I Went to the Beach Alone to Disconnect and Met Esteban

Before summer ended, and taking advantage of the fact that my ex-husband had taken our daughter on a two-week trip abroad, I decided to get away too. One week alone, without friends or plans, just to breathe. The breakups with Tomás and with Andrés had left me empty, and that last-but-one week of vacation was all I had to feel like a person again.

My brother-in-law has a house on the coast, in a small, quiet town overlooking a bay of cold water. I asked my sister to lend it to me for a few days and she agreed without asking questions. Maybe she noticed I needed it more than I was willing to admit to myself.

I spent the first three days on Los Cardos beach, a stretch of pale sand where there were families and children playing at the shore. They didn’t bother me at all. On the contrary: that distant noise of other people’s laughter left me alone with my thoughts. I had seven days ahead of me and I intended to go to the beach all seven.

Every morning I repeated the same ritual: coffee on the terrace looking out at the sea still gray, a novel that barely moved forward, and the promise not to check my phone. I wanted to disappear from the world for a while, from the messages that no longer came and the ones that came far too late. For the first time in a long while, silence didn’t hurt.

On Wednesday that week, a man came up to me. Mature, though not that much: he looked older than me, but he wasn’t yet fifty. From the first moment I knew he wanted to hit on me, and I had gone there precisely not to be bothered, so I didn’t pay him much attention.

His name was Esteban. He asked if I minded if he set himself up beside me and, since the beach belongs to no one, I told him to do whatever he wanted. He spread out his towel, but I got up at once and went into the sea. I stayed floating there a long while, letting myself be rocked, and I thought that when I came back he’d be gone.

But he was still there when I returned.

He didn’t hold back one bit. He told me he’d waited for me to invite me to eat.

How shameless, I thought. I told him I’d come to be alone and peaceful that week. He insisted. He told me he had separated five months earlier, that he was looking for female company only for friendship, with no ulterior motives, to reconnect with women. And that of everyone on the beach, I seemed the most charming to him.

I told him I’d think about it. I gathered my things, said goodbye, and left.

***

The next day I went back at the same time, around three, and there he was again. He insisted on his invitation, but this time I saw something of nostalgia in his eyes, a sadness that didn’t match his brazenness. Just for that evening, I decided to accept.

I told him I was staying at my sister’s house and he told me he had a property right there in town, one of the things he’d gotten in the divorce. We both laughed. I confessed that I was divorced too and we kept talking in the sand for quite a while.

Every so often I noticed his eyes drifting to my breasts, but I didn’t care. That day I hadn’t gone into the water and I was wearing a sarong over my T-shirt. He suggested that instead of dinner we go for a drink, a late snack. Our conversation had gone on so long that it already felt natural. I agreed.

The truth is it was very pleasant. Very gentlemanly. We talked about our divorces without resentment, about the places we’d wanted to travel to and never did, about that strange feeling of starting over after forty. He made me laugh more than once, and I surprised myself by thinking I hadn’t laughed like that in months, with real enthusiasm, without watching the time.

It was nine at night before we knew it and, since I was driving and he wasn’t, I offered to drop him at his place. Anyway, it was on my way.

I told him I’m a nutritionist; he told me he’s an architect. When we got to his door, he asked me to come inside for a moment because his blood pressure had dropped. Obviously I didn’t refuse.

Once inside, his face changed. And apparently his blood pressure, far from dropping, went up. He came closer to me. I backed away until my back hit the door. And he kissed me. Tender, soft, almost asking permission.

I thought he was going to tell me we’d see each other the next day. Instead, he yanked up my T-shirt and the top of my bikini, and without giving me time to react he trapped one nipple in his mouth and started sucking hard, with his tongue coiling around it, while with his other hand he squeezed my other breast as if he wanted to make sure they were real.

I resisted as much as I could. What am I doing? But he lifted me by the hips and carried me to the sofa, with my cunt already pressed against the hard bulge marked under his trunks. The sarong had already fallen to the floor. I told him no, and he answered that from the moment he saw me he’d made up his mind to fuck me.

I kept resisting. It was his insistence, the weight of his hands opening my thighs and his mouth buried in my tits, that finally made me give in.

***

We were on the sofa in his holiday house, me straddling his lap and he sucking my breasts like he hadn’t touched anyone in months. He sucked one nipple until it went hard and purple, let it go with a wet sound, and moved on to the other, and between sucks he licked the whole channel between my breasts, up to my neck and back down again. I told him to stop again, and he silenced me with a deep kiss, one of those kisses that leaves no room to think, with his tongue all the way down my mouth.

I felt his hand sliding down my belly and slipping inside the bikini bottoms. Two fingers parted the lips of my cunt and found that I was already soaking. He laughed against my mouth.

—You’re drenched —he whispered—. Don’t lie to me anymore.

He slid his fingers all the way in and started moving them slowly, pulling them out and pushing them back in, with his thumb resting right on my clit. I couldn’t help arching and digging my nails into his shoulders. Every time his fingers went in, there was the wet sound of my soaked cunt, and that sound embarrassed me more than it pleased me, but pleasure was winning out.

He turned me over, laid me back on the sofa and came over me. He took off the bottom of my bikini with a calmness that made me more nervous than hurry would have: he pulled the ties, slid the fabric down my thighs and left it hanging from one ankle, as if he liked seeing me almost naked but not quite. He looked at my open cunt for a long moment without saying anything, until I blushed.

Then he went down. He spread my legs as wide as they would go and buried his face between my thighs. The first lick was long, flat, from my asshole to my clit, and it tore a moan from me I didn’t even recognize. He gave me slow, patient oral, sucking my lips one by one, sliding his tongue inside my cunt as if it were a little cock, rising to my clit and staying there, circling it with the tip, sucking it with his lips. When he felt I was about to come, he eased off, pulled away, blew on me and started all over again. I ended up tugging his hair, begging him not to stop, and as soon as I asked he drove two fingers into me again while sucking my clit hard, and I came in his mouth, shaking all over, my legs clamped against his head.

He stood up with his chin shining and pulled off his trunks. His cock stood up against his belly, thick, the tip already wet. He showed it to me shamelessly, gripping it by the base.

—Look what you did to me —he said.

He entered me gently, resting the head of his cock at the entrance to my cunt and pushing in little by little, until I felt him opening me from the inside centimeter by centimeter. I bit my lips and kissed him when he was all the way in. Esteban wasn’t wearing a condom, but I was on the pill, so I didn’t stop him. He started fucking me with deep thrusts, unhurried, holding himself up on his arms so he wouldn’t crush me, and every time he sank all the way in I could feel his balls slapping against my ass. He came inside me, after asking me breathlessly if he could finish inside; I told him yes, and I felt the throbbing of his cock as he filled me with hot cum. Then he lay back on my chest, hid his face between my breasts and kissed the hollow between them as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world, with his semen still slowly leaking out of my cunt and soaking my thighs.

He didn’t take long to harden again. He grabbed it himself and rubbed it against my clit to wet it again with his own cum, and right there he drove into me again, this time with his mouth latched onto my breasts, sucking hard, leaving purple marks around my nipples.

—What a body you’ve got —he murmured against my skin, without stopping his thrusts—. You’ve driven me crazy, you’ve got a beautiful cunt, tight.

I was going to answer, but he shut me up again with a kiss as intense as his bites. I lifted my legs, crossed them over his back while he rode me, and felt him go even deeper that way, hitting a spot that made me moan into his mouth. He took advantage of that to slide a wet finger into my ass without warning, and that extra shock made me come a second time, clenching around his cock in spasms. By then I was too turned on to pretend I wasn’t enjoying it. He came inside me a second time, growling against my neck, and I felt a second hot burst joining the first.

He carried me in his arms to his room, with cum dripping down my legs, and laid me back on the bed face-up. I simply opened my legs to let him in again, without saying a word.

—I’m not letting you go all week —he told me in my ear, as if declaring victory—. Choose: we go to your sister’s place or we stay here.

I answered that I preferred my sister’s house, while I had him over me again, this time with my mouth busy on him: I had knelt between his legs and was sucking his cock, tasting the mix of my cunt and his semen, taking him so deep he reached my throat. I sucked him with eagerness, with both hands: one at the base jerking him in time with my mouth, the other stroking his balls. He grabbed my hair and set the rhythm, panting that I sucked him so well, not to stop. We’d already gone three times in a row and he still showed no sign of getting tired.

He took out his phone and asked for my Instagram to follow me. I told him I didn’t have one, that I didn’t like those networks, that I only used one social account to see my family. He added me anyway. He started looking at my old photos and it seems that got him turned on again, because he turned me over, put me on all fours on the bed and took me again from behind. He grabbed me by the waist and drove himself into me in one thrust, all the way in, ripping a cry out of me. He started fucking me hard, with my ass cheeks slapping against his pelvis, making a wet flesh-on-flesh sound that filled the room. Every so often he’d smack my ass, leaving a red mark, and with his other hand he’d grab my hair and pull my head back, forcing me to arch my spine so his cock would go even deeper. I came again, moaning into the pillow, and he held on a little longer before filling me for the third time.

***

It must have been five in the morning when we finally went to my sister’s house. There he fucked me again in the jacuzzi, under the steam and with the lights off: he sat me with my back to him on his cock, the hot water covering us up to the chest, and moved me with his hands on my hips while he bit my nape and squeezed my wet tits. I braced my hands on the tub’s edges and rode him myself, slowly going up and down, feeling him go in and out under the water. By then the kisses were no longer those of two horny strangers; they were something else, something slower and deeper neither of us wanted to name. He came inside me again and hugged me from behind, without pulling out, until he went soft inside me.

From that day on we stopped going to the beach. We stayed in the house, losing count of the hours and of the times. We cooked anything in the late afternoon, ate in bed, and before finishing the plate he was already with his head between my legs again, or me with his cock in my mouth. We fucked in the kitchen, against the counter, with fruit rolling across the floor; on the living room sofa, with the curtains open; in the shower, with cold water pouring over us. That week he had me all to himself, with my cunt swollen, my nipples sore from so much sucking, and my thighs always sticky with his cum, and I let him.

The curious thing is I didn’t feel used or ashamed. I felt desired in a way I had completely forgotten, as if my body, after so long feeling invisible, had regained a purpose. Esteban didn’t treat me like a beach conquest; he treated me as if he’d been looking for me for years, and that, even though I knew it was probably a lie, was enough for that week.

On the last day, Saturday —because I was leaving on Sunday at noon—, he asked for my ass. I didn’t say anything. I just lay face down on the bed and, with my own hands, spread my cheeks for him, offering him my closed, pink asshole.

He settled behind me, pried my buttocks open wider with his thumbs, and ate my ass slowly, patiently. He started by licking me slowly, circling the hole with the tip of his tongue, then hardened it and eased it in little by little, fucking my ass with his tongue until a moan escaped me that I couldn’t swallow. When I was already loose, he spit on it and smeared me with a lubricant he brought from the bathroom, first sliding in one finger, then two, opening me patiently until I stopped tensing up.

He went in slowly. The head of his cock pressed against my asshole, pushing, until I gave way and felt myself open. I stayed still, face against the pillow, breathing through my mouth, while he advanced centimeter by centimeter. When he had it all the way in, he stayed there for a while without moving, resting on my back, kissing my nape and whispering for me to relax, that I was going to like it. And he started moving, first gently, then firmer. With his other hand he reached underneath and found my clit, and like that, taken in the ass and fingered at the same time, I came in a new way, different, deeper, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t scream. That night he took me from behind so many times, in so many positions —on my side, with one leg lifted; on all fours again; sitting on top of him, lowering myself onto his cock— that I had to delay my return until Monday: he left me sore, with my ass burning and his semen dripping out of there too, but more satisfied than I remembered being in years.

I gave him nothing but my name and a couple of old photos he saved from my profile. I made it clear I was coming out of a rough time emotionally and that, for now, I didn’t want to start anything. He accepted that without arguing, though with a smile that said something else.

Anyway, I don’t think he’ll forget my name. I found that out a month later, when I opened my appointment book at the clinic and saw that he had booked an appointment for his son with me, for April.

Some men don’t insist with words. They insist with appointments you know you’re going to have to keep.