I Confess I Can’t Forget the Girl with the Pacifier

That night I knew I was going to call her as soon as I closed the last browser tab and set the laptop on the nightstand. I wasn’t watching anything in particular, but my body was already asking for what it had known how to ask for for months, and there was only one person capable of easing that very specific hunger. I got into the shower, shaved carefully, left myself clean as if it were a first date. I knew exactly what I wanted, and I knew who could give it to me.

I sent her a short message. One word. She replied with an emoticon and a “half an hour.” Camila didn’t need any more explanation. We’d been keeping up this routine for months, and by then protocols were pointless between the two of us.

When she arrived, she had her backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair tied back in a high ponytail. She climbed the three flights of stairs with the keys I myself had given her, without ringing the bell, and came in greeting me with a dry kiss on the cheek. She smelled of that citrus perfume she always wore, the one that made me nervous the moment she stepped through the door.

“Give me ten minutes,” she said, and went into the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

I spent those ten minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to get my heart to calm down. I knew the theatricality she put into these spurts. What I never knew was what she was going to come out with.

***

When the door opened, the first thing to appear was a bare leg. Then the other. Camila came out barefoot, wearing a white men’s shirt fastened with only two buttons at navel height and nothing underneath. The shirt hung loose on her shoulders and covered just enough to hint at everything without showing anything concrete. Peeking out from the lapels were two small, taut breasts; below the last button, the curve of a closely trimmed pussy could be made out.

And between her teeth, a red plastic pacifier that looked as if it had come straight from a baby’s crib. The detail made me laugh for the first time that night.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Shut up,” she replied, taking the pacifier out with two fingers so she could speak and putting it back in her mouth when she finished. Then she laughed.

That laugh. That was the reason I had called Camila and not someone else. The laughing girl, the girl who took pleasure in everything, the girl capable of turning a dirty act into a bright gesture. She had the gift of making me feel that everything that happened between us, no matter how explicit, was also a game. And the games with her were the best games.

She had just turned twenty-four a couple of months earlier. She was tall, wiry, with the straight back of someone who has danced since childhood and the long arms of a swimmer. Her brown hair with copper highlights fell to her shoulder blades when she wore it loose, but that night she had it tied up. She had a small nose, slightly slanted eyes, and skin speckled with freckles on her shoulders. But her defining feature was her lips: full, mobile, always ready to curl into a half smile.

***

She moved up to where I was sitting, set the pacifier on the nightstand with almost ceremonial precision, and knelt between my legs without my asking. I was already hard. I had been since I heard the bathroom door close.

“Take that off,” I told her, nodding at the shirt.

She stood for a moment, unbuttoned the two buttons, and let the garment fall to the floor. She was completely naked except for a leather bracelet on her left wrist. Her nipples had hardened in the room’s cold air, and between her legs I could see the detail I hadn’t made out properly before: her pubic hair trimmed into a vertical stripe, a clean line pointing downward like an arrow.

Camila was creative with her grooming. Once she’d left it shaped like a lightning bolt for a Carnival party. Another time, on my birthday, she’d drawn a question mark. Little private jokes only I saw, and that amused her far more than me.

She knelt again and looked up at me, waiting. I grabbed her ponytail and used it as a handle to pull her closer. I rubbed my cock over her cheek, first one side and then the other. She let me, eyes closed and lips parted, still smiling.

I dragged the head of my cock over her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her chin. I brought my balls up to her lips and left them there for a moment. Camila sniffed them brazenly, as if she wanted to soak in the smell for the rest of the day. Then she stuck out her tongue and licked them all over, slowly, with that very particular dedication of hers.

“Open,” I said.

She opened her mouth as wide as she could. I shoved my cock in in one thrust, no ceremony, until I felt the tip touch the soft back of her throat. Camila had a small mouth for what I was asking of her and she knew it, but that mismatch was part of the game. She liked the difficulty. I appealed to her precisely because I was a challenge.

I started moving inside her mouth at a slow rhythm, letting her breathe between thrusts. Every time I pushed in, there was a wet slosh, a thick sound of saliva gathering. My balls slapped against her chin, not hard enough to hurt, setting the beat. Her hands were resting on my thighs, not gripping, letting me do what I wanted.

***

When I saw her flushed face and tearful eyes, I pulled her head back so she could catch her breath. Camila took advantage of the break to laugh, with that torrent of rough laughter that only came out of her in moments like that.

“You’re insane,” she said, her voice rough.

“So are you.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

I lifted her off the floor and put her on all fours on the bed, knees apart and back arched. I wanted to see her ass raised, the downward curve from the nape of her neck to her lower back, the dimples on either side of the tailbone. Camila had a body of long lines, like a girl who had grown up too fast and still hadn’t quite gotten comfortable in it.

I stood behind her, rubbed my cock over her ass for a couple of minutes, without penetrating her. She pushed her hips back toward me, searching for me, but I had no intention of putting it in there that night. That wasn’t what the night was about.

I sat back on the edge of the bed and turned her so she knelt in front of me, her arms crossed behind her back. That was one of her favorite positions: hands bound by her own will, with no chance to control the pace, leaving all the decision to me. I grabbed her ponytail again and shoved my cock into her mouth harder than before, without pauses to breathe.

Camila held out for three, four, five consecutive thrusts before the nausea rose from her stomach. I gave her a moment to recover and started again. She could take anything. That’s why it was her.

***

Then I laid her on her back on the bed, legs bent and apart, and knelt over her chest with my knees on either side of her head. From there, her tits were in full view, small, with nipples so hard they looked ready to prick the air. Lower down, her flat stomach was visible, her shallow navel, the vertical line of trimmed hair.

I didn’t fuck her. That night I had something else on my mind.

I leaned forward, bracing myself on the headboard, and put her ass right above my mouth. Camila had a specific knack for this, a knack I hadn’t found in anyone else. She could move her tongue in such a way that within seconds I forgot my own name. She loved licking, she liked that more than almost anything else. I knew few girls like that. That’s why I kept her.

She got to work immediately, with that intense focus of hers whenever something mattered to her. I felt her hot tongue tracing circles, pressing, roaming. I closed my eyes. I gripped the headboard hard so I wouldn’t fall. Two, three, four minutes passed in which I stopped thinking.

***

When I knew she was close, I came off her chest, grabbed her ponytail again, and put my cock in her mouth. I gave her three more thrusts and came inside. A lot. The whole week’s waiting emptied out in four or five consecutive spurts.

Camila didn’t swallow. That was the surprise.

Usually she did. That night, though, she pulled her head back with her mouth full, made a bolus in her cheek, and looked at me with shining eyes. Then she spat everything into the palm of her left hand and, before I could react, brought that palm to her cheek and smeared the semen all over her face. Over her forehead, her nose, her lips, her chin. As if it were moisturizer.

And she laughed. She laughed so hard that her tits moved, that a string of saliva mixed with cum ran down her chin, that a drop fell to her navel and stayed there shining like a pearl. Camila looked at me with her face pearled white and let out a laugh that bounced all around the room.

“You’re a mess,” I said, laughing too, unable to stop myself.

“I know,” she answered. “That’s why you like calling me.”

She was right. That’s why I called her. For the smile after every dirty thing, for the unexpected burst of laughter in the middle of the most serious moment, for the way she could turn a filthy act into a bright gesture. Camila was a constant joke to herself and to the world, and I had learned to love her for exactly that. For the laughter with my cum all over her face. For the smile that was still identical to the one from the first day.

She got up unsteadily, went into the bathroom, and I heard the shower running. I let myself fall onto the bed, still breathing hard, and stared at the room’s white ceiling.

Ten minutes later she came out wrapped in a towel, hair wet and face freshly washed. She dressed with the calm of someone who has lived through the scene a hundred times. Jeans, T-shirt, sneakers. She picked up her backpack, picked up the red pacifier from the nightstand, and put it in the inside pocket. Before leaving, she turned from the doorway, gave me one last smile with that smile that was not innocent and never had been, and said:

“Call me whenever you want.”

The door closed behind her. I stayed there a while longer, looking at the ceiling, smelling her citrus perfume mixing with sex and breathing slowly. That was her. Always laughing, always smiling. And I was going to call her again, I knew it. I was going to call her next week, and the week after, and every week it took until she decided not to answer.