My Secret with My Best Friend Behind a Car

This happened on a random Friday night, many years ago now, in Granada, right in the Realejo, when you could still drink out in the street without a care and the whole neighborhood was buzzing until the early hours.

I had a girlfriend then. Marina had a boyfriend. We’d been friends since our first year of college, the kind of friends who tell each other absolutely everything, except for the one thing neither of us ever dared to say out loud. There was always this strange tension between us: a hand lingering two seconds too long on a back, a hug lasting a little longer than it should, looks that crossed in the middle of a group conversation. We both ignored it. We both pretended nothing was happening.

That night wasn’t anything special either. Almost everyone was there: six or seven of the usual group, with bottles bought from the corner supermarket. Conversations overlapped, someone laughed too loudly, someone was making out with their partner against a wall. Same as every weekend.

And what happened every weekend was that, at some point, your bladder made itself known.

—I’m going to find a bathroom —I said—. I can’t hold it anymore.

—I’ll come with you —Marina replied without looking up from her glass—. I need to pee too.

We walked down a narrow alley looking for an open bar, but everything was packed. People crowded the doorways, glasses held high, shouting over the music. We went two more streets. Marina lost patience before I did.

—What bar, my ass? —she said—. Over there. I can’t hold it anymore. Between two cars or wherever.

And at that exact moment something inside me shifted. The alcohol, I told myself later, but I know it wasn’t just the alcohol. I’d been thinking about it for seven years. Seven years of looking away every time she leaned forward in a shirt that opened at the neckline. Seven years of swallowing the question every time she fell asleep on my shoulder on the way back from the cinema. Seven years imagining what her pussy would be like, what it would taste like, what she would sound like when she came. Seven years pretending.

And now she was telling me she was going to pull her pants down a meter from me, on an empty street, at two-something in the morning. Something in my head clicked.

—Marina —I said, half joking, half not—, if you take your pants down in front of me, I swear I’m going to get hard.

I expected an insult. I expected laughter and a “fuck you.” But she smiled. A small, crooked smile I’d never seen from her in all those years.

—You only say that because you know I won’t dare —she said.

—Prove me wrong —I said.

We walked one more street. A side street, empty, badly lit. There was a white car parked between an old van and a wall covered in graffiti. Marina looked one way, then the other, and finally locked eyes with me.

—Keep watch —she ordered—. And turn around.

I turned around. I heard the click of the button, the rustle of fabric sliding down her legs, her breathing. I heard the unmistakable sound. And I held on for a few seconds before glancing back, because it was inevitable.

I saw her crouched down, her jeans and black panties around her ankles, her pale ass shining under the only streetlamp still on halfway down the block. Her legs were spread, and between her thighs I could see the dark hair of her pubic mound and, lower still, the hot stream pouring out of her cunt in a hard spray, splashing the cobblestones. My cock went hard instantly, pressing against my fly. She caught me right away.

—You’re disgusting —she said, in a voice I’d never heard from her before. It wasn’t anger. It was low, complicit, almost amused.

—As if you didn’t know it —I replied, not moving.

She finished. She wiped herself with a tissue she pulled from her coat pocket, running it between the lips of her cunt with a slowness that was a full-on invitation. And then came the part I still struggle to understand, after all this time. She didn’t pull her pants up. She stayed there, half crouched, jeans and underwear at knee height, her pussy wet and exposed, and looked up at me from below.

—What? Did you want to look?

It took me a second to react. Just one. Then I stepped toward her.

—I didn’t want to look, Marina —I said, very quietly—. I told you I wanted to eat you out.

She froze. Her small smile widened a little. She looked at me without blinking. And before she could change her mind, I ran a hand along her arm, turned her against the car’s hood, and pressed her cheek to the cold metal.

—Wait —she said, almost voiceless—. Wait, for God’s sake, someone might see us.

—Then hurry up —I answered.

I lifted her shirt up to her shoulders. I yanked off her bra and left her tits hanging against the metal, her nipples hard from the cold and from what was happening. I ran my hands over her waist, her hips, her ass, slowly, as if I’d spent years memorizing every centimeter and had finally been given permission to touch. I spread her cheeks with both hands and ran my thumb along her slit, brushing her hole, then down to her soaked cunt. She was already wet. Dripping. When I shoved two fingers inside her at once, she arched her back against the hood and moaned so loudly I had to laugh under my breath.

—Shh —I told her, sliding my fingers in and out slowly—. You were the one saying they might see us.

—Shut up and keep going —she panted, clutching my hand between her thighs.

Her skin prickled from the nape of her neck all the way down her back; I could see it, even though there was barely any light. I felt her breathing speed up every time my palm paused in a new spot, as if I were showing her a map she’d never allowed herself to look at. I twisted one nipple with my free hand and she shoved her ass back against me, begging for more.

And I knelt down.

The smell hit me in the face first: hot, salty, thick, exactly as I’d imagined it for years. I spread her cheeks again and ran my tongue all the way up her cunt, slow and long, licking up every drop of her juice. She tasted like sweat and woman. Marina let out a muffled moan against the hood and spread her legs as far as the jeans around her knees would allow. I burrowed my tongue between her lips, pushed in as deep as I could, pulled back out, and hunted for her clit with the tip.

It was swollen, hard, throbbing. I sucked it slowly, trapping it between my lips, tugging at it with my mouth, and she started shaking. I shoved two fingers into her cunt while I kept eating her out, searching for that spot inside, pressing upward, and I could feel everything around my knuckles clench.

—Stop —she whispered—. No, don’t stop. Don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop.

I don’t need to go into every single movement. I’ll just say that during the next few minutes I didn’t think about anything. Not my girlfriend, not her boyfriend, not the group waiting for us three streets away, not the fact that we were in the middle of an alley at half past two in the morning. I only thought about her taste, about the way her knees bent, about how she tried to tell me to stop in a voice that meant exactly the opposite.

Every “stop” sounded more like “keep going.” Every “they’re going to see us” sounded more like “don’t you dare take your mouth away from there.”

And I didn’t. I sucked her clit faster, slipped in a third finger, slid my other hand underneath and pressed her hole with my wet thumb, and that was it for her.

I could tell she was close by how her thighs tensed against my face. I kept the rhythm up. I dug my fingers into her hips so she couldn’t get away. And she came right there, against the car, against my mouth, biting the back of her hand to keep from making noise, spilling a gush of hot fluid that soaked my beard and chin. Two, three more spasms followed, her cunt throbbing against my tongue, squeezing my fingers like a fist. I still remember the taste. I still remember the trembling.

When I stood up, she was still with her face pressed to the hood, breathing like she’d run a kilometer. Her ass was still pointed toward me, her pussy open, shining with spit and her own juices. She took a while to turn around. When she did, she looked at me with a new expression, something between reproach and astonishment. Her hair was stuck to her temple with sweat and her eyes were shining in a way I’d never seen before, not even the night of her birthday when we drank too much and almost kissed in the elevator.

—You’re an asshole —she said—. You’re a filthy asshole.

And she kissed me.

She kissed me with all her own taste on my beard, not caring at all, biting my lower lip, grabbing the back of my neck with one hand and tugging my zipper down with the other. She slipped her fingers inside my boxer briefs and grabbed my cock directly, with no preamble. She squeezed me, yanked it out, and started jerking me off right there, looking me in the eyes, her thumb sliding over my glans. She could tell I was hard, of course. The tip was wet. I’d been hard since I heard the click of her jeans’ button.

—Look at it —she whispered against my mouth—. Look at how hard you are because of me.

—I’ve been like this for you for seven years —I whispered back in her ear.

And then she crouched down.

—Now it’s my turn —she said.

She didn’t mess around. She didn’t look around to see if anyone was coming. She licked her lips, grabbed my cock at the base, and took it into her mouth like she’d been waiting for that moment for days. She swallowed it whole in one go, all the way to the throat, and I felt it bump the back of her mouth. She gagged for a second, tears filling her eyes, but she didn’t pull back. She retreated slowly, leaving a trail of saliva hanging from my glans, and went down again. And again. And again.

And maybe she’d been waiting for years, just like me. I looked down at her, trying not to miss a single detail: her hair, her hands on my thighs, her mouth moving up and down with a confidence I’d never seen in her before. She pulled my cock all the way out to suck my balls, took them into her mouth one by one, licked me from base to tip with her tongue flat, then swallowed me whole again. She was touching herself between her legs while she sucked me off. I saw her hand under her jeans at knee height, fingers moving fast, and that was what finally did it for me.

I brushed a strand of hair out of her eye. I stroked her cheek, feeling the bulge of my cock against her skin from the outside. I grabbed her neck with both hands and started moving, fucking her mouth slowly at first, then harder, and she didn’t even try to stop me. Quite the opposite. When she felt I couldn’t hold on, she grabbed my hips and pulled me toward her, taking me to the base, pressing my nose into the hair at her mound.

And I came without warning. I didn’t have time. She didn’t ask for it either. I shot the first load straight into her throat, and she swallowed it without blinking. She pulled back a little so the second hit her tongue, mouth open, looking up at me while she swallowed that too. The third and fourth were just spasms by then, and she took them, sucking on the tip, milking out the last drop.

She kept sucking through the last tremor, staring into my eyes as if she wanted me to remember that look for the rest of my life. I did: I haven’t forgotten it. When she was sure nothing else was coming, she pulled her face away and, without standing up, let the rest fall to the ground. Right where she’d peed a little while earlier. Whether she did it on purpose or not, I still haven’t asked her.

She stood up. She pulled her panties and jeans back on with a calm that made no sense, like she was returning from the bathroom instead of from the first time. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, licked her finger, and smiled. I got dressed again, my cock still sensitive under the fabric. We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, both of us breathing hard, both of us knowing there was no going back from that.

—This is going to have to be our secret —she said at last, still hoarse—. Just in case we want to do it again.

—Are we going to do it again? —I asked.

—That depends on you —she replied—. I’ve already done my part.

***

When we got back to the group, almost thirty minutes later, we already had our excuse ready: the bars were packed, we had to go to a specific one Marina knew, even farther away. My girlfriend didn’t even bother asking. Marina’s boyfriend was too drunk to remember us. We went back to our conversations, our partners, our parallel lives.

Nobody suspected a thing. Nobody knows anything still.

But that early morning, when I took my clothes off before getting into bed, I ran my hand over my beard and she was still there.

We did it again. More times than I’m going to count here. For months. Until each of us ended up leaving our partners for reasons that had nothing to do with this and, even so, we still didn’t end up together. We went from that years-long tension to a strange intimacy, to a new bond that didn’t fit into any known category. Now we hardly ever see each other. We each have our own life.

But sometimes, when I pass a white car parked on a narrow street, I’m back there in an instant. And I still remember the taste.