My Girlfriend and I Wanted to Be Mothers of the Same Man

The whole world had come to a halt that winter, or at least mine had. Outside there was fear, distance, and empty streets; inside me, by contrast, something still burned and never went out. My name is Lucía and I’m an emergency-room doctor. During those months my body stopped belonging to me: it belonged to the hospital, to the gowns, to the masks that choked me, and to the smell of disinfectant stuck to my skin. I came home turned into an empty shell, a shadow of the woman who, in normal times, lived for pleasure and for the warmth of another body on hers.

At home life went on inside a strange bubble. Mateo, my man, my anchor since my first years of residency, had set up his architect’s office in the living room. Renata, my other half, my bed and life partner, was seeing her design clients from the bedroom. They spent the days together, sharing coffee, silences, and sometimes much more.

I knew it, and it didn’t hurt me. Renata was lesbian to the marrow of her bones and didn’t desire Mateo the way I desired him. She accepted it, sometimes allowed it, but always as a concession to the imperfect geometry of our family. She did it for me, so he wouldn’t be left alone during my absences. When I got home at dawn I sometimes found the traces: the thick air, a rumpled sheet, and in her eyes, a mixture of exhaustion and a pleasure she stubbornly denied.

One November night, after seventy-two hours straight on duty, I managed to escape. The key in the lock sounded like a promise. The smell of home hit me so hard I nearly collapsed in the foyer. They were both in bed, curled up watching a series. They startled when they saw me.

“Lucía…” Mateo got up and came toward me. He wrapped his arms around me and, for the first time in weeks, I could breathe.

Renata stroked my hair.

“You look wrecked, my love.”

“I need a bath,” I murmured, my voice hoarse.

They undressed me like a child. The hot water dissolved knots I hadn’t even known I had. When I came out, wrapped in a towel, they were both waiting for me in the bedroom. There was nothing to say. I only needed to feel alive.

Mateo kissed me. It wasn’t a welcome-home kiss, it was a claim. His tongue entered my mouth with a ferocity that woke the beast sleeping beneath the skin of the exhausted doctor.

“I need to feel you,” he whispered against my lips. “I need to be inside you.”

Renata sat on the edge of the mattress watching us. That curiosity of hers, the kind that watches something it loves and never quite understands it, gleamed on her face. I left her there, spectator and guardian of our rite.

There were no preliminaries. There was hunger. Mateo laid me out on the bed and entered me in one thrust, and the sound that tore from my throat was almost a scream. Each thrust struck against exhaustion, against fear, against everything I had seen die that week. He gripped my hips and pulled me toward him to sink deeper. Renata came close and took my hand, her fingers entwining with mine, while with her other hand she pinched a nipple without looking away from the exact place where our bodies joined.

“Like that,” I begged, my voice broken. “Make me yours again.”

He turned me over, put me on all fours, and took me from behind with one hand tangled in my hair, forcing my back to arch. The orgasm exploded inside me like a wave of heat that left me trembling. He didn’t stop: he kept going until, with a muffled growl, he emptied himself inside me.

We stayed still, pressed together by sweat, and Renata lay down against my back until we formed a warm knot of three bodies. And then, with my body still vibrating, what arrived wasn’t a thought. It was certainty.

“Mateo,” I said, barely a thread of a voice, “I want to have your child. I want to be a mother.”

I felt him tense for a second. Renata lifted her head, startled. Silence thickened.

Mateo moved away so he could look me in the eyes. I didn’t see doubt; I saw a spark catching with the same force with which we had just loved each other.

“Then let’s not waste time, Doctor,” he said, half joking, half devouring me. “Let’s start right now.”

And without letting me process it, he climbed on top of me again. This time it was different. Every thrust was slow, deep, deliberate. A rite.

“I’m going to leave it all inside you,” he whispered in my ear.

Renata was watching us openmouthed, and her presence made everything more intense. When he finished for the second time, I stayed still, my legs slightly raised, as I recommend to my patients, so as not to lose a single drop of that promise.

It was then, in the middle of that rapture, that I turned my head toward Renata.

“And you,” I said, with a conviction that surprised even me, “why not the two of us together?”

***

The air, which a second earlier had been pure electricity, turned to stone. Renata sat up suddenly, as if I had burned her. Her blond mane fell in disarray over her shoulders and her eyes, once complicit, turned into two slabs of ice.

“Are you crazy?” Her voice was trembling. “Did you hear yourself, Lucía?”

“I heard myself perfectly,” I replied without looking away. “I mean it. I want us both to be mothers. For our children to grow up together, to be siblings. For this strange, wonderful family to be complete.”

She got up and began pacing naked around the room. Her body, which I had admired so many times, now seemed like armor.

“It’s absurd! I’m a lesbian! I don’t want children by a man. I don’t even like sleeping with him, I do it for you, so you won’t be left alone.” The words came out like darts, though I knew they were born of panic. “It’s my body! I’m not going to turn it into an incubator for one more of your whims!”

“It’s not a whim,” I said, sitting up. Mateo’s semen was beginning to slip down the insides of my thighs and the sensation felt strangely powerful. “We’re a couple. He’s our other pillar. We’re a unit. Why can’t our future be one too? Imagine a child with your eyes and my smile, raised with the love of all three of us.”

“I imagine something monstrous,” she shot back, standing with her back to me by the window. “I don’t want a man inside me. I don’t want his seed growing in my womb. It disgusts me.”

Mateo stepped in then, with that calm of his that defused any bomb.

“Renata, come. Sit down.”

She hesitated, but finally sat on the edge of the bed, away from me. He came closer without any sexual intent, with an almost paternal tenderness, and took her hand. She didn’t pull away.

“I’m not asking you to do it for me. Not even to enjoy it. I’m asking you to do it for her. You just saw her come back from the dead in my arms. She needs to anchor herself to something, to create something new in the middle of all this horror. It would be an act of love, the greatest one you could make. You don’t have to want me. Just let me give you this. A gift. For her.”

***

The following days were tense. The conversation had opened a crack in our perfect symmetry. Renata went around distant, cold. But I didn’t give up. I knew her heart was a battlefield where her love for me was fighting against her own nature, so I started a campaign that was not sexual but emotional.

I left her notes in her lunchbox. I made her the tea she liked. And at night, when Mateo and I went to bed, I didn’t leave her out: I invited her to touch me, to kiss me while he penetrated me. I talked to her about the baby that could come, about how our children would grow up together, living reflections of what we were.

One night, after making love with Mateo more tenderly, the three of us lay in bed with Renata in the middle.

“Are you afraid?” I asked softly, stroking her smooth belly.

She nodded without looking at me.

“Of what? The birth?”

“No,” she sighed. “I’m afraid of feeling nothing. Of it being just a procedure. Of hating the child for not being born from the love I feel, but from a transaction.”

“It won’t be a transaction,” Mateo said from the other side. “Love doesn’t always begin where we expect it to. Sometimes it comes afterward, it grows with care. You’ll never be alone.”

My hand was still on her belly. I slid it lower, to the golden hair, and stroked her very slowly. She didn’t move.

“Imagine a life starts beating in here,” I whispered in her ear. “Half yours, half the person we love most. It’ll be our secret, our miracle. Let it in, Renata. Not so it can fuck you. So it can fill you. Let me be part of your creation.”

I went a little lower and my fingers slipped between her lips, which to my surprise were already wet. I didn’t penetrate her. Just a subtle, constant touch. Silence returned, but it was no longer tense; it was expectant.

I looked at Mateo, who understood. He positioned himself behind her with reverent slowness and waited, resting there, without forcing anything. Renata took several deep breaths. Then, with an almost imperceptible movement, she spread her legs. It was surrender.

“Do it,” she whispered, and the word broke apart in a sob.

He turned her onto her back and settled between her legs. I knelt beside her and brought her hand to my breast. I watched him enter her centimeter by centimeter, with infinite delicacy. Renata let out a muffled moan, a mixture of pain, pleasure, and surrender.

“That’s how you start making a baby,” I told her, kissing her forehead.

And then he took her. Not with the violence with which he took me, nor with the resignation of before. It was something new, a slow, deep, almost solemn rhythm. I kissed her mouth, stroked her breasts, whispered to her.

“Feel how he fills you. Accept it, Renata. Accept all of it.”

And she did. Her eyes, once full of panic, drifted into a trance. Her hips, stiff at first, began to move, searching for his rhythm. She was no longer a passive receiver: she was taking part in her own conception. One of Mateo’s hands went to her clit and worked it in precise circles until she arched her back and a long moan rose up from deep inside her. When he felt the contractions, he couldn’t hold back any longer and sank all the way in.

Afterward I lifted her hips with a pillow.

“Don’t move,” I ordered in the soft, firm voice of the doctor and the lover fused into one. “Not a drop gets lost.”

Renata obeyed with her eyes closed and a tear sliding down her temple. I lay down beside her and held her. Mateo curled up against my back. We were a single organism.

***

From that night on, the house became a temple dedicated to fertility. There was no longer tension or doubt, only a shared goal. I calculated the cycles with a surgeon’s precision; I identified my ovulation window and hers and, with adjustments to diet and schedules, synchronized them almost perfectly.

The encounters became rituals. They began with a shared bath, washing one another as an act of purification, and continued in bed, where Mateo took us both, one after the other, sometimes at the same time. I remember one afternoon at the peak of fertility: me on my knees, my head between Renata’s legs, while he penetrated me from behind. Every time he sank into me, my tongue sank deeper into her. We were a closed circuit of desire and purpose.

“Eat her while I fill you,” he growled.

Renata’s moan was smothered against my mouth, her hands tangled in my hair. He finished first inside me and, without losing a second, moved on to her. He penetrated her while I kept my tongue between her legs, and when he came for a second time Renata’s orgasm was so violent it almost took my breath away.

In February, my test came back positive. Two firm, definitive lines. I cried in their arms. A month later, in March, it was Renata’s turn. Her positive was quieter, but her eyes, when they met mine, said everything. We had done it.

The pregnancies progressed with an almost boring normality, except that the sex didn’t stop. In the second trimester Renata’s desire switched off: nausea, sleep, and the weight of creating a life pulled her away from bed. I, by contrast, was a bomb of hormones, always wet and ready, more woman and more powerful than ever. My body, with my round belly and heavy breasts, wanted to be worshipped, and Mateo worshipped me: he loved my new shape and the way my belly forced us to invent positions.

***

In November our daughter was born. A beautiful girl with Mateo’s green eyes and my brown hair. We named her Mara. The birth was hard, but when they laid her on my chest all the pain vanished at once. Renata was by my side the whole time, wiping my sweat, holding my hand, and when Mara cried for the first time I saw tears in her eyes that were no longer tears of fear.

A month later, in December, it was her turn. Her labor was fast, almost animal. She gave birth to a sturdy boy with nearly transparent blond hair and eyes as blue as hers. We named him Bruno. When they placed him on her chest, the expression on Renata’s face was something I will never forget: astonishment, vertigo, and a love so overwhelming it transformed her completely. In that instant all her doubts dissolved in her son’s gaze. He was no longer “Mateo’s son.” He was Bruno. He was hers.

The house filled with diapers, bottles, nighttime crying, and the sweet smell of milk. The chaos was beautiful. And in the middle of that chaos, our intimacy, far from fading, found new fuel.

One night, while Mara slept in her crib, I was on the sofa nursing Bruno. My breasts were two heavy factories, on the verge of bursting. Mateo came out of the shower and sat down to watch me, fascinated.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured. “Like a goddess.”

His hand slid down my back to squeeze one buttock. Then his gaze fixed on my other breast, from which a thin white thread was escaping. Without saying a word he bent down and licked it. A shiver ran through my whole body. Then he opened his mouth and suckled. It wasn’t the gentle suckling of a baby: it was that of a lover taking possession of what was most intimate in me. The heat of his mouth, the sound as he swallowed, all of it lit me from the inside.

Renata found us like that, standing in the doorway in her silk robe. Her first reaction was the usual one, a slight grimace, but this time something changed. She saw my face of pleasure, saw Mateo’s erection beneath the towel, and curiosity lit in her eyes. She came over slowly, sat down facing us, and with a shyness I didn’t know in her, took my other nipple into her mouth. Her tongue, soft, so familiar with my body, contrasted with his hunger. When the first jet filled her mouth, I watched her swallow and let out a low moan. She liked it.

Mateo lost control. He threw off the towel, opened my legs, and drove into me in one thrust to the hilt. My moan drowned against Renata’s breast, which kept on sucking. Every push threw me against her mouth, in a perfect rhythm of penetration and suction.

“Drink from her,” he panted. “My two goddesses.”

Renata pulled away, her lips shining with milk, stood up, and took off her robe. Her breasts were full too, her nipples dark and erect. She moved toward Mateo’s face, which was still driving into me.

“Taste mine,” she whispered.

He turned his head and took her into his mouth. Renata screamed and pushed herself against him while one of her hands dropped down to masturbate herself furiously. The scene was sheer madness: him in the middle, drinking from both of us while he fucked me like an animal; us surrendered to him and to each other. The orgasm hit me like a train and I screamed until I lost my voice. Mateo felt it and couldn’t hold back: with a roar he emptied himself inside me, and Renata came at the same time, folded over us, trembling against his neck.

We stayed like that for a long while, a tangle of sweaty bodies, covered in milk and sweat. That night, later on, the three of us went back to bed, but not to procreate. It was a celebration: slow, tender, connected. Renata, finally free of her fears, gave herself to Mateo not out of duty but out of desire, and looked him in the eyes with the same fire she used to look at me with. I was the bridge between the two of them.

Our life was a strange, perfect dream, a family the world would never understand, built on a love that knew no rules. Sometimes, in the early hours, I would hear Mateo’s breathing on one side and Renata’s on the other, look at the cribs, and know there was nothing more normal or more beautiful than what we had created: a bisexual woman, a lesbian, and a man; a madness, a miracle, and a single unit. I couldn’t imagine a better way to exist.