The Confession It Took Me Ten Years to Make to Her

Lucía is five foot five. She has black, slightly curly hair, almost always tied up in a low bun or a ponytail at shoulder height. She wears black-framed glasses and dresses in plain jeans, loose blouses, and sneakers. She doesn’t talk much, doesn’t make jokes, almost never laughs out loud. She’s not the kind of woman who draws attention.

That’s what hooked me.

No matter how much I looked at her, I couldn’t form a clear idea of who she really was. And that impossibility drove me crazier than almost anything in life. I imagined her cunt without ever having seen it. I imagined her tits under those loose blouses. I imagined how that narrow, closed mouth would suck a cock. And the more she kept herself hidden, the harder I got just watching her serve a coffee.

Lucía is thirty-six and owns the bar in the town square where I spend my summers, ever since I was a kid. She runs it with her brother and her mother, but the one who’s there from the moment it opens until it closes is her. My parents used to go down there for breakfast every Sunday, and I grew up seeing her behind the counter, first helping her mother pour the beers, and later as the owner.

I didn’t notice anything until I was twenty-five. She was just Lucía, the girl from the bar.

I don’t know exactly when things changed. One ordinary afternoon, while she was serving me a coffee, I realized she’d been looking at me for a while. It wasn’t just any look. It was a look that stayed. I held it for a few seconds and she dropped her eyes to the glass. I walked out of there with a half-hard cock and a strange feeling in my chest.

From that day on I started seeking her out. I went to the bar more often, for no particular reason, for a coffee or to read the paper. And she returned my looks. Not always. Sometimes she pretended not to see me; sometimes she lingered with another customer longer than necessary. But every fourth or fifth time, when she thought I didn’t notice, she’d lift her gaze from the coffee machine and stare at me longer than you stare at an acquaintance. I’d get home and jerk off thinking about her, imagining her on her knees in front of me with her mouth open, or on all fours over the bar with her jeans pulled down to her knees.

And that’s how the years went by. Without another word, without a gesture that anyone other than the two of us could have understood.

Until last summer.

***

I’d spent years noticing little things that didn’t quite fit the image she gave off. How her ass moved under her jeans without any underwear lines showing. How she bent down to pick up a tray with a flexibility that didn’t belong to a reserved woman. How her hard nipples showed against the fabric when the bar fridge blew out cold air. How she held my gaze a second longer than she held it for just any customer. Details. Crumbs she left behind without realizing it, or realizing it all too well, and I gathered them up one by one.

What’s underneath all this? How does a woman like that fuck when she finally lets go?

That question stayed with me for many summers.

***

That summer was different. Lucía started dressing differently. Sleeveless shirts, flared jeans that were tight at the top, black thong sandals, her hair tied up so her neck showed. The glasses were still the same, but the rest was a new woman.

The first time I walked into the bar and saw her like that, my cock went hard instantly and I had to cross my hands in front of my pants so it wouldn’t show. I’ve always liked women in glasses. There’s something about that small detail that adds a layer I can’t explain, something teacherly that makes you think about slowly taking them off while you bury yourself in her to the hilt. And sandals are another thing that drives me insane. Lucía wore them with burgundy polish, chipped off on one nail, like she hadn’t had time to touch it up. I was already imagining those feet against my face, those toes between my lips.

I sat at the end of the bar, where I always did, the erection still pressing against my fly.

—What can I get you? —she asked.

Her voice was a little low, like she hadn’t spoken more than necessary in years.

—A shot of orujo.

When she brought it over, she reached for the glass at the same time I did. Our hands brushed. It wasn’t an accident. She was the one who left her hand there a second longer than needed. Without thinking, I extended my index finger and stroked her wrist with the pad of it. Slowly. Upward. I traced the vein, up to the crook of her elbow, and back down again.

Lucía bit her lower lip. I couldn’t see her eyes because she dropped them at once, but I heard her let out air in a way that was neither a sigh nor a word. Something in between. A breath cut in half. I saw her nipples harden under her white T-shirt, pressing against the fabric like two dark points.

—Thanks —she said, too quickly, and turned back toward the coffee machine. When she turned, I realized she was pressing her thighs together, as if something down there was demanding attention.

I went outside to smoke so the blood would leave my head and my cock. I stood there ten minutes against the opposite wall, staring at the bar tiles as if they had some secret written on them. When I went back in, she was behind the counter again, face serious, as if nothing had happened. But the flush was still there, right along the edge of her left ear, and her black bra was showing through a little more than before, as if she was hot.

I didn’t imagine it. That had just happened.

That night I didn’t sleep thinking about how her wrist had trembled under my finger. I jerked off three times in a row, each time imagining something different: the first with my face buried in her tits; the second with her on all fours and me shoving her face into the pillow while I fucked her from behind; the third, almost asleep already, with her on top of me, riding me slowly, glasses on and nipples pointing at me. I came all three times with my mouth open, making no sound, biting my arm so I wouldn’t wake the house.

***

It took me a week to gather the courage.

I picked a dead hour, one of those August afternoons when the town is deserted because everyone’s napping or down at the pool. I knew she’d be alone then.

I pushed the door open. There was nobody there.

Lucía was sitting on a stool behind the bar, reading a book she closed the moment she heard me come in. She didn’t smile, but something happened to her face, a small look of recognition, as if she knew what was about to happen.

—What can I get you? —she asked.

—An iced coffee.

She made the coffee. Left it on the bar. She didn’t go back to her place. She stayed on the other side, both hands resting on the wood, saying nothing.

I sat on the last stool, by the wall, where nobody outside could see us. She moved toward that end, slowly. Sat on the stool on the other side, facing me. The bar between us.

We looked at each other for a long time. I don’t know how many minutes. I could feel the heat coming off her body from across the counter and I’m sure she could feel mine. Her cheekbones were flushed. The white T-shirt showed the black bra underneath, and beneath the fabric her hard nipples stood out, pointed. She drew breath a couple of times like she was about to speak and didn’t. My cock was swollen, pressing against the seam of my pants, throbbing every time she breathed hard.

—Lucía —I said at last—. I’ve been wanting to tell you something for years.

She waited.

—I’m really attracted to you. And it’s not just the way you look on the outside. It’s what I can’t see. What I imagine is under all this. I’ve spent years imagining how you fuck. I needed to tell you, even if you throw me out of the bar forever.

I braced myself for anything. For her to stand up. For her to laugh. For her to ask for the bill and kick me out with a look of disgust.

What I didn’t expect was her answer.

—About time.

She said it softly, with a calm that took my breath away.

—I’ve been waiting ten years for you to dare —she added—. Every time you came in I thought it would be the day. And every time you left without saying anything I got a little angrier. You know how many times I’ve gone into the bar bathroom to finger myself thinking about you after you walked out that door?

I didn’t know what to say. I just stared at her, mouth half-open, and everything I’d built in my head for years came crashing down at once. All I could think about was her sitting on the toilet with her jeans pulled down and two fingers buried in her cunt, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream. My cock clenched against my clothes.

***

—So what now? —she asked.

She leaned her face toward mine. The bar was still in between, but our faces were only a handspan apart. I could feel her breath. She smelled of coffee and something citrusy, like hand cream.

—Now we rent a country house —I said—. Far away. Where nobody can hear us.

—For what?

—To wreck each other. For me to fuck you until you can’t walk. For you to suck my cock all the way down your throat. For you to scream so much you lose your voice.

Lucía smiled for the first time during the whole conversation. And in that smile there was something I’d never seen in her before. Something that confirmed what I’d suspected for years: that behind the quiet girl pouring beers there was a completely different woman. A dirty little slut who wanted to be used.

—I should warn you about one thing —she said, without pulling her face away—. I like being in control in bed. A lot. I’ve got things at home. Ropes, a crop, a harness with a dildo so I can tie myself up and fuck you in the ass. All kinds of toys. If you come with me, you accept that.

—You planning to dominate me?

—I’m planning to try. I’m planning to tie you to the bed and sit on your face until you choke on eating my cunt. I’m planning to make you come when I say, not before.

I held her gaze for as long as I could. My cock was pounding so hard I could feel it in my temples.

—I like to take charge too —I answered—. And so far no woman has managed to beat me. I’m going to put you on your knees and fill your mouth with semen until it runs out your nose.

—We’ll see about that.

—You’ll have to fight for it.

—Good. Makes me want to break you even more.

She took her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. She typed something for a couple of minutes, never taking her eyes off me between one sentence and the next. I stayed quiet, stirring the coffee I no longer planned to drink, with my cock leaking in my briefs.

—Booked —she said at last, turning the screen toward me.

A stone house in the middle of the countryside, forty minutes from town. No neighbors nearby. Three nights. Check-in Friday at noon.

—Can you make it work? —she asked.

—I can make it work.

She left the phone on the bar and then, finally, stretched her hand over the wood and took mine. Not gently. Hard. Squeezing my fingers until they hurt. Then she took my index finger, the same one I’d used to stroke her wrist the week before, and brought it to her mouth. She sucked it all the way to the knuckle, slowly, closing her lips around it, moving her tongue against the fingertip. She looked me in the eyes while she did it. She pulled the finger out slowly, with a wet pop, and smiled.

—So you can start getting an idea —she whispered.

I was going to lean in and kiss her when the doorbell rang.

***

A couple of tourists. They ordered two beers and sat in the back, none the wiser. Lucía let go of my hand unhurriedly, stood up from the stool, and said in a normal voice, as if nothing at all had happened:

—Write down my number.

I did.

—Yours.

I dictated it to her.

I paid for the coffee. I left without looking back, my cock still hard and pushing against my pants, the taste of my finger wet with her saliva. When I crossed the square, I smiled like an idiot all the way home.

I hadn’t even reached the house when my phone buzzed.

A photo. I had to zoom in to understand what I was seeing. It was her hand. The left one. Her fingers were shining, soaked, with clear strands hanging between the index finger and middle finger. And in the background, barely in focus, a scrap of light blue fabric, soaked, pulled down halfway along her thigh. She’d put her fingers in right there, in the bar, while serving beers to the tourists, and she was sending me proof.

There was no message. None needed.

I got into the car, parked on an empty street, and without thinking twice I pulled down my pants and briefs to my knees. My cock was so swollen the tip already had a fat drop of fluid hanging from it. I grabbed it with my right hand, spat on it to lube it, and started pounding my dick while looking at the photo of her shiny fingers. I imagined the texture of those fingers, the temperature of her cunt, the smell that hand must have right now. I yanked on it fast, fist tight at the head and loosening at the base, breathing in broken gasps. It took me less than two minutes. I came in ropes against the steering wheel, shaking three times, four, with my mouth open against the back of the seat, spattering the dashboard, my thighs, the passenger seat. My hand was trembling when I took out my phone and sent her another photo, textless too: my cock still hard, covered in semen, a white puddle on the fabric of my pants. She didn’t answer with words either. Just with a scissors emoji.

And that’s it. That was all.

***

Three days until Friday. It’s been three hours since I got that photo from her and I can’t think about anything else. I’ve jerked off twice since I got home, and I’m still half-hard. Every time I close my eyes I see her wrist trembling under my finger at the bar. I see her mouth closing around my index finger. I see those fingers slick with wetness. Every time I open the chat I reread our last messages and look at that photo. Every time I walk past her bar I think about going in again, even though I know I shouldn’t. We have to get to Friday carrying all of this and not waste another word or another gesture.

Three nights in a stone house, with a woman I’ve been wanting for ten years and who I’ve only touched with one finger so far.

I’ll tell you what happens when we’re back. If we come back.