I Watched Him in the Rearview Mirror on the Way to School

By the time I was nineteen, I already knew my own body’s secret map pretty well. I had learned it alone, in silence, with the kind of curiosity you have when reading a book you’re not supposed to own. I knew how much pressure my clit could take before it sprang, how fast to move my fingers to send an orgasm climbing from my heels to the nape of my neck, I knew that if I slid two fingers into my pussy and curved my fingertips forward, my hips would lift off the mattress all by themselves. But in my boldest fantasies, the same man always appeared, the same face, the same deep voice: my best friend’s dad.

We lived only a few blocks from his house, so for years he drove us to school every morning. He smelled like coffee and something hard to name, like a life already lived. I sat in the back and pretended to watch the city wake up, but really I was studying him in the rearview mirror: the line of his jaw, the firmness of his hands on the wheel, that effortless way he existed without trying at all.

At night, when I touched myself, it was his name I swallowed without saying, the one I gave myself to. I imagined those same broad hands sliding between my legs, prying me open, squeezing my tits while he whispered filthy things in my ear. I sucked on my fingers and pretended they were his cock, the one I had sensed a thousand times under the fabric of his pants when he got out of the car. I never imagined that one day, without meaning to, he’d notice.

That morning seemed just like all the others. Renata, my friend, was checking her phone beside me, oblivious to the tension simmering inside me. I’d sat slightly turned, looking for the perfect angle so the little mirror would catch his face. In my head the script was always the same: I looked, he drove. A harmless fantasy.

But just as the light turned green and he released the brake, instead of accelerating his eyes lifted. They didn’t look for traffic. They didn’t look for his daughter. They looked for my gaze in the mirror. And he didn’t just find it: he held it.

Two or three seconds, that was all, but in that time reality dissolved. I felt an electric jolt pin me to the seat, a wet pull between my legs that made me clamp my thighs together, and I saw a flash in his eyes — recognition, curiosity, something more dangerous? — before a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The car moved on. I sank back into the seat, my pulse hammering at my temples and my panties already wet under the uniform skirt. My friend’s dad, the calm man who smelled like coffee, had been looking at me too.

***

The following days were a delicious agony. The routine stayed the same, but the air inside the car went from tense to electric. I knew he was watching me, and he knew I knew it.

One morning, when I dared to look for him in the mirror to make sure he was focused on the road, I discovered he wasn’t. His gaze was fixed on my knees, on my thighs. It was a long, unhurried look that traced the outline of my body with such meticulousness that I felt naked beneath my uniform skirt. My nipples went hard against the cotton of my shirt, so obvious that I crossed my arms on reflex. He noticed that too, and that tiny smile returned to his mouth. The car had stopped being a means of transportation: it was a glass trap.

That man became an almost physical presence in my bed. His profile while driving merged with the memory of his eyes on my legs, and my nighttime caresses turned into a spell more than an exploration. I spread my legs over the sheets, two fingers buried to the knuckles in my soaking pussy, my thumb circling my swollen clit, and I came biting the pillow with his name stuck in my throat. The fact that he was separated from my friend’s mother was the most intoxicating part: by wanting me, he was betraying no one except his daughter’s friendship, and that was the only boundary still standing. The next move no longer depended on fantasy, but on who dared first.

***

On Friday afternoon I found out Renata was spending the weekend at her mom’s, and that he’d be alone in that same house where I’d spent countless afternoons playing and doing homework.

Saturday at noon I dressed in shorts that were far too short and a white sleeveless T-shirt that did nothing to hide the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra. I messed up my hair just a little, letting strands fall over my face, the perfect illusion of weekend carelessness. Underneath, a tiny white cotton pair of panties, the last layer of a carefully planned disguise. I left and walked the three blocks to his front door, each step a battle between adrenaline and my excuse.

I’m an idiot. What am I doing? He’s my friend’s dad.

No. He’s a separated man. I’m an adult woman. And he wants me.

The plan was simple and cynical: I would act like I had completely forgotten Renata wasn’t there. I rang the bell once, with the confidence of someone keeping a routine, not committing madness. My heart was beating so hard I was afraid it could be heard through the wood. I heard slow footsteps and the door opened.

He was wearing worn gray pants and a black T-shirt fitted over his shoulders, barefoot, his hair messed up as if he’d just gotten up from a nap. He smelled like coffee, as always. The way his eyes traveled over my body, lingering at the hem of my shorts and climbing up the shirt until they stuck for one second too long at the outline of my nipples, was not the look of a man seeing his daughter’s friend. It was the look I had summoned in my nights.

—Hi —I said, with all the sweetness I could fake. I put a hand to my forehead, pretending to have a lapse—. Oh, sorry. I completely forgot Renata left for the weekend. Is she here?

—No, Camila. You know she went with her mother —he replied in that deep voice, with no reproach, just stating the fact. And he smiled. That smile was a statement: he understood my game, he knew I was there on purpose.

—Right, sorry —I said, taking a step back as if I were about to leave—. I must’ve mixed things up. I’d better go…

—Wait —his tone dropped—. Since you’re here… want to come in for a glass of water? It’s scorching out.

I looked him in the eyes and knew that, if I crossed that threshold, there would be no going back to the silences of the car.

—Yes, please —I answered, and a shiver ran through me as I said it.

***

I walked into the house that smelled like him, like his loneliness, like coffee, and felt his eyes following my back, felt them pause for a beat on my ass pressed against the worn denim. He pointed me to a caramel-colored leather couch, deep and wide, and came back a minute later with a glass of water sweating ice. When he handed it to me, his fingers brushed mine again, a spark so fleeting it felt inevitable. Instead of sitting at the far end, he sat right beside me, much closer than courtesy allowed, and turned toward me until I had to tilt my head back to look at him.

—Why did you really come? —he asked, his voice stripped of any pretense.

—I came because… because I really forgot —I stammered, the lie only half working.

—I don’t mean you forgot my daughter —he corrected me, with an adult patience that at that moment felt incredibly attractive. His eyes didn’t leave mine—. You came because you were looking at me in the mirror.

The air snapped. Recognition was mutual and devastating. I set the glass down on the table with a dry thud.

—And you were looking at me —I shot back, my voice a defiant whisper, the last defense of my innocence.

Slowly he raised a hand and rested it on the back of the couch, just behind my head, a gesture possessive and protective at once. In that instant I understood that he was no longer my friend’s dad: he was just a man, alone in his house, and I was a woman who wanted him.

—I need to know something, Camila —he said, lowering his voice—. Have you been with other guys? Have you given yourself to anyone… like that?

The rawness of the question disarmed me. I had prepared for flirting, not for truth that direct. I swallowed.

—No. Never. I’ve never been with anyone.

A small wrinkle crossed his forehead, and at last he let himself touch me. His fingers settled on my cheek, the contrast of his rough skin against mine. His thumb brushed the edge of my lower lip and I closed my eyes at the caress. Without thinking, I stuck out my tongue and licked the tip of his finger, sucking it lightly. He drew in a deep, rough breath.

—You’re a virgin —he said, more to himself than as a question.

—Yes.

—And you want it to be me —he added. He wasn’t asking. He was stating it.

—Yes —I replied, and my voice was already steady, no doubt in it—. I want it to be you.

—Say it right, Camila. Say it with every word.

My heart pounded. He was making me say it; he wanted to hear it come out of my mouth.

—I want you to fuck me —I whispered, and felt my whole skin prickle at hearing myself say it.

—That’s what I like —he murmured, and his smile turned flesh.

***

Without another word, he gently tugged my arm and turned his body, opening the space between his legs. With the same calm he used when changing gears in the car, but with an infinitely more dangerous intent, he showed me where he wanted me to be. He wasn’t asking permission: he was asking me to sit on him.

My mind, trained in calculation and fantasy, gave in. I moved onto his lap with the clumsiness of a girl and the determination of a woman. The fabric of my shorts bumped against his gray pants, I felt the firmness of his thighs beneath and, more centrally, a hard bulge pressing my cunt through two layers of fabric. The vertigo was immediate: I was sitting on the man who had ignited my body years before, and his cock was already hard for me.

His arm circled me, his broad hand resting at the base of my back, and he pulled me against him until the last space vanished. Our faces were just inches apart. There was no smile now, only a predator’s seriousness as he cornered his prey.

His hand rose to my hair, slowly moving aside the strands I had deliberately left falling. His thumb traced my brow, slid down my cheek and stopped on my lip with the slightest pressure, making me part my mouth in an involuntary breath. And then the space dissolved: his lips found mine. It wasn’t a rushed teenage kiss, but the deep, mature contact I had imagined a thousand times. His tongue opened my mouth, tangled with mine with obscene calm, and I let him in, let him learn the taste of my saliva. My hands lifted on their own and clutched his black T-shirt, wrinkling the fabric over his shoulders. Without meaning to, I pushed my hips forward and rubbed my pussy against the bulge in his pants. He growled into my mouth and his fingers closed at my nape.

—Easy —he murmured against my lips, still not letting me go—. We’ve got all afternoon.

He straightened just enough to see my face, and his free hand slid down my neck to rest on my white shirt. Without a bra underneath, the contact was direct, scorching. With calculated slowness, his thumb found the edge of the fabric and began to lift it, exposing my stomach. I didn’t move, fascinated by the calm with which he undressed me. When the shirt reached my breasts, he pulled it up and over my head in one motion.

I was left topless on his lap, and his gaze dropped to my tits with a hunger that made me tremble. My nipples had gotten so hard they hurt.

—Look at you —he said, his voice roughened—. Look at what beautiful tits you’ve got.

***

The hand holding my nape returned to my back and shoved me against him; the other covered one of my breasts. The contact was such an intense shock of pleasure that a moan slipped from me, and that sound made me aware: this was no longer a fantasy, it was a shared reality, and a loud one.

His touch was methodical, unhurried. He weighed my whole breast in his palm, closed his fingers around it as if measuring it, and with his thumb began drawing circles around the nipple without touching it, a cruel game that forced me to arch my back and offer it to him. When he finally caught it between thumb and forefinger and squeezed lightly, twisting it with a precision that bent me, a sharp gasp escaped my mouth.

—You’re so sensitive —he murmured, and lowered his head.

His mouth closed over the other nipple with a wet, hot tug that shot through me from top to bottom. His tongue licked it in circles, pressed it against his palate, let it go only to nip at it again with his teeth — little bites that didn’t hurt but sent a direct pulse to my pussy — and my hips tightened on their own against his lap, searching for something, anything. I felt the bulge in his pants again, harder now, and I rubbed against it shamelessly while he sucked me. He pulled back for a second, his mouth wet and shining, looked at me with that small, dangerous smile I already knew, and moved to the other breast. He sucked hard, tugged with his teeth, and I dug my nails into his shoulders because the current was already building between my thighs, soaking my panties.

—You’re already all wet, aren’t you? —he said against my skin, never stopping his licking—. It shows.

—Yes —I panted—. Yes, I swear.

***

Later he guided me to stand. I got up on trembling legs and stood in front of him, still seated like a king on his throne. His fingers found the zipper of my shorts, and the zipper sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the room. He pulled the fabric down and the shorts slid over my hips, brushed the insides of my thighs —that place I had already studied in the rearview mirror — and dropped to the floor.

I was left in a tiny pair of white cotton panties, the last vestige of my innocence. The fabric had a dark stain in the center, the visible proof of how much I wanted him, and his eyes went straight to it.

—Look how I’ve got you —he murmured, and ran his thumb over the soaked fabric, pressing lightly against my clit. A moan slipped out of me and my knees went weak. He smiled and brought the finger to his mouth, sucking it slowly, savoring what he’d stolen.

Without giving me time to feel ashamed, his fingers slid under the elastic and, with the same deliberation as before, he pulled them down slowly until they fell around my ankles. Now I was completely naked before him. I felt the room’s air on my wet cunt and my thighs trembled.

—Open up —he said, and with both hands he spread my legs just enough to look at me. He kept staring for a long time in silence, and I forced myself not to cover up—. That little cunt is mine today, Camila. All mine.

He raised one hand and pointed to the space between his legs. The order was silent. Without hesitation, I took a step and sat on him again, this time skin against the rough fabric of his pants. The direct friction against my soaked vulva ripped another gasp from me. His hands slowly opened my thighs, with a pressure soft but inexorable, and he positioned his legs under mine to anchor me, forcing me to remain fully open. My back rested against his chest, feeling the beat of his calm heart, so different from my frantic pulse. I was wrapped up, safe and at his mercy all at once.

His chin rested on my shoulder and his voice, barely a murmur, brushed my ear.

—This is how I wanted you, Camila. Just like this. Open for me.

The hand on my stomach slid down along my hip line to the center. He didn’t try to penetrate me: with the tip of his middle finger he found the exact point of my sensitivity and began to move, using my own wetness to glide with silky ease. The finger dipped down, pressed just into the entrance of my pussy to soak up more and came back up, spreading the juice all over my clit.

—So wet —he whispered against my neck, barely biting my earlobe—. It’s dripping down your thigh.

He moved his finger in slow circles, then up and down, alternating the pressure, learning my body as if he’d never done anything else. Every time my legs tightened he slowed down; every time I loosened, he sped up. The world shrank to the pressure of his finger, an electric sting traveling straight to my belly, and my hips moved on their own, seeking friction, pressing against his erection, which I could feel hard against my ass.

—That’s it, slowly… —he murmured against my ear—. Let go. Come for me.

The middle finger dipped again and this time it did go in, sinking slowly into my tight pussy. I let out a muffled cry as I felt him enter, the sensation so different from my own fingers, thicker, more aware. He moved it inside, curving it, searching for something, and found a spot that made my whole body jump. With his thumb he returned to my clit, and the double stimulation —inside and outside at the same time — was too much.

I felt my muscles tighten and my breathing cut off. My nails dug into his arms and my back arched against his chest as the orgasm hit me with brutal force, an explosion that left me trembling on his lap, clenching around his finger in violent spasms. I screamed without caring who might hear, my mouth open against his jaw, and he kept the rhythm without giving in, stretching it out until the last tremor. He didn’t stop his hand until the final spasm passed, holding me while I caught my breath. When he withdrew his finger, it gleamed with me. He brought it to his mouth in front of my eyes and sucked it slowly, never breaking eye contact.

—Delicious —he said—. I knew you’d be delicious.

***

He kissed the crown of my head softly, a gesture that was the opposite of the danger he represented, and then he lifted me in his arms as if I weighed nothing. He carried me through the house and laid me carefully on a wide bed, the cool white sheets under my hot skin.

He didn’t lie down beside me. He stayed standing at the edge, looking at me, and began to undress with the same slowness that had marked the whole afternoon: first the black T-shirt, revealing a solid, mature torso, a broad chest with dark hair running down in a line to his navel and disappearing under his pants. Then his hands went to the belt, the buckle came loose with a snap that sank into my stomach, and he lowered the zipper. When he pushed the gray pants down his hips and then the boxer briefs, I opened my eyes wide: reality surpassed every silhouette I had imagined through the fabric. His cock was hard, thick, pointing upward, the tip shining with liquid, the shaft veined and heavy. My mouth watered without thinking.

He must have noticed, because he smiled and stepped closer to the edge of the bed.

—Want to taste it? —he asked, low-voiced—. Before.

I nodded without words. I propped myself up on my elbows and crawled to the edge of the mattress, my face at the height of his hips. I wrapped one hand around the shaft —it was so thick I couldn’t even close my fingers all the way around it— and stroked it slowly, feeling the pulse beneath the hot skin. He took a deep breath. I stuck out my tongue and licked the tip, collecting the drop that had formed. The taste was salty, dense, foreign, and I liked it. I took it into my mouth timidly, just the tip, and he let out a deep groan that made my skin prickle.

—Slowly —he said, and rested a hand in my hair, guiding me without forcing—. Suck it however it comes to you.

I went down little by little, learning how much I could take in without choking, closing my lips tightly around the shaft and helping with my hand at the base. My tongue circled the tip each time I came up, and he let out little gasps that made me want more. Saliva began to run from the corner of my mouth, wetting my chin, and that seemed to drive him wild. He took my hair more firmly, setting a gentle rhythm, and for a few seconds he let me take him all the way in until I felt the tip hit the back of my throat and had to pull back coughing.

—Enough —he whispered, moving me aside gently, his voice hoarse—. Enough or I’m going to come right here, and today I don’t want to come right here.

He walked toward me slowly, like someone going after his prey while savoring the inevitable capture, and gently pushed me back down onto the bed. With his knees he spread my thighs until I was fully exposed.

He bent his torso and, without preamble or caresses, lowered his mouth. The first brush of his tongue was a wet, warm jolt, so new that my back arched on the mattress by itself. He didn’t stay on the surface: he explored with methodical curiosity, like an intimate investigation of the territory he had lit up with his gaze in the mirror. He pried my pussy lips apart with his thumbs, leaving me fully open, and ran his whole tongue from bottom to top, slowly, soaking me. Then he focused on my clit: licked it in circles, sucked it into his mouth, trapped it between his lips and tugged lightly. When he felt like it, he pushed his tongue inside me, fucking me with it, while his thumb kept circling my clit.

My hands tangled in his hair, pushing him against me, begging him to keep going. My hips lifted on their own to press closer to his face, without a trace of shame, and he brought his free hand down to pin my stomach and hold me still.

—Stay —he growled against my cunt, and the vibration of his voice shot through me—. Let me do it.

I felt pleasure climb again toward the same spiral from minutes earlier. But just when I was about to explode, he stopped, lifted his head —his face shining with my wetness — and looked at me with a promise: the real end was about to come.

—No —I panted—. Don’t stop.

—You’re going to come with my cock inside you —he said, climbing up my body, leaving a trail of kisses along my belly and tits—. You’ll save that one for me.

***

He knelt between my legs, his erection aligned with my center. The hot tip searched for my entrance, brushing it lightly, playing with my wetness, a prelude that made me gasp. He gripped himself with his hand and ran himself up and down over my whole vulva, soaking himself in my juices, lightly tapping my clit with the tip until a moan of pure desire slipped from me. Then he leaned closer and started to enter.

It went in little by little. First the tip pressed firmly against my entrance and I felt the tension of my virginity, the new stretching, my body giving way millimeter by millimeter. I let out a sound of pain mixed with anticipatory pleasure, and he stopped. His eyes silently asked whether he could keep going; I nodded. He drew in air and moved forward.

The push was deliberate. The feeling of his body stretching me almost immediately turned into a fullness I had never known, and a gasp of surprise slipped from my lips. I felt the resistance of my hymen give way with a sharp sting, and he used that instant to sink a little deeper, stealing my breath.

—I’m in now, Camila —he whispered, his voice rough—. Hold on. The worst part’s over.

When he felt my body relax, he finished entering with a slow, powerful motion, sinking all the way to the hilt. I felt his balls rest against my ass, his whole pelvis pressed to mine, and let out a long gasp. It was the first time a man had been inside me, and he was huge, it was him, he filled me completely. He stayed still, forehead beaded with sweat, and in his eyes I saw a mix of conquest and deep tenderness.

—All mine —he murmured, and lowered his mouth to mine in a deep kiss, letting me taste his flavor mixed with mine.

Then he started moving, very slowly, beginning the rhythm of my first time. He pulled almost all the way out and sank back in, letting me feel every inch, teaching me my own body from the inside. My hands slid over his back, pulling him deeper with each thrust, my nails digging into tense muscles. And then the emotional flood hit me: my eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t a wrenching cry, but a silent overflow, the echo of pain mixed with pleasure and the triumph of crossing that boundary with him.

He noticed the tears. He didn’t stop: he eased the pace and brought his mouth to my ear.

—Shh —he whispered—. Let it out. Let yourself get fucked.

And he kept going, deep and slow, catching my tears with his fingers, with his lips, kissing them from my cheeks. Pleasure and emotion became indistinguishable, until the moan that escaped me was pure bliss, eclipsing the crying.

The rhythm gradually quickened. He straightened up on his arms, his eyes locked on the point where our bodies joined, and started watching himself come in and out of me, hypnotized.

—Look at how it goes in —he said, hoarse—. Look at how your little cunt sucks me.

I looked down and saw his cock, shining with me, disappearing inside my body, soaked, and something in that image drove me to the edge. My hips began lifting on their own to meet him, wanting deeper, faster. He answered, increasing the pace, driving harder, the wet sound of our bodies slapping together filling the room.

—Daddy —slipped out of me, and I surprised myself, but he let out an animal growl at hearing it and thrust harder.

—Again —he panted—. Say it again.

—Daddy, more… harder, please…

He brought one hand between our bodies and found my clit with his thumb, pressing it while he kept fucking me. The combination was lethal: the deep filling of his cock and the precise friction of his thumb brought me to the edge in seconds. Just as I felt both of us were at the limit, he drove in one last time with an urgency he could no longer contain, sinking to the hilt. The climax hit me with incredible force, a convulsion that shook me all over, my pussy muscles clenching around him in violent spasms, and he followed an instant later with a deep groan, thrusting one last time and letting himself come inside. I felt the hot pulse of his cock filling me, his load boiling inside me, and that sensation sent off another small wave of pleasure. We both stayed there panting, joined by the act that had broken every limit.

***

He withdrew slowly, and I felt a warm thread slide down my thigh as he came out. He collapsed beside me, but immediately found my waist and, with unexpected tenderness, drew me onto him, my head on his chest. This time there was no urgency or domination: it was only to hold me. One of his hands began stroking my back in a rhythmic motion, the perfect balm after the storm. I felt completely safe, protected by the very man who had been forbidden for years, the one who smelled like coffee and a life already lived and was now my refuge.

His deep voice, already a sleepy murmur, reached my ear.

—Sleep, Camila.

And the firmness of those two words gave me permission to release the last bit of tension. The world shrank to the sound of his heart and the soft sway of his hand on my back. In that warmth, naked on top of him, with his hot cum still inside me, I fell asleep.