The Proposal It Took Me a Week to Accept

I’ve been thinking for months about how to tell this. It’s not easy to explain something I still don’t fully understand, but if I don’t write it down, I know it will keep circling around in my head forever.

Those who read me know I’ve already told you a few things about my life. This time you get the story of what I lived through a few months ago with Ernesto, a friend of my father’s with whom I had already had an affair before. A man of about sixty-something, elegant, educated, who knows very well what he wants and how to ask for it. After that time, I had made it clear to him that I didn’t want anything else to happen between us. He accepted it without drama. Almost six months went by without us seeing each other.

Until one day he called me to invite me to lunch.

At first I said no. Then I thought about it again and said no once more. It was his calm persistence, without pressure, that ended up convincing me. We went to a nice restaurant near downtown. The conversation was fine: we talked about a little of everything, his work, my family, unimportant things. But when dessert arrived, Ernesto leaned slightly over the table and told me he wanted to propose something to me.

—I have a house outside the city —he began—. I’d like to invite you for a weekend.

—Just you and me? —I asked.

There was a brief pause before he answered.

—Not exactly.

He explained that he had a group of lifelong friends, five men his age, and that the idea was to gather at that house and have me be with all of them. He was clear. He didn’t beat around the bush, didn’t use euphemisms. The proposal was exactly what it sounded like.

At that moment I felt a mix of embarrassment and anger rise in me that I couldn’t hide. I told him that if he thought I was some kind of entertainment for him and his friends, he was very mistaken. I got up, thanked him for the meal, and left the restaurant without looking back.

***

But during the following week I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not Ernesto. Not exactly. But the idea itself. Six men. All older. All, according to him, very polite. What would that feel like? What would it be like to have six men at the same time? I had never been with more than one person at once. The mere image made me nervous, but not in a way that made me want to forget it. It was more the opposite.

On the seventh day I texted Ernesto. I only asked him to explain exactly what they had in mind. No commitment. I just wanted to know.

He called me that same afternoon. He explained everything patiently. His friends knew the basics: that there was a woman considering living out that experience. Nothing more. No details that would tie me down. He told me everything would go at my pace, that I could stop anything at any moment, and that if anything made me uncomfortable, all I had to do was say so and they would stop.

His friends were between sixty and seventy years old. That made me laugh a little.

—Do they still function well at that age? —I asked him, more joking than serious.

—I can assure you they do —he answered, and I noticed in his voice that he found it amusing.

I took another two days. But in the end I said yes.

***

Ernesto picked me up on a Friday afternoon. We drove a little over an hour until we reached a property surrounded by trees, on the outskirts of the city. It was a large, well-kept house, with a broad terrace overlooking a garden. The kind of place where you relax without meaning to, without effort.

Inside were the five of them. Rodrigo, Félix, Marcos, Luis, and Patricio. Ernesto introduced me to them one by one. They all shook my hand politely, looked me in the eye. None of them made any inappropriate comment, none of them looked me up and down as if I were merchandise. By the time we had gone all the way around, I was already breathing more calmly.

We spent the afternoon on the terrace. We had drinks, ate, talked. They told me about their lives, asked about mine without pressing me. They were men with stories, with humor, with that calm that people sometimes have when they’ve lived enough not to be in a hurry about anything.

At what point had I said yes to this.

But I was there. And honestly, I had no desire to leave.

***

It was Ernesto who made the first move, as was to be expected. When the conversation died down and night settled in quietly, he gently took my hand and led me inside the living room. There was a large sofa, almost bed-sized, upholstered in dark leather.

We started kissing slowly. My stomach was full of butterflies, but the kind that keep you still instead of making you run. Ernesto knew how to kiss. He ran a hand down my back, pulled me closer little by little, and I started to feel safer.

He took off my shoes calmly. Then he took one of my feet and began kissing it, running his tongue over the sole, sucking my toes with a patience that completely undid me. A shiver ran through me from the tip of my foot to the nape of my neck. I hadn’t expected it. I hadn’t expected to like it so much. I was left speechless, my breathing shorter, my legs already weak.

He took off my pants carefully, sliding them down over my hips while his fingers brushed the skin of my thighs. He left me in my blouse and underwear. Then he laid me back on the sofa and kept going down with his mouth over my belly, over the inner part of my thighs, moving the fabric of my panties aside with his fingertips until he left me exposed. When I looked up, the other five were standing around us, watching in silence. Some had their hands in their pockets. They were all looking at me, but none of them moved.

That was what changed my mood completely. That no one advanced without my signal.

Ernesto kept going until I was completely naked. Completely soaked too, with my cunt burning and my nipples hard from how turned on I was. Then I sat up, laid him back on the sofa, and pulled down his pants. He was already hard, heavy, his cock straining against the fabric of his briefs. I took it out with my hand, kissed him, and started giving him oral sex slowly, taking him into my mouth as far as I could, sucking the tip, licking the shaft, feeling him harden even more beneath my mouth.

The others waited.

***

I looked up and saw them. Five men with their pants half down, all aroused, all with their eyes on me. It was an image I had never imagined in my life and that, nevertheless, was turning me on more than anything else I had ever felt before.

I knelt on the floor and motioned for them to come closer. I started taking turns between them, handling each one with my hands, with my mouth, without rushing. I went from one to the next slowly. They felt different: the hardness, the size, the pulse of each cock in my hand, the taste of each skin, the smell of their bodies mixed with mine. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, sucked the tip, licked their balls, made them gasp, and every moan heated me up more. I was very wet, and I wasn’t embarrassed for them to notice.

I asked them to put on condoms before continuing. They all did it without protest, without a sour face, without making a comment. I liked that a lot too. It turned me on that they were careful, that there wasn’t a single inappropriate demand, that each one accepted the pace I set while I kept touching them, squeezing them, feeling them grow wetter with my saliva and their own need.

***

Ernesto was the first. He lifted me up onto him, I ended up sitting astride him, opening myself onto his hard cock, guiding it with my hand until I felt it enter slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until he filled me completely. We started moving together, first patiently, then with more hunger. It was intense from the very first second, but in a different way than before, multiplied by having four more sets of eyes fixed on every movement I made. I held on to his shoulders, arched my back, and felt him brush inside me with a precision that made me clench my teeth. He lasted a few minutes, then stopped, held me by the waist, and announced with a calm smile that the next one could come over.

Rodrigo stood up. He was the biggest of the group, about sixty-five, with gray hair combed back. He lay back on the sofa and held out his hand so I could settle beneath him. He had much more to offer than I would have expected. He surprised me in a very pleasant way, the kind that makes you open your eyes even if you have them squeezed shut. He was soft but firm, driving his dick in with a deep rhythm, making me feel the weight of each thrust in my belly and my cunt. When he finished, he looked at me with something that resembled genuine gratitude, and I was still trembling, still sensitive, still hot.

Patricio was next. He was the oldest in the group, close to seventy, thin, with very well-kept hands and a low voice. His size was smaller than the others, but the way he moved on top of me was different: slow, very precise, as if he knew exactly what he was looking for. He spoke to me in my ear with short phrases I’m not going to repeat here, but which made me close my eyes and stop thinking about anything else. He held me by the waist, opened my legs carefully, and entered all the way in, slowly, almost without noise, while I felt myself stretching, felt him filling me with a firmness that made me take a deep breath. With him it was different. Deeper, if that makes sense.

Luis was the stockiest of them all. He put me face down and stayed longer than anyone else. His hands on my hips were firm and sure, holding me while he fucked me from behind with long, heavy thrusts that pulled muffled moans out of me against the cushion of the sofa. His friends gave him that extra time without anyone protesting. I didn’t want him to finish either. Quite the opposite. I loved feeling myself opening more and more, feeling the cock sink in and out soaked, feeling my thighs trembling every time he squeezed a little harder.

Marcos was the last of that first round. He had dark skin, was about sixty-three, with a calm energy that contrasted with his large body. He stood me in front of him, hugged me, lifted me a little, and I put my hands on his shoulders and we stayed like that for a good while, moving together standing up, his face very close to mine. It was one of the few times that entire night when someone looked me straight in the eyes while we were doing it. I could feel his hot breath on my neck, his fingers marking my waist, the rough, delicious friction of his cock going in and out while I balanced myself barely on the tips of my toes.

Félix had waited patiently through the whole round. When his turn came, he approached without hurry and asked me how I was. Just that. How I was. I told him I was very good, and he smiled before kissing my neck. He had a slow way of touching me, of stroking my breasts, of sliding his hand between my legs and rubbing my clit while he opened me for himself with the other hand. He made me come once like that, before penetrating me, and then he entered me again slowly, enjoying every gasp he pulled from me.

***

I’m not going to try to recount every moment of what followed, because I don’t have words for all of it either. It was an entire weekend. There were moments of laughter, of rest, of food and long conversation on the terrace. And there were moments when we picked things back up, in different combinations, in different parts of the house, at different hours of the day and night. There were mouths on my tits, hands on my ass, cock between my lips, sweaty bodies moving on beds, sofas, and even against the wall, each one waiting his turn or sharing me between two or three, always watching my face, always asking me with their eyes if I wanted to keep going. And I did. I wanted more. I wanted to feel myself left open, sensitive, full of saliva, sweat, and hot cum when one of them came over me.

What surprised me most wasn’t the quantity. It was the quality. None of them treated me badly. None of them made me feel like I was just a passive object at the center of something that didn’t belong to me. Every time one of them noticed I needed to stop or I was tired, we stopped. There was something in those older men that I don’t always find in younger ones: real patience, not the forced patience of someone waiting for his turn. They knew how to touch me, they knew how to wait, they knew how to look at my body and read it. And that, in the end, turned me on as much as anything else.

On Sunday afternoon, before Ernesto took me back to the city, Patricio came to find me to say goodbye. He took my hand, kissed me on the cheek, and said softly:

—It was an honor, Valeria.

I didn’t know what to answer. I just smiled.

***

Would I do it again? I don’t think so.

Do I regret it? Not at all.

There are experiences one doesn’t repeat because one doesn’t need to repeat them. Not because they went badly, but because they are already complete in themselves. This weekend was one of those. I left there with something resolved that I didn’t know I needed to resolve.

I should also confess that on the last day, with two of them, I decided not to use protection. It wasn’t carelessness. It was a decision I made in that moment, knowing what I was doing, choosing it. I’m not sure I can explain it fully. I only know that’s how it was, and that I don’t regret it.

I came home different. Not transformed in any dramatic or theatrical way. Just with a little more of myself than I had seen before, or than I had dared to look at.

You know where to find me. I read all your comments.