I buried my face in the pillow to muffle my moans. He spanked me once, then again, leaving my skin burning, and took hold of my hair like reins, pulling my head back while he fucked me faster and faster.

—That’s it, slut —he whispered, his voice wrecked—. That’s how you like me to fuck you.

I whispered that I was his, that he shouldn’t stop, words that would have embarrassed me in the cold light of day and that came out on their own in that moment. He put his thumb in my mouth and I sucked it without thinking, tasting myself on his skin. Then he slid it down my back to my ass, slowly pushing it inside me while he kept fucking my pussy, and I came again, tightening all around him, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t howl.

He sped up, growling in my ear about how much he liked the way I gave myself to him, how tightly my soaked pussy gripped him, and when he came he did so buried to the hilt, squeezing my hips hard enough to leave bruises, throbbing inside me, shooting load after load of hot semen while I felt every pulse of his cock emptying. He stayed there, motionless, until the final contraction faded.

When he pulled out, I felt the semen begin to run down the inside of my thigh. He gently turned me over and crouched between my legs again without warning, cleaning me with his tongue, sucking away what he himself had put inside me until I was trembling from overstimulation. Then he stayed on top of me, kissing my jaw, my neck, my temple, with a tenderness that came too late. And right there, just then, as my heartbeat returned to normal, the guilt came back whole and untouched. Tomás wanted me to be his girlfriend. And I was in the bed of a married man who only wanted to have fun.

I got dressed quickly without looking at him, my thighs sticky and the smell of sex clinging to my skin. He said something to me, I don’t know what, but I was already opening the door. I crossed the hall on legs that were still weak, still feeling his hot come between my thighs, went into my room, and threw myself onto the bed on my back, staring at the ceiling, feeling like the worst possible version of myself.

***

My phone vibrated on the bedside table. It was an Instagram request. Lucía. And beneath it, a message.

“Hi, beautiful. I’m alone thinking about you, about how I ate you that night. Do you remember?”

I stared at the screen longer than necessary. The right, sensible thing was to leave it there, put down the phone, and sleep off the hangover and guilt. Instead, I wrote back.

“Yes. You made me come three times with that tongue of yours. I’m wrecked today, my pussy still swollen, but I miss that mouth of yours.”

The dots appeared immediately.

“Mmm. Imagine I’m there with you. I pull down your panties, spread your legs, and lick you slowly, taking my time, sucking your clitoris until you beg me to put my fingers in you.”

I got instantly turned on, which was absurd after everything my body had already been through that morning. But desire understands neither arithmetic nor guilt. I took off my T-shirt again, photographed my tits marked by her bites, and sent it without thinking too much.

“Look what you did to me. Wet just remembering how you ate me.”

“You look so delicious. I want to bite those nipples of yours slowly, run my tongue all over you from your neck to your pussy while I rub your clitoris with my fingers. Record yourself saying my name while you touch yourself. I want to hear you come for me.”

I hesitated for a second, then slipped my hand inside my pants and found myself wet again, slippery, still with Esteban’s semen mixed with my own. A stab of embarrassment and arousal hit me, both at once. I opened the recorder, slowly rubbed my clitoris with two fingers, whispered her name as my voice broke, let the microphone capture my ragged breathing and the wet sound of my fingers moving inside me, and sent it before I could change my mind.

“Slut, listen to yourself. You’re killing me. I wish I could put my tongue inside you right now, feel you tightening in my mouth. Put two fingers inside yourself, all the way, and curl them the way I curled mine. Think about me, about how I sucked you while you came in my face.”

I did as she said. I pushed in two fingers, then three, curling them to find myself the way she had taught me with her tongue, while I rubbed my clitoris in quick circles with my other hand. The sexting went on for a long while: she described in detail everything she would do to me the next time she had me close—how she would tie my wrists to the headboard with her belt, how she would sit on my face until her jaw went numb, how she would push a dildo inside me while she sucked me—and I told her in fits and starts how I touched myself while reading her, the two of us begging for more words as if words could hold themselves up.

I came again, alone, in my own bed, my fingers buried to the knuckles, my phone pressed against my chest and the image of her mouth fixed behind my eyelids. I arched over the sheets, trembling, biting my other arm so I wouldn’t scream, feeling my pussy tighten again and again around my own fingers. For a few minutes there was no guilt, no married man, no Tomás waiting for an answer I didn’t know how to give him. There was only that: clean pleasure, without a name or consequence.

It was liberating, almost happy. But when I lowered the phone and the white ceiling settled back into place, still and silent, my fingers still shining with stickiness, I knew none of this was ending that morning. I had opened too many doors in a single night, and none of them were going to close themselves.

I closed my eyes. I’ll deal with it tomorrow, I told myself, knowing it was a lie. And I fell asleep with my body still warm, the smell of sex and someone else’s semen between my thighs, and the certainty that, whatever I chose, someone was going to get hurt. Probably me.