I Filmed Them for Seven Minutes Without Them Noticing

I had already made up my mind long before that afternoon. My relationship with Damián was rotten, and I knew it, even though it had taken me months to admit it out loud. I lacked no reasons, not a single one, only a list that grew longer every week.

The way he wanted to impose his lifestyle on me had nothing to do with the person I was. He wanted to decide who I talked to, what clothes I wore, what time I came home. And he did it with that condescending smile that was supposed to pass for concern.

There was also the way he had spoken to me the last time, in the car, coming back from dinner. He raised his voice, called me things I’m not going to repeat, and slammed his hand against the steering wheel two inches from my face. That night I understood the next step would not be verbal.

And if there was any doubt left, there were his own coworkers. A couple of really nice girls, the kind who say just enough with a look before daring to put it into words. They told me how he treated other women, what he bragged about in the hallways, the way he talked about me when I wasn’t there. There was no room for doubt.

The only problem left for me was how to end it without those girls getting dragged into it. I didn’t want him to connect the dots and make their lives hell for having warned me. I kept turning over in my head how to do it cleanly.

In the end, without meaning to, he made it incredibly easy for me all by himself.

***

Because of my job, I had to leave early one morning and spend four days away, in another city. It had been a locked-in trip for weeks, and Damián knew it perfectly well: he had asked me the day, the train time, and when I was coming back, with an interest that then seemed like affection.

I left on time, as always. But by midmorning technical problems came up at the place I was going, the sort that can’t be solved with a phone call, and the meeting was postponed indefinitely. So instead of four days, a little more than half a day later I was already back, dragging my suitcase along the pavement in my own neighborhood.

I left the car in the building’s parking lot and went up in the elevator not thinking about anything in particular. I had my headphones on, listening to a podcast about unsolved murders, absorbed by the narrator’s calm voice. I put the key in, opened the front door as naturally as someone returning to their own place, and noticed nothing odd.

The foyer was in shadow. I set the suitcase against the wall quietly, more out of habit than suspicion. I headed toward the living room still with the podcast story in my ears.

And then I saw them.

***

Damián was completely naked, standing up, gripping a woman’s hips with both hands. A woman much older than him, closer to fifty than forty, bent forward and braced on the armrest of our sofa. He was driving his cock into her all the way with a dedication I had never seen him put into anything, pulling almost all the way out until the shiny head was visible before slamming it back in, and she responded by pushing her ass back, panting with her legs spread, both of them shining with sweat under the lamp light.

The woman had her ass stuck up in the air and enormous silicone breasts, too much for my taste, swinging and hanging with every thrust, the dark hard nipples rubbing against the fabric of the sofa. She was heavily made up even in the middle of it all, with her hair dyed an expensive blonde and perfect nails dug into the sofa arm. She had class, that had to be acknowledged, a boutique-and-monthly-salon kind of class. Between her spread cheeks you could see Damián’s cock going in and out, her skin reddened from the friction, a shiny thread of fluid running down the inside of her thigh to her knee.

The first thing I felt was not rage. It was an odd calm, almost cold, as if the scene didn’t belong to me and I were just a spectator who had walked into the wrong movie theater.

Neither of them noticed I was there. They were too busy with each other, with their backs to the door, lost in it.

I took one earbud out slowly. I pulled my phone from my bag with a steady hand that didn’t tremble, and I started recording.

***

I filmed a full seven minutes. Seven minutes in which they kept at it without suspecting that every movement was being saved forever. I framed his face well, hers, the sofa, the lamp, the whole set. In case I ever needed it, or simply for the serene pleasure of having the truth in the palm of my hand.

Take your time, I thought while I recorded. Finish properly, no one can say otherwise.

Damián grabbed her dyed hair and yanked her back, forcing her to arch. He was fucking her now with a brutal rhythm, his thighs slapping against her ass with a wet crack that filled the living room. I could hear his broken-off words, the kind he had never said to me, or maybe he had and I had forgotten them.

—Like that, like that, fuck me hard, don’t stop —she panted in a hoarse voice, rocking her ass back to take it all—. Put it all in, asshole, all the way to the balls, I’m gonna come.

—Whore, what the fuck do you have —he answered between grunts—, how you squeeze my dick, fuck, how you squeeze it.

He pulled out suddenly, and for a second I saw Damián’s cock, rigid, soaked, shining with her juices. The woman turned without letting go of the sofa, bent down, and took it into her mouth with a skill that left no room for doubt. She sucked with her cheeks hollowed, taking him out almost to the tip and swallowing him again, helping with her hand at the base, while he held her head with both hands and fucked her mouth at his own pace. Her throat bulged, strings of saliva ran from her chin down to the huge tits hanging beneath, and she never looked away from his face, completely given over.

I used those minutes, between thrusts, to look around with an attention that surprised even me. Her clothes were not in the living room. Later I would find them carefully folded on the bathroom sink, next to the shower, as if they had planned to finish there. They were luxury boutique clothes, and the lingerie, panties and bra, from La Perla. I had time and the inclination to read the label.

I found myself thinking, with a dark humor I hadn’t known I had, about how much money and how many clinic hours must have gone into that woman. The breasts, certainly. And who knew what else, all carefully arranged to keep on being desirable to a man fifteen years younger. She probably had everything in order, down to the last detail: the pussy lasered smooth, not a single hair, the inner lips trimmed with scalpel symmetry, everything ready for the catalog.

Damián lifted her by the hair, turned her against the sofa again, and started driving into her from behind. She let out a long, sharp moan and began moving her ass in circles, impaled, rubbing herself against him. I saw one hand drop between her own thighs and rub her clit with two fingers while he kept pounding her, and I heard her say with her mouth against the armrest:

—Come inside me, come inside me, I want to feel it hot, give me all of it.

He held out a few seconds longer, teeth clenched, veins standing out in his neck, until he sank all the way to the groin and stayed there trembling, gripping her hips, coming inside her in spasms that shook her whole ass. She came too, with a long gasp that faded into a weak laugh, and she stayed braced against the sofa while he kept buried inside her, panting.

When he finally pulled his cock out, a thick stream of semen ran down the inside of her thigh, white and shining, dripping onto the carpet that had cost me a fortune. Good. At least there was a material reason to throw that sofa away.

When I decided the recording was enough, I put my phone away. I hadn’t moved from the living room threshold. They still hadn’t noticed, still panting, catching their breath.

***

Before announcing myself, I did something that later, when I thought it over, seemed to me the smartest thing I had done all afternoon. I went quietly to the bathroom, put the woman’s clothes into two supermarket bags I kept in a drawer, and took them downstairs to leave on the staircase landing, right by the entrance to my apartment.

My first idea had been to take them straight out to the street, leave them in the lobby so she’d have to come down half naked to pick them up. But that seemed unnecessarily cruel, and I didn’t want cruelty. I wanted them gone.

I went back in, stood in the middle of the living room, and with all the politeness in the world raised my voice so they could hear me over their gasping.

—Sorry to interrupt —I said—. Keep going, keep going, no rush. Take your time, really.

***

The effect was immediate and almost comic. Damián sprang away as if the sofa had turned red-hot iron, and stood frozen in the middle of the living room not knowing what to do with his hands or the rest of his naked body. His cock, still half hard, hung shiny and dripping between his legs, and there was no way to make that look elegant. His face turned a color that has no name.

—Mar... —he began—. Mar, it’s not what...

—It’s exactly what it looks like —I cut in, without raising my voice—. Your dick in her cunt up to the balls. Don’t bother making something else up.

The woman, on the other hand, kept a composure I had to admire against my will. She sat up slowly, her huge tits swaying without the slightest shame, brushed a lock of hair from her face, and looked me up and down with the calm of someone who has already lived this scene before. Semen was still running down her thigh and she made no move to cover herself.

—Would you rather take a full shower —I asked her with the same courtesy I reserve for difficult clients— or is a quick rinse in the bidet enough before you leave? Because this man’s load is dripping down your leg, and I’d hate for you to carry it all the way to the lobby.

She didn’t answer. She only smiled slightly to one side, as if acknowledging the hit, ran two fingers along the inside of her thigh, collected what she could, and wiped them with utter leisure on the back of my sofa.

***

I turned to Damián, who was still looking for a sentence that would save him and wasn’t finding one, with his cock still visible and his hands crossed in front of him like a schoolboy caught out.

—Just one question —I said—. How the fuck did you open the door?

He took a while to answer, and in his silence I found the answer on my own. The only time I had left him my keys, months earlier, so he could pick up a package while I was away, he had made a copy. I understood it then with a clarity that disgusted me more than the infidelity itself. It had not been an oversight. It had been a plan, small and patient, to keep my place at his disposal whenever he felt like sticking his dick in some other woman on my sofa.

—The woman’s clothes are downstairs —I said, nodding toward the door—. On the stair landing, in two bags. Look for your own; you’ve got a copy of everything, after all.

There was no need to say anything more. It was clear, I suppose even to him, that I never wanted to hear from either of them again in my life.

***

They left in a couple of minutes, gathering their things in a rush. I stayed inside, with the door closed, looking through the peephole with an almost scientific curiosity.

Damián got dressed on the landing any old way, pulling his shirt on backwards over his head, hopping to get into his trousers with his cock still soft and sticky, glancing left and right in case a neighbor appeared. He was in a hurry to disappear, and that clumsy hurry reconciled me with the decision I had been postponing for months.

She, on the other hand, was another story. She took her lingerie from the bag with two fingers, examined it against the light on the landing, and bothered to check the orientation of her panties so she wouldn’t put them on inside out. She turned them, adjusted them, and put them on carefully under her dress, pressing the fabric against her still-wet cunt. You have to have class for every occasion, even when you’re being thrown out of someone else’s home with another man’s cum between your legs.

When the sound of their footsteps was lost down the stairs, I moved away from the peephole and took a deep breath for the first time all afternoon.

***

I didn’t cry. I expected to cry, and it didn’t happen. What I felt, sitting on the sofa that I later had to cover with a blanket until I could clean the semen embedded in the upholstery, was a huge relief, almost embarrassing in how big it was.

I deleted his number, changed the lock first thing the next day, and saved the recording in a folder on my phone that I haven’t opened again. I didn’t need it for anything, not to threaten anyone and not to brag. Knowing I had it was enough.

Those really nice girls from work, the ones who warned me, he never found out about. That was the only thing that truly mattered to me, and I had managed it without having to explain myself to anyone. He left convinced I had caught him by pure chance, because of a delayed trip, and in part he was right.

Sometimes chance does the work a woman has spent months not daring to do. You just have to have the cold blood to keep watching until the end, even if the end is your boyfriend coming inside someone else on your own couch.