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

His cock filled my whole mouth, and his hand squeezed the back of my neck to set the pace. I could hear him breathing fast, worked up, and through clenched teeth he whispered a “keep going, keep going” that sounded more like a plea than an order. I kept going. I don’t really know why, but I kept going.

I was on my knees on the warm concrete patio of a property that a blond guy I had just met and I had snuck into. Someone else’s property, 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 only looking for somewhere away from the noise.

I’m going to tell it as it happened, without embellishing it, because I still find it hard to believe that was me 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 plays at full volume, and the pool ends up being more of an excuse than a plan. I went with two friends, intending to have a drink, dance for a while, and leave early. Intentions, as everyone knows, last as long as the first drink.

Between the afternoon sun still beating down, the alcohol, and the music, we ended up sticking close to a group of Italian guys who had come on vacation. They spoke tangled Spanish, with their rolled r’s and their hands always getting 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 state to verify anything. He had wet dark hair stuck to his forehead and the kind of 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 with me,” I replied, and my own boldness surprised me.

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

***

The water was cool, and people moved around us without paying us any attention. We started talking about silly things—where he was from, how many days he had left on his trip, how different the night was here compared with his city. But the words were beside the point. What was really happening took place beneath the surface, where his hand found my waist and mine made no attempt to move it away.

We drew closer without realizing it, or pretending we didn’t realize it. In the middle of the pool, surrounded by people laughing and drinking, he kissed me. It was a slow kiss at first, testing the waters, 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 well how turned on he was.

This is getting out of hand, I thought. And the idea, instead of stopping me, thrilled me.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said in my ear, with that rolled r that was already beginning to seem addictive to me.

I don’t clearly remember how we reached the property next door. I remember the blond who had been hovering around me earlier climbing over the fence first and offering me his hand; I remember laughing as I swung one leg over the wall; I remember the sudden silence when we left the music behind. From there, everything flowed, as if someone had pressed a button and switched off my mind.

***

The patio was dark, lit only by the orange glow of a streetlamp spilling over the hedges from the road. It smelled of wet earth and chlorine, and the concrete still held the day’s heat. Matteo pressed me against the wall and kissed me again, this time more urgently, his hands searching beneath the sarong I had put 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 slid my hand down his wet chest, over his stomach, until I found the bulge straining against his swim trunks. I squeezed it through the fabric and heard him let out a sharp breath.

There was no more foreplay. I tugged at the drawstring of his trunks and dropped to my knees without thinking too much, letting myself be carried away by the impulse that wouldn’t let me calculate the consequences. The ground was hard beneath my knees, but I barely noticed.

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

“Madonna,” he murmured, tangling his fingers in my hair.

I took it into my mouth and started moving, closing my lips tightly around it, playing with my tongue on every upward stroke. He answered with increasingly rapid breaths, with small thrusts of his hips that gave away how close he already was to losing his head. His hand on the back of my neck wasn’t pressing, only accompanying me, setting a rhythm that I gradually made my own.

***

At some point I decided to take off the top of my bikini. I pulled at the knot between my breasts, and the fabric fell to the ground, leaving my breasts bare in the middle of that stranger’s patio. I expected him to get distracted, to lower his hand and touch me, but he was focused on something else entirely, completely surrendered to what my mouth was doing to him. And that, I don’t know why, 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 so completely focused on every movement I make, that gives me a power I don’t find anywhere else. It isn’t submission, even if it looks like it. It’s the exact opposite: in that moment, he was the one at my mercy.

I began to taste his arousal mixing with my saliva, that unmistakable sign that he didn’t have much longer. The tip was wet, and I spread it with my tongue, alternating the pace, slowing down when I felt him getting too close and then speeding up again. I wanted to draw it out. I wanted it to last.

***

And in the meantime, my mind drifted away. It always happens when I do this: my body keeps going on autopilot, and my mind escapes somewhere else. Maybe that’s what I like most about sucking cock, that way of being there and not being there at the same time, of losing myself inside while doing everything out there.

Sometimes I fantasize. I imagine how I would be fucked, 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 could fuck me, about finding a lounger, about turning the situation around.

But I didn’t. I became absorbed. I got trapped in the rocking motion of my mouth moving up and down along him, imagining nothing else, wanting nothing else but that repeated movement and the response of his breathing. I lost myself in it until one very clear thought brought me back to the patio: if I keep this up, he’s going to come in my mouth.

***

And as if I had summoned it, like a premonition or a presentiment, I felt it. His cock gave a small spasm against my tongue, his hand tightened a little more on the back of my neck, and my mouth filled completely. Hot, thick, all at once. His whole body went rigid, and he let out a hoarse moan 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 looking up at him. His head was thrown back, and his chest rose and fell as if he had just run a marathon. When he finally looked at me, there was a mixture of disbelief and gratitude in his eyes that made me feel that power again.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” 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, the people, and the party that continued without us kept drifting over, unaware of what had just happened a few yards away.

***

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

My friends hadn’t even noticed I was gone. They asked me whether I had met anyone interesting, and I shrugged, smiling to myself, keeping the answer to myself. Some things taste better left unspoken.

What I have left from that summer isn’t the name of the housing development, or even Matteo’s name, which I’m not entirely sure was his. What I have left is the heat of the concrete on my knees, the unexpected taste of a stranger, and the certainty, even now, that it was one of those afternoons when I stopped calculating and simply let myself be carried away. And I would do it again without thinking twice.