My First Time Was with My Best Friend’s Father

What I’m going to tell you is true, and I never told anyone, not even the friends I share almost everything with. My name is Carla, I’m thirty-six years old, and I recently became a mother. I live an ordinary, everyday life, but deep down I never quite felt ordinary, and not long ago I understood that I needed to put it into words in order to finally feel heard.

I was nineteen when it happened. It was the wedding of one of my best friends, at a country estate outside the city, the kind with a dirt courtyard and trees hung with lights. It was being celebrated big, with music blasting from the speakers, wine that never seemed to run out, and the chaotic joy of an entire family that had spent weeks waiting for that night.

Until then I had had boyfriends who held my hand and kissed me with just the faintest hint of heat, but nothing more. I was a virgin, and I was one without guilt or urgency, simply because no one had shown up yet who made me want to stop being one.

That night, while everyone else danced and laughed seated in the chairs around the courtyard, I kept wandering back and forth, pretending to be distracted. The alcohol loosened everyone up and, every so often, someone would get up under some excuse and disappear into the dark corners of the house. I saw couples pressed up against the walls, a girl on her knees in the shadows sucking some guy’s cock while he held onto a doorframe, and I also saw more than one stranger taking advantage of some woman who was too drunk to notice. I watched all of it with a mixture of shame and curiosity I didn’t dare confess, and I felt a heat between my legs I didn’t dare name.

What did surprise me was the attention of an older man. He was my friend’s father, a widower of almost fifty, who never missed a chance to talk to me or compliment me. He was never rude. His daughter was always nearby and he took care not to overstep, but there was something in the way he looked at me that made me nervous in a way I couldn’t put into words. That night I learned, amid the uncles’ laughter, that in his youth he’d had a reputation in town as a womanizer. I laughed along with everyone else, but the information stuck to me.

I was a city girl, fully developed, with wide hips that my narrow waist made look even more generous. My breasts filled out my bra in a way no dress ever quite managed to hide. I’d learned that through street compliments and greetings from men who would come up with any excuse to gauge whether I was easy or worth the effort. At nineteen I still didn’t fully understand the effect I had on people, but I was starting to suspect it.

***

By three in the morning, the party had become something else. Most people had left and the ones who remained were drunk or half-asleep on the couches. The music was still playing, but nobody was dancing anymore. My friend, pretty far gone, had gone off long before to make the bed where we were supposedly going to sleep together. When she didn’t come back, I got up to look for her.

It was her father who came up to me. Don Esteban told me that his daughter had already fallen asleep and that they’d prepared the room at the back of the yard for me, one with its own bathroom that they used to store boxes in but that had a bed ready. I was frightened by the hour and by the idea of staying alone so far from the house, with the risk of some drunk stumbling around yelling. He noticed.

—I’ll walk you there, I don’t want you to get lost —he said, and offered me his arm.

The side path had no light. We walked in the dark and I held onto his arm harder than necessary, because the truth was the wine had gotten to me too and my legs were clumsy. I felt strangely safe. His arm was firm, his voice calm, and for the first time that night I stopped being afraid.

The room was at the back of the property. When we got there, I asked him to stay a moment, until I settled in, because the idea of hearing the door close and being left alone gave me the shivers. He came in, left the door ajar, and sat on the edge of the bed, at a proper distance.

—Is this better? —he asked.

—This is better —I said, and sat down beside him.

I’m not sure who started it. I know that at some point his hand was on mine and I didn’t pull away. I know that he leaned in slowly, giving me all the time in the world to move back, and that I didn’t move back. The first kiss was slow, almost a question. The second no longer asked anything. His tongue slipped between my lips and found mine, and I felt my whole body suddenly go loose.

This shouldn’t be happening, I thought, and kept kissing him anyway.

—If you want me to stop, I’ll say it and stop —he murmured against my neck—. One word and I’ll go.

—I don’t want you to stop —I answered, and my own voice startled me.

***

He laid me back on the bed with a calm I’d never known in boys my age. He wasn’t in a hurry, he wasn’t awkward. He knew exactly where to put his hands and, worse for my composure, he knew exactly when not to. He opened my blouse button by button without taking his eyes off me, and when my breasts appeared, tight inside the bra, he let out his breath slowly, as if it had taken effort not to lose control.

—Look what you’ve got in here —he said, running his thumb over the fabric—. This is enough to drive anyone crazy.

He pulled my bra down and licked my nipples one by one, long strokes, tugging them with his teeth just enough to make a gasp escape me. They were hard, swollen, throbbing. He traced his tongue around the areola, bit them lightly, and with his other hand he was already unbuttoning my pants. He slid them down slowly to my ankles while looking into my eyes, waiting for a refusal that never came. My panties, white and tiny, were soaked, and he noticed as soon as his fingers brushed them.

—You’re all wet —he murmured—. I haven’t even really touched you yet.

He slipped two fingers under the fabric and stroked my pussy, up and down, feeling how I took him in. He brought them to his mouth and sucked them in front of me, never taking his eyes off me, and I had to bite my lip not to moan too loudly. No one had ever looked at me like that, as if I were something to eat.

He gently turned me until I was on my knees on the floor, with my chest against the mattress and my ass raised toward him. He yanked my soaked panties off my legs and threw them on the floor. He spread my cheeks with both hands and I felt his mouth where no one had ever touched me before. His tongue, hot and precise, entered my cunt at once and tore a moan from me I couldn’t hold back. I clutched the sheet and buried my face in it so no one would hear, even though there was no one nearby who could.

—That’s it, easy —he said in that rough, grown-man voice—. Let yourself go, there’s no rush.

He set about eating me out with no shame whatsoever. He licked me from bottom to top, tongue long, paused on my clit and sucked it until I arched my ass looking for him, and then went back down and pushed his tongue inside me as far as he could. Then he went higher, found my other hole with the tip of his tongue and tasted that too, first to my fear and then to a trembling I couldn’t explain. I had never imagined something like that could give me pleasure. He was doing things to me I didn’t even know existed.

I had never fucked anyone, but I had touched myself alone and knew the pleasure of coming by my own hand. This was different. This was knowing, for the first time, the kind of desire a body like mine could awaken in someone, and discovering that desire returned the favor, multiplied. He alternated: he sucked my clit until I was on the edge and then eased off, made me wait, forced me to want it with a patience that was almost cruel. I asked him not to stop, I asked him in a low voice, almost begging, and he laughed against my pussy and kept playing with me as if he had the whole night.

He turned me over and sat me on the edge of the bed. He unbuckled his belt, pulled down his pants and his underwear, and there it was, hard, thick, bigger than anything I’d ever seen in the few pictures I’d secretly spied on. He took it in his hand and brought it to my face.

—Taste it —he said—. Slowly, however you want.

I had never sucked a cock in my life. I stuck out my tongue and barely touched it, first the tip, and tasted the salty flavor of the fluid already leaking from it. I opened my lips and took some of it in, and he put a hand on the back of my neck without pushing, just guiding me, teaching me. I learned in five minutes what others learn in years. I licked the head in circles with my tongue, took more of it into my mouth until it gagged me, pulled it out with a thread of spit and licked the full length from bottom to top. He was moaning softly, moving my hair out of my face to see me better, and telling me things that made my thighs tighten.

—That’s it, baby, that’s it… look how good my cock looks in your mouth.

When he was about to come, he stopped. He pulled me up and spoke into my ear.

—I’m going to be your first —he said—. But only if you want me to.

I was breathing in short bursts, dizzy from wine and pleasure, confused and turned on in equal measure. I thought of my friend asleep on the other side of the courtyard, thought of everything wrong about that sentence, and still heard myself answer.

—Promise me nobody will ever know.

—Nobody —he said—. Just the two of us.

—Then do it.

***

He lifted me in his arms and carried me to the bed. We kissed for a long time, without haste, and he arranged me face down, with a pillow under my hip to raise my ass. He didn’t put his cock in my cunt, as I had imagined a thousand times my first time would be. He chose another path, slower, more careful. He spat between my cheeks and spread the saliva with his fingers, stroked my hole with his thumb, pressing lightly until it began to give. I tensed and he stopped.

—Easy, breathe with me —he said—. It won’t hurt if you relax.

He put one finger in first, halfway, and moved it in circles. Then the whole finger. Then two, with more spit, slower, until I stopped resisting and started moving on my own against his hand. Only then did he settle behind me, place the tip of his cock at my ass, and push just a little.

At the first attempt I tightened. At the second a groan escaped me and he pulled back, spat again, pushed once more. On the third he was all the way inside me and I cried for a while, not from pure pain but from a mixture I couldn’t decipher, with a grown man’s cock buried in a place I had never even touched myself, while he stayed still, waiting, one firm hand on my hip and the other caressing my back.

—Breathe —he said—. When you’re ready, let me know.

And when I let him know, he started moving slowly, and what hurt stopped hurting. He came almost all the way out and went back in to the hilt, and with each thrust I felt my body opening a little more, learning to take him. He slipped one hand underneath and found my clit with two fingers, started rubbing it at the same rhythm as he fucked my ass, and I buried my face in the pillow because I couldn’t bear what I was feeling. It was too much everywhere at once.

He moved over my back, over my ass, and whispered in my ear things no one had ever said to me, dirty things that in any other moment would have embarrassed me and that that dawn lit me up like dry wood.

—What a ass you’ve got, baby, what an ass… look how you’re swallowing me whole.

—Harder —I begged, and didn’t recognize my own voice.

—You want harder? Say it right.

—Fuck me harder.

And he gave it to me. He grabbed my hips with both hands and started driving into me to the hilt with dry thrusts, slamming his balls against my pussy and pulling a moan from me with every удар. The bed creaked, the pillow was soaked with spit and tears, and I begged for more. I begged him to keep talking to me, not to stop, and I was surprised by the whore I was becoming in a matter of minutes.

—So many men would give anything to be where I am right now —he told me, his voice broken by the effort—. Someday you’re going to remember who taught you this. Who fucked your ass first.

And he was right, because here I am, remembering it. He ran a hand down my back, took my hair gently in his fist, and made me lift my head so he could see my face while he kept fucking me. His fingers didn’t leave my clit, circling fast, precise, until I began to tremble in a new way. I came in a way I hadn’t known was possible, a finish that was born not where I thought such things were born, but from that forbidden place, with my ass full of cock and his fingers stuck to my clit. I exploded once, twice, three times in a row, screaming into the pillow, squeezing him from the inside with a strength I didn’t know I had, and that was what made him come too, plunging all the way in, gripping my hips hard, emptying himself inside me in hot spurts while he said my name like it was a secret word.

He stayed still for a long while on top of me, cock still inside, breathing against the nape of my neck. Then he withdrew slowly and I felt the semen trickling between my cheeks and down my thighs, warm, thick. He cleaned me with a towel, unhurriedly, kissing my back as he did it, as if that too were part of teaching me something.

***

He stayed with me the rest of the night. He held me, took care of me, and at some point before dawn he woke me with his mouth between my legs and made me come again, slower, with just his tongue, while I was still half asleep and didn’t know whether it was a dream or the continuation of the same thing. After that he drove me back to the city in his car, before the whole house woke up. No one ever knew that something between us began that night. It lasted almost two years, in secret, in hourly hotels and stolen afternoons I never told anyone about.

I never lived it as abuse. I gave my consent in no uncertain terms, and I don’t regret it. It was tender, beautiful in its own way, and it taught me things about my own body that took years to feel again. I ended it myself, because the circumstances changed and because I understood, over time, that that relationship had nowhere to go. It wasn’t healthy to keep it going, and I knew that on my own, without anyone having to tell me.

Later, at university, I met a guy my own age and had a normal relationship, one of the kind people talk about out loud. But that night in the room at the back is still mine, and only mine, up to today, when I finally dared to tell it. The rest is another story.