The Man from the Farm Who Made Me Forget My Promise

I arrived at my aunt and uncle’s farm one August afternoon, with Diego asleep in the back seat and my heart somewhat lighter than I’d expected. Roberto, my husband, would arrive in a few days: he had a project to close with an important client and couldn’t get away any sooner. I would go ahead with the boy.

The farm lay on the outskirts of a small town, nearly two hours from the city. No cell service, no cable television, none of the things my life had in excess. My aunt and uncle welcomed us with the table set and their usual happiness.

My name is Valentina. I’m thirty-four, with dark brown hair, five foot three. I do Pilates three times a week because I like the way clothes fit me, and because it helps clear my head. I’m not the kind of woman who goes looking for adventures. I never had been.

Diego, my eleven-year-old son, survived two days without screens before officially declaring himself bored. No Wi-Fi, no tablet, none of his school friends. Just the farm, the horses, and the silence, which he found unbearable.

It was my uncle Ernesto who suggested I learn to ride. —There’s a man here who teaches well —he said—. I’ll call him tomorrow.

That man was Fermín.

I hadn’t imagined him that way. When my uncle introduced him in the stables, I expected the usual country fellow: older, weathered, sparing with words. Fermín was in his forties, tall, with the broad hands of a man who worked beneath the sun, but there was something in the way he carried himself that didn’t quite fit that image. He moved slowly. He spoke while looking people in the eye.

And when he looked at me, he looked me up and down without the slightest hurry, as if assessing something he still hadn’t decided whether he was interested in.

That day I was wearing a flowered dress that wasn’t especially short or tight, but fit me well. I felt watched in a way I didn’t know how to classify.

—You must be the mother —he said, more as a verification than a question.

—Valentina —I answered, somewhat curtly.

—Fermín —he said, and added nothing else.

I spent the next few days watching the lessons from the round pen’s fence, coffee in hand and eyes on Diego, who was gaining confidence on horseback with surprising speed. Fermín was patient with the boy. He didn’t yell or lose his temper. He corrected him calmly, pointing with one finger, adjusting the position of his hands on the reins.

And every so often, he looked up at me.

I didn’t like him doing that. Or I liked it far too much, which was worse.

Roberto called Thursday from the office landline—the only way to make contact without service—to tell me he would need another week. The business was more complicated than expected.

—We said you’d arrive for my uncle’s birthday —I told him.

—I know. I’m sorry, Valentina.

—It’s all right. Come when you can —I hung up.

It wasn’t all right. I’d been alone for ten days on a farm with my son and my aunt and uncle, with a useless cellphone and a feeling of distance from my usual life that was uncomfortable and, at the same time, strangely relieving.

***

It was a week and a half later when my uncle asked Fermín to accompany me to town. I needed to make some calls and buy a few things; it was a long way to go alone.

I didn’t feel like going with him. The way he looked at me made me nervous in a way I preferred not to examine.

But I went.

It was a long drive. For the first twenty minutes, neither of us spoke. He drove unhurriedly, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the open window. Hot air came in from outside and stirred his shirt.

He was the one who began.

—How long has it been since you were last here?

—Three years —I answered.

—You can tell you like it.

—How can you tell?

—Because you haven’t asked to go back sooner —he said, and there was something in his voice that might have been humor, though he didn’t smile.

In town I made my calls. Roberto was busy, distracted, and the conversation was brief. We argued a little, without much energy, and I hung up before saying something I would regret.

On the way back, Fermín asked if I was all right. I said yes. He didn’t press me, but began talking about other things: the farm, a horse he’d bought the year before, a storm that flooded the main road and left them cut off for three days. He was a good storyteller. He had that quality some people possess—the need for no embellishment to make a story engaging.

Without realizing it, I was laughing.

***

Over the next few days, something settled between us. The initial discomfort gave way, and in its place appeared something more comfortable, though no less dangerous. We met in the stables, sometimes crossed paths on the way to the kitchen, and some afternoons sat on the porch while Diego played with the farm dogs.

We talked. About unimportant things, but we talked.

I knew what was happening. I’m not naïve. I knew he looked at me in a particular way, that I took longer than necessary to answer his questions, that I sought his presence without any real reason. I knew it and kept telling myself it was harmless, that it was only conversation, that nothing was going to happen.

My uncle’s birthday arrived the way important nights do: far too quickly.

I put on a dress I had in my suitcase almost without thinking. Wine-colored, fitted, with a side slit up to the knee and a neckline that wasn’t excessive but was definitely there. I’d bought it on sale and hadn’t worn it yet. I didn’t put it on for any particular reason. Or so I told myself.

When I went down to the patio decorated with lights and long tablecloths, Fermín was leaning against the wall near the entrance, a glass in his hand. He looked at me. He said nothing.

The party was small and lively, with cumbia playing in the background and the smell of barbecue floating through the warm night air. My aunt and uncle danced. Diego had fallen asleep early, exhausted after so many hours with the horses. Patricia, my cousin, put a glass of tequila in my hand before I could refuse.

—Just one —I told her.

—Of course —she replied, already pouring the second.

I danced with my uncle, with a distant cousin, with Patricia. I turned down two men I didn’t know very well. When Fermín approached and held out his hand with the same calm as always, I was already somewhat tipsy, and the tequila had softened all the edges.

—Just a couple of songs —I said.

He danced slowly. He held me firmly around the waist, but without roughness. I felt the heat of his hand through the fabric of my dress. When the music slowed, he moved a little closer and I didn’t pull away. His legs brushed mine. His chest was very near my face. And something else: against my hip, I felt the hard bulge of his cock pressing through his trousers. He didn’t hide it. He pressed it against me slowly, as if he wanted me to feel it clearly, and when I raised my face, his eyes were already waiting for me.

This is a mistake, I thought. I know perfectly well this is a mistake.

And I kept dancing, and spread my thighs slightly so his leg could fit between them, and felt the friction against my clit through my panties, and bit my lip so no one would realize I was already wet.

***

When the last song ended, I told him I was tired. That I was going to bed.

—I’ll walk you inside —he said.

We walked silently down the interior hallway of the house. When we reached my bedroom door, I stopped. He did too.

There were no words. He took my hand gently, as if asking permission, and I didn’t pull it away. He led me two doors farther, to the room where he slept. Inside, the only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand.

—I’m married —I said. It was true and, at the same time, the most useless thing I could have said at that moment.

—I know —he replied—. And you’re wet. I noticed while we were dancing.

I felt my cheeks burning. I didn’t answer. He came closer and kissed me.

It wasn’t a hurried kiss. It was slow, his hands on my face, and I closed my eyes and didn’t stop him. I felt something inside me loosen that had been tense for weeks. His tongue entered my mouth without urgency, moving with the same calmness he brought to everything, and I parted my lips to let him deeper inside. While he kissed me, his hands moved down my sides, found the zipper at the back of my dress, and opened it with one long, slow pull. The fabric fell to the floor with barely a sound.

I stood before him in panties and bra, my breathing already ragged. Fermín took a step back to look at me. He didn’t say anything pretty or offer some cheesy compliment. He ran his tongue over his lips and lowered his hand to his fly to adjust his cock, which showed hard against the fabric.

—Come here —he said.

I went to him. He undid my bra and threw it on the floor. My nipples were already hard, tight, pointing at him. He bent down and sucked one, barely biting it, tugging with his teeth until I let out a moan. With his other hand he squeezed my other breast, kneading it without tenderness. It wasn’t the gentle, respectful touch I was used to from Roberto. Fermín pawed at me like a man who knew exactly what he had in his hands and had no intention of pretending otherwise.

He slipped his hand inside my panties. His fingers found my soaked pussy, and he smiled for the first time all night.

—You’re dripping, Valentina.

—Shut up —I said, but my voice came out broken.

He slid two fingers inside me, all the way in, and moved them slowly. With his thumb he found my clit and began making circles, applying just the right pressure. I spread my legs wider, pressed against his body, and gripped his wrist so he wouldn’t stop doing what he was doing.

—Like that, like that —I whispered, without realizing I was speaking.

—You like it that way, married? —he said in my ear—. Is that how hard you ask your husband to fuck you?

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. He was fingering me with a precision that made my knees tremble, and when I felt I was about to come, he pulled his fingers out abruptly and put them in my mouth.

—Suck.

I sucked them. They tasted like me. I sucked them clean, looking him in the eyes, while he undid his trousers with his other hand.

He laid me back on the bed. He pulled my lace panties down slowly, sliding them over my thighs to my ankles, and let them fall to the floor. Then he opened my legs with both hands, bracing himself on my knees to spread them completely, and lowered his head between my thighs.

He knew what he was doing. He used his tongue with calculated slowness: first the edges, licking the outer lips of my pussy one by one, then pushing it deep inside to draw out my wetness, then moving up to my clit and sucking it slowly, catching it between his lips and releasing it, never letting me get all the way there. Whenever he sensed I was close, he moved away and licked the insides of my thighs until my breathing calmed, then started again. He was fucking me with his mouth deliberately, dragging it out until I begged him.

—Fermín, please, don’t stop me anymore.

—Ask properly.

—Make me come —I said, and the words sounded foreign in my mouth—. Please. Make me come.

He pushed three fingers inside me and curled the tips upward, searching for a spot that made everything go hazy, while he kept sucking my clit. My hips began moving on their own against his face. My hands reached first for the sheet and then for his head, and I pulled him harder against me, closing my thighs around his neck.

When I came, I had to bite my arm to keep from screaming. My whole body shook, releasing a gush of fluid into his mouth, trembling for what seemed like minutes.

He sat up, wiped his wet chin with the back of his hand, and undressed without hurry. When he lowered his briefs, a sound escaped me: he was big, thick, very hard, the tip already glistening. He looked at me.

—Are you sure?

It was too late for that question. I nodded.

—Say it.

—Yes. Fuck me.

He climbed onto the bed, opened my legs again, and settled between them. He rubbed the head of his cock against my pussy, up and down, coating it in my juices. He ran it over my clit several times before beginning to press it against my entrance.

He entered slowly, inch by inch. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. He was taller than me, which made the angle different, deeper. I felt opened in a way I didn’t remember ever feeling before. When he reached the bottom, he stayed still for a moment, looking at me, and I closed my eyes because I couldn’t stand him seeing my face then.

—Look at me —he said—. Look at me while I fuck you.

I opened my eyes. He began to move. The rhythm built gradually: first long, slow thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt, then faster, shorter, harder. Every time he buried himself completely, a sound I didn’t recognize as my own escaped my lips. He gripped my thighs, lifted them, opened them wider. The bed creaked beneath us.

—You like it like this —he panted—. Quiet for three weeks, and now look how you beg for my cock.

—Shut up —I said through clenched teeth—. Shut up and keep going.

He smiled and thrust harder. He bent down and sucked my nipples without stopping his movements. I sank my nails into his back. I was sweating, and so was he, and the smell of sex filled the entire room.

He changed my position. He took me by the hips and turned me over. I ended up face down, hands braced on the mattress and knees spread, my ass raised toward him. He arranged my buttocks with both hands, positioned himself behind me, and drove into me with one thrust that made me scream into the pillow. From there, the access was total. He sank all the way in every time, and I bit the pillow to muffle the sounds that otherwise would have reached the hallway.

—What a tight pussy you have, married —he growled behind me, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back.

He drove his cock into me with both hands on my hips, pulling almost to the tip before thrusting all the way back in. The sound of his thighs striking my ass was wet and obscene. He leaned over my back and bit my shoulder without stopping his thrusts.

—Tell me you like it.

—I like it —I murmured into the pillow.

—Louder.

—I like it, Fermín. I like the way you put it in me.

He slapped my ass. Not hard, but clearly. Then again. I arched farther toward him, offering him my ass, and felt my second orgasm coming from somewhere deep inside. I began squeezing him involuntarily, and he noticed.

—Come again. Come with my cock inside you.

He lowered one hand to my pussy and found my clit while continuing to thrust into me from behind. With two fingers he made quick circles, pressing hard, and in less than a minute the orgasm tore through me. My arms gave way, and I fell face-first onto the mattress while he kept fucking me as I trembled and made sounds I couldn’t control.

—I’m going to come —he gasped—. Where?

—Outside —I said, my voice buried in the pillow—. Outside, please.

He increased the pace. His fingers dug into my hips. I heard his ragged breathing, a low growl, and when I thought he was about to pull out, he sank all the way in and stayed there.

I felt the heat of his ejaculation inside me and closed my eyes. The first spurts came thick and hot, one after another, driven by short thrusts that emptied him to the last drop. That made me come for the third time, though I hadn’t wanted it to happen that way. I clenched around him, and he kept slowly pushing his cock into me, all the way, all the way, until he had nothing left.

When he withdrew, I felt semen run down the insides of my thighs. A warm, thick puddle mixed with my own juices.

—I told you not to do that —I said when I caught my breath.

—I know. I’m sorry —he replied, without sounding particularly sorry.

He lay down beside me, one hand resting on my hip, breathing heavily. I looked at his cock, still hard and glistening, and for a second I thought about climbing on top of him and milking it again. But I got up. I dressed in silence, semen still leaking from inside me, and returned to my room. I showered in cold water and stood beneath the stream for a long while, watching the water wash between my legs what he had left inside me, guilt and memory battling in my chest.

***

The next morning, my aunt Graciela was waiting for me in the kitchen.

She didn’t ask me anything at first. She set the coffee on the table and sat across from me.

—I went looking for you last night —she said—. You weren’t in your room.

I didn’t answer.

—Valentina. I saw you when you left with him.

I stayed quiet. Steam rose from the coffee between my hands, and I stared at the cup as if it contained an answer.

—I’m not going to tell anyone anything —Graciela said, in a voice that held concern rather than judgment—. But you’d better have been careful.

—Yes, Aunt —I lied.

From that day on, I kept my distance from Fermín. I greeted him when there was no way to avoid it, watched Diego’s lessons from far away, and left quickly when they ended. He understood, or so it seemed. He looked at me differently now: with something that might have been disappointment, or simply acceptance.

Roberto arrived four days later. I introduced him to my aunt and uncle, he played with Diego in the round pen, and slept beside me in bed. I watched him talk and thought about things I shouldn’t have thought about.

We returned to the city a week later.

***

The first signs appeared at the end of September.

My breasts hurt when I woke up. I had a tiredness that sleep wouldn’t cure. One afternoon, for no apparent reason, I vomited after lunch.

I went to the gynecologist without telling Roberto anything.

Pregnant. Seven weeks.

I left the office with the paper in my hand and sat in the car for twenty minutes, staring at the steering wheel. Seven weeks. Seven weeks ago I had been at the farm. Seven weeks ago Roberto still hadn’t arrived.

That night I made a special dinner, lit candles, and climbed on top of Roberto in bed with a determination he didn’t question. I rode him slowly, let him come inside me as he hadn’t in months, and then stayed on top for a long while to make sure none of it came out. A few days later, I gave him the news.

He began to cry. With joy, of course. He hugged me so tightly I had to close my eyes.

—We’re going to be three —he said.

—Yes —I answered, and the lie settled somewhere in my chest where it still lives.

Now I’m four months pregnant. My belly is beginning to show. At night, Roberto talks to my navel, excited, certain of what he shouldn’t be taking for granted. And I let him. I don’t know what else I could do.

Sometimes, when I’m alone, I remember that night in Fermín’s room. The silence, the sheets, his weight on top of me, the way he opened my legs without asking, the way he pushed himself all the way inside while looking into my eyes. I don’t remember it only with guilt, though the guilt is there too. I remember it with a strange clarity, as if that moment were more real than many others in my orderly, proper life. Sometimes, when Roberto is asleep, I slip my hand beneath the sheets and touch myself while thinking of him, and come silently, clenching my teeth so the bed won’t move.

I never heard from him again.

And yet, I carry his consequence inside me.