I Agreed to Spend the Weekend with Six Men

The first message from Ricardo reached me on a Tuesday at eleven in the morning. I had gone months without hearing from him since that afternoon in May at my father’s apartment, and when I saw his name on the screen, I felt that small tug in my stomach I had promised myself I’d forget.

—I’m inviting you to lunch —he wrote—. Just lunch.

I thought about it all afternoon. I answered the next day that yes, on the condition that he pick me up at my parents’ house and that the conversation stay at the restaurant. He agreed without protesting.

On Saturday at one o’clock he rang the bell. My mother received him as always, with the affection of someone who had known him since before I was born, and he waited for me at the door without looking upstairs. When I came down, he was wearing a light blue shirt that clung to his shoulders and a different perfume from the one I remembered. He was sixty-four and wore it better than most forty-year-old men I knew.

He took me to an Italian restaurant near the river. We ordered white wine, talked about his granddaughter and the book he was reading, and between the main course and the coffee I realized something was weighing on him. He leaned too hard on his elbows on the table, and every time I said something, he waited a second too long before answering.

—I have a proposal —he said at last—. And before you hear it, promise me you won’t get up from the table.

I promised him. And he was wrong to believe me.

—I have a house in San Andrés, about two hours away. I inherited it from my father. I go once a month with five friends. Three weeks ago, one night after too much whisky, I told them about you.

—About me?

—About that afternoon —he said, without lowering his voice but without raising it either—. I didn’t tell them who you were. Just that there was a woman I had liked more than any other in the last ten years. And between the six of us, an idea came up.

I lifted my gaze from the coffee. The way he phrased it afterward was so delicate that it took me a second to understand it. When I did, I told him I wasn’t a whore, left the bills for my share on the table, and walked out.

Walk fast, don’t cry on the avenue.

Six days passed.

What surprised me most about that week was not thinking about Ricardo. It was thinking about the other five. Five men I didn’t know, five men who knew something about me, five men who had sat on a gallery at night and imagined my naked body, my tits, my pussy open for them. Every time the idea came back, it scared me a little less, and got me a little wetter. The following Saturday I sent him a message:

—I want to talk.

He called me that same afternoon.

—Do your friends know who I am?

—No. And they won’t know.

—How old are they?

—The youngest is sixty. The oldest, seventy-two.

—Why do you think I’m going to say yes?

—Because you called me —he said, and laughed a little—. And because you thought about it at least ten times before dialing. And because every time you imagined it, you touched yourself.

I stayed silent. There was no need to answer.

I told him I’d think about it. I thought about it three more days. The truth is I had already decided the first time I heard his voice.

***

The following Friday, at four in the afternoon, Ricardo came to pick me up in a gray pickup truck. He was carrying a bag with clothes for two days and an unopened box of condoms in the side pocket of the bag.

The drive was calm. He didn’t ask if I was nervous, didn’t try to soften me up with jokes. We talked about the drought, about a cousin of his who had gone to live on the coast, about a movie neither of us had finished. When we parked in front of the house gate, the sun was starting to fall behind the olive trees.

The other five came out to receive me.

Hernán had the kindest face in the group. He was the tallest, wore his white hair combed back, and shook my hand with a firmness I hadn’t expected. Eduardo, the shortest, seemed younger than the rest: straight back, lively eyes, the smile of someone who had already decided to like me. Federico was the Cuban of the group, with dark skin and a deep voice that filled the courtyard. Tomás, the quietest, nodded a lot and spoke little. And Octavio, the seventy-two-year-old, kissed my hand like a gentleman from another era.

—Put your things in the blue room —Ricardo said—. Then come out whenever you want.

The blue room faced the garden. It had a huge bed with white sheets, a small table with a water pitcher, and a fan turning slowly on the ceiling. I sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, bag at my feet, staring at the wall. I wasn’t regretting it. I was looking for the exact courage to open the door. I slipped my hand under my skirt for a second, just to check: I was already soaked.

When I came out, all six were seated on the gallery with glasses in their hands. They made space for me between Eduardo and Hernán. Octavio served me a fernet and Coke without asking if I wanted it.

—Rules —said Ricardo, and the other five fell silent at once—. Only one, really. If at any moment she says enough, everything stops. For everyone. No arguing, no insisting.

—Agreed —said Eduardo.

The others repeated the word as if they were a chorus.

I took a long sip of the fernet. I felt the liquid go down my throat and settle somewhere in my chest. I crossed my legs. I laughed when Federico told a joke I didn’t fully get, and I noticed Hernán looking at my knee, and Eduardo looking at my neckline, and Octavio watching, over the rim of his glass, everything else.

***

The first hand to touch me was Ricardo’s.

The seven of us were inside, on a long sofa that was almost a bed, with the light low and a bolero record playing at a volume you could barely notice. Ricardo sat beside me, laid his palm on my knee, and the others stopped talking at the same time. As if there were a signal. As if they knew it.

He kissed me slowly, and then not so slowly. He pushed his tongue into my mouth and bit my lower lip, and his hand moved up my thigh until it found the elastic of my panties. He tasted like fernet and a cologne different from the one I remembered from my father’s apartment. I let him unzip the side of my dress, run his palm over my naked back, slide two fingers under the fabric and touch my pussy through the cotton.

—You’re wet —he whispered in my ear, so low I doubt the others heard—. You’re soaked, baby.

—Yes.

—Did you touch yourself thinking about this?

—Yes.

—Say it.

—I touched my pussy thinking about the six of you.

Eduardo came up on the other side. He didn’t kiss me on the mouth, he kissed the nape of my neck, just below the hairline, while his hands came around in front of me and squeezed my tits over my dress. I felt the tingle travel all the way down my spine and knew there was no going back now.

I was naked almost without realizing it. Ricardo pulled my dress off over my head, Eduardo unclasped my bra, and between the two of them they left me seated on the sofa with my back supported, my tits out, my panties pulled to one side and my legs open. When I opened my eyes, the other four were standing in a semicircle, watching me. Federico had already undone his belt. Tomás had his hand over the bulge in his pants. Hernán was taking his shirt off over his shoulders. Octavio, at the edge of the semicircle, was licking his lips.

That was the hardest moment. And the one I remember worst, because what I felt wasn’t fear.

It was a kind of sweet vertigo, like when you lean out from a very high balcony and stay there longer than you should. I stretched a hand toward Hernán and grabbed his dick over his pants. I stretched the other toward Federico and did the same. Octavio came up behind the sofa and combed my hair back with his fingers, while I started lowering Hernán’s zipper with one hand and Federico’s with the other.

—Easy, darling —Octavio whispered in my ear—. Take your time. There’s no rush.

There was no rush, but I was in one. I pulled Hernán’s cock out first, thick, hard, the tip already shining, and I took it into my mouth without thinking. Then I moved to Federico’s, darker, longer, and sucked him slowly, licking from base to tip while Hernán slid two fingers into my pussy. Ricardo, kneeling on the floor between my legs, had spread my thighs and was eating my pussy with his whole mouth, his tongue inside, moving it in circles around my clit. Eduardo was squeezing one tit with one hand and jerking himself off with the other while watching me suck.

I came on Ricardo’s tongue before any of them had even gotten their pants all the way off. I screamed with my mouth full.

***

Ricardo was the first inside.

He lay down on the long sofa, face up, with his cock standing upright toward the ceiling, and asked me to get on top. I sat down on him slowly, letting the tip slide in little by little, clenching each time I felt it going deeper, until I had all of it inside and stayed still for a second with my eyes closed. I started moving while looking at him, while the others sat around waiting with their cocks out. It didn’t take long: twelve, thirteen minutes riding him, going up and down on his cock until he grabbed my hips and pinned me there, all the way up, and I felt the stream of hot cum filling my pussy. When he finished, he left a boyish smile on my face.

Hernán was second. He had a strong back and big hands. He grabbed my waist and flipped me over the sofa without effort, left me lying face down with my ass up, and shoved it into me from behind with a calm I hadn’t expected from a man his age. He went all the way in every time, to the hilt, and waited a second before pulling out. He talked in my ear while he fucked me: soft things, things no young guy had ever said to me, mixed with filth that made me squeeze him tighter inside. “What a sweet pussy you have, baby, you’re so hot, look at you sucking my cock with this hole.” I asked him to come in my mouth and he gave me the pleasure. I knelt on the rug, opened my lips, and he came on my tongue in three thick spurts I could barely swallow all of.

Eduardo was third. The most impatient of the six. He grabbed my arm before I’d finished wiping my mouth and took me to the wooden table on the gallery, made me place my palms on the edge, and ripped off my panties that I hadn’t even put back on. I looked toward the olive trees in the distance while he drove into me from behind, grabbing my hair with one hand and my hip with the other, moving fast, without ceremony, fucking me like he’d been waiting twenty years. The table thudded against the wall with every thrust. I was screaming and laughing at the same time. When he felt himself coming, he pulled out and pressed his cock against my ass, and filled my cheeks with cum with a long groan. Then he kissed my shoulder and thanked me.

Federico had the deepest voice I had ever heard in my life and used it for everything. He called me “girl” and asked me for things in a whisper: to show him my pussy, to spread my ass, to tell him how much of a whore I was. He picked me up in his arms as if I weighed nothing, carried me to the blue room, and threw me onto the bed face up. He spread my legs, looked at my red, used pussy for a long second, and said: “Look what they did to you, girl.” Then he lowered his face and licked me all over, top to bottom, sucking my clit until I came on his mouth for the second time. Only then did he put it in me: standing at the foot of the bed, with my legs over his shoulders, pushing with all his hips, deep, deep, until he touched something inside me no one else had touched. I ended up squeezing him with my legs around his waist while he emptied into the condom with a growl that came from his chest.

Tomás was the fifth and the quietest. He lay down with me without saying a word, in total silence. He climbed on top of me slowly, found my mouth, kissed me softly, and slid in little by little while looking me in the eyes. He fucked me as if we were alone in the world, without talking, without groaning loudly, just his breath hitching against my neck. When I felt him coming, I ran my hands down his back and pulled him against me, and he unloaded into the rubber with a long tremor, silently. Then he rested his forehead against mine, for one full breath, before getting up.

Octavio was the last. The oldest, the slowest, the most polite. He asked me five times if I was comfortable. He took me by the hand to an armchair in the living room, sat down himself, and asked me to sit on top of him while looking at him. I settled on his lap, grabbed his cock with one hand —hard, insistent, surprising for his age— and slid it into myself, slowly. I rode him very slowly, almost not even going up and down, squeezing him from the inside with the muscles of my pussy, while he sucked on one tit and then the other. He draped a blanket over my legs when he felt my thighs getting cold. He kissed my wrists. He made me come a third time on his cock, with a long purring sound in my ear. When he finished filling the condom, he let me fall asleep with my face on his chest for exactly fifteen minutes.

***

Saturday passed like a dream I still don’t fully understand even today.

They fucked me against the kitchen table while Ricardo cooked a late breakfast: Eduardo from behind and Federico shoving his cock into my mouth at the same time, with the smell of coffee in the air. They fucked me in the patio, under the shade of the walnut tree, with Hernán underneath and Tomás behind me, two cocks inside at once, one in my pussy and another in my ass with saliva and kitchen oil, while Octavio watched from the gallery drinking a glass of water and Ricardo, from the pool, jerked himself off slowly without taking his eyes off me. They fucked me on the sofa again, all six on me for an entire afternoon, without order or rules, passing me from hand to hand like a hot little doll: one opened my mouth, another opened my legs, another turned me over, another licked my clit while I sucked the other two. I lost count of how many times I came. I lost count of how many times one of them came inside me, or on me, or in my mouth. I ended up with my face and tits drenched in semen, my hair matted, my pussy burning, and a smile I couldn’t wipe off my face. When the sun fell over the fields, the seven of us were left lying there in silence, listening to the crickets, our skin sticky and our breathing slow.

There were two moments that afternoon when I forgot about the condom. With Hernán, when he had me on all fours on the rug and asked permission with his eyes to put it in like that, with nothing, and I answered with my eyes yes, and he drove in bare and filled my pussy with hot cum until it ran down my thighs. And with Octavio, near the end, when he pinned me against the sofa, slid his cock into me slowly, skin against skin, and the two of us knew it was the last time we were going to see each other, and I let him finish inside without saying a word.

I don’t regret it. But I don’t recommend it either.

***

On Sunday morning, Ricardo took me home. We didn’t talk much on the way. When I got out of the truck in front of my parents’ building, he held my hand a second longer than necessary.

—Would you do it again?

I thought about it. I thought about it carefully.

—No —I told him—. Once is a story. Twice, it’s something else.

I went upstairs to the apartment, left my bag at the entrance, got in the shower, and stayed under the water for twenty minutes doing nothing. Then I dried off, put on my old nightgown, and sat in the kitchen with a tea.

My mother appeared in the doorway five minutes later.

—How was the weekend, daughter?

—Quiet —I told her—. I needed to rest.

She looked at me with that mixture of tenderness and suspicion only mothers have. Then she kissed my forehead, grabbed her purse, and went out to do the shopping. I stayed alone in the kitchen, with the tea cooling in the cup, listening to the neighbors arguing about something on the upstairs balcony.

And for the first time in six days, I felt like myself again.