I Ended Up on My Knees at a Pool Party with a Stranger

His cock filled my whole mouth and his hand pressed the back of my neck to set the pace. I could hear him breathing fast, raggedly, and between clenched teeth he kept whispering “keep going, keep going,” sounding more like a plea than an order. I kept going. I’m not entirely sure why, but I kept going.

I was on my knees on the warm concrete of the patio of an estate that a blond guy I had just met and I had broken into. Someone else’s estate, with the pool covered by a tarp and the loungers piled up in a corner, as if the owners hadn’t set foot there in months. We didn’t care. We were just looking for somewhere away from the noise.

I’m going to tell it exactly as it happened, without dressing it up, because I still have trouble believing it was me in that afternoon.

***

We had gone to a pool party in a housing development on the outskirts of town. One of those summer parties where nobody really knows whose house it is, music blasts at full volume, and the pool ends up being more of an excuse than a plan. I went with two friends, planning to have a drink, dance a little, and head home early. Intentions, as everyone knows, last as long as the first drink.

Between the sun still beating down in the late afternoon, the alcohol, and the music, we ended up attaching ourselves to a group of Italian guys who were there on vacation. They spoke a tangled kind of Spanish, rolling their R’s and gesturing with their hands ahead of their words, and they laughed at everything. One of them looked at me from the other side of the pool and didn’t look away. Neither did I.

His name was Matteo. Or at least that’s what he told me, and by then I wasn’t in any condition to verify anything. He had dark, wet hair plastered to his forehead and a smile that seemed to know something you didn’t yet. He came over with two drinks and handed me one without asking, as if it had already been decided that he was going to stay by my side.

“You’re not getting in?” he asked, nodding toward the water.

“Depends who’s coming in with me,” I replied, and I surprised myself with my own boldness.

He laughed, set the drinks on the edge, and dove in headfirst. He surfaced, shaking the water from his face, and held out his hand to me. I don’t know if it was the heat, the two drinks I’d already had, or the way he was looking at me, but I took his hand and let myself slide in.

***

The water was cool and people moved around us without paying attention. We started talking about stupid things, where he was from, how many days he had left on his trip, how different the night was here and in his city. But the words didn’t matter. What was really happening was beneath the surface, where his hand found my waist and mine did nothing to stop it.

We drifted closer without realizing it, or pretending not to realize it. In the middle of the pool, surrounded by people laughing and drinking, he kissed me. It was a slow kiss at first, tentative, and then it stopped being that. I felt his body against mine, the pressure of his hands on my back, and I could tell perfectly how turned on he was.

This is getting out of hand, I thought. And instead of stopping me, the idea made me like it even more.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said in my ear, with that drawn-out R that was already starting to feel addictive.

I don’t really remember how we got to the estate next door. I remember the blond guy who had been circling me earlier climbing the fence first and offering me his hand, I remember laughing as I swung one leg over the wall, I remember the sudden silence once we left the music behind. From there on, everything flowed, as if someone had pressed a button and my head had switched off.

***

The patio was dark, lit only by the orange glow of a streetlamp coming in from the road over the hedges. It smelled of wet earth and chlorine, and the concrete still held the heat of the day. Matteo pressed me against the wall and kissed me again, this time more urgently, his hands finding their way under the sarong I had wrapped over my bikini.

I was wearing an orange bikini, a color that had seemed too daring when I bought it and that now, in that borrowed patio, seemed perfect. While he kissed my neck, I ran my hand down his wet chest, over his stomach, until I found the bulge straining against his swim trunks. I squeezed it over the fabric and heard him suck in a sharp breath.

There was no more preamble. I pulled at the cord of his swim trunks and dropped to my knees, without thinking too much, letting myself be carried by that impulse that kept me from calculating the consequences. The ground was hard beneath my knees, but I barely noticed it.

It was right there in front of me, hard, bigger than I had imagined. I held it by the base with one hand and started slowly, licking from the bottom to the tip, stretching the moment out. I wanted to hear him lose control, and it didn’t take me long to make it happen.

“Madonna,” he murmured, threading his fingers through my hair.

I took him into my mouth and started moving, closing my lips tight to squeeze him, teasing the tip with my tongue on every downward stroke. He answered with faster and faster breathing, with little thrusts of his hips that betrayed how close he already was to losing his mind. His hand on the back of my neck didn’t press, it just kept pace, setting a rhythm that little by little I made my own.

***

At some point I decided to take off the top of my bikini. I pulled the knot between my breasts and the fabric fell to the ground, leaving my breasts bare in the middle of that чужд? patio. I expected him to get distracted, to lower his hand and touch me, but he was focused on something else, completely surrendered to what my mouth was doing to him. And that, for reasons I don’t know, turned me on even more.

I like this. I like it more than I admit out loud. There’s something about kneeling, about having someone like that, hung up on every move I make, that gives me a power I don’t find anywhere else. It’s not submission, even if it looks like it. It’s the exact opposite: in that moment, the one at my mercy was him.

I started tasting his arousal mixing with my saliva, that unmistakable sign that he didn’t have much left. The tip was wet and I spread it around with my tongue, alternating the rhythm, slowing down when I felt him get too close, then speeding up again. I wanted to stretch it out. I wanted it to last.

***

And meanwhile, my head drifted off. It always happens to me when I do this: the body goes on, automatic, and the mind slips somewhere else. Maybe that’s what I like most about blowing someone, that way of being there and not being there at the same time, of losing myself inside myself while on the outside I do everything.

Sometimes I fantasize. I imagine how they’d fuck me, who would do it, in what position. Other times I remember other men, other nights, hands that are no longer there but that my body keeps somewhere. That afternoon, at first, I thought about how to position myself so he’d fuck me, about finding a lounger, about turning the situation around.

But I didn’t. I got lost in myself. I stayed trapped in the rise and fall of my mouth up and down over him, without imagining anything else, without wanting anything else but that repeated motion and the response of his breathing. I lost myself in there until one very clear thought brought me back to the patio: if I keep going like this, he’s going to come in my mouth.

***

And as if I had summoned it, like a premonition or a hunch, I felt it. His cock gave a small spasm against my tongue, his hand clenched a little tighter around the back of my neck, and my mouth filled completely. Hot, thick, all at once. His whole body stiffened and he let out a hoarse groan that hung in the silence of that borrowed patio.

I didn’t pull away. I stayed still for a few seconds, feeling him tremble, before lifting my eyes to his. His head was thrown back and his chest was rising and falling as if he had just run a marathon. When he finally looked at me, he did it with a mix of disbelief and gratitude that made me feel that power again.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he said between gasps, helping me to my feet.

“Neither was I,” I admitted, and it was true.

I picked up the top of my bikini from the ground and tied it back on as best I could, my legs still a little shaky. From the other side of the wall, the music kept coming, the people, the party carrying on without us, oblivious to what had just happened a few meters away.

***

We climbed back over the fence in silence. He helped me down and, once we were on the street, he kissed my temple, almost tenderly, so different from everything that had come before that it threw me off. We said goodbye without phone numbers, without promises, without the awkward choreography of people pretending they’ll see each other again. We both knew what that had been, and that was fine.

My friends hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone. They asked me if I’d met anyone interesting and I shrugged, smiling to myself, keeping the answer to myself. Some things are better left unsaid.

What I remember from that summer is not the name of the development, nor Matteo’s, which I’m not even sure of. What I do remember is the heat of the concrete on my knees, the unexpected taste of a stranger, and the certainty, even now, that that was one of those afternoons when I stopped calculating and simply let myself go. And I’d do it again without thinking twice.