I Offered Her a Hundred Pesos and She Agreed to Come to My House

There are confessions one carries for months without daring to say them out loud. This is one of mine, and I still don’t know whether telling it eases my burden or condemns me. I moved to Villahermosa for work a couple of years ago, leaving behind the cold of Pachuca and the usual routine. What I didn’t leave behind was my habit of looking a little too long at the women who crossed my path.

I saw her for the first time at the traffic light on the main avenue, washing windshields with a frayed rag and a smile she didn’t quite believe in. She was a Black woman of Haitian origin, with her hair gathered into a generous afro and a body that seemed unable to fit inside her clothes. She wore a low-cut T-shirt and denim shorts, because in that city the heat showed no mercy and nobody dressed any other way. I had been watching her from my car for weeks without saying anything, and every time she bent down to wet the rag, my eyes went to her pert, round ass, which pulled the denim taut all the way to the seam.

I’m an ordinary man. Thirty-four years old, an office worker in a government department, a modest salary and an ungrateful boss like almost everyone else. Nothing about me draws attention, except perhaps the persistence with which I pursue what I want. And that woman had become what I wanted: the star of every nighttime wank, every fantasy in the shower, every awkward erection behind the wheel.

One afternoon I got off work early, at exactly one o’clock, and the traffic light gave me my chance. She came over with her bottle of water and her rag.

—Hi. What’s your name? —I asked before I could think better of it.

—Naïma —she replied, with a soft, French-sounding accent that tangled the words in a beautiful way.

—Pretty name. Look, I have a better offer than the windshield. I’ll give you a hundred pesos if you wash the whole car at my house. It’s nearby.

—I only work at the traffic light —she said suspiciously—. I don’t know you.

—I know. You’re not from here. So you won’t be afraid, follow me on foot. See that green gate over there? That’s where I live. I’ll leave it open. It’s a hundred pesos for half an hour, and I’ll buy you something to eat. Something tells me you’re hungry.

She hesitated for a moment, looked at the line of stopped cars, and then nodded.

—I’ll follow you.

I drove slowly, checking the mirror to see her gathering her things and walking behind me. By the time I finished parking, she was already coming through the gate. I took out the bucket, soap, and a couple of chairs while explaining that the city’s car washes charged fifty pesos, so my offer was triple that. I wanted her to feel at ease, not bought.

—Is this your house? —she asked, looking around.

—Rented, but I live here. And don’t call me sir; I’m not that old. Where do you see a wedding ring?

—Sorry, young man —she laughed, covering her mouth—. And what’s your name?

—Mateo.

—Mateo —she repeated, as if testing the sound—. Wi, young Mateo.

I brought her a chair and a plate of food I’d bought extra. She ate with a hunger that broke something inside me: quickly, without stopping, apologizing between bites. When she bent down for the glass, her T-shirt fell open and revealed the weight of her dark breasts, braless, her nipples showing beneath the thin fabric. I looked away out of respect, but turned back almost immediately. I’m not that much of a gentleman, and I was already hard beneath my trousers.

—And your family? —I asked.

—My two daughters are with my sister, at the shelter by the bus terminal. My husband died months ago, on the journey. The truth is, he wasn’t a good man. I don’t miss him.

She said it without drama, like someone mentioning the weather. There was a quiet strength in her, the strength of a woman who had survived too much and no longer allowed herself the luxury of complaining.

—You’re very strong —I said, and I truly meant it.

—Merci. People here aren’t usually kind. That’s why we’re leaving for the north in a week. To the United States. My husband paid for the crossing before he died.

—A week —I repeated, feeling a foolish urgency, as though time were slipping through my fingers.

She finished eating and stood up to fulfill her part of the bargain. She tied the rag around her hand and started with the hood. I sat down to watch, pretending to check my phone.

***

There’s no elegant way to tell what happened next. Every time she leaned over the car, her shorts tightened in a way that dried out my mouth. Her hips drew an impossible curve, her ass split in two by the seam, and she knew it, because every so often she straightened up to adjust her blouse and caught me staring. I didn’t look away. She smiled. My cock showed through my trousers, and I made no effort to hide it.

—Mateo —she said, without stopping her scrubbing—, you look at me a lot.

—Sorry —I replied, and I wasn’t sorry—. You’re hard not to look at.

—Other people say ugly things to me because of the way I look. You don’t.

—Because I like saying things differently —I stood up and walked toward her slowly, giving her time to stop me—. I like you, Naïma. I’ve liked you for weeks, at that traffic light. And I’ve got a hard-on from watching you bend over my car and showing me your ass.

She went still, the rag dripping between her fingers. I expected rejection, a joke, any excuse to step back. Instead, she dropped the rag into the bucket and turned completely toward me. Her eyes descended, undisguised, to the bulge showing through my trousers.

—It’s been a long time since someone touched me because they wanted to, not because they wanted to take advantage of me —she said quietly—. What are you, Mateo?

—Someone asking you. And someone who’ll stop if you say no.

She didn’t say no. She closed the distance herself and kissed me, with an urgency I hadn’t expected, her still-damp hands clutching my shirt. Her mouth tasted of water and salt, and her tongue pushed fully into mine, searching me hungrily. She pressed her tits against my chest and lowered one hand to grab my cock through my trousers, weighing it without shame.

—Inside —I murmured against her neck—. Not here, where people can see us.

I led her into the living room without letting go of her, the two of us stumbling against the chairs. The afternoon light filtered through the blinds and painted her skin a shade of gold I hadn’t noticed outside. I took off her T-shirt slowly, and her heavy, dark breasts fell free, with large, erect nipples pointing upward. I filled my hands with them, squeezed them, lifted them, and bent down to suck one nipple without preamble. I nipped it carefully, and she let out a guttural moan.

—Slowly —she asked, and I obeyed, running my tongue over the thick areola, tugging the nipple until it stretched, sucking all of it into my mouth until her whole breast filled it.

She had the kind of body one sees only in magazines, but real, without retouching or lies: wide hips, a defined waist, warm skin that smelled of sun and cheap soap. I kissed her unhurriedly, on her neck, her shoulders, the valley between her breasts, and each kiss drew a different sigh from her. I unbuttoned her shorts and pulled them down her legs. Underneath, she wore a wet white thong stuck to her pussy, black hair showing at the sides. I knelt in front of her and smelled her sex through the fabric. She smelled like a hot woman, sharp and sweet at the same time.

—Oh, Mateo —she murmured, placing a hand on my head—, it’s been so long since I…

I moved the thong aside with two fingers and gave her the first long lick, from her perineum to her clitoris. Her pussy gleamed with wetness, thick and dark, her lips open like ripe fruit. I thrust my tongue inside her and she shuddered all over, clutching my hair. I laid her back on the sofa and spread her legs until she was completely exposed, her ass slightly raised, her swollen clitoris waiting for me.

—Lick me —she begged, shameless now—. Lick me, Mateo, please.

I buried my mouth in her pussy and lost myself there for a long while. I circled her clitoris with my tongue, sucked it between my lips, slid two fingers deep inside her and curled them, searching for the spot that made her arch her back. She moved against my face, moaning in French and Spanish, holding my head so I wouldn’t pull away. She tasted of salt, of woman, of weeks of pent-up desire. When I felt the first tremor in her legs, I didn’t let her come yet. I lifted my head and smiled at her with my mouth soaked.

—Don’t hold back —I told her—. We’re alone.

And she stopped holding back. Her voice, soft and tangled with its accent, broke into moans that filled the room. I tore off my own clothes clumsily, unwilling to lose a second of the way she looked at me, her eyes half-closed and her breathing ragged. When my cock sprang free of my trousers, hard and dripping, she licked her lips and sat on the edge of the sofa.

—Come here —she said, and grabbed my cock, measuring it, squeezing it at the base.

She put it in her mouth without warning. Her thick lips closed around my cock and slid down halfway, then a little farther, until I felt her throat tighten around the tip. She sucked me eagerly, drawing saliva, getting her chin messy, looking up at me with wet eyes. She grabbed my balls with one hand and massaged them while she sucked me, moving up and down at a rhythm that made me clench my teeth to keep from coming right then.

—Wait, wait —I told her, pulling her head away—. You’ll make me come immediately.

She laughed, her mouth shining with spit, and lay back again, opening her legs for me.

—Come on —she said, tugging my arm—. I can’t take it anymore. Put it in me.

I entered her slowly, holding her gaze, and we both held our breath at the same instant. Her pussy squeezed me, hot and wet, swallowing me inch by inch until I was pressed against her, my balls against her ass. I began to move inside her, gently at first, feeling the way she tightened around me with every thrust, the way her inner walls sucked at me as I pulled out. She dug her nails into my back and asked for more.

—Harder, Mateo, harder —she panted—, yes, like that.

I grabbed her by the hips and started fucking her for real, thrusting all the way in, making her tits bounce with every stroke. The sofa creaked beneath us. I leaned over and sucked one of her nipples while I kept fucking her, and she wrapped her legs around my waist so I wouldn’t stop. I turned her over and put her on all fours on the sofa, and I watched her black, pert ass trembling in front of me. I slapped it flat-handed, leaving my handprint, and she let out a hoarse moan.

—Yes, Mateo, just like that, fuck me however you want.

I grabbed her hips and entered her from behind again, with one full thrust. From that angle her pussy squeezed me differently, deeper inside, and every blow drew a sharp moan from her. I grabbed her hair in a fist and pulled gently, arching her back. I brought my other hand around front and rubbed her clitoris with two fingers while I kept thrusting, without slowing down, burying myself in her up to the base.

—I’m coming, I’m coming —she began repeating, almost frightened, as if it had been a long time since it happened—, don’t stop, don’t stop, for God’s sake.

I felt her tense all over, her pussy walls squeezing my cock in spasms, a tremor running through her from head to toe as she repeated my name like a prayer. Hot liquid ran down her thighs and soaked my balls. Watching her fall apart with pleasure was my own ending: I gripped her waist, gave three more deep, brutal thrusts, and sank all the way inside her as I came. The jets escaped me in hot spasms, and she received them moaning, moving her ass against me to milk me of every last drop. I stayed still, my forehead pressed against her back, my heart pounding against my ribs, my cock still inside her, throbbing.

***

We stayed like that for a while, tangled together, catching our breath. Semen trickled down the inside of her thigh when I finally pulled out, and I didn’t bother wiping it away. She settled beside me and stroked my hair with a tenderness I hadn’t expected from someone I’d just met.

—I was afraid you’d be like the others —she confessed—. That this would be another price I had to pay.

—You don’t owe me anything —I said, kissing her temple—. The hundred pesos are for the car. This was separate. This happened because I wanted it, and because you wanted it.

She smiled, and for the first time the smile reached her eyes. She dressed unhurriedly while I made coffee, and we sat drinking it in the kitchen as though we’d known each other for years. She told me about her village, the sea, the things she missed. I told her about the cold in Pachuca and how lonely I felt in that unfamiliar city. Two strangers brought together by chance for an afternoon.

—I’m leaving in a week —she reminded me, and the sentence weighed between us.

—I know. But there are seven days left. And I need someone to cook for me and look after the house —I lied, or half-lied—. I’ll pay you well. For coming here, not for anything else. The other thing… that’ll be if you want it.

She looked at me for a long time, assessing me, searching for the trap she didn’t find.

—I’ll come —she said at last—. But only because it’s you.

She came for all seven days. And each one was different from the last, slower, more ours. I learned the exact shape of her laugh, the map of her body, the way she said wi when she liked something, and also the way she hurriedly said oui, oui, oui when she was about to come. It wasn’t only desire, though that was how it began. It was companionship, in a city that felt too big for both of us.

She cooked dishes for me that I didn’t know how to pronounce, with spices she had brought from the island, and we ate on the living-room floor because she said that was how it was done in her country. Then she led me by the hand to the bedroom and gave herself to me in a way that had nothing to do with that timid first afternoon. She had lost her fear. She laughed, took charge, asked for exactly what she wanted, and I gave it to her without holding back. One afternoon she climbed on top of me and moved slowly, riding me with her tits bouncing in my face, biting her lip until she came, squeezing my cock like a fist. Another night she asked me to fuck her against the hallway wall, standing up, her legs wrapped around my waist, and made me come all over her tits. In the shower she sucked me on her knees, water falling over her hair, and swallowed my entire load without complaint. I learned that she liked me to talk dirty in her ear, to squeeze her neck with my open hand—not choking her, just marking her—when I fucked her from behind, and that she came harder if I licked her ass before putting it in her.

One of those nights, while I held her in the darkness, my cock still wet against her thigh, I asked whether she would stay. I knew the answer before she gave it. She had two daughters, a future on the other side of the border, a destiny that didn’t include me. She put a finger to my lips and shook her head, without anger, almost tenderly. I didn’t insist. Some things are enjoyed precisely because they have an expiration date.

On the last day I accompanied her to the bus terminal. Her daughters slept in her sister’s arms, oblivious to everything. Naïma hugged me tightly, without tears, because women like her no longer waste them on farewells.

—Thank you for treating me like a person —she said.

—Thank you for letting me —I replied.

I watched her board the bus and disappear northward, toward a life I would not share. I never heard from her again. Sometimes, when I pass that traffic light and see someone washing windshields, I stop longer than necessary. Not out of prurience. Out of memory. Because there was one week, just one, when a stranger taught me that the most intense desire is the kind born of respect. And that, I swear, is my most honest confession.