My neighbor discovered my secret and punished me that afternoon

I grew up on a long lot on the outskirts of an inland town, one of those plots where two houses fit: my family’s at the front, and another, smaller one at the back, separated by a dirt yard and an old lemon tree. Marcela lived in the back house with her mother. Marcela was the same age as my older sister, and when I was a kid I used to sneak into her games just so I wouldn’t be alone.

From those years I remember little with any clarity, except for one detail that stayed engraved in me without my understanding why. In one of those childish games, she played the role of a stern stepmother and, whenever something went wrong, she scolded me with a feigned authority that left me speechless. It was only a children’s game, nothing more than that, but the image of Marcela giving orders, with that voice that allowed no argument, dug itself into some corner of me and stayed there, dormant, for years.

The thing truly woke up much later, when I was already around twenty and she was a full-grown woman who still lived in the house at the back. By then, what I hadn’t known how to name as a child had a very specific name and shape. I was obsessed with her feet. I was obsessed with her flip-flops, those worn blue Havaianas she left lying by the door, the shape of her foot stamped into the rubber from so much use.

It’s not easy to explain without sounding ridiculous. I spent whole afternoons looking for an excuse to go to the back, to see her cross the yard barefoot, to watch how she slipped off her flip-flops and let them dangle from her toes while she talked to her mother. And when the house was empty, I did what I had been doing in secret for years: I went in, took her Havaianas, locked myself in the bathroom, and masturbated with them in my hand, convinced that no one would ever know.

No one would ever know. That was all the peace I had.

***

That February afternoon I heard her shouting in the yard. I ran out, more out of fright than bravery, and found her wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping, hopping on the wet cement as she put her flip-flops on.

—The power went out —she said, still shaken—. The shower started sparking and everything shut off.

I offered to help. It happened often at my house, and I already knew where to look. I went in, checked the electric shower, and saw that the two wires were stripped at the joint, touching one another. I went to get electrical tape and asked her to bring a ladder closer.

Marcela wouldn’t let me climb up. She said she was older and she’d do the work; that I should stay below, holding the ladder steady. I took my place where she told me, both hands on the rungs, and she climbed up.

That was when I looked up and went out of breath. Her feet were right in front of my face, a hand’s breadth from my mouth, still wet, with the flip-flop hanging off the tip. The smell of wet rubber and her skin hit me all at once and I forgot where I was. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, hypnotized, until I noticed she had stopped working and was moving her foot slowly, bringing it toward my face on purpose.

She came down the ladder very slowly, never taking her eyes off me. I had an erection that there was no way to hide under my shorts, and she saw it. She stood in front of me, crossed her arms, and tilted her head.

—Tell me why you stare at my feet so much? —she asked.

I stammered something that wasn’t even a word. Shame had dried my throat.

—I saw you plenty of times —she went on, lowering her voice—. You go in when no one’s around, grab my flip-flops, and lock yourself in the bathroom. I’ve been spying on you. Are you going to explain it to me or not?

There was no escape. I took a deep breath, swallowed my pride, and told her everything: the childhood game, the obsession that came after, the years hiding away with her Havaianas. I said it staring at the floor, waiting for her to throw me out screaming.

She didn’t throw me out. She shut the door with her foot, never letting go of my arm, and leaned back against it.

—So the little boy liked being scolded —she said, and for the first time she smiled, but it wasn’t a gentle smile—. Fine. Now you’re going to have a real reason to be punished. Take off your shorts.

***

I froze. Fear, shame, and a kind of desire I didn’t know how to contain mixed together until I couldn’t react. Marcela didn’t wait. She took my ear like I was a child, pulled my shorts down to my knees with her other hand, and led me to the bathroom.

She lowered the toilet lid, sat down, crossed her legs, and began to swing her foot, making the heel tap against the rubber of the flip-flop. The knocking filled the bathroom in silence.

—You’re not going to lick my flip-flops in secret anymore —she said—. You’re going to lick them here, with me watching. Kneel down.

I knelt. She stretched her foot toward my mouth and ordered me to start. I wanted to take the Havaiana off first, but she wouldn’t let me: I had to run my tongue between her skin and the rubber, in that warm little gap. The taste was familiar from all those secret times, and shame began to give way to something else. Then she took off the flip-flop and dragged it across my face, over my lips, slowly, watching me react.

—Come to my skirt —she said after that, pointing to it with the flip-flop in her hand—. If I have to repeat myself, the next blow goes to the face.

I got up, covering myself with my hands. She slapped them away, kept staring at my erection without the slightest embarrassment, and gave it two soft taps with the rubber sole.

—I want to see if you’re still like that after the beating —she laughed.

I lay across her lap. She adjusted herself so my crotch brushed her thighs, grabbed my hair with one hand, and started in with the other. The first flip-flop blows landed hard on my ass, one after another, without pause. I wanted to move, but the pull on my hair pinned me to her lap. It burned. It burned more and more, and the blows didn’t stop, and tears slipped out before I could hold them back.

When she stopped, I was trembling. She didn’t let me get up.

—Take my flip-flop and bite it —she ordered—. If it hurts, clench your teeth, but I don’t want to hear you. We’ve only just started. The belt is still to come.

I took the Havaiana from the floor and shoved it between my teeth. It was warm. The blows started again and I cried softly, twisting on her lap, biting the rubber so I wouldn’t make a sound. At some point I stopped feeling the pain as pain; it became one hot thing running through my whole body, and for all that it burned, part of me wanted more.

***

Marcela stopped and pushed me down to get off her lap. I stood up, still hard, and she shook her head, amused.

—So you liked it. Let’s go to the bedroom and see if you still think the same.

She led me by the arm into the room and made me kneel on the bed. She untied the towel and was left naked. I turned my head by instinct to look at her and earned a slap that left my cheek burning.

—You look when I tell you to.

With the same towel she tied both my ankles together and fastened the other end to the bed leg. Any idea of escaping was out of the question. I heard her open the wardrobe and take out a leather belt; she folded it in half and snapped it through the air, once, twice, as if measuring the fear she caused me.

—This is for all the times you used my flip-flops without permission —she said.

The first belt strike tore a yell out of me. I threw myself onto the mattress, writhing, but she yanked me up by the hair.

—Every time you move out of position, that’s ten more. Understand?

I begged her; it was useless. She kept going, on my ass, on my legs, while I bit the pillow and hugged it with all my strength. I lost count. When she stopped, she stroked the marked skin with a softness that had nothing to do with the blows, almost a massage, and that contradiction undid me more than the belt had.

Then I felt her move. I thought she was going to untie me. Instead, she took off one flip-flop, came closer to my face, and rubbed my mouth with the rubber, slowly, rolling it over my lips. From that position I could see her in full, standing naked in front of me, with the Havaiana in her hand, and I knew that image would never leave me.

She grabbed my hair and pressed my face against her sex. I had never been with a woman; I didn’t know what to do, but it wasn’t necessary: she directed everything, set the pace, used me however she wanted. She moved faster and faster against my mouth and, at the same time, with the flip-flop in her other hand, she kept hitting my ass in rhythm. The blows and her breathing quickened together until I felt her tense, stifle a cry, and tremble all over, tight against me. She stayed like that for a few seconds, holding my hair, then collapsed onto the bed, panting.

***

She was silent for a long while; all that could be heard was her breathing slowly settling. Then she sat up, smiled like someone who was satisfied, and came to untie my ankles.

As soon as she let me go, I looked for a way out, but she stopped me by the arm.

—Pick up my flip-flops and put them on my feet.

I did it, kneeling down, slipping one Havaiana onto each foot as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She watched me from above.

—You like them, don’t you? Come up.

She made me kneel on the bed, with my legs spread to either side of her body and my face over her feet.

—Lick. Make it obvious you like it.

I began licking her feet and the flip-flop rubber at the same time, and the excitement made me forget the burning in my ass. Marcela reached her hand between my legs and started masturbating me very slowly, measuring every movement, watching me endure it. When she saw I wasn’t going to last, she asked me to bring her one of the Havaianas. She took it and, while she kept hitting my ass with softer and softer blows, continued with her other hand until I couldn’t take it anymore. She pressed the flip-flop rubber against me at exactly the right moment and everything came over me at once; my body shook so hard that I collapsed onto her legs, emptied out and surrendered.

It took me a while to recover. She was stroking my marked ass, saying nothing, until at last she spoke.

—You can go now. I hope you learned your lesson: from now on, my Havaianas get licked here, on my feet. And you’d better get that ass ready, because this is only the beginning.

I got dressed, still dizzy, like I was waking out of a dream. Before crossing the yard I turned the electric switch back on, just as she’d ordered.

After that afternoon many more followed, with her foot games, her flip-flops, and her belt, but those are other stories. Today Marcela no longer lives in the house at the back, and I admit I still look for her in every woman I cross paths with, hoping to find someone who wants to take the lead the way she did that afternoon, or even with more hunger.