My Friend Confessed What Happened with the Threesome in Búzios

Camila told me about it on a Friday in January, when the two of us had already gone through half a bottle of white wine. We were in my room: she was sprawled on the armchair in an enormous T-shirt that covered her down to her thighs, while I sat on the bed with my legs crossed and a little glass of wine in my hand. Outside, the heat made everything move slowly, and YouTube played in the background without either of us paying any attention to it.

Suddenly Camila sat up straight, looked at me with that expression I’d known for years—the one worn by someone who has something huge bottled up and can’t hold it in any longer—and asked:

—Remember how I told you that something “happened” in Búzios? I never gave you the full details.

I sat up straighter on the bed.

—Give me everything from the beginning—I said—with all the gory details.

She took a long sip, covered her face with her hands for a second, and began.

***

It had been more than a year since then. She and her mother, Nora, had driven from Córdoba to Búzios: three days on the road, crossing the border, the Brazilian heat rising little by little as they neared the coast. Camila was nineteen and had spent months feeling uncomfortable in her body: clothes that didn’t fit right, mirrors she avoided, that dull anger that comes from knowing you’re in a body you never quite finish recognizing as your own.

Búzios won her over anyway. Long beaches, clear water, that rhythm Brazilian tourist towns have, where nobody seems to be in a hurry. But there was something that had irritated her from the first day: her mother.

At forty-two, Nora was what Camila called “a walking injustice.” Dark shoulder-length hair, a waist that still showed, that natural way of standing that made people turn around without quite knowing why. On the beach, in a black one-piece and sunglasses, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a nineties movie. Men made sure she knew it, without holding back. Brazilians, Argentines, a Uruguayan with his own boat who offered to take them to a private island: everyone found some reason to come over.

—“Você é muito bonita, senhora”—Camila would imitate them with an accent. And her mother would laugh with that elegance she had, as if she were genuinely surprised. As if she didn’t know perfectly well what she was doing.

Meanwhile, Camila walked beside her in a bikini, counting the seconds until someone looked at her. The ones who did weren’t the ones she would have chosen: the drunk guy from the kiosk, the man in a hole-riddled T-shirt who hit on her with lines of questionable taste. She brushed them off with half a smile and kept walking with her head held high, shoulders back.

As if telling them: yes, these are my tits. Admire them and move along.

But inside, her blood was boiling.

***

The afternoon she met the three of them was on Geribá Beach, when the sun was already sinking and the water was growing darker. Camila was sitting alone near the water, watching the sailboats on the horizon, when she heard voices in Spanish behind her. Three guys were playing paddle farther away. She looked at them without any particular intention.

The dark-haired one was the first to approach. He asked if she had the time. A transparent excuse that she accepted because the guy’s smile was genuine and wasn’t accompanied by anything that made her want to get up and leave.

His name was Rodrigo. He was twenty-three, from Buenos Aires, and worked in some kind of finance job Camila didn’t remember very well. The others were Mateo—the blond, porteño, the type who talked fast and made people laugh without meaning to—and Rafael, the Brazilian, fair-skinned with black eyes, who mixed Spanish and Portuguese so naturally that it was impossible to tell when he switched languages.

The four of them ended up at a kiosk drinking caipirinhas while the sun disappeared. Then they walked along the shore. Then they sat in the sand talking about nothing: where they were from, how long they were staying, whether it was worth going to João Fernandes Beach or staying in Geribá. Rodrigo spoke softly to her, close by, as if what he was saying were meant exclusively for her. Camila noticed that he never took his eyes off her, and that it wasn’t the kind of look that made her feel watched. It was the kind that made her feel chosen.

That difference mattered.

On the third day of running into each other on the same beach, Rodrigo invited her to the house the three of them were renting in the Manguinhos neighborhood, a ten-minute walk from the water.

—Come over, we’ll have a drink, and I’ll take you back whenever you want—he told her. No rush.

Her mother was having dinner that night with the Brazilian from the hotel lobby—a handsome man of about forty-five who had invited her to a restaurant overlooking the sea—so Camila went.

***

The house was small: white walls, a ceiling fan that turned without doing much, a table with bottles of vodka and orange juice. The three of them were there when she arrived. They put on music, opened the vodka, and started chatting about unimportant things.

On the second drink, Mateo suggested a game.

—Never Have I Ever. Everyone knows the rules.

They started gently. The kind of questions that are an excuse to measure how far the other person will go. Camila drank several times. So did they. There was laughter, one or two more-or-less scandalous revelations, and the atmosphere gradually relaxing. Then they moved on to truth or dare: the twelve-year-old’s game that somehow remained effective at any age.

The dares escalated slowly, with that inevitable logic of nights that know where they’re headed even when nobody says it out loud.

Camila took off her T-shirt and remained in her bikini. Rodrigo and she kissed for thirty seconds in front of the other two, who watched with that mixture of anticipation and discomfort belonging to someone who isn’t quite sure what they’re witnessing. Then she got a worse dare: touch all three of their cocks through their shorts. She knelt on the floor, moving from one to the next, squeezing them with her open palm. All three were rock-hard, the fabric of their shorts stretched tight, the tips of their cocks showing against the cotton. Rafael let out a sigh when she squeezed him harder. The fabric on Mateo’s front grew damp with a dark spot. Rodrigo looked down at her through clenched teeth.

Mateo was the one who put it on the table.

—Final dare. Camila stays with the three of us tonight.

There was a brief silence.

She could leave. She had the number for a remís. It was a simple decision.

—With condoms—Camila said. Everything with condoms. Do you have any?

All three nodded.

***

She got up from the floor, pushed her hair back with both hands, and walked to the bedroom with the three of them following. The bed was small, with a white bedspread and a fan humming overhead. Camila stood beside the mattress, untied the top of her bikini, and let it fall. Her tits bounced a little as they came free. The three men stared at her in silence, as if they had just remembered that she was real.

—Well?—she said softly. Who’s first?

Rodrigo stepped forward. He kissed her open-mouthed, his tongue already thrusting in without courtesy, while his hands searched out her tits and pinched her nipples between his fingers until she moaned into the kiss. Mateo pressed himself against her back and bit her neck, his hands traveling down her belly and slipping inside the bottom of her bikini. Mateo’s fingers found her pussy, and her legs opened almost by reflex. She was soaked. Rafael, sitting on the edge of the bed, had already pulled down his shorts and was slowly stroking his cock as he watched them.

—She’s soaking wet—Mateo said with his mouth against her ear. Look how she’s dripping.

He pulled out his glistening fingers and ran them over Rodrigo’s lips, and Rodrigo sucked them without stopping kissing her. Camila laughed with her mouth occupied. They yanked down the bottom of her bikini. Between the two of them, they pulled it off and tossed it into a corner.

They pushed her onto her back on the bed. Her legs fell open on their own. Rodrigo slipped between her thighs and lowered his face to her pussy without preamble, his broad tongue licking her from bottom to top, stopping at her clitoris to suck it with his lips. Camila arched her back and grabbed his head with both hands. Rafael climbed onto the other side of the bed and brought his cock to her face. Camila turned her head and opened her mouth. She took it all in at once, right to the back, feeling the tip hit her palate. Her lips were dripping with saliva almost immediately.

—That’s it, dumbass, suck it like that—Rafael told her, half in Portuguese and half in Spanish, one hand on the back of her head setting the rhythm. Pull it out, show me your tongue.

She stuck it out, ran it underneath, licked his balls with her mouth open, then went back to sucking him whole. Mateo stood beside the bed, jerking off and waiting his turn, his red cock pointing at her face. Camila reached out, grabbed it, and began jerking him off while she kept eating Rafael’s cock. She had both of them in her hands, one in her mouth, and Rodrigo below her licking her pussy until he made her tremble. When she came for the first time, her mouth was full, moaning around Rafael’s cock, her thighs squeezing Rodrigo’s face.

—Oh, fuck—she said when she could speak.

Rodrigo straightened up, his entire mouth glistening. He put a condom on the tip, rolled it down in one motion, and grabbed her legs behind the knees, spreading them as far as they would go. He pushed inside slowly, inch by inch, watching her face. Camila felt him filling her a centimeter at a time and dug her nails into his arms.

—All the way, put it all the way in—she told him through her teeth.

Rodrigo pushed to the hilt. He stayed there for a second, pulled out, then plunged all the way back in. He began fucking her from above with long, hard thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the balls. The bed creaked like crazy with every thrust. Rafael kept fucking her mouth beside them, already wearing a condom, sliding in and out between her lips while she let him do it. Mateo moved to the other side and took her right hand so she would jerk him off at the same rhythm. Camila was completely occupied: pussy, mouth, hand. With her free hand, she played with her own nipples, tugging them between two fingers.

—Look at how we’re splitting her open—Mateo said, looking at the others. Look at how it goes into her.

Rodrigo’s jaw was clenched. He grabbed her by the waist and turned her onto her side without pulling out. He lifted one of her legs and kept fucking her like that, spooning her, deeper. Rafael took advantage of it, stood up on the bed, and put his cock in her mouth again from above. Camila opened her throat as wide as she could, and he rested his balls against her nose.

Then they put her on all fours. This time Mateo was the one who got behind her, changing condoms with hands trembling from anticipation. He grabbed her hips with both hands and drove his cock into her with one thrust. Camila let out a muffled cry and clutched the sheets. Mateo fucked her fast, delivering blows that could be heard throughout the house, skin slapping against skin, and smacked her ass so hard it left the red print of his hand. Rodrigo and Rafael positioned themselves in front of her, one on either side of her head, and she ran her tongue over them alternately, sucking the tips of both while Mateo kept splitting her open from behind.

—Look at her ass moving—Rafael said. Fuck her harder.

Mateo pushed harder. He fucked her, pulling almost all the way out and burying himself to the hilt, his balls bouncing against her pussy. Camila came again, her face pressed into the mattress, screaming into the sheet with Rodrigo’s cock in her mouth. Her legs were trembling. Everything was trembling.

There was a switch, a short circuit. Rafael asked for oil. He got up naked, his stiff cock swinging, and went to the kitchen. He came back with a small bottle of cooking oil and laughed to himself at the absurdity of it. He poured some into his hand and slicked Camila’s tits. He grabbed both of them and positioned himself between them, his well-lubricated cock fucking between her breasts pressed together while she stuck out her tongue to lick the tip each time it emerged.

—Ay, Deus, que gostosa—Rafael murmured, eyes half closed.

Then he rearranged himself and took Mateo’s place behind her. He poured more oil onto her buttocks and ran his thumbs between her cheeks. Camila tensed for a second, but he put his cock into her pussy again, not her ass, and she relaxed. He fucked her hard too, Brazilian through and through, whispering things in Portuguese into her ear that she only half understood but that still turned her on.

—Você tá tão apertada. Toma tudo, vai, toma.

Rodrigo got underneath her. He grabbed her by the hips and sat her down on top of him. Camila ended up straddling Rodrigo, bouncing on him, while Rafael settled behind her, grabbing her tits again and biting her nape. Mateo stood in front of her, and she ate his cock like that, sitting down, eyes closed, the three bodies moving against hers. At some point she lost track of whose hand was whose and where each mouth was. She only knew that she was full, that all three of them were using her, and that she was coming again and again, with long spasms running from her pussy to the tips of her toes.

It lasted almost two hours, with pauses to laugh, reposition themselves, and drink water from the glass someone had left on the nightstand. Camila moaned and sometimes laughed at the same time, and that combination seemed to her the more honest of the two possible reactions. She was sweaty, the sheets shoved to the sides, completely present in something she knew would never happen again.

At the end, all three men took off their condoms at the same time, gathered around her, and quickly jerked off with their cocks aimed at her face. Camila knelt on the bed, stuck out her tongue, and closed her eyes. Rodrigo was first: he came in her mouth, hot spurts she swallowed halfway, with whatever was left running down her chin. Rafael came a second later, in her mouth too, thicker, and Camila opened her lips wide so all of it could enter. Mateo finished last, over her tits, long white streams falling from her nipples to her navel. Her face was smeared, her mouth full, her tits drenched. She ran two fingers over her cheek, put them in her mouth, and sucked them while looking at Rodrigo.

—Done—she said, swallowing. I’m a complete mess.

Rodrigo went to get her a towel without her asking. He handed it to her without saying anything special. That counted too.

***

The following days were different.

Rodrigo stopped sharing her. Or perhaps she was the one who stopped wanting to be shared: it was hard to know where one thing began and the other ended. She went back to the house twice more, and both times they were alone. The bed creaked just the same, but neither of them cared anymore.

He took his time. He undressed her slowly, kissed her everywhere, starting at her mouth and moving down her neck, over her tits—where he lingered, sucking her nipples until they were hard as little stones—down her belly, until he put his face between her legs and ate her pussy patiently, without hurry, sucking her clitoris with closed lips and slipping two fingers inside her at the same time until Camila came, pressing his head between her thighs. Then he moved up and eased himself inside her, propped on his elbows, looking at her from up close. He fucked her for a long time, moving his hips against hers at a rhythm that barely changed, waiting for her to come again, and again, before letting himself go. When he came, he did it inside the condom with a short moan and stayed inside her for a while, kissing her neck without pulling out.

One afternoon he took her to a lookout above the Orla Bardot, where the Atlantic could be seen from above in all the light the end of the day had along the coast of Rio. They sat on the edge and remained silent for a long while, without the silence making either of them uncomfortable.

Sunset viewpoints are a trap. She knew it and let herself be caught anyway.

Afterward they talked. He told her about his job in Buenos Aires, his friends, a trip he wanted to take to Colombia. She told him about college, her friends, the things she wanted and still didn’t quite know how to ask for. They had too many things in common for how little they knew each other, or at least that was how it seemed that afternoon, with the sun going down and the wind coming off the sea.

Before Camila returned to Córdoba, Rodrigo asked for her number.

—When you’re in Buenos Aires, we’ll see each other. I want to keep seeing you—he told her.

She believed him.

***

But there was something else on the second-to-last day.

She went out alone to walk along Geribá in the morning, after saying goodbye to Rodrigo at the door of the house. She needed to clear her head, or so she told herself. On the beach, a big Brazilian man of about twenty-five appeared, his arms covered in tattoos and his direct manner of speaking leaving little room for interpretation. He told her where he lived. He asked if she wanted to go.

Camila went. Not because she especially liked him. But because that morning she needed something different from tenderness: something more direct, without the cushioning of friendship or alcohol to soften the edges.

The apartment was a single room, with an unmade bed and the smell of cigarettes. He didn’t offer her anything to drink. As soon as they entered, he pinned her against the door, kissed her hard, with teeth, and shoved his hand into her shorts. He squeezed her pussy through her panties, then moved them aside and pushed two dry fingers inside her. Camila opened her mouth against his and bit his lip.

—Vem cá—he said. He grabbed her hair, his fist closed against her scalp, and pushed her down onto her knees. He lowered his pants. His cock was hard, thick, uncircumcised. He pressed it against her lips without saying anything else.

Camila opened her mouth. He grabbed the back of her head with both hands and shoved his cock all the way in, without courtesy. He drove the tip into her throat and held it there for a few seconds until she gagged. He pulled it out, ran the tip over her face, and put it back in. He fucked her mouth like that, both hands on her head, moving it himself. Tears ran down Camila’s face, and saliva dripped from her chin onto her tits. She liked it. She liked it in a way she didn’t know how to justify afterward.

He pulled her up by the hair, turned her around against the wall, and yanked down her shorts and panties to her ankles. He spread her buttocks with one hand, quickly put on a condom—that, at least, he did—and pushed inside her from behind, standing up, without asking. He grabbed her wrists and brought them together behind her back, holding them with one hand while he fucked her standing up, his other hand gripping her hip.

—Você gosta assim, né. Vadia. Diz que sim.

—Yes—she said, her face pressed against the wall. Yes, like that.

He fucked her hard, delivering dry thrusts that lifted her off the floor. He pulled her hair back to arch her, bit her shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. Camila planted her open hands against the wall and pushed her ass backward to take him all the way. She came like that, against the wall, his cock buried deep inside her and her own right hand lowered between her legs, rubbing her clitoris with two fingers.

Then he threw her onto the bed, on her back. He pushed her knees toward her chest, spread her legs, and shoved himself inside her again like that, folded over, fucking her deeply while squeezing her neck with one hand—not hard, just enough for her to feel the weight of his palm. He spoke to her in Portuguese the whole time, filthy things, things she understood perfectly even though she didn’t know every word. When he came, he pulled off the condom, made it fly off with two strokes of his hand over Camila’s tits and face, and came all over her, hot streams landing in her open mouth, on her chin, on her nipples.

He stood there for a second, breathing hard, looking at her sprawled out like that. Then he told her where the bathroom was.

She left with sand stuck to her sandals and a feeling she didn’t quite know how to name. Alive, yes. Used, too. Both things at once, without one canceling out the other.

***

On the last day, she went back to Rodrigo.

They fucked slowly, with the blinds down and music neither of them had chosen playing in the background. He undressed her at his leisure, kissed her all over, ate her out until he made her come twice with his tongue before putting himself inside her. He fucked her on her back, looking at her, her legs wrapped around his waist, moving against his pubis so her clitoris rubbed against him with every thrust. They came almost at the same time, her trembling beneath him, him emptying himself inside the condom with his mouth against her neck. Then they stayed in bed talking, their legs tangled while he ran his fingers through her hair. Camila told him about the Brazilian without really thinking it through, almost as if it were an unimportant anecdote.

He fell silent.

He didn’t say anything bad. He nodded, said “Oh, that’s crazy,” and changed the subject. But something in his face changed too: tension around his eyes, a smile that arrived late. Camila saw it and knew she had ruined something, although she couldn’t quite understand exactly what or why. They said goodbye with a dry kiss on the cheek.

Rodrigo never wrote to her. Not even a message when she returned to Córdoba. Nothing.

***

Camila finished the story looking at her glass. The wine was nearly gone.

—The strange thing isn’t that he didn’t write to me—she said. The strange thing is that he was the one who shared me with his two friends. And then he got offended because I was with someone else. It doesn’t add up.

She paused.

—My mother didn’t sleep with anyone during that whole trip. That Brazilian she met took her out to dinner three times, showed her around Rua das Pedras, and brought her flowers on the last day. She came back to Córdoba glowing, saying, “He was such a gentleman.” And they agreed to see each other when he came to Argentina for work.

She raised her empty glass.

—I fucked four different guys, felt desired for four days, and came back exactly where I’d always been. She didn’t sleep with anyone and got someone to call her beautiful sincerely, treat her well, and want to see her again. I don’t know what that says about either of us, but it says something.

She laughed softly, her eyes a little damp.

—Will you pour me some more?—she asked, holding her glass out toward me.

I poured. It was the least I could do.