The Confession That Began on the Beach

I have to admit that it all began during one of the strangest months of my life, when the world seemed to have shrunk to the size of my living room, my kitchen, and the sofa where I spent far too many hours staring out the window. I had been shut in for too long, recovering slowly, my legs weak, my head full of anxiety, and my body forgotten even by me.

He appeared in that gray routine like a new habit. His name was Darío, although it wasn't his real name, and that doesn't matter either. He came once a week to leave my groceries, arranged the bags on the table, and always found a minute to ask how I was doing.

He was a grown man, strong, patient, one of those men who don't need to say much to make themselves noticed. What unsettled me first wasn't his body, but the way he looked at me. Not with pity, not hurriedly, not as if I were a task. He looked at me as if he could still see a whole woman in me.

One afternoon, while he was putting some bottles away in the cupboard, he made the proposal with a seriousness I hadn't expected.

—It would do you good to go for a little walk —he said, leaning against the doorframe—. The beach is open again, and at that hour there's hardly anyone there.

I looked at him without knowing what to say. It had been months since I'd gone farther than the entrance to the building.

—I can't go alone —I replied—. And I still don't feel safe taking public transportation.

—Then I'll take you —he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world—. I'll come early on Thursday. You just get ready.

I wanted to refuse. I truly did. But there was something in his tone, a mixture of firmness and care, that slowly disarmed me.

—I don't know if I'll last very long —I murmured.

—It doesn't matter how long you last. What matters is starting.

That Thursday I got dressed up far more than a simple walk required. I put on lotion, combed my hair patiently, and even applied a little lipstick, though the mask would erase it afterward. When I saw myself in the mirror, I was embarrassed to recognize the hope in my face. I looked like a teenager waiting for a date, and I had left that age far behind me.

When he arrived, he helped me down the stairs with one firm hand at my waist. That simple contact ran through me from head to toe. I felt a clean, brutal shiver, as if my skin had suddenly remembered what it was like to be touched by another person.

We spoke little on the way. The radio played softly. I looked out the window and noticed, despite myself, every time he moved his hand from the gearshift to the wheel, every movement of his forearms, the ease with which he occupied the space.

When we arrived, he parked near the sand and got out first to walk around the car and open my door. He offered me his arm. I clung to it more tightly than I was willing to admit.

—Slowly —he told me—. Don't be afraid, I won't let you go.

The beach was nearly empty. The air smelled of salt and summer just beginning. I walked as far as I could, barely a few minutes, leaning completely against his body. I felt the effort in my legs, but something else too. His heat pressed against mine. The tension in his arm beneath my hand. The rhythm of his breathing whenever I stumbled a little and he held me more securely.

It wasn't a walk. It was an uncomfortable, exciting awakening.

When I couldn't go any farther, I had to stop.

—Darío… I need to sit down.

He turned at once. His eyes traveled over my sweaty face, my ragged breathing, and without saying anything he spread a towel over the sand. He helped me lower myself slowly, one hand on my back and the other beneath my elbow, taking care with every movement as if my body were something precious.

Then he knelt in front of me.

—Let me see how those legs are doing.

He lifted one of my calves naturally and began to massage it. First slowly, pressing with his thumbs, then moving higher along the calf with firm strokes. I closed my eyes for a second. Not only from the relief. Also because I found it hard to bear the feeling of having him between my legs, bent over me, touching me with such confidence.

—You have good hands —I said, trying to sound casual.

He gave a low laugh.

—I learned out of necessity. I train a lot, and at home I always ended up helping my older relatives with their muscle knots. But you're very tense. Much more than you should be.

I knew he wasn't talking only about my muscles. Or perhaps that was what I wanted to believe.

His fingers continued kneading my leg. He moved a little higher than necessary before stopping, and that brief but unmistakable brush against the inside of my thigh made me clench my teeth. I looked up. He had noticed it too. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a second neither of us looked away.

The ride home was even worse. Or better. It depended on how I wanted to tell it.

I sat silently, my body exhausted and my head burning. He drove in silence, but every so often he glanced at me. It wasn't an innocent look. It was the look of a man who knows perfectly well that he's stirred something up and wants to see how far the trembling goes.

When he parked in front of my building, I thought everything would end with a “get some rest” and nothing more. But he turned toward me and sat still, one hand on the steering wheel.

—Shall we do this again next week?

—Yes —I answered too quickly.

He gave a small smile. Then he leaned toward me. I thought he was going to kiss me, and my mouth went dry. He didn't. He only held my face in one hand and rested his forehead against mine.

—This will have to be enough for now —he murmured.

For now.

Those two words lodged themselves in my head.

I went upstairs trembling. I closed the door, dropped my purse wherever, and stood in the middle of the living room like an idiot, replaying again and again the touch of his hand on my cheek, the weight of his body so close, the insolent calm with which he had said for now.

I wanted to distract myself. I turned on the television. I switched it off a minute later. I went to the kitchen for water. I wasn't thirsty. I returned to the sofa already breathing unevenly, knowing perfectly well what was happening to me and hating that I didn't want to stop it.

I lay on my back and closed my eyes. The first thing I did was slip my hand beneath my shirt and squeeze one breast over my bra. My nipple hardened almost instantly. I gasped softly, surprised by my own need. It had been far too long since I had touched myself, far too long since I had felt that animal urgency in my belly.

My other hand drifted slowly down my abdomen. I wasn't thinking about anyone, I told myself. A lie. I had been thinking about him from the very first second. His fingers squeezing my leg. His voice telling me not to be afraid. How he might have lifted me from the towel if, instead of helping me to my feet, he had spread my legs right there.

I slipped my hand inside my pants and found myself wet. Much wetter than I expected. I ran two fingers between the lips of my cunt and a dry, embarrassed moan escaped me, even though I was alone. My clitoris was hard, sensitive, throbbing. I circled it slowly, barely brushing it, and my back arched on its own against the sofa.

—Fuck… —I whispered.

I imagined his hand pushing mine away. His body kneeling between my legs. That mouth I didn't know moving down my belly. The memory of the beach became something else: sand clinging to my skin, his towel beneath my ass, his hands slowly spreading me open so he could look at me.

I slipped one finger inside. Then two. They went in easily, drenched. I began to fuck myself with them slowly, pulling them almost all the way out and sinking them back in while my other hand squeezed my breast and tugged my nipple until it hurt a little. The pain turned me on even more.

—That's it… that's it…

My breathing became clumsy and heavy. I moved my hips against my own hand, searching for more friction. I was touching myself hungrily, without tenderness, as if I wanted to tear all the months of confinement I had carried beneath my skin out of me at once.

In my head, it was him spreading my legs. Him telling me to relax. Him licking my cunt patiently before sliding his tongue inside me, before lifting his head with his beard wet and looking at me as if he wanted to devour me whole.

I began rubbing my clitoris faster. The fingers inside me moved in and out with a wet sound that filled the room. My cunt tightened around them, hot and eager, and I couldn't stop imagining that they weren't my fingers, that it was Darío's hand, broad and firm, pushing all the way inside while he heard me moan his name.

—Darío…

I said it aloud. That finally broke me.

I pulled my fingers out and brought them to my mouth on instinct, tasting my own wetness while I pinched my clitoris with my other hand. Then I pushed them inside again, deeper this time, curling them, searching for the spot that made me let out a hoarse gasp. I found it. I struck it again and again while rubbing myself hard, shamelessly open on the sofa, my legs trembling.

The orgasm rose through me all at once, like a contraction that clenched my belly and left me breathless. I came with my thighs tense, pressing my hand against my cunt, moaning his name through clenched teeth. I felt the pulse between my legs, the heat spreading through my entire body, a long release that made me press my fingers inside until the spasm subsided.

When I finished, I lay there spent, my chest rising and falling and the wetness cooling on my thighs. But I didn't feel satisfied. Quite the opposite. I had the feeling that I had opened a door I would no longer be able to close.

***

The following week he took me to the beach again. Then again. And again. Each walk was a little longer and each trip home a little more dangerous. I began waiting for him with an anxiety I could no longer disguise as gratitude. I noticed everything: the clean fragrance he wore, the way he rolled up his shirt sleeves, the ease with which he lifted me from the seat without making me feel clumsy.

He changed too. He stopped treating me only with the careful propriety of the beginning. Sometimes he spoke closer than necessary. Sometimes he held my gaze an extra second. Sometimes his hands stayed at my waist longer than they needed to.

I knew I was crossing a line. I knew because I began dressing for him, not for going out. Because I caught myself choosing softer blouses, pants that showed off my hips better, a perfume I hadn't worn in years. Because I began getting wet before he even rang the bell.

The fourth outing was the one that changed everything. We hadn't walked far. The wind was strong and there were hardly any people around. I grew tired sooner than usual again, so he spread the towel in a more secluded area, behind some low dunes that gave us a minimum of shelter.

I sat down. He knelt in front of me again.

—You overdid it today —he said, taking my ankle in his hands.

His fingers began moving up my calf. I let him, but this time I didn't close my eyes. I watched him the whole time. I saw him clench his jaw. I saw him swallow when his hands reached my knee and parted it slightly to position my leg better.

—Darío —I said.

—Yes?

—If you keep touching me like that, you'll notice that the problem isn't only in my legs.

He went still. The silence between us was so thick that I heard the sea farther away than usual. His hands were still on me.

—I've been trying to behave for weeks —he finally admitted, his voice lower—. Don't make it harder for me.

—Then don't behave.

The words came out before I could regret them. And the moment I said them, I knew there was no going back.

He exhaled through his nose, like a man finally stopping his restraint. Then he took me by the nape and kissed me. It wasn't a timid or careful kiss. It was a hungry, adult kiss, full of all the tension that had built up. He opened my mouth with his and pushed his tongue inside until I moaned. I gripped his shoulders and returned the kiss with the same desperation.

—You have no idea how badly I wanted to do this —he murmured against my lips.

—Then do it properly.

My answer drew a look from him that drenched me instantly. He laid me down carefully on the towel, but the care lasted only until he spread my legs. Then he became rougher, more determined. He yanked my skirt up and stared at my crotch through my underwear.

—Look at you —he said, running two fingers over the damp fabric—. All this, and I hadn't even kissed you yet.

I felt embarrassed and turned on at the same time.

—Shut up and keep going.

He smiled. He moved the fabric aside and let out a low gasp when he saw me. I was completely wet, open for him, trembling not from weakness but from desire. He kissed the inside of my thigh first, slowly, as if he wanted to torture me. Then another kiss higher up. Then he licked me from bottom to top and nearly made me scream.

His tongue was broad and firm, fearless. He licked my cunt with obscene dedication, burying his face between my legs and holding my thighs so I couldn't close them. I writhed on the towel, digging my fingers into his hair, feeling him part my lips with his mouth so he could lick me better.

—Fuck… yes… like that…

He growled against my cunt when he heard me and drove his tongue inside me. Then he alternated it with my clitoris, sucking it hard, letting it go just long enough to blow wetly on it before capturing it again. Every stroke sent a shiver straight into my belly. It was too much. And that was exactly why I wanted more.

He pushed two fingers inside me without stopping his licking. They went in easily. He moved them rhythmically, curling them, searching for the same spot I had found alone on the sofa, only better, so much better. I moaned so loudly that I had to bring one hand to my mouth.

—Don't cover yourself —he ordered, lifting his face for a moment—. I want to hear you.

The order went through me like an electric current. I obeyed.

He plunged back between my legs with even more hunger. I was already on the edge, feeling my cunt tighten around his fingers, my hips rising on their own to fuck his hand and face. When I came, I did so shaking all over, thrusting against his mouth and moaning without being able to control the volume. He didn't pull away. He kept licking me through the orgasm, stretching it out until I was truly trembling.

When he lifted his head, his mouth was shining and his gaze was dirtier than I had ever seen it.

—Your circulation is improving now —he said.

I laughed, panting, and wanted to answer with something clever, but at that moment I saw the hard bulge beneath his pants. I needed no more words. I sat up and undid his belt with fingers clumsy from urgency.

—Let me help you.

I pulled out his cock and felt another jolt of desire. It was truly hard, thick, hot in my hand. I stroked it slowly at first, just to enjoy the way he closed his eyes. Then I lowered my head and put it in my mouth.

He let out a hoarse sound, half moan and half curse.

I sucked him without delicacy, as if I too had been waiting weeks for this. Tongue over the tip, saliva running down the shaft, my hand wrapped around the base while I took more of him into my mouth. He held my hair back and let me set the pace, but I felt the trembling in his thighs, the effort he made not to push my face down.

—You're going to kill me —he murmured.

I looked up at him from below and sucked him deeper, swallowing as far as I could before lifting my head for air. I pulled off with a wet sound, spat on him, and stroked him a few more times.

—Don't come yet —I told him.

His expression changed completely. There was obedience, yes, but above all there was the desire to get even.

He laid me down on the towel again, lowered his pants a little farther, and positioned himself between my legs. I felt the tip of his cock brush my cunt, parting me slightly, smearing me with all my own wetness. He looked at me one last time, asking without words.

—Put it in me —I told him—. Now.

He penetrated me with one firm thrust. Not brutally, but completely. He went all the way in and tore a cry from me. I felt him huge and alive, filling me in a way my fingers and fantasies never had. He stayed still for a second, breathing hard with his forehead against mine, giving me time to adjust.

—Fuck… you're so tight.

—Move.

He did. He pulled out slowly, only to thrust back in harder. Then again. And again. Each thrust drove me farther into the towel and shook my entire body. I wrapped my legs around his waist and clung to his back while he fucked me with a rhythm that grew harder and more precise.

The sound of the sea mingled with our breathing and the wet slap of our bodies. I felt sand stuck to my thighs, the wind on my skin, his cock sliding in and out of my soaked cunt. Everything was too real to be a fantasy and, at the same time, too intense to believe it was happening to me.

—You kept me like this for weeks —he said through his teeth—. Thinking about you. Imagining this cunt.

The vulgarity turned me on even more.

—Then fuck me the way you imagined.

He growled when he heard me use the familiar form of address with him for the first time. He gripped my hips and began thrusting harder. His pelvis slammed against mine with a brutal, steady rhythm, making my body bounce and each stroke brush the inside of me exactly where I needed it most. I couldn't stop moaning. I didn't want to.

I slipped one hand between us to rub my clitoris, but he pushed it away.

—No. Let me.

Without stopping his penetration, he lowered his hand and found me immediately. He began rubbing me with his thumb in time with his thrusts, alternating quick circles with direct pressure. The combination undid me. I felt another orgasm rising, more violent than the first, deeper, like a cord tightening inside me.

—Don't stop… don't stop…

—Come for me.

The order was enough. I came with him inside me, clenching his cock with spasms that made him curse. My body closed and trembled around his while he kept thrusting a little longer, seeking his own release. I was so sensitive that every extra movement tore another moan from me.

He pulled out just in time, grabbed himself with his hand, and came over my belly and my raised skirt, breathing in short bursts with his jaw clenched. Watching him do it gave me a filthy, satisfied pleasure, almost a sense of pride. I had desired that body, and now I had it trembling because of me.

We lay in silence for a few seconds, exhausted, listening only to the sea and our clumsy breathing. Then he leaned over and kissed me again, this time more softly, his mouth still salty and warm.

—I suppose this doesn't count as rehabilitation anymore —he said.

I laughed, still lying there with my legs spread and my pussy pulsing.

—No. This counts as a confession.

Because that is the truth I came to tell: the confinement gave me back something I thought I had lost, but it wasn't love. It was hunger. Desire. The need to feel like a woman, a body, skin, sex, again. And all it took was a short walk, a pair of firm hands, and a man who wasn't afraid to look at me the way I needed to be looked at for everything else to come crashing down.