Mariela’s Confession After Her Trip to the Capital

Mariela arrived in the capital with a suitcase full of blouses buttoned up to the neck and a body that had been asking for years for what no one gave her. She was forty-three, with a figure men still followed with their eyes in the village market, and a husband who had long since stopped looking at her. Hernán sold tractor parts, slept with his back to her, and, on the few occasions he tried, gave up after two minutes with an apology no one believed anymore. Mariela had learned to touch herself in silence, in the early hours of the morning, biting her hand so she wouldn’t wake him, sinking two fingers into her wet cunt while imagining cocks she had never had, mouths that had never sucked her, men who would bend her against the wall and whisper dirty things in her ear.

The nuns had raised her. They had taught her that desire was a sin to be confessed on Saturdays and forgotten on Sundays. But her body had never read that catechism. So when her childhood friend called to invite her to spend a few days in the city, she said yes before thinking it over.

“It’ll do you good to get out of that village,” Carmen told her over the phone. “Life is something else here.”

Carmen had always been the daring one of the two. At school, she laughed at the rules while Mariela lowered her head. Twenty years had passed, and when she opened the apartment door, Mariela saw that her friend was still the same: the generous neckline, the easy laughter, that way of speaking as though nothing were forbidden.

“Look at you,” Carmen said, hugging her. “You’re still the prettiest one, and the most covered-up. We’re going to fix that here.”

That first night they had a late dinner with wine beside the window overlooking the avenue lights. The conversation loosened like the second button of Mariela’s blouse. Carmen told her about her separation, about the lovers who had passed through that very living room, without guilt and without names she remembered completely.

“And you, Mari? Does Hernán still make you tremble?”

Mariela lowered her eyes to her glass.

“Hernán does what he can.”

“In other words, nothing.” Carmen laughed, but there was tenderness in it. “Friend, you have the body of a woman who deserves to be worshipped, to have her cunt eaten until she screams. You can’t spend your whole life pretending nothing’s happening.”

Mariela didn’t answer. But for the first time in years, she felt a heat that didn’t come from the wine, a wet pulse between her legs that made her cross them tightly against the chair.

***

Damián entered the story on the third day, without warning, the way things that change a life come in. He was Carmen’s friend, or something more than a friend; it was never clear. He arrived in the middle of the afternoon with a flimsy excuse and stayed when Carmen suddenly remembered she had an urgent errand.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” she said from the doorway, with a smile Mariela would take a long time to forgive her for. “You take care of things, Mari.”

They were alone. Damián was about thirty-eight, broad-shouldered, with a calmness that made her nervous. He sat across from her, not beside her, and looked at her with an attention Hernán had never given her. He didn’t look at her tits the way the men in the village did, sidelong and embarrassed. He looked into her eyes, slowly, as if he were reading her.

“Carmen told me about you,” he said. “She didn’t exaggerate.”

“Carmen exaggerates everything.”

“Not about this.”

The silence that followed was long and heavy. Mariela got up under the pretext of serving water. When she returned, he had stood up and was too close. He took the glass from her hand without touching her and left it on the table.

“I’m married,” she said, in a whisper that convinced no one, not even herself.

“I know. And you’re trembling.”

It was true. Her knees trembled, her voice trembled, her nipples trembled beneath the fabric of her blouse, hard as stones. Damián brushed a lock of hair away from her face and grazed her cheek with his thumb. It was barely a touch, but Mariela closed her eyes as if she had been stripped naked.

This is wrong. This is wrong, and I don’t want it to stop.

He kissed her without rushing, holding the nape of her neck, sliding his tongue deep inside her with obscene calm, and she let herself fall into that kiss like someone falling backward, trusting someone to catch her. When he lowered his mouth to her neck, Mariela let out a moan that embarrassed and aroused her at the same time. She felt Damián’s hand rise along her waist and close over one tit through the blouse, squeezing it with an authority that tore another gasp from her.

“I’ve been like this for years,” she confessed against his ear, without knowing why she was telling a stranger. “Years of feeling invisible. Years without anyone touching me the way a woman is touched.”

“Today you’re not invisible. Today I’m going to fuck you until you forget even your name.”

The raw word struck her in the belly like a sweet slap. Mariela had never heard that word spoken to her, directed at her, and yet she found herself pushing her hips against his thigh, seeking friction, soaking her panties in a shameful rush.

***

He led her slowly to the sofa, unbuttoning each button of that modest blouse as if uncovering a secret. When he opened it, he stared at her for a whole moment without touching her, and that delay did more for Mariela than everything Hernán had attempted in fifteen years. He unclasped her bra in a single movement, and her large, pale tits, with their dark, hard nipples, were freed beneath the dim light of the room.

“Look what you were hiding beneath those blouses,” Damián murmured, lowering his mouth to one nipple, sucking it whole, biting it lightly, playing his tongue around it while his other hand kneaded her other tit.

Mariela let out a long moan and buried her fingers in his hair, pressing his head against her chest. It seemed incredible to her that something so simple, a mouth on a nipple, could make her cunt throb with such violence. Hernán had never stayed there for more than ten seconds. Damián spent entire minutes moving from one breast to the other, sucking, biting, leaving them gleaming with saliva, until she began to plead under her breath, in a language she barely recognized.

“Please,” she said. “Please, lower.”

He smiled against her skin. He pulled down her skirt and panties with both hands, in one yank, and when he spread her legs, Mariela felt an old, convent-school shame that vanished immediately when she saw the way he looked at her. He looked at her the way one looks at a hot dish after a long fast.

“You’re soaked,” he said, running a whole finger along the slit of her cunt, from bottom to top, pausing briefly at her clitoris. “Really soaked.”

“I’ve been soaked for years and nobody noticed.”

Damián knelt between her legs and buried his mouth in her cunt without further preamble. He licked her wet lips, sucked her clitoris as if it were candy, slid his tongue inside her and drew it out, then went back up and down again, unhurried, without clumsiness, with the patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Mariela arched her back against the sofa and covered her mouth with the back of her hand out of habit, until she remembered that there was no sleeping husband beside her. She uncovered her mouth and moaned loudly, without restraint, while Damián’s tongue drew circles over her clitoris and two fingers entered and withdrew from her cunt in an obscene, noisy, wet rhythm.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “God, don’t stop. No one… no one has ever done this to me.”

She dug her heels into his back and pulled his hair, and when she felt herself coming, she spread her legs wider in an almost indecent way, offering her entire cunt to that unfamiliar mouth. She came against Damián’s tongue in a long tremor, her thighs squeezing his face, with a hoarse moan that scraped her throat. And he didn’t pull away. He kept licking her slowly as she came down, prolonging her orgasm to the edge of unbearable.

When he finally lifted his face, his mouth and chin were gleaming. He wiped them with his thumb without taking his eyes off her, then brought his thumb to his mouth.

“You taste good, married woman.”

Mariela laughed, dazed, her cheeks burning. Never in her life had a man said anything like that to her. Never in her life had a man put his mouth down there with such devotion. She reached out and began urgently unbuttoning his shirt, and when she lowered his trousers and freed his hard, thick cock, throbbing against her hand, she stared at it with her mouth half open.

“It’s enormous.”

“Had you never seen one like this?”

“Never.”

She slid off the sofa onto the floor, kneeling between his knees, and took him into her mouth without thinking, without the wife’s modesty Hernán had imposed on her. She licked the tip first, tasting the salty drop that appeared there, then took him in whole, as much as she could, choking a little, sucking him with twenty years of pent-up hunger. Damián held her hair with one hand and gently pushed the back of her head with the other, and Mariela heard him moan for the first time, a low growl that turned her cunt into a celebration.

“That’s it, my love. Suck like that. What a mouth you have.”

She sucked his balls, licked them one by one, then went back up the shaft with her flat tongue. She sucked him as she had never sucked Hernán, with an almost rabid hunger, spitting, dirtying her chin, looking up at him with glazed eyes. When she felt him tremble, when she noticed he was on the verge, he gently tugged her hair to pull her away.

“Not yet. I want you inside.”

He lifted her onto the sofa again, laid her on her back, and spread her legs with both hands.

“Look at me,” he asked when he finally settled over her and began rubbing the tip of his cock against her wet cunt without entering her yet.

She looked at him. And as he filled her, slowly at first, inch by inch, letting her feel every part of that cock entering where Hernán had barely managed to show himself, Mariela kept her eyes open, fixed on Damián’s, discovering that pleasure was also this: having someone look at her while he buried himself inside her to the hilt. When she felt him touch something deep, very far inside, a place she hadn’t known existed, a muffled cry escaped her.

“Oh my God.”

“Do you like it like that?”

“More. Harder. Please.”

He obeyed. He began to fuck her in earnest, with long, deep thrusts that made her bounce on the sofa, with the wet sound of her cunt sloshing around that cock, her tits bouncing in rhythm. She dug her nails into his back. She begged him not to stop, using words she had never said aloud.

“Fuck me,” she moaned. “Fuck me hard, fuck me like I haven’t been fucked in years, please.”

“That’s what you needed, isn’t it, married woman? Someone to split this cunt open properly.”

“Yes, yes, yes…”

Afterward he turned her over, put her on her knees on the sofa with her face against the backrest, lifted her ass, and pushed into her from behind again, gripping her hips, fucking her with measured brutality that drove her wild. He pulled her hair and slapped her ass, the crack ringing like a whip and tearing another moan from her. Mariela felt his hand pass around to the front, search for her clitoris with two fingers, and rub it while he continued thrusting into her from behind, and then she couldn’t take any more. She came with a hoarse scream that bounced off the unfamiliar walls of that apartment, an orgasm that began in her cunt, climbed up her spine, and exploded in her head, and she was still trembling when she heard him growl behind her and felt the hot spurts of his cum filling her inside, one load after another, while he dug his fingers into her hips and whispered obscene things in her ear.

She collapsed face-first over the back of the sofa with her legs spread and him on top of her, panting, still inside her. She continued trembling for a long while afterward, with his mouth on her shoulder and a tear she didn’t know the source of. She felt his warm semen trickling down the inside of her thigh and it didn’t disgust her. It made her proud.

“Don’t cry,” Damián murmured.

“I’m not sad,” she said, and it was true. It was something else. It was anger over all the time she had lost.

***

That night, alone in the guest bed, Mariela looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror. She searched her face for the mark of sin the nuns had promised her, the visible stain of the adulterous woman. She didn’t find it. Instead, she found bright eyes and a mouth still swollen, belonging to a woman who had just remembered she was alive. She opened her robe and looked at her tits, still marked red by Damián’s mouth, and at her thighs, bearing the dried trace of the semen she hadn’t bothered to wash off completely.

I’m unfaithful. I lied to Hernán. And I’d do it again right now.

The thought frightened her more than the act. It wasn’t guilt that kept her awake; it was realizing that guilt wasn’t coming. She had expected heaven’s punishment and felt only a tingling between her legs and an enormous desire for morning to come. She slipped her hand beneath her robe and stroked her swollen, still-sensitive cunt, then came again in silence, thinking of Damián’s cock, his tongue, the way he had called her “married woman” while fucking her.

The next day she called Hernán. She told him Carmen had a nasty case of the flu and that she would stay a few more days to take care of her. Her husband, trusting as ever, told her to take care of herself, that he could manage alone in the village. Mariela hung up and stared at the phone, surprised by how easy it had been to lie, by how little it weighed on her.

“Well?” Carmen asked from the kitchen, pretending she knew nothing. “How was my friend?”

“Carmen,” Mariela said, and a laugh she didn’t recognize escaped her. “What did you do?”

“Nothing you weren’t asking for at the top of your lungs, friend.”

***

Damián came back. He came back that afternoon, and the next, and the one after that. Each time Mariela told herself it would be the last, and each time the last day moved forward another day. She learned things about her own body that no book, no confession, no husband had ever taught her. She learned to ask. She learned to watch while she was being touched. She learned that she could moan without biting her hand because no one was sleeping beside her there, pretending not to hear. She learned to ride him facing forward, moving her hips while looking into his eyes, touching her own clitoris while he squeezed her tits from below. She learned to let him come in her mouth without spitting it out, to swallow while he held her face in both hands. She learned that her ass, which she had believed untouchable, could also be touched, licked, penetrated slowly with a finger while Damián’s tongue worked below, and that this too was pleasure, a dirty, new pleasure that made her bite the pillow.

One of those afternoons, lying over him with her breathing ragged, her hair stuck to her face and her cunt still throbbing, Mariela said quietly what she had been thinking for days.

“When I go back to the village, this ends.”

“And are you going back?” Damián asked, stroking her naked back and lowering his hand to squeeze one of her buttocks.

She didn’t answer. The last light of afternoon came through the window and, below, the city illuminated its signs. In the village, at that hour, Hernán would be closing the shop’s shutters, suspecting nothing, waiting for a woman who was no longer the one who had left.

***

Mariela did go back, of course. In the end, one always returns to the life one knows. She went back to the buttoned-up blouses, the silent dinners, the bed with its backs turned. Hernán never noticed anything; he didn’t even notice that she had changed, which, when you thought about it, was the saddest proof of all. The first night he tried to touch her, clumsy as always, finishing in two minutes as always, Mariela squeezed her eyes shut and thought of Damián so she could come, biting her lip so Hernán wouldn’t notice she was moaning for someone else.

But something never fell back into place. Now, when she touches herself in the early hours with her husband sleeping beside her, Mariela no longer imagines vague things. She has a concrete memory to hold on to: a room lit by the avenue lights, a gaze that never turned away, a mouth that took its time, a thick cock sinking into her to the hilt, warm semen running down her thigh. She pushes three fingers into her cunt, squeezes her clitoris with the other hand, and comes in silence thinking of the way Damián called her “married woman” while fucking her from behind. And sometimes, very occasionally, she looks at the phone and thinks about another trip to the capital, another sick friend to care for, another lie that barely weighs on her.

She never confessed this. Not in the confessional, where she had knelt so many times for much lesser sins. Not to Carmen, who knew it all anyway. Not to anyone. She is writing it now, for the first time, because there are truths one can tell only to a stranger, in a low voice, knowing that on the other side no one will judge her as harshly as she judged herself that first night before the mirror, searching for a stain that never appeared.