The Unknown Woman at the Party and Her Dirtiest Game

Everything pointed to that afternoon being, at the very least, different. The weather was on our side: not too hot, and not that annoying breeze that makes you look for a jacket. The drinks made themselves and went down almost effortlessly, and the terrace at Damián’s house kept filling up with people I didn’t know but who I immediately liked.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of music I would have chosen. It was missing the bass I like, the kind you feel in your chest. Even so, the vibe was good. As the afternoon wore on and the glasses emptied, something like a ritual settled over the bodies moving awkwardly to songs with suggestive lyrics.

I couldn’t help noticing her. She was leaning against the railing, laughing at something her friend was saying, and her neckline showed just enough to make you want to see more. She had hips that swayed with a hypnotic rhythm every time she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her face, round with full lips, kept drawing my gaze, which, glass after glass, became a little less discreet.

I waited for the right moment. During a slower song, when her friend drifted over to the drink table, I walked up and introduced myself. She didn’t give me a cold look or make up an excuse to escape. To my relief, I could tell that, at least at first, she was receptive.

“Bruna,” she said, and held out her hand with a formality that didn’t match the atmosphere.

“Nice to meet you, Bruna.”

Then came the usual questions, the ones you ask to buy time before working up the nerve to do something more serious. What I did for a living, where I was from, how I knew Damián. Alcohol helped us skip the awkward pauses. There were little advances, an awkward dance or two, a flirtation that kept heating up without either of us saying it out loud.

Her friend had already disappeared into the crowd. Mine had too, who knows where. The two of us were left in a corner of the terrace, getting closer and closer, as if the rest of the party had gone dark.

I remember making the first move for a kiss and her dodging it with the skill of a professional soccer player, turning her face away by the barest fraction. I laughed, resigned, and I think that smile disarmed her, because it was she who then brought her mouth to mine. That started a slow, wet kiss, tasting of rum and something sweet I couldn’t identify.

“Do you live far?” she asked against my lips.

“Ten minutes by taxi.”

“Call one.”

***

I’m going to skip the ride, the groping in the back seat, and the driver’s embarrassment as he watched us in the mirror, to get to the moment that really matters. There’s something I rarely admit: certain drinks, especially when I mix them without measure, give me a laxative effect that shows up without warning. That night was a textbook example.

As soon as we walked into my apartment, while she was poking around at the records stacked on the shelf, I felt the first warning in my lower belly. An uncomfortable heat, an urgency that wasn’t going to wait for the romantic situation to ripen. I didn’t know how to hide it. I tried to keep playing along, slip an arm around her waist, but a well-timed cramp spoke for me before I could find the words.

“Are you okay?” she asked, amused, still a little drunk. “You made a weird face.”

“I need a minute,” I said, with the dignity of someone who knows he’s losing it. “I’ll be right back.”

“Do you need anything?”

The question was innocent. So was my answer: a resigned nod as I pointed toward the hallway. What I didn’t expect was what came next.

“Where’s the bathroom?” she said, standing up. “I’ll go with you.”

At first I thought it was a joke. One of those lines people use to break the tension. But she followed me down the hallway with a smile that was anything but innocent, and my heart started racing for reasons that had nothing to do with my body’s urgency.

The bathroom was tiny. Once the two of us got inside, our knees almost touched the bathtub. I stood there, not knowing what to do, while she closed the door behind her and leaned against it.

“Sit down,” she ordered, pointing at the toilet.

This is not happening, I thought. But it was happening.

***

I pulled down my pants and sat there, feeling ridiculous and turned on in equal measure. She was looking at me with an intensity I’d never seen in anyone in a situation like that. There was no disgust on her face. There was hunger.

“It’s not going to come out yet,” she said, as if she could read my body better than I could. “Hold it.”

She lifted her skirt with both hands, slowly, and slid her thong down until it fell onto the tiled floor. Then, without taking her eyes off mine, she squatted in front of me and started peeing onto the tile, a warm stream splashing against the ceramic and filling the bathroom with an intimate, brazen sound.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “We all do it. I do it in front of you, you do it in front of me.”

The mix of urgent need and the filthy thrill of having her there, half-naked and obscene, thirty centimeters from me, left me speechless. She straightened slightly, pulled her top off over her head, and her breasts were freed, large and heavy, swaying with the movement. She held them with both hands and leaned toward me.

“I want you to dirty them,” she murmured.

***

Before I could even finish processing what she was asking for, her clothes were already on the floor and my pants were off to one side in a crumpled bundle. She knelt between my legs. One of her fingers, which she’d put in her mouth to moisten, began to search for my entrance with soft insistence. I felt it press, give way, slip in just a little, and a shiver ran down my back.

Her tongue followed the finger. It moved over the area with such shamelessness that I gripped the edges of the toilet until my knuckles went white. Every touch seemed calculated to finish loosening what my body was already desperate to release, an urge that, thanks to the alcohol, promised to be soft and liquid.

“Now,” she said, pulling back a little, offering me her chest again. “Give it to me.”

I pushed carefully, trying not to let it come out abruptly or noisily, but warm and wet, controlled. I couldn’t even see her breasts from where I was, but by her ragged breathing I knew the exact moment the first hot wave found her. She let out a long sigh, almost a moan, that had nothing to do with disgust.

When I leaned forward to look at her, the sight pinned me to the seat. She was covering her areolas and nipples completely, smearing herself with her open palms, stroking her chest with a reverent slowness, as if she were applying an expensive lotion. Her eyes were half-closed and her lips parted.

“Look at what you did to me,” she said, and her voice came out hoarse.

***

I’m not capable of describing the erection I got at that moment with any justice. What I can describe is how she noticed it. She brought one of her dirty hands down, grabbed me firmly, and started stroking me up and down, smearing me brown, without the slightest hint of hesitation.

“Do you like it?” she asked, though the answer was obvious. “Do you like what I do to you?”

“Yes,” I said, and my voice sounded like someone else’s. “Don’t stop.”

She took her hand to her mouth first, tasting her fingers without taking her eyes off my face, measuring my reaction, testing the limit and confirming that I had none that night. Then she leaned in. Her hot mouth wrapped around me completely, indifferent to everything, and the contrast between the filth of the game and the softness of her tongue made my head swim.

I swear I didn’t even notice the smell. My world had been reduced to that mouth, to those eyes looking up at me as if they wanted to mentally photograph every second, to those hands holding my hips so I couldn’t get away.

“Look at me,” she ordered, pulling back for an instant. “I want you to look at me when you finish.”

I obeyed. I obeyed her in everything. She took me into her mouth again, and I held myself up with both hands on the cold edge of the bathtub, feeling pleasure rise from some place I hadn’t known existed. Every time I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, she eased off and left me on the edge a second longer, playing with me, showing me who was in control in that tiny bathroom.

When she finally let me go, I exploded like an animal inside that mouth that didn’t move away even a millimeter. She took it all without taking her eyes off mine, with an intensity that gave me chills even in the middle of my orgasm. I emptied myself with a long, rough moan while she swallowed and smiled with her eyes.

***

Then came the strange silence that always comes after, that moment when desire cools and you have to go back to being a normal person in a normal bathroom. I turned on the shower. The two of us stepped under the warm water without saying a word, and for the first time all night there was no game or flirtation or masks, only two strangers soaping themselves in silence.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she said at last, laughing as the water ran through her hair.

“Who would I tell something like that to?” I replied.

“Everyone,” she said. “Sooner or later. I can see it on your face.”

She was right, of course. I walked her to get a taxi an hour later, my hair still damp and the feeling that I had crossed a door I didn’t know how to close. Before getting into the car, she gave me a kiss on the cheek, almost chaste, as if what had happened in my bathroom had happened to some other, different Bruna.

“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” she said.

“Maybe,” I answered.

I never saw her again. But some nights, when I make a drink a little too strong and feel that first warning in my lower belly, I remember that stranger who taught me that desire doesn’t understand shame, and her voice telling me not to be embarrassed, that we all do it.

To be continued.