The Afternoon That Started as Coffee for Three

I had agreed to the outing without thinking too hard about it. Camila had spent weeks talking about Andrés, my ex-boyfriend, with that mix of curiosity and envy that friends have when they hear about a man who was with you and not with them. “He looks like he knows how to fuck well,” she told me one night while we opened the second bottle of wine. I didn’t think it was a bad idea to organize something. Coffee, the three of us together. An afternoon with no more apparent pretension than formally introducing them.

Nothing that happened afterward was simple or innocent.

When I walked into the café, they were already seated. Camila had arrived early, and during the five minutes it took me to get there, they had found a way to lean toward each other as if they’d known each other for years. She had that habit of biting her lower lip when something genuinely interested her, and that afternoon she did it nonstop. Andrés listened to her with his head slightly tilted and his eyes fixed on hers, with that attention I had taken months to realize was not exclusive to me.

“At last,” he said when he saw me, half-rising from his seat.

I sat down across from them. I ordered a coffee. And for the next hour I devoted myself almost entirely to watching.

The tension between them had texture. Camila gestured more than usual, using her hands to explain things she would normally have said in two words. Andrés chose each phrase carefully, that carefulness of his that seemed like chance but wasn’t. At some point he said something in a very low voice and she laughed, throwing her head back, and I realized I had spent several minutes no longer following the conversation.

I was thinking about both of them. Not separately, but together. Andrés’s cock sliding into Camila’s cunt while I watched.

It wasn’t jealousy. I had settled that with Andrés long before we broke up. It was something else: a very specific curiosity, the kind that doesn’t go away easily once it appears. I had the two pieces separately and my head was assembling them on its own, without asking my permission. I felt a low, insistent throb between my legs, and I crossed my thighs discreetly under the table.

***

With Camila I had a history neither of us had ever named out loud.

We had known each other for six years. We had shared an apartment for almost two, we had lived through each other’s dramas with an intimacy that went beyond what usually fits into the concept of friendship, and there was one night — a night in late July, after a party that had gone on longer than expected — that was still there between us, without needing to be mentioned to exist.

We got back to the apartment together, a little drunk, laughing about something I no longer remember. We closed the door and the laughter died on its own. What remained was one of those silences that cannot be filled with words.

It was me who kissed her. Or maybe it was she who didn’t move away when I leaned in. After so much time, the origin no longer matters.

What I remember clearly is the way she responded: without hesitation, without the clumsiness of someone doing something for the first time. Camila in bed was completely different from Camila in the world: quieter, more focused, with an attention that left nothing unregistered. She thrust her tongue into my mouth hungrily, biting my lip, and her hands went straight under my dress, lifting my skirt to my waist with complete shamelessness.

She pushed me against the hallway wall. She yanked my panties down to my knees in one pull and shoved two fingers into me at once, finding me already soaked. She laughed softly against my neck when she noticed.

“You wanted it,” she whispered in my ear, curving her fingers inside me and making me clench my teeth.

We made our way to the bedroom however we could, leaving clothes along the way. I laid her on the bed, tore off her T-shirt, and bit her nipples until they hardened under my tongue. She grabbed my hair and guided me downward without saying anything, and I obeyed: I opened her legs, separated the lips of her cunt with my fingers, and started licking her slowly, stroking her clit with the tip of my tongue while I slid two fingers into her and searched for that inner spot that made her arch.

Camila came with her hand pressed to my head, silent as ever, but trembling all over. And she didn’t give me time to do anything: she turned me over, put me on my back, and positioned herself between my legs with the same determination. I remember the pressure of her hands on my hips when she lowered her head and took her time, not rushing, patiently learning what worked and using it without hesitation. She sucked my clit with her lips, then licked it in circles, then slipped her whole tongue into my cunt and started again. I came quickly, much faster than I would have wanted to admit, moaning out loud and crushing her face against me as I came in her mouth.

Afterward we both lay in the darkness of the room, sweaty and breathless, saying nothing. The next morning we had breakfast together as if nothing had happened. We didn’t mention what had occurred. It wasn’t necessary: it was still there anyway, and we both knew it.

***

With Andrés the story was different in almost every way.

We had been together for almost a year. A real relationship, the kind that includes routine and serious arguments and sleepless nights talking about important things. When it ended, it ended well, without scenes and without resentment, and that made it easier to remember accurately.

What was hardest for me to forget about him, physically, was the slowness. Andrés was never in a hurry. He had big hands and used them as if time were not a factor, pausing in each place just long enough for me to stop being able to wait. And he had a thick cock, one of those you feel from the very first thrust, with which he knew how to move just as slowly as with everything else. At first it drove me crazy. In time I learned to appreciate what he built with it.

He had that habit of asking in a low voice, almost as part of the rhythm: “like this?”, “here?”, “do you like it this hard?”, without expecting a long answer, only a signal. At first I thought it was insecurity. Later I understood it was exactly the opposite: he liked confirming the effect of each thrust. It was a form of attention that was hard to get out of your head.

What I had found hardest to forget was one Sunday afternoon at his place. Nothing particular had happened to justify it: we had spent the day with no plans, half-watching a movie, and at some point in the evening he started kissing my neck without saying anything. He undressed me slowly on the sofa, garment by garment, looking at me after every button as if he were memorizing something. He spread my legs and licked my cunt for what felt like an eternity, stopping each time he noticed I was close, until I pulled his hair and begged him not to stop.

When he finally penetrated me, I was already so on edge that I almost came with the first thrust. He fucked me slowly, very slowly, sinking all the way in and pulling almost completely out, looking at my face the whole time. He turned me over and put me on all fours, and kept the same slow rhythm, holding my hips and driving that cock into me to the hilt again and again. When he finally let me come, it was with an intensity that caught me off guard, screaming into the pillow while he held me in place. He came after, without rushing, spilling inside me with that quiet satisfaction that wasn’t arrogance but something more honest than that. That afternoon stayed engraved in me with inconvenient clarity.

***

Andrés came back from the bathroom and picked up the conversation where he had left off. Camila leaned forward again. I looked at both of them and had a very specific image in my head: the two of them together, each with their particular things — her hungry mouth, his slow, thick cock — and me somewhere in the middle of it.

I shifted in my chair. My hands were clenched in my lap, and I hadn’t realized it until that moment. Under my skirt I was wet.

“Do you want to come home with me?” I said, at the first opening I found in the conversation.

They both looked at me at once.

“I have an unopened bottle of wine,” I added, as if that were reason enough.

Camila exchanged a quick glance with Andrés. Andrés looked at me a second longer than necessary.

“Sure,” he said.

***

At my place the conversation continued for a while, but with less substance than before. The three of us were in the living room, with wine glasses and music at low volume, and the electricity that had started in the café no longer had anywhere to go except where it was going to go.

I made the first move.

I turned to Camila, brushed the hair from her shoulder with one hand, and kissed her. Slowly. Without asking her anything. I slipped my tongue into her mouth and she answered with her usual concentration, biting my lip, sliding one hand up my thigh until it went under my skirt. She touched me over my panties, felt how soaked I already was, and looked into my eyes for a second with a half-smile.

When I pulled back, Andrés hadn’t moved from the sofa. He was watching us with the multiplied attention of someone who wants to understand exactly what’s in front of him before taking part. His hands rested on his knees, the bulge already showing in his jeans, and he was completely still.

“Come here,” I said.

He stood up without saying anything.

***

The three of us went to the bedroom, leaving our clothes scattered between the living room and the hallway. Andrés’s shirt, my dress, Camila’s bra, her jeans. By the time we reached the bed we were almost naked, and Andrés’s cock was straining hard against his boxer briefs.

Camila was the first to kneel in front of him. She tugged down his boxers without ceremony and took his cock in one hand, looking at it for a second like someone studying something new. Then she put the whole thing in her mouth, no detours, sucking it down to the base with that concentration of hers that left nothing unregistered. Andrés let out a breath through his nose and put a hand on the back of her neck, not pushing, just accompanying her.

I climbed onto the bed and watched them. It was exactly the image I had been assembling in my head all afternoon. Camila’s mouth going up and down his cock, her looking up at him from below, him with his lips parted, breathing through his nose so he wouldn’t lose control too soon.

“Come here,” I said to Camila.

She pulled Andrés’s cock out of her mouth with a wet sound and climbed onto the bed with me. I laid her on her back, spread her legs, and started licking her cunt while Andrés came up behind me. I felt his big hands on my hips, sliding up my back, moving my hair aside. Then I felt my panties pulled down my thighs and his cock glide between my ass cheeks, soaking up how wet I was.

“Like this?” he murmured, that old habit intact.

“Yes,” I said, my mouth still pressed to Camila’s cunt. “Put it in already.”

He slid into me slowly, sinking all the way in in one go. A moan escaped me against Camila, and she arched beneath me, grabbing my head with both hands so I wouldn’t stop. Andrés started fucking me from behind with that slow, deep rhythm I remembered too well, and I kept sucking Camila’s clit while he drove his cock into me to the hilt again and again.

We changed positions several times. At one point it was Camila beneath Andrés, her legs spread and him on top, penetrating her for the first time with that slowness I knew so well but that caught her by surprise. I watched her arch in a way I recognized and that was new to him, moaning out loud, raking his back with her nails. I sat astride Camila’s face and she returned the favor without stopping moaning, licking my cunt with the same mouth that had just been sucking Andrés. From where I was, that turned out to be more exciting than I had calculated.

I could feel Camila’s tongue sliding over my clit, her hands on my thighs pushing me against her mouth, and at the same time I could see Andrés’s face behind me, focused, fucking her with thrusts that grew deeper and deeper. I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him toward me, and we kissed over Camila’s body while I moved closer to orgasm.

I came first, pressing myself against Camila’s mouth, moaning into Andrés’s kiss. Then she came, without letting go of my cunt, trembling all over beneath us. And he held on for a few more thrusts, looking at the two of us, until I asked him to come in my mouth. He pulled out of Camila, knelt in front of me, and I took his cock in one hand and put it in my mouth just in time to feel the first jet of hot semen against my tongue. I swallowed it all, sucking the head until the last drop, while Camila watched us from below with a tired smile.

There was a moment, fairly late into the night, when the three of us found something close to a common rhythm. It lasted only a little while — things like that always do — but while it did there was nothing else in the room but that. Only the heat and the weight of the three bodies and the sense that the whole afternoon had been moving toward that point without anyone saying it.

Afterward the three of us lay there in silence on the bed, sticky and breathless. The bottle of wine was almost empty on the table. No one made any move to get up.

Camila was the first to laugh. It was a low laugh, with no obvious explanation.

“I’d been talking about him for weeks,” she told me.

“I know,” I said.

“Did you know from the start?”

“I had an idea.”

Andrés looked at the two of us with the expression of someone who has just understood that, to some extent, he has been a piece on a board the other two were moving without telling him.

“Was this planned?” he asked me.

I drank the last sip of wine left in my glass before answering.

“Let’s say I imagined it first,” I said. “The rest was down to you two.”