My Girlfriend Accepted the Challenge at the Club and I Just Watched

We had been together for almost three years. Camila was twenty-five, I was twenty-seven, and she still surprised me every time I watched her cross a room. She was barely over five foot three, slim, with shoulder-length black hair and hips that didn’t seem to belong to someone so petite. Wherever we went, men turned their heads. I had grown used to other men looking at her, and, over time, I had learned to enjoy it.

Camila knew it. She liked dressing to be seen. Tops without bras, deep necklines, tight skirts, heels that outlined her calves. She wasn’t an exhibitionist, but neither did she pretend not to notice how people looked at her. We had talked about it more than once, in bed, laughing, those conversations that begin with “what if someday…” and end with me hard, buried in her pussy while she whispered half-invented fantasies in my ear. Conversations that stayed in the dark and were never brought into the light of day. Until one April night, when they stopped being just conversations.

A friend invited us to his partner’s birthday. A small gathering, in a room with a garden, at two in the afternoon. The night before, I asked her what she was going to wear. I told her something light, since it was going to be hot, and said she should trust her judgment. She smiled at me from the bed with that half-smile of hers I never quite managed to decipher.

Saturday dawned hot. I showered, trimmed my beard, put on a light jacket, beige pants, and an open-necked shirt. I went downstairs to wait for her with the keys in my hand. She took her time. When I finally heard her coming down the stairs, I looked up and the air caught in my throat.

She was wearing a white dress. Very short. Plunging below her breastbone, tight at the waist, so short that any sudden movement could reveal the lilac thong barely showing whenever she turned. High heels, the ones that tie around the calf. And red lips. Too red.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

I didn’t answer with words. I moved in to kiss her, and she turned her face away.

“The lipstick,” she said, laughing.

“They’re going to eat you alive with their eyes,” I murmured, still looking at her.

“That’s the idea,” she replied, and walked toward the door.

On the way to the party, we stopped for gas. The station attendant lingered at her window a little longer than necessary, staring at her legs while he entered the payment. Camila didn’t even react. I noticed everything and, for the first time that afternoon, felt heat rising into my chest and an uncomfortable pressure in my fly.

We arrived at the venue. When I opened the car door for her and she got out, the dress rode two inches above her thigh, and the man in the car beside us tripped over the valet’s umbrella. I couldn’t stop smiling. We greeted the birthday girl, left the gift, and sat at a table with people we knew. I felt as if half the garden was watching us.

The afternoon passed peacefully. We ate, toasted, and talked. Every time she got up to go to the bathroom with a friend, the men’s heads turned in slow motion. Under the tablecloth, I stroked her thigh. I moved my hand higher, centimeter by centimeter, until my fingers brushed the edge of her thong. She was wet. Very wet. I moved the fabric aside with my thumb and pushed two fingers into her pussy while she kept talking about recipes with the woman across from us. Her throat tightened for a second, she swallowed, and spread her legs a little farther. I soaked my fingers in her own wetness. I found her clitoris with my fingertip and rubbed it in slow circles. She didn’t look at me. She smiled at the birthday girl, nodded, brought her glass to her lips. I felt her pussy contracting around my fingers. When they asked me about the weather, I didn’t know what to say.

***

By eleven at night, the birthday family had left, and a group of young friends remained, eager to keep going. Someone suggested a nearby club that stayed open late. We left as we were, without going home first. In the car, Camila adjusted her dress and touched up her lips without saying anything.

The club had purple lights, the usual electronic bass vibrating in your chest, and far too many people for that hour. We ordered drinks at the bar. Camila finished the first one quickly, then the second. By the fourth, she was dancing in the middle of our group, grinding with the girls, laughing, letting her dress ride up every time she bent forward and revealed the curve of her ass, barely covered by the lilac thong.

I danced beside her, but I couldn’t stop noticing the men passing close by. One brushed against her as he went past and touched her waist. Another, pretending to cross toward the bar, placed his hand on the small of her back. She didn’t say anything. She smiled, avoided them, and kept dancing. But she didn’t move away.

There was one man in the crowd who couldn’t take his eyes off her. In his thirties, tall, with tattooed arms from shoulder to wrist, wearing a tight black gym shirt. Leaning against a pillar with a drink in his hand, he watched her as if no one else existed in the place. Camila looked at him once. Then again. The third time, she didn’t look away.

Something tightened in my stomach. It wasn’t exactly jealousy. It was something more confused, hotter—a mixture of discomfort and desire that I struggled to understand. I was getting hard right there on the dance floor, watching my woman hold another man’s gaze.

Our friends began leaving around two in the morning. The birthday boy was drunk, and his girlfriend was dragging him toward the door. Camila whispered that she wanted to leave too. I told her no. I wanted to stay a little longer. She looked at me strangely and kept dancing.

When we were alone at a side table, with the music a little quieter, I spoke into her ear.

“Do you remember what we talked about a month ago?” I asked.

“About what?” she replied, but from the way she went still, I knew she remembered perfectly.

“About you picking someone up someday. Just dancing. Me watching from here.”

She stared at me, lips parted. The music surrounded us. It took her five seconds to answer.

“Do you want that?”

“You have a free pass,” I told her. “Do whatever you want.”

She didn’t hesitate anymore. She stood up, adjusted her dress, and walked toward the dance floor without looking back. I leaned against the back of the couch, ordered another drink, and waited.

Of course, she chose the tattooed man. She danced slowly past him, three yards away, looked at him over her shoulder, and that was all he needed. In less than a minute, he had her against his chest, both hands on her waist, his face buried in her neck. Camila tipped her head back against his shoulder, eyes closed, her hips pressed against his. From the table I watched his hand slide down her hip, brush the edge of her dress, and raise it a little farther every time the melody changed. At one point, the man’s hand disappeared beneath her skirt. Camila opened her eyes, searched for me among the crowd, fixed me with her gaze, and didn’t look away while he squeezed her ass beneath the fabric.

I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot.

But I was already hard, outlined against my trousers, and I couldn’t stop watching.

***

They danced for almost half an hour. At some point she leaned toward him, said something in his ear, and kissed him very close to the mouth, but not on the mouth. Then she pulled away, walked to my table, and sat beside me. Her cheeks were flushed and her cleavage was damp.

“I’m dripping,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would go this far. He fingered me, Martín. Right there on the dance floor. Two fingers. He touched my pussy and I didn’t stop him.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I answered, in a voice that didn’t sound like mine. “I asked for it.”

She kissed me. I tasted the trace of the other man on her lips, and something else too—the smell of a man, expensive cologne, the sweat of someone who wasn’t me. We stood up to leave.

At the club’s entrance, the tattooed man caught up with us. He didn’t know I was her boyfriend, of course. He looked at me without recognizing me, approached Camila, and asked her to come with him to his apartment. It was three blocks away, he said. Just for one last drink.

Camila looked at me. I didn’t know what to say. I looked at her, then at him. Before I could react, she answered:

“I’ll go, but with my friend.”

And she pointed at me.

The man hesitated for a second. He shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” he said, and put an arm around her waist as they headed toward his car.

We followed him in mine. I could barely concentrate on the traffic lights. Camila sat silently in the passenger seat, looking out the window, one hand buried between her thighs and the other squeezing one of her nipples through the dress. I didn’t ask anything. I didn’t want to break whatever was happening.

The apartment was in a new building, on the seventh floor, overlooking the avenue. He invited us to sit on a three-seat couch facing a stereo system. While he poured wine, he came over to me and said quietly:

“Brother, what a woman you’ve got beside you. If I were you, I’d have fucked her ages ago.”

I swallowed. I didn’t answer.

Camila accepted the glass, took a long drink, and set it on the table. He sat beside her, placed a hand on her knee, and slowly moved it higher, pushing her dress up to her hip. She watched his hand, not his face. Then she looked him in the eyes, and he kissed her, tongue deep in her mouth, while opening her legs with his knee.

I was five feet away. Sitting at the other end of the same couch. Watching.

“If you want to join in, no problem,” he said, without releasing her waist.

I shook my head. I felt as if my voice wouldn’t come out whole.

“Better for me,” he said with a laugh. And kissed her again.

Camila looked at me over his shoulder. She didn’t ask my permission. She didn’t ask me to leave, either. She just looked at me for a second, then turned back toward him.

***

What happened afterward comes back to me in fragments, like a very vivid, very slow dream.

He pulled her dress down over her shoulders, leaving it hanging around her waist. Her breasts were bare, her nipples hard and dark, the lamplight striking them from the side and defining her areolas. He leaned down and began sucking one nipple while pinching the other with his free hand, pulling and twisting it. Camila tangled her fingers in his hair and pushed his head, making him suck harder. He bit her. He bit her nipple with his teeth, and Camila let out a sharp moan that pierced half my chest. I could see her face from the side and didn’t recognize it. Or maybe I did. I recognized it too well. It was the face she made with me in bed when she was about to come.

He pulled her dress all the way up, took it off over her head, and threw it on the floor. He pulled her lilac thong down to her ankles. Camila stepped out of it and left it on the rug. He opened her legs all at once, without ceremony, and buried his mouth in her pussy. Camila arched against the back of the couch, still wearing her heels, and grabbed his head with both hands.

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned. “Oh, yes, like that, like that, suck me like that.”

He ate her pussy as if he were hungry. I could see his tongue slipping between her lips, rising to her clitoris, descending again, pushing inside. He grabbed her thighs and spread them farther, until they were almost pressed against the back of the couch. Camila moved her hips against his mouth, rubbing her face against him, never stopping her moaning. At one point she looked at me. Looked at me, a foot away, with the other man’s mouth pressed to her pussy, and smiled. It was a smile I had never seen before.

She came in his mouth. She grabbed his head with both hands and came with a long cry, moving her hips against his tongue, eyes closed and mouth open. He kept licking her until she had to push his face away to make him stop.

Then she knelt in front of him and undid his pants. When she pulled out his cock, she made a sound in her throat, something like a sigh. It was big. Bigger than mine. Big enough that I noticed, and couldn’t stop noticing. Thick, with prominent veins, the swollen glans shining with fluid.

“You’ve got such a tasty cock,” she told him. And took half of it into her mouth.

She began sucking him slowly, holding the base and looking up at him. She pulled it out, licked it from top to bottom, played her tongue around the glans, and took it back into her mouth, all the way down. He held her hair and guided her gently at first, then with more force. Camila gagged, her eyes filling with tears, but she didn’t pull away. A string of saliva hung from the corner of her mouth to her breasts. I watched Camila’s back move, the curve of her waist, the red marks from the dress on her skin, and her upturned ass rocking in the air each time she sank down over the man’s cock. And I saw one of my hands gripping the couch arm, white from the pressure, while the other rubbed the bulge over my pants without my realizing it.

“Look, dumbass,” the man said, looking at me for the first time without taking his hand from her hair. “Look how your friend sucks my cock. Look how well she does it.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

He pulled her up. Turned her around. Bent her over the back of the couch, a foot from where I sat, her ass raised and her legs spread. He ran two fingers over her pussy, brought them to his mouth, sucked them, and then drove his cock into her with one thrust. No condom. No asking. Camila bit her lip and clung to the couch fabric. I heard the muffled cry and felt it in my chest.

“Look at her,” he said with a laugh, still not looking at me. “Look how she takes me. Look how she sucks my cock with her pussy.”

He fucked her like that against the couch, thrusting with his whole hips, gripping her waist with both hands and pulling her back toward him every time he pushed forward. The slaps of skin against skin filled the living room. Camila moaned louder and louder, her face pressed against the backrest, mouth open, eyes half closed. I watched her breasts sway with every thrust. I watched her pussy opening and closing around his cock, shining and wet, squeezing when he pulled out, swallowing him when he pushed back in.

“Harder,” Camila begged, her voice broken. “Harder, come on, fuck me harder.”

He laughed and grabbed a lock of her hair. He pulled her head back and fucked her like that, tugging her hair, while his other hand smacked her ass, leaving his palm print behind. Another smack. And another. Camila moaned louder and louder, an animalistic, high-pitched moan I had never heard from her before.

“Tell your friend,” he said, panting. “Tell him how you like it.”

“I love it,” Camila moaned, looking at me. “I love it, Martín. He’s fucking me so good. He’s splitting my pussy open.”

I nodded. Like an idiot. I nodded.

He fucked her for what felt like an hour. He changed positions twice. He put her on her side on the couch and lifted one leg. He put her on her back on the rug and sank between her legs while she held his shoulders and dug her nails into his back. Every so often he looked her in the eyes and asked, with a wicked smile, if she liked it. And Camila said yes. Yes, yes, yes.

She came again. With him on top, thrusting slowly and deeply, looking her in the face. She came with a long, high-pitched moan, squeezing his back with her legs and arching against him. He stayed still inside her until Camila stopped trembling.

Then he turned her over again and told her to ride him. Camila did it with her back to him, facing me. And while she rose and fell on him, her hands on her own breasts, pinching her nipples, she never took her eyes off me. Not once. I watched his cock slide in and out of my woman’s pussy. I watched her breasts bounce with every thrust. I watched her flat belly contract. I watched her open mouth, her smeared red lips, her hair stuck to her forehead.

“Look at me,” she said, barely able to speak. “Look at me, Martín. Look at him fucking me.”

I didn’t touch myself. I didn’t need to. When he announced with a growl that he was coming, he lifted her by the waist and pulled her off him. He dropped her to her knees on the floor in front of the couch and stood before her, jerking his cock two inches from her face. Camila opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. He came there, all over—on her tongue, mouth, cheek, breasts, throat, everywhere—in thick, heavy spurts that ran down her face and hung from her nipples. Camila closed her mouth, swallowed what had landed inside, and licked his glans clean to the last drop.

When she collapsed forward against the couch, with an exhausted smile and her face smeared, I felt warm wetness inside my pants. I had come without touching myself. Without even realizing it.

I crouched down. Camila looked at me from the couch. Her hair was stuck to her temple, and a strand of semen hung from her chin.

“Look at my friend,” she told him, still breathing hard. “He didn’t want to participate. But he loved it. He came all over himself.”

The man laughed, stroked her leg, and asked her to stay the night. He wanted to fuck her again in the morning. She shook her head. She found her dress, her lilac thong, and her heels. She cleaned herself up in the bathroom and came back with her makeup redone, her lips still red, though not as much.

“Come on, friend,” she said from the door.

***

We made the trip home in silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the silence that remains after something you know you’ll never tell anyone.

At home, I got into the shower without saying anything. When I came out, Camila was in bed, still wearing the wrinkled white dress, her feet bare. She waited until I sat on the edge.

“It’s your turn,” she said very softly. “After the whole day. Come here.”

I moved closer. I pulled her dress off in one tug. I touched her face, her neck, her breasts, her nipples still marked by the other man’s bites. I kissed her slowly, tasting the trace of everything I had seen, the taste of another man’s semen still deep in her mouth. When I pushed my fingers inside her, she was hot and open in a way I had never known. Her pussy dripped with a mixture of her wetness and the other man’s cum running down the insides of her thighs. She made a sound in my ear, a new sound.

“It’s yours,” she told me. “It always was yours. I just lent it to you for a while today. Come on. Fuck me. Fuck me now, over what he left inside me.”

I spread her legs and buried myself in her with one thrust. She was so open that she barely felt me at first. I pressed myself against her body, held her face with both hands, and began moving hard—harder than ever—with a mixture of anger, relief, and a desire I had never felt before. I bit her neck. I bit her breasts. I dug my fingers into her ass. She wrapped her legs around me and whispered everything he had done to her, everything he had said, how he had fucked her, how he had come inside her the first time without her realizing it until afterward. She told me everything while I fucked her. I didn’t last at all. I came inside her with a growl, pinning her against the mattress and feeling her pussy milk me dry. Nothing more was needed.

Afterward, in the darkness, with the air conditioner humming, she curled up against my chest and fell asleep without saying anything else. I stayed awake for a long while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night frame by frame, trying to understand what it had all been.

I reached no clear conclusion. Only one: it wouldn’t be the last time. And from the way she breathed against my chest, I knew it wasn’t the first fantasy that would slip out of our hands.