Camila Always Smiled, Even on Her Knees

That night I had a clear plan, and I treated it like a little private ceremony. I shaved patiently, showered right down to the last corner, and dabbed on a little cologne behind my ears. I knew what kind of encounter I wanted, and I knew exactly who could give it to me. All that was left was to wait for Camila to ring the apartment bell.

She arrived on time, with a backpack slung over her shoulder and a hurried greeting. As soon as she came in she went into the bathroom and closed the door. I poured myself a glass of lukewarm water and counted the minutes until she reappeared. When she came out, she was wearing a white blazer, plain, buttoned only halfway. Underneath, she was wearing absolutely nothing.

The jacket fit her tight where it was supposed to fit tight. It hinted at two small, firm breasts peeking out of the neckline, and at the hem it revealed some curly, coppery pubic hair, trimmed into a zigzag pattern. Camila liked to be creative with her pussy hair. Once she’d shaved it into the shape of a lightning bolt. Another time, into a crescent moon. That night it was zigzag, and it was obvious she’d taken her time with the trimmer.

She had just turned twenty-two. She was tall, lean, with that kind of body a girl gets from working out for pleasure, not out of guilt. Her chestnut hair, streaked with reddish highlights, fell to her shoulders, slightly messy, as if she’d just gotten up from a long nap. She had a slim neck, narrow shoulders, the thin arms of a dancer. And a face always ready to smile, as if life seemed to her like a fun joke she had decided to see through to the end.

She had a red pacifier between her lips. I didn’t ask where she’d gotten it or why. Camila had those kinds of details. She moved it around inside her mouth with her tongue, let it slide out halfway, then pushed it back in. She sucked on it slowly with her eyes closed, then held it between her teeth, balancing it with a grin halfway between innocence and provocation. She looked at me like that, with the pacifier between her teeth, and I almost came right there before touching her.

—Do you like what you see? —she asked after a while, letting the pacifier drop into the palm of her hand.

—I like you —I answered.

She smiled. Camila always smiled. That was her signature, her stamp, the way she began and ended any conversation.

What attracted me most about her wasn’t her body, or her face, or her age. It was her attitude. Camila rose to a challenge. If a cock was small, she got bored; if it was big, she got turned on. And mine was no modest little gift. When she faced something that clearly wasn’t going to fit all the way in her mouth, that was when she gave it her best. She couldn’t quite swallow it whole, but she tried with a dedication that bordered on professional pride. And she always did it smiling. That was Camila’s magic.

I moved closer, slowly pulled the jacket off her shoulders, and let it fall to the wooden floor. Her nipples, pink and stiff from the cold, got even harder at the touch of the air. I gently pushed her by the shoulders so she would kneel, and she obeyed without resisting for even a second. In her case, obedience wasn’t surrender; it was controlled eagerness.

I took my cock in my hand and dragged it across her face, unhurried. Over her cheeks, her chin, her forehead. I rubbed my balls against her nose and she breathed deeply, eyes closed, as if she wanted to memorize the smell. I brought my balls up to her hair, lowered them again, rested them on her lips. I didn’t stop until I was sure her face would smell like me for the rest of the night, until the last pore of her skin had taken note.

—Open your mouth —I told her.

She opened it. She opened it as if she’d been waiting for that order for hours.

I pushed in. I went all the way in with a single thrust, and she let out a muffled wet sound, a little splash that mixed with the saliva pooled in her mouth. I pulled back out and went in again. My balls sought her chin on every thrust without quite touching it. Camila couldn’t help her teeth grazing my shaft slightly, nor could she stop the gagging rising from her stomach. But she didn’t turn away. Not once all night did she turn away.

I told her to get on all fours, resting on her elbows and knees, with her back arched and her ass up. I liked that position. I liked seeing the curve of her ass while I rubbed my cock against her face from above. I gathered both balls in my hand, brought them to her mouth, and shoved them inside. I left them there a good while while I jerked off with my other hand at a slow, almost distracted rhythm. She, with my skin filling her mouth, made a sound that came out like approval.

***

After a few minutes like that, I grabbed her hair and ordered her to kneel again and cross her hands behind her back, right above her ass. I wanted to use her mouth without her having anywhere to brace herself. I wanted her to depend completely on the strength of my hand holding her head, to feel that night’s rhythm was mine and that all she had to do was keep her balance.

I pushed into her throat again and again, with a rougher rhythm than before. Saliva leaked from the corners of her mouth and dripped in long strings onto her breasts. Her face went red, her eyes watery, the veins in her neck standing out like fine cords. Even so, when I pulled out so she could breathe, she looked up at me from below and smiled again. That split, wet, exhausted smile was one of the most erotic images I remember of her.

—Do you want to keep going? —I asked, almost out of habit.

—I want everything —she said, her voice broken.

I laid her on her back on the living room rug, with her legs bent and spread apart. From my position I had all her geography in view: the little tits with pointed nipples, the navel sunk into a flat belly, the pussy trimmed in zigzag, and the pink lips peeking out between shaved thighs. She was wet. Very wet. She showed me by opening her legs a little more, letting the light illuminate the opening better.

But that night wasn’t for going inside. That night I had another very specific idea.

I straddled her, with my knees slightly bent, and offered the slit of my ass at mouth level. Camila had a gift for moving her tongue in places where most girls would hold back. She had no shame about it. She licked my asshole slowly at first, almost shyly, then with growing dedication, opening and closing her mouth, drawing circles with the tip of her tongue, pressing, releasing, playing with the nerve endings as if she knew exactly which nerve to touch to make a moan slip out of me.

This is exactly what I needed tonight, I thought.

I like girls who prefer sucking and licking to fucking. The ones who enjoy the closeness of the tongue more than the impact of penetrative sex. Camila was one of those. You could see the concentrated look on her face, the half-closed eyes, the glossy lips, and understand that for her this wasn’t a preliminary chore, but the very center of the game. Penetration, when it came, was almost always a formality. The good part, the part that really turned her on, happened before and after.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I sat up, brought my cock to her mouth, and let it slide back between her teeth. A few more thrusts and I blew. I emptied all my load into her tongue, her palate, the back of her throat. She opened her eyes wide and stayed that way, still, mouth full, waiting. It was one of her gestures, almost a ritual. Showing what she had inside before deciding what to do with it.

I withdrew the tip slowly. Camila made a naughty little-girl face: she closed her mouth, gargled as if it were mouthwash, then opened it proudly to show me the show. The cavity was overflowing with white foam mixed with bubbly saliva. She held my gaze while she swirled it around inside as if it were a pharmacy rinse. She was laughing with her eyes.

Camila was bad at sucking, but good at swallowing. It was an old joke between us, one of those lines repeated until they lose their edge. That night, though, she didn’t swallow it. What she did was spit the contents into the palm of her hand, show it to me, and before I could react, smear the semen mixed with saliva onto her left cheek and rub it violently all over her face.

Camila had those outbursts. On one occasion, while we were having a threesome with a friend of hers, she finished the blowjob by spitting the load in the friend’s face, without warning. The friend got so angry she dressed and left, slamming the door. Camila, on the other hand, laughed until she cried, bent over double, unable to breathe from laughing. She was a little crazy, my dear Camila. But she did things so naturally, with such a smile, that it was impossible to stay mad at her for long.

That night, sitting on the rug with her face smeared, her nipples still hard, and the red pacifier abandoned beside her, she let out a long, genuine, almost childlike laugh. Her small breasts rose and fell with the laughter. A thread of semen slid down her chin, detached in a drop, and fell straight into her navel. That made her laugh even harder, and the laughter started all over again from zero.

—And now what? —she asked when she finally managed to calm down, wiping a tear of laughter from the back of her hand.

—Now a shower. And then dinner.

—And then?

—Then we’ll see.

She sprang up from the floor, picked up the white jacket, tossed it onto the sofa, and went to the bathroom with a light step, barefoot, unhurried. Before closing the door, she turned her head and gave me one last look over her shoulder, her face still stained and her hair tousled. She was smiling, of course. Camila always smiled.