What My Landlords Did When Their Friend Came Over

When I moved to the city for work, I didn’t have enough money for an entire apartment, so I rented the spare room in a couple’s house. Marcos and Lucía were around thirty-five, had been married for years, and from the first day treated me less like a tenant than like a distant cousin who could open the refrigerator without asking. The house had two floors: theirs downstairs, in the master bedroom; mine upstairs, in a room with its own bathroom and a door opening onto the hallway we shared.

It didn’t take me long to notice that they were different from any couple I’d known. There were no fights, no uncomfortable silences over dinner. They sought each other out with their eyes, touched as they passed, went out some nights and came home late, laughing under their breath like two teenagers who had just gotten away with some mischief. I, coming from a relationship that had faded from boredom, watched them with a mixture of envy and curiosity.

The second thing I noticed was how naturally they lived with their bodies. Lucía walked around the kitchen in a long T-shirt and little else; her nipples showed through the thin fabric whenever she got cold, and when she bent down to get something from the refrigerator, the shirt rode up and let me see the curve of her ass, barely covered by a tiny pair of panties. Marcos came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and stood talking to me as if nothing were unusual. At first I looked away out of respect. Later I got used to it, though I never stopped noticing her: large tits, wide hips, a full mouth that gave every word extra weight, and a way of moving that drew attention without meaning to.

—It doesn’t make you uncomfortable, does it? —she asked me one morning, catching me looking where I shouldn’t.

—Not at all —I lied, and she laughed as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

***

The first strange Friday came three weeks after I moved in. Marcos hadn’t gone to work. The afternoon passed as usual, but as night fell, the atmosphere in the house changed. Lucía went upstairs to shower, came down wrapped in a wine-colored robe, and began trying on clothes in front of the hall mirror, indecisive, like someone getting ready for an important date. Marcos watched her from the doorframe, wearing that half-smile of his.

—Put on something pretty —he told her, giving her hip a slap as he walked past.

She chose a tight, dark dress, the kind that left no room for doubt. She let her hair down and put on perfume. When she finally came downstairs, she looked like another woman: flushed, expectant, her tits pressed against the neckline and her nipples showing beneath the fabric. I pretended to watch television, but I didn’t miss a thing.

Marcos sat beside me on the couch, handed me a beer, and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret.

—Listen, I’m going to tell you something because you’re one of the household now —he began—. A friend of ours is coming over in a little while. I don’t want you to judge him, ask him anything, or mention to anyone outside that he comes here. Is that okay?

I looked at him, not entirely understanding.

—Sure —I said—. Why would I judge him?

Marcos took a long drink of beer before answering.

—His name is Damián. He comes to fuck Lucía. Alone, in the bedroom. —He paused, gauging my reaction—. It’s something we both do, by mutual agreement. She likes being fucked by someone else; it turns me on to watch her enjoy another cock. There’s no cheating here: we decided on it together. Understand?

It took me a second to take it in. It wasn’t a secret affair: it was an arrangement, a door that couple had opened between them. I felt my mouth go dry and my cock begin moving on its own against my pants.

—And what do you do in the meantime? —I asked, more out of nerves than anything else.

—I stay downstairs. Sometimes I listen to her scream. Sometimes I go up at the end and fuck her too, once the other guy has gotten her ready. —He shrugged—. Tonight you get to keep me company down here, with the TV and the beer. Upstairs, it’ll be just the two of them.

Just the two of them. The phrase kept circling in my head.

***

Damián arrived around eleven. Marcos jumped up to answer the door, and from the couch I heard them greet each other in the hall.

—How’s it going? —Marcos said.

—Anxious, with a hard-on since I left home —a deep voice answered, a big man’s voice.

When they entered the living room, I saw him. Damián was considerably taller than Marcos, broad-backed and muscular, dressed in sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt that left little to the imagination. A thick, long bulge showed beneath the pants, hanging heavily against his thigh. He had the presence of someone who knew the effect he caused when he walked through a door. He shook my hand firmly and looked at me for a moment with some surprise.

—And who’s this? —he asked Marcos, indicating me with his head.

—He lives upstairs. He’s trustworthy —Marcos replied—. He’s staying with me.

Damián laughed, shaking his head.

—You two are crazy —he said, but he didn’t seem bothered. He seemed comfortable, as if that strangeness were part of the fun.

Lucía appeared at the top of the stairs. She didn’t come down. She looked at him from above, biting her lip, and with the slightest gesture of her hand invited him upstairs. Damián followed her without another word. Before stepping into the bedroom, she turned around and lifted her dress just enough to show him her naked ass, without panties. I heard him growl under his breath. Then the bedroom door closed and, almost immediately, music started. A playlist turned up loud enough to cover anything else.

—What’s that for? —I asked, though I already had an idea.

Marcos smiled and turned the television up a little.

—So she can scream freely —he said, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t jealousy. It was something else, harder to name.

***

I tried to concentrate on the screen, but it was impossible. Sounds filtered through beneath the music. First laughter. Then Lucía’s low, broken voice, a muffled “oh my God,” an “like that, like that, don’t stop” that grew louder and louder until it became one long, sustained moan. I could also hear the wet, obscene sounds of oral sex: rhythmic, noisy sucking, Damián’s heavy breathing above it all. Then he groaned, hoarsely, and I heard Lucía say between breaths:

—You’ve got such a big one, you son of a bitch, you’re going to split me in two.

It wasn’t acted. It was the sound of someone letting herself be fucked completely.

Marcos kept his eyes on the television, but his jaw was tense and the beer remained untouched in his hand. Every so often he tilted his head slightly toward the ceiling, listening, and something like a smile crossed his face.

—Doesn’t it bother you? —I ventured to ask.

—Quite the opposite —he said without looking at me—. I’ve known her for twelve years. I know everything she likes: how she likes to be sucked, how she gets when they put a finger in her ass while they fuck her, how long it takes her to come when she’s really turned on. Watching her like that, without restraints, with a cock that isn’t mine thrusting all the way inside her, is what turns me on most. It sounds strange, I know. But that’s how it is. Then I go upstairs and fuck her with the other guy’s semen still inside her.

He said it so calmly that it chilled and aroused me at the same time. I wasn’t bothering to hide it anymore: my cock had made a tent in my pants, and he could see it perfectly well.

Upstairs, the rhythm changed. A steady, muffled pounding began, the headboard hitting the wall in time with the moans that even the music could no longer cover. Lucía screamed, “harder, harder, wreck me,” and Damián’s deep voice answered her authoritatively, “whore, you’re a whore, say it.” And she did. She repeated, “I’m a whore, I’m your whore,” between moans, as if those words set her completely free.

I felt heat climbing up my neck. I shifted on the couch, uncomfortable with what my own body was doing without permission, my cock throbbing hard and soaking my underwear. Marcos noticed and chuckled under his breath.

—Relax —he said—. It’s normal. It happens. The first time, I got hard listening to her too.

The pounding sped up. Lucía let out a long, high scream that broke in her throat, and upstairs I heard a male roar as he came. Silence for a few seconds, then muffled laughter and once again the murmur of low voices.

—The first round is over —Marcos murmured, and went back to watching TV as if nothing had happened.

The second round began ten minutes later. And there was a third. I don’t know when fatigue and beer overcame me, my cock still hard and my head full of images I hadn’t seen and yet could picture perfectly. I fell asleep on the couch with the murmur of the house in the background.

***

I woke with a dry mouth and the television still on, muted. The music had stopped. The house was silent except for low voices coming from the kitchen. Marcos wasn’t on the couch. I got up to go upstairs to my room, but as I passed the kitchen, I saw them.

Marcos was sitting at the table with a beer, relaxed, wearing shorts. Damián was leaning against the counter, also with a beer, dressed only in the sweatpants he’d arrived in and without the shirt. At that distance, beneath the kitchen’s white light, his body was even more imposing: enormous shoulders, a defined chest, a torso narrowing toward a firm waist and a trail of hair disappearing into his pants. Beneath the light fabric, the cock that had kept Lucía screaming half the night was still visible, heavy and semi-hard. His hair was tousled, and he had the calm of a sated animal.

I lingered a second too long in the doorway, unsure whether to come in or keep walking. Damián saw me and instinctively straightened a little, as if he were about to cover himself. Marcos burst out laughing.

—Leave it, it’s fine —he told him—. He’s trustworthy, like I told you. Besides, the kid spent the whole time downstairs listening to you, with his cock hard as a rock.

Damián relaxed again and raised his bottle toward me in greeting. He smiled at me like someone who knew a secret.

—And Lucía? —I asked, more to say something than for any other reason.

—Sleeping —Marcos answered—. She’s been torn apart, dripping with semen and with her ass red from the slapping. —He said it with a strange pride, as if her exhaustion were a trophy they shared.

—It wasn’t just once —Damián added, and the two of them laughed at a joke only they understood—. It was three times. The first time I put it in her pussy, then her ass, and finally I emptied it all into her mouth. She’s insatiable; she swallowed everything and asked for more. She nearly drained me dry.

—You hold your own too —Marcos replied, clinking bottles with him. —Now I’m going upstairs to see if there’s anything left for me to stir up.

They both laughed. I said goodbye, told them I was going to bed, and climbed the stairs with my head spinning and my cock hard again. The upstairs hallway was dark. The master bedroom door had been left ajar, a line of warm light escaping onto the floor.

I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. But I stopped, held my breath, and peered through the crack.

***

Lucía lay facedown on the rumpled sheets, half-covered by a bedspread that had fallen to one side. She slept in complete peace, her hair spread over the pillow, one leg extending out from beneath the fabric. The bedspread had slipped down to her waist, leaving her round, white ass exposed, with two distinct red handprints across each cheek. Between her thighs, a thick strand of semen still glistened, slowly running down her skin until it soaked into the sheet. The clothes she had tried on hours earlier remained scattered across the floor, mixed with the shirt Damián had been wearing when he arrived. In the half-light I could also make out faint finger marks on her hips, the trace of a mouth on her shoulder, everything that generous body had received and that I had only partly heard.

There was something almost tender about the scene, and at the same time something deeply forbidden about my being there, spying on her sleeping after being fucked, marked, and filled by someone else. I felt my heart pounding against my ribs and my cock throbbing so hard it almost hurt. I backed away from the door slowly, holding back even the sound of my own footsteps, and shut myself in my room.

I didn’t sleep that night. I pulled down my pants, grabbed my cock dripping with fluid, and jerked off right there thinking about Lucía, about Damián’s semen still inside her, about Marcos telling me, “it happens.” I came quickly, in long waves, with a muffled groan against the pillow, and even then it didn’t pass. I couldn’t stop going over everything: the conversation on the couch, the music, the sounds through the floor, “I’m your whore,” Damián in the kitchen with his half-hard cock showing beneath his pants, Lucía sprawled facedown with her ass red and her pussy soaked. Without seeking it, I had become a witness to something most people never see. And the most disturbing part wasn’t the disgust. It was how much I had enjoyed watching, and how badly I wanted to watch again.

***

Damián came back several times during the months I lived there. Eventually, Marcos stopped sending me to the couch. “If you want to stay nearby, stay,” he told me once, without further explanation, and I understood that the half-open door hadn’t been left that way by accident the first night.

I learned to stay in the hallway, silently, my cock out and my hand working it slowly, watching what they allowed me to watch. I saw Damián spread her legs and bury his face in her cunt until she arched her back. I saw him fuck her on all fours, gripping her hair, while Marcos sat on the bedroom couch and jerked off as he watched. I saw Lucía sucking one of them while masturbating the other at the same time, her eyes closed and her mascara running. I saw the exact moment Damián came inside her and she trembled all over, moaning with her mouth open, and Marcos climbed onto the bed as soon as the other man pulled away, to fuck her with his friend’s semen still dripping from her.

Sometimes Lucía opened her eyes in the middle of it all and held my gaze from the bed, without asking me to leave. One night she held my gaze while Damián pounded her from behind and, without stopping her moans, brought her fingers to her mouth, sucked them, and lowered her hand to her clitoris, showing me how she touched herself while another man fucked her. I came right there in the hallway, against the doorframe, biting my fist so I wouldn’t scream. That silent complicity, that permission never spoken aloud, was the most arousing thing I experienced in that house.

I never crossed the threshold. There was never any need. I had found my exact place in that arrangement: the one who watched and came alone. And they, who seemed to know everything about each other, knew that about me too.

There are nights when, even years later, I return to that crack of light in the hallway and the silence of the sleeping house. But those are other stories, and perhaps, if I work up the courage, I’ll tell them someday.