The Confession I Never Told Anyone About Camila

That night I knew exactly what I wanted. I showered twice, shaved carefully, and made sure every inch of my body was ready for her. Camila was the only person I knew who could turn a blowjob into an art form. She wasn’t the prettiest, nor the most experienced, nor the best educated. But she had something no one else had: that impossible smile that never left her face, not even with a cock shoved all the way down her throat.

She arrived after eleven, with a backpack over one shoulder and her hair tied back in a high ponytail. Saying almost nothing, she kissed me briefly on the cheek and locked herself in the bathroom. I waited in the bedroom, with the lights low and a whisky in my hand, trying not to think too hard about what was about to happen.

She came out twenty minutes later in a flawless white blazer, with nothing underneath. The neckline opened down to her sternum and gave a glimpse of the beginning of a pair of small, perky breasts. The hem barely covered half her thigh. On her lips, a bright red pacifier she’d pulled from some corner of her backpack.

“A pacifier?” I asked.

“To get warmed up,” she replied, and rolled it around with her tongue in a way that made me tighten my fingers around the glass.

Camila had just turned twenty-three. She was tall, with long, slender legs and the defined muscle of someone who runs every morning at dawn. Her hair, light brown with copper highlights, fell to her shoulders when she wore it loose. But what really mattered wasn’t her body, but what went on inside her head. She’d learned early on that men liked watching her enjoy herself, and she had decided, in her own way, to enjoy herself for real.

I watched her for a moment as she came closer, barefoot, moving with that confidence not all women have.

“Come here,” I said.

She took the pacifier out of her mouth and set it on the nightstand. With two fingers she undid the one button holding the blazer closed and let it fall to the floor. Beneath it was all of her, with her nipples hard and a patch of pubic hair shaped into a fanciful zigzag. Camila liked to play with her hair. The week before, she’d worn it shaped like an arrow, pointing downward, toward the only thing that mattered.

I gently pushed her by the shoulders so she would kneel. She dropped down without resistance, as if she’d been waiting for that moment all night, and lifted her face toward me with that smile that never abandoned her. Before I’d even brushed my cock against her lips, she was already smiling. That was the best part.

I ran the head of my cock over her cheeks first, then her chin, the tip of her nose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, sniffing eagerly, as if she wanted to keep my scent on her skin all through the next day. I rubbed my balls across her forehead, the roots of her hair, her closed eyelids. Camila let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

“Open,” I said.

She opened her mouth and didn’t close it again.

My cock didn’t fit all the way in—never did—but she always tried with the same devotion. She advanced centimeter by centimeter, pulled back, advanced again. Sometimes she gagged and tears blurred her mascara, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even stop to breathe unless I allowed it. And every time she came up for air, she smiled. She smiled with saliva hanging from her chin and her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.

I placed my hands on either side of her head and started setting the pace myself. Gentle at first, then deeper. Each thrust made a wet sound against her lips. My balls hit her chin with every push, and Camila, instead of pulling back, pushed her face forward, asking for more. Her teeth brushed me sometimes, but that was part of the game. She’d never hurt me.

“Up,” I said.

She stood with a gymnast’s movement and I turned her around to look at her back. I told her to get on all fours on the edge of the bed, facing the headboard and with her ass toward me. Camila obeyed without asking. That was another thing I liked about her. When she went into that sort of trance, she didn’t talk. She only did.

I looked at her ass from behind. She had two small but well-shaped cheeks, firm, with dimples at the sides. Between them, the tight little hole; lower down, the pink, shiny vulva, swollen. I leaned in and ran my balls along the crack of her ass, without penetrating her. Camila let out a moan so long and so clear I had to pull back for a moment so I wouldn’t finish right there.

***

I turned her around again and made her kneel once more. I told her to cross her arms behind her back, imaginatively tied, and keep her mouth open. I was going to do something she and I had talked about many times, but had never quite done all the way.

I sat on the edge of the bed and told her to come closer.

“Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve,” I said.

Camila raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t smiling anymore. She was smiling even more.

I spread my legs and leaned back a little, resting on my elbows. She understood at once. She lowered her face to my groin, ran her tongue over my balls, and kept going lower, to the place no one had ever reached before her. The first time she licked me there, six months earlier, I had to stop myself from pulling away by reflex. The second time, I had to stop myself from coming on the spot. The third, I asked her not to stop.

That night she didn’t stop.

Camila had a strange skill with her tongue. She moved the tip in small circles, then worked her way with her thumb, then went back to her tongue. She did it slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, and every so often, when she lifted her head to catch her breath, she looked up at me from below with that smile that seemed to ask permission and demand it at the same time.

I grabbed her hair with my right hand and started jerking myself off with my left, slowly. I could feel her breathing against my groin, her hot breath on my wet skin. I felt myself starting to boil inside. I didn’t want it to end like this, not yet.

“Come here, come here,” I said, and pulled her up by the hair.

I set her in front of me again, with her mouth open and her eyes shining. I put my cock between her lips one last time, gave her three, four, five hard thrusts, and when I felt I couldn’t hold back any longer I pulled out and emptied myself onto her tongue. Stream after stream. Camila didn’t even close her mouth. She took it all inside, looking up at me, swallowing nothing, saying nothing, moving not at all. Just smiling.

When I finished, she stayed there a few more seconds, with her mouth cavity full of semen mixed with saliva. Then she did something I hadn’t expected. She spat a little into the palm of her hand, looked at me, laughed, and slapped her open hand against her left cheek. She smeared the white liquid all over her cheekbone, her temple, her jaw, laughing with her head thrown back and her nipples bobbing up and down with each burst of laughter.

“You’re insane,” I said.

“You already knew that.”

A drop slid from her chin to her navel and stayed there, like the bottom of a glass. Camila looked down, saw it, and laughed again.

She always laughed. That was her trademark. She could do any filthy thing, any savage thing, anything that made other women blush or feel disgusted, and never lose that smile that lit up her whole face. Once, in a threesome with a friend of hers, she spat the other girl’s semen in her face when they were done. The friend found it absolutely no joke. Camila spent ten minutes laughing to herself in the bathroom while the other girl tried to clean herself with a towel.

She was a little crazy, yes. Maybe more than a little. But it was that calm kind of madness, the kind people have when they’ve decided not to take anything too seriously, starting with themselves. And when I had her in front of me, kneeling, her face covered in my own cum and her eyes shining with pure amusement, I didn’t take anything seriously either. And that, at my age and with all the serious things waiting for me outside that room, was the closest thing to heaven I could imagine.

Camila stood up, went to the bathroom, washed her face while never stopping her little hum. When she came back to the bed she curled up against my chest like a little girl and asked me to bring her water. I gave her a glass, she drank it all in one swallow, handed it back to me, and fell asleep on top of me, her face resting on my clavicle and her mouth half open.

I stayed awake for a while, watching her. I brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead and thought I was never going to tell anyone this. Never. This is the first time I’ve done it, and it’s because I know that if anyone ever reads it, it won’t be her.

She’s in another city now, sleeping on God knows whose clavicle. But I’m sure of one thing. Wherever she is, whoever she’s with, she’s smiling. She always smiles. That was Camila. That still is Camila.