Five Friends, a Masseur, and a Weekend with No Rules

Anyone who reads this and doesn’t believe me, that’s their problem. I lived it, and I keep living it every time the five of us end up at Marcelo’s house. That night we were in his bed: Noelia, Inés, and me, along with two mature women we’d only met a few hours earlier, sisters-in-law to each other, and of course him, right in the middle of it all.

Inés was taking care of the two older women’s breasts, that patient work of tongue that only a young woman knows how to give another woman old enough to be her mother. Noelia had her mouth glued to the cunt of the sister-in-law who already knew she was bisexual. I got the other one, the shy one, the one who had never felt a woman’s tongue between her legs.

I’m not interested in taking anyone’s virginity by force. I like to savor, slowly, a pussy that doesn’t know that caress yet, to make the first time something unforgettable. So I was gentle, attentive, listening to her breath break with every movement of my mouth.

Marcelo, meanwhile, let the two older women take turns on his cock. When one had it in her mouth, all you could hear was the other panting from what we were doing down below. But a man has his limit, and I could tell he already wanted to get inside somewhere.

“Would you mind if we do it without anything?” he asked the sisters-in-law in a low voice. “I do it bare with them, I’m clean.”

They both nodded. And then he started with Noelia, almost on all fours. He grabbed her hips and, with one hard thrust, drove it all the way in. I think she screamed, but since her mouth was on the bisexual sister-in-law’s sex, you could barely hear it. He fucked her hard, like he’d been holding back for hours, because that was exactly what was happening.

Then it was Inés’s turn. She never says no, but she doesn’t like roughness either.

“Slower, I like it a different way,” she murmured when she felt him enter her.

And he listened. Slow but steady, without stopping, until Inés started screaming too with every orgasm, helped along by the mouths nibbling at her nipples. When a woman is about to come, nipples turn into bare wires; any tongue that knows how to move multiplies everything you feel. We know that because we know each other’s bodies, the five of us, after so many nights together.

He pulled his cock, shining with Inés’s juices, out of her and looked me in the eyes. I knew it was my turn. When he set the tip against my entrance, barely brushing me, I felt a shiver. And when he started pushing and whispered in my ear, “you’re having such a good time, slut,” that shiver turned into a bolt of lightning born between my legs and shooting straight up to my head.

I’m not multi-orgasmic, I thought, but tonight I’m going to be.

I came with the very first thrust. It wasn’t my body, it was my head: being surrounded by naked women, with everyone’s scent in the air, knowing he was moving from one pussy to another without rushing. I pulled away from the bisexual sister-in-law’s lips and screamed into the mattress. Marcelo didn’t stop. He kept going in and out, and I managed to chain a second orgasm, and a third.

But I knew what I had to do. When I was on the verge of a fourth, I moved away from him and left free, open, and waiting, the pussy of his former client, the older woman he had never actually slept with when he gave her massages. It was a deliberate move: to let him unload inside her everything he’d been holding in.

It took him a while, but he fucked her with almost brutal force, driving into her with every thrust, until he emptied himself inside. And when he pulled out, exhausted, all of us nearby dropped down at once, like desperate women, to collect with our tongues what spilled out. Not to swallow it: to share it among our mouths. That white kiss is one of the best things about sex.

After that came the exhaustion. We stayed stuck to one another, all the bodies tangled together, and slept until dawn.

***

In Marcelo’s village there are roosters, and what roosters. By seven in the morning they were already crowing as if their lives depended on it, and they woke Cecilia and Rocío with a jolt; the night before, the two of them had been knocked out by the drinks and had missed the whole party.

It was Saturday. My first Saturday in many months without having to get up early for work, and I could hardly believe it. The sisters-in-law woke up too, cursing the roosters between laughs, and thanked us for the night. We exchanged phone numbers—not just to do it again, that was certain, but to widen the circle—and they showered with a couple of us before getting dressed and going back home.

Marcelo’s phone was full of messages. He gives home massages, only to women, and even though he’d warned the women in his group that he wasn’t working that weekend, five clients kept insisting anyway. Two even threatened him with bad-mouthing him if he didn’t go.

He called them one by one, without losing his cool.

“You can threaten me all you want,” he told one of them, “but I don’t have a contract with you. I warned you a week ago that I was taking the weekend off. If you want a massage today, find someone else and pay whatever he asks. I deserve a day off like anyone else.”

He didn’t block any of them, because in the end they all understood, even if they kept insisting for the rest of the day until he muted them. We listened while we ate breakfast, and we told him he didn’t have to give up anything for us, that we understood his work.

“Girls,” he replied, pouring himself an orange juice with pieces of banana, “anyone who works needs rest. The mind more than the body. I promised you this weekend was for you, and it’s going to be. I’m not going to go put my hands on a bunch of ladies who just want to brag that they’ve got someone paying attention to them. With you I get something else, and that can’t be bought.”

***

“Who’s next to lie down for her breast massage?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “Cecilia already had hers yesterday.”

We raised our hands like in school, all except Cecilia, who dropped hers back down in a fit of laughter. That left Rocío, Inés, Noelia, and me.

Rocío stuck to him like a limpet and didn’t let go, so she was first. Marcelo set up the massage table in the garden, with his disposable sheets and his usual routine, and asked for two volunteers to help him with the toys from the bag. Cecilia and Inés volunteered.

“I’m staying in shorts,” he warned. “I could do it naked, but when I give a massage I don’t get hard. I’m too focused.”

We looked at one another. We know Rocío: she’s the best of the five with her mouth, and she took that line as a personal challenge. As soon as he positioned himself beside her head to start on her breasts, she pulled down his shorts herself, pulled out his still-sleepy cock, and took it into her mouth, spreading her legs so Cecilia and Inés could work her sex with the toys.

And no matter what Rocío did—and she did plenty, with her tongue, with her hands, with everything—that cock didn’t grow. Marcelo massaged her breasts for more than an hour, slowly, kneading them, squeezing them, leaving her nipples hard as stones. Rocío had three orgasms in a row from the toys and fingers, screaming with her mouth still occupied.

And when it was over, for the first time in her life, Rocío hadn’t managed to get a man hard. But she didn’t feel defeated. She felt proud: she had learned that a woman can come three times without a man penetrating her, just with other hands, other mouths, and a pair of breasts properly cared for. It was almost nine in the morning.

***

After that we got into the pool, but after a while we saw Marcelo leaning out from the upstairs window: he was changing the sheets on his bed and cleaning the bathroom. We all looked at each other at the same time with the same idea. We got out of the water, put on the T-shirts he’d lent us—none of us wearing underwear—and went upstairs to help. There’s a difference between being invited and leaving someone’s house a total wreck.

Among six people, what would have been a whole morning of cleaning got done in less than an hour. Then we got ourselves presentable, without makeup, and went for a walk around the village until lunchtime.

We looked like his nieces. Five young women, none of us over twenty-seven, walking around a grown man twice our age, with that gray hair that, I’m not going to lie, is a turn-on too. We bought bread, water, fruit that we ate along the way, and some sweets from a pastry shop that smelled so good we moved forward like zombies following the aroma, while he cracked up laughing. Also something to drink for the girls; Marcelo and I didn’t drink alcohol. Along the way he acted as our guide, showed us the church and some houses more than one hundred and fifty years old. It was an instructive morning full of laughter, with Rocío and her still-erect nipples as the punchline.

***

At lunchtime we kidnapped the man. We kicked him out of the kitchen and forbade him from coming in except to tell us where everything was. The five of us cooked, naked under our T-shirts, and he just watched us: that was a fantasy he’d never been able to fulfill, seeing several women preparing food half-naked in his house. Every so often one of us would go over to him, pull up her shirt, and offer him a breast to lick. We’re that playful when we’re happy.

Dessert was ice cream in several flavors, and that’s where the good stuff began. The first one to kneel under the table was Rocío, the expert. She got ice cream in her mouth, spread Marcelo’s legs, and took his cock in flaccid, cold and all. I don’t know what a man feels with something that cold wrapped around his cock, but his face was priceless. And this time, yes: the expert got what the massage hadn’t managed. She got it hard, thick, and standing tall.

When she came out from under the table with a victorious smile, we each did the same one after another. We already had that man ready to be ridden, and we gave him no other option. He moved away from the table and, taking turns, we rode him cowgirl-style. Some facing him, others with their backs to him, but all of us, absolutely all of us.

The first was Cecilia, of course: she’d spent almost a whole day wanting it. When she had her two orgasms and was satisfied, she gave her place to Rocío, who came almost instantly and then yielded her turn to Noelia. Noelia rode him with such fury that she let herself drop with all her weight, chasing the wildest pleasure. Meanwhile, the rest of us were eating each other’s pussies and breasts, stretched out on the sofa.

Then I climbed on top, and I did it slowly. Not because I don’t like it hard, but because I knew he wanted to come inside one of the women whose birthday was that week. It was like preparing the gift so someone else could enjoy it. I rode him slowly to my two orgasms and got off.

The final turn was Inés’s. She started gently, the way she likes it, and by the time she reached her second orgasm she let herself go into a fierce ride, so hard that Marcelo shouted and emptied himself inside her in a long stream. She trembled like I’d rarely seen her tremble. He even lost track of time for a second, as if he’d fainted. Some of us cleaned his cock while others knelt down to drink from Inés that mixture of both of them, passing it from mouth to mouth with slow kisses.

Marcelo collapsed on the sofa, wrecked, exhausted by what five young women had just done to him. We kept going a little longer, kissing and slipping fingers into each other until each of us had one last orgasm, and then we lay down beside him, satisfied, for a nap that began on the sofa and ended in the poolside loungers.

We let him rest. We could have kept going, but it was Saturday and we still had the whole afternoon and the whole night ahead of us. And what happened after that is another story.