My First Anal Experience with My New Partner

After breaking up with my ex, I went through a pretty turbulent few months. I’m not saying that to play the victim, but that’s how it was: I went out, drank too much, accepted invitations when I knew perfectly well where they were headed, and then went home with that strange mixture of anger, desire, and shame that a broken relationship leaves you with.

With my ex, I had learned a lot of things in bed. I liked some of them; others I did simply because, at the time, it turned me on to feel desired, watched, pursued. Once I had truly left him behind, I promised myself that with the next one I wasn’t going to pretend to be innocent, but I wasn’t going to give him everything all at once either.

That’s how I met Martín. Clara, a friend from a course I had signed up for to clear my head, introduced us. Clara was brazen and radiant, one of those women who walks into a room and seems to already know everyone. Her partner, Darío, was quieter, but they had a small house where we almost always ended up gathering on weekends.

Martín had been their friend for years. He was thirty-two, with an awkward smile and a way of looking at me that initially made me feel tender toward him. He wasn’t the boldest man in the world, but I liked that mixture of nerves and eagerness. I was twenty-seven, no longer interested in playing the innocent, and even so, I enjoyed watching him weigh every word when he spoke to me.

The first night we kissed was in his car, after dinner with the group. He touched me carefully, as if he expected me to give him permission for every inch. In the end, I was the one who unzipped him and gave him a slow blowjob, looking up at him from below so he would understand that with me, things could be straightforward. He came with a low moan, almost surprised, and when I swallowed his cum he fell silent.

“Don’t make that face,” I told him, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb. “You didn’t exactly discover America.”

He laughed nervously and kissed me hungrily. Our relationship began that night, although we didn’t have a comfortable place to be alone. Sometimes we ended up on dark roads, other times in the back seat of the car, always in the rush of people hiding even though they had nothing to hide. Clara, who was anything but discreet, didn’t take long to figure it out.

“Whenever you want a bed, ask for the key and that’s it,” she said to us one Saturday, in front of Darío, as if she were offering us sugar for our coffee. “Don’t play saints.”

I was embarrassed, but I loved it too. Clara had a way of normalizing everything that took the weight off your shoulders. Martín turned red to the tips of his ears and said it wasn’t necessary, but two weeks later, on Valentine’s Day, he was the one who asked me during dinner if I wanted to go to their house.

That night I was wearing a tight, simple black dress, with no bra underneath because the fabric gave me just enough support. I had on a red thong more for fun than tradition, and from the aperitif onward I noticed Martín was distracted, staring at my mouth, my cleavage, my legs beneath the table. I liked seeing him that way, restrained, swallowing his desire.

After dinner he called Darío to ask if we could come over. I heard Clara’s laughter on the other end of the phone.

“Come on over, lovebirds,” she said loudly enough for me to hear from my seat. “Finish the night properly.”

When we arrived, Darío opened the door with tousled hair and an overly obvious smile. Clara was on the sofa, covered from the waist down with a blanket, and she didn’t get up to greet me. I bent down to kiss her cheeks twice, and she patted my ass over the dress.

“You look gorgeous,” she whispered in my ear. “Behave badly, but leave the bed where you found it.”

I laughed, though I felt heat in my face. Martín took my hand and we went to the guest bedroom. As soon as he closed the door, we stood there silently for a few seconds, listening to our breathing and the murmur of the television in the living room. Then he gently pushed me against the wall and kissed me with a decisiveness I hadn’t known he possessed.

His hands went straight to my hips. He pressed me against him, and I felt his hard erection beneath his pants. I unbuttoned his shirt one button at a time, unhurriedly, enjoying the way his chest began to rise and fall faster. He pulled my dress up to my waist and slipped a hand behind me, grabbing my ass hard.

“I’ve wanted to do this all through dinner,” he murmured.

“Then do it right.”

He kissed my neck, lowered himself to my breasts, and pulled the fabric of my dress down until my tits were exposed. He sucked one nipple while using his other hand to move my thong aside and rub my pussy, first over the top, then slowly sliding in two fingers. I was already wet. Not because he was an expert, but because his clumsiness, mixed with his eagerness, turned me on more than I wanted to admit.

I led him to the bed and pushed him down to sit. I knelt between his legs, opened his pants, and pulled out his cock, hard and hot. I ran my tongue from his balls to the tip, slowly, listening to the air escape him. Then I took him into my mouth, first halfway, then deeper, setting the pace with my hand.

Martín stroked my hair without forcing me, but his fingers were trembling. I sucked eagerly, moving up and down, tightening my lips, savoring that mixture of clean skin and desire. When I felt him getting too tense, I pulled away.

“Not yet,” I told him. “Tonight I want more.”

He laid me on my back and pulled off my thong with such awkward haste that I almost laughed. Then he moved between my legs and began eating my pussy. At first he was too gentle, so I grabbed his head and pulled him closer.

“Like that, with some hunger,” I told him. “I’m not going to break.”

He obeyed. He spread me open with his fingers and ran his tongue over my clitoris, slowly at first, then faster, learning from my moans. When he slid two fingers inside me and curled them, I felt the first surge of pleasure rising from my pelvis. I closed my thighs around his face and came in his mouth, biting my hand so I wouldn’t scream too loudly.

He rose to kiss me, and I tasted my own flavor on his tongue. I liked it. I liked it so much that I wrapped my legs around him and guided him toward me.

“Fuck me already.”

He entered my pussy with a slow thrust, all the way in. He wasn’t huge, and that was an advantage for me: I could move without fear, squeeze him, ask for more. Martín began carefully, but I dug my nails into his back and lifted my hips.

“Harder, Martín.”

That was when he let go. He fucked me with an increasingly firm rhythm, holding me by the thighs, watching his cock slide in and out of my wet pussy. The sound of our bodies filled the room. I moaned against his mouth, feeling the mattress creak, thinking that Clara and Darío could surely hear us and that, far from embarrassing me, it turned me on even more.

I changed positions and climbed on top. I lowered myself onto him slowly, bracing my hands on his chest. Martín watched my tits move with every rise and fall, and his hands returned to my ass, as always. He grabbed it, spread it a little, and ran his thumbs near my asshole without daring to go further.

I knew what he wanted. I had been noticing it for weeks in his touches, his comments, the way he stayed pressed against my ass whenever I turned my back to him. But he didn’t ask for it. Martín could fuck my pussy, come in my mouth, lick me until I was trembling, and still he would go quiet when his desire turned toward my ass.

I leaned over him, let him kiss my breasts, and moved my hips more slowly, squeezing him inside me.

“You’re thinking about something,” I told him.

“No.”

“Liar.”

His fingers dug into my buttocks. I lifted myself, letting his cock slide out of my pussy, shining with my wetness, and got down on my knees on the bed with my back to him. I arched my waist and spread my legs wide.

“If you want my ass, ask for it.”

He froze. I felt him behind me, breathing hard, one hand on my waist and the other stroking my crack.

“I want to fuck your ass,” he finally said, almost in a whisper. “I want to feel you like this.”

I shuddered. It wasn’t my first time doing anal, but it was my first time with him, and that had its own appeal. I liked that he believed he was entering a more intimate part of me, something I hadn’t given him from the beginning. I searched my bag for some cocoa balm, scooped out a little with my fingers, and slowly spread it over my anus without turning it into a ceremony. Then I brought my hand to his cock and left it nicely slick.

“Go slowly at first,” I told him. “Then I’ll tell you.”

He pressed the tip against my asshole. I felt the pressure, that familiar burn that always made me hold my breath for the first few seconds. He pushed little by little, opening me, and I buried my face in the pillow while my body adjusted. The head went in, then a little more, and when I finally had him halfway inside me, I let out a long moan.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Keep going.”

He finished sliding it inside me carefully, until he was pressed against my ass. The sensation was different from my pussy: more intense, tighter, dirtier in the best sense. Martín remained still, trembling, as if he couldn’t believe it. I pushed my hips backward to tease him.

“Now fuck me.”

He began slowly, sliding his cock in and out with short movements. Every thrust pulled a gasp from me. I felt my anus stretch around him, close as he withdrew, then open again when he pushed. He held my hips and murmured my name as if he were losing his mind.

“You feel so good,” I told him, looking over my shoulder. “Like that, don’t stop.”

That turned him on. He quickened his pace. His thighs slapped against mine, his fingers squeezed my flesh, and I pushed myself backward to take him deeper. With one hand I reached down to touch my clitoris, rubbing it while he fucked my ass. The pleasure grew denser, darker, a pressure rising from inside me and leaving me unable to form complete sentences.

“Tell me you like it,” he asked.

“I love it. I love you taking me in the ass.”

Martín moaned, and this time he didn’t try to hold himself back. He drove into me harder, no longer afraid, with thrusts that moved me across the bed. I touched myself faster, using my own wetness, listening to the raw sound of his cock entering and leaving my anus. I came again, my face against the pillow, my entire body tightening around him.

I felt that push him to the edge. His rhythm became disordered, urgent. He leaned over my back, kissed my shoulder, and kept fucking me with short, deep thrusts.

“I’m going to come,” he said in a broken voice.

“Come inside me. Fill me up.”

He did, with a muffled moan, burying himself to the hilt. I felt his cock pulsing inside my ass and the heat of his cum filling me. He remained pressed against me, breathing against my neck, still buried in my anus while his hands caressed my breasts and belly. We said nothing for a few seconds. We didn’t need to.

When he pulled out, he did it slowly. I kept one hand underneath by instinct, laughing softly because I didn’t want to stain Clara’s bedspread. Some semen inevitably slipped out, and Martín got nervous, searching for tissues as if he had committed a crime.

“Relax,” I told him. “It cleans up, that’s all.”

We kissed naked and sweaty, with that strange intimacy that appears after doing something both people wanted but neither had dared to say aloud. He asked me whether I had really enjoyed it. I took his face in my hands.

“Very much. But next time, don’t take so long to ask for it.”

He laughed against my mouth. I put my dress on without underwear to go to the bathroom, clean myself properly, and retrieve my thong. When I opened the bedroom door, Clara was in the hallway with a smile she couldn’t possibly hide.

“Everything all right, responsible adults?” she asked.

“Perfect,” I replied, walking past her.

“It showed.”

It made me laugh so hard I had to cover my mouth. In the bathroom, while I washed myself, I looked in the mirror and saw my tousled hair, swollen lips, and flushed skin. I didn’t feel guilty. I felt hungry for more.

When we came out, Darío offered us water, and Clara raised her glass as if she were toasting us. Martín was quieter than usual, but he took my hand beneath the table. I felt his thumb stroking my knuckles and knew that night I had opened a door for him.

In the car, before dropping me off at home, he asked me for the red thong as a keepsake. I looked at him sideways, pretending to be offended.

“A souvenir from dinner or from what you did afterward?”

“Both.”

I laughed, took it off right there, and left it in his hand. Ever since then, whenever Valentine’s Day approaches, Martín looks at me with that same expression of nervous desire. And I, who no longer have patience for men who don’t dare, simply tell him the same thing I told him that night: if you want it, ask for it.