The Night a Stranger Made Me His in the Bathroom

Buenos Aires had swallowed me whole since I arrived in March: Sundays on the Costanera, Palermo markets smelling of freshly fried empanadas, buses that never stopped even when you ran after them, and above all the nights that began when it was already the early hours in Spain. I came on a student exchange scholarship for graphic design, nine months, not knowing a soul. I liked it that way.

My fellow program students were nice, but that night they’d decided to go somewhere more commercial in downtown: reggaetón, a reserved table, cocktails with their own names on the menu. Not my thing. I saw The Depot flyer on Instagram that morning: a black-and-white photo of the empty warehouse, tiny letters that said “dark techno, DJ from Amsterdam, opens at midnight.” I saved it on my phone and decided to go alone.

I arrived at three. The line snaked half a block down the narrow street in Villa Crespo. People in black: leather jackets, thick-soled boots, the occasional sheer bodysuit showing more than was usual. I wore a tight fine-knit dress and platform sandals that would destroy my feet if I danced too much. My hair was loose, brown with copper highlights that looked almost red in the dark. I felt slightly out of place and completely comfortable at the same time.

The main floor was a warehouse with a high ceiling and exposed metal beams. The sound came from everywhere: deep kicks hammering the chest like a second heartbeat, cutting hi-hats, synths rising and falling like tides. Thick artificial smoke. Blue and red lights flashing in irregular bursts. I got into the middle, closed my eyes, and let myself go.

I danced alone for almost two hours. It was exactly what I needed: that state where the rhythm makes you forget you have a name.

I noticed him before I saw him. First by the heat: a nearby presence, not intrusive, but constant. Then by the smell: a citrus cologne mixed with hours of dance sweat, something clean and animal at the same time. I opened my eyes.

Tall. Huge. At least six foot three. Dark skin gleaming under the strobe lights, perfectly smooth. Short hair, almost shaved, with a few gray strands at the temples that made him look older than he probably was. Black sleeveless T-shirt showing his arms: broad, tattooed from elbow to shoulder with geometric designs I couldn’t make out in that light. He danced with an ease that wasn’t learned but innate, his hips moving to the beat with a relaxed precision that made everything else around him seem clumsy.

He looked at me.

I looked away first. Kept dancing. But he was there and we both knew it.

The second time our eyes met, I didn’t look away. I didn’t smile. He didn’t either. It was just that kind of look that needs no translation.

We started dancing close without either of us formally stepping toward the other. Twelve inches. Then eight. Then so close that his arm brushed mine with every movement. It went on like that for several tracks: the floor filling up more, the smoke getting thicker, and me becoming more and more aware of his presence directly behind me.

At some point — I can’t say exactly when — his hands found my hips from behind. Without asking, but without rushing either. A gesture that said: I’m here, you decide. I didn’t move. I stayed.

We danced pressed together for what must have been forty minutes. His chest against my back, his breath on my neck, his heat wrapping around me completely. I felt every inch of his body, and I also felt something else, growing slowly against my hip, which he made no effort to hide. His cock hardened against the small of my back, hard and long, pressing through the fabric of his pants, and with every drop in the bass I pushed my ass back, rubbing myself against the swelling bulge. His hands moved from my hips to the hem of my dress, slipped a centimeter underneath, found the elastic of my panties, and returned to my stomach. He pulled me tight against him with his open palm on my navel and I felt, beyond any doubt, exactly how hard he was and how it throbbed.

At one point the DJ dropped the tempo. The track that came in was darker, slower, with a bassline that dragged across the floor. He leaned into my ear.

—Tu danses très bien — he said. Deep, rough voice, with a cadence that wasn’t Argentine.

I turned slightly, frowning.

—What?

A smile. White teeth against dark skin. He switched to Spanish with an accent, rounded vowels and an intonation I couldn’t place right away.

—I said you dance well. Where are you from?

—Spain. Exchange program. And you?

—Cameroon. I study architecture at UBA.

He held out his hand.

—Théo.

—Sofía.

We didn’t say much else. Théo was a man of few words. His hands, on the other hand, spoke clearly: they returned to my hips with more weight, and when I leaned slightly into him, he held me firmly.

The kiss came without warning. I turned my head, he lowered his, and we met in the middle. It was slow at first: exploratory, almost careful. Plump, warm lips. Then deeper, his tongue entering calmly, his hand sliding up my back to the nape of my neck to hold me at the exact angle he wanted. I lost myself there completely. The other hand went straight to my chest, squeezing a breast through the thin fabric. A sound slipped from my throat.

—Easy — he murmured. — Easy.

He yanked the neckline of my dress down and pulled my breasts out. He looked at them for a second, as if measuring, and lowered his mouth. His warm, rough tongue dragged over one nipple, then the other; he sucked them hard, took them fully into his mouth, bit down just a little. I arched my back against the cold tiles. His right hand slid under my dress, up the inside of my thigh, and hooked my panties aside with two fingers. He found my cunt soaking wet.

—You’re all wet — he said, his mouth still on my nipple.

—I know — I panted.

He put one finger in first, then two, all the way to the knuckle. He curved them inside, found the exact spot, and started moving them with a relentless rhythm while his thumb rubbed my clit in tight circles. I opened my legs wider and braced myself on his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall. His fingers slid in and out with a wet sound that cut through the club’s distant bass. I felt the first orgasm threatening to slip out right there, against the wall, with him dressed and me half-dressed, dress hiked up and breasts bare.

I lowered my hand and went looking for him. I found him, already hard, through the fabric of his pants. I felt the pulse, the heat, the size. I froze for a second, taking that in.

—God — I said without thinking.

He didn’t answer. He watched me as I unbuckled his belt with fingers that didn’t quite obey me the first time. When I pulled him out, I stood there for a moment not quite knowing what to do.

Fuck.

Long, thick, dark at the base and lighter toward the tip. Hot to the touch, throbbing faintly. My hands couldn’t quite encompass him. The tip was already beaded with a drop of clear pre-cum that stretched in a thread when I ran my thumb over it. I gripped his cock with both hands, one over the other, and the thick head still rose above my fingers. I moved it slowly, up and down, feeling the thick vein running underneath pulse against my palm.

Théo gently caught my wrist. Not to stop me: to make me look him in the eye.

—Sure? — he asked. Just that.

I nodded.

I knelt down.

The floor was cold cement. It didn’t matter. I took him with both hands and started slowly: my tongue traveling from base to tip, tasting the salty flavor at the end. I licked his whole crown, circled the head with the tip of my tongue, went down the frenulum, kept going to his balls and sucked them one by one, leaving them glossy with saliva. I came back up. Opened my mouth and took him as deep as I could; my throat tightened, my eyes watered a little from the effort. Théo exhaled slowly.

His hand came to my hair, not forcefully: just with weight, setting the rhythm he wanted. I sucked him harder, alternating long licks with my mouth moving up and down. I sealed my lips tight around the shaft and sped up, saliva running down my chin, dripping onto my bare breasts. Every time he slid all the way in, my throat opened with a muted click and he let out a low, contained groan. I heard his breathing change: deeper, more controlled, barely.

Someone banged on the door.

—Is someone in there?

Neither of us moved. Théo looked down at me with the faintest smile.

—Keep going — he said.

Let them listen if they want to, I thought. Let them imagine what’s happening in here.

The idea that someone was on the other side of that door, aware, waiting, lit something in me I hadn’t anticipated. I worked with even more hunger. I held the base with one hand and stroked his balls with the other while my mouth never stopped. Théo tugged a little harder on my hair, set the pace, drove in all the way two, three times, until I felt that if he kept going like that he was going to cum in my mouth right then. He eased off, pulled out, and looked at me with dilated pupils.

—Stand up — he said, voice rough. — Not yet.

I got to my feet. I hiked up my dress. Moved my underwear to the side.

Théo looked at me.

—I don’t have a condom — he said, direct.

—I do — I answered, and took out the one I always kept in the side pocket of my dress. I’d learned that the first month in Buenos Aires: new city, you never know. He raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.

I put it on him myself. I tore the wrapper with my teeth, grabbed his cock wet with my spit, and rolled the latex down to the base with both hands, making sure it fit snug. The veins stood out even more through the plastic.

I turned toward the mirror and braced myself on the sink, spreading my feet a little. Théo stood behind me, held my hip with one hand and used the other to guide the head of his cock between my butt cheeks to my cunt lips. He slid it up and down twice, soaking it with what was running down me, and pushed in slowly.

The first entry was the hardest. I breathed, relaxed, breathed again. He didn’t rush. He waited. He went in centimeter by centimeter, opening me slowly, until I had him all the way inside, and when he reached the end I felt every muscle in my body tense and release at once. He filled me in a way I’d never felt before: the tip bumped against something deep, and at the base I could feel him so thick that the walls of my cunt stretched around his whole shaft. I let out a long moan and didn’t even try to hold it back.

—God — I repeated, this time out loud.

Théo didn’t answer. He started moving: slow pullouts, deep thrusts. He drew his cock almost all the way out, until only the tip was left inside, and shoved it back in from one end to the other. Every thrust knocked my pelvis against the edge of the sink. I gripped the sink and looked in the mirror. My flushed face, hair stuck to my forehead, eyes half-lidded, breasts hanging out of the dress and swinging with each impact. His dark body behind mine, tattooed arms on either side braced against the wall. There was something about that image that multiplied everything I felt.

He picked up the pace. Now he was fucking me for real: his hips slapped against my ass with a wet, flat sound that repeated over and over. The sound between us was impossible to hide, but the club music kept going on the other side with its relentless kicks and drowned out much of it. I bit my lip; even so, a moan escaped. Théo grabbed my hair and pulled me back, forcing me to look at myself in the mirror while he drove deeper, harder. With his other hand he found my clit from the front and started rubbing it with two fingers in the same rhythm as his thrusts.

—Look at yourself — he said in my ear. — Look at how I’m fucking you.

I looked. I saw my cunt open in the mirror every time he pulled out, shiny, and I saw how his huge cock plunged back in all the way. I saw my wrecked face, my mouth open, my eyes full of him. I couldn’t look at anything else.

The first orgasm hit without warning: a wave that squeezed my stomach and ran downward in a spiral, long and continuous, my cunt clamping around him in spasms I couldn’t control. I held back the cry just enough. He kept going without stopping, fucking me through the orgasm, pulling out and thrusting in with the same brutal rhythm while I shook.

—More? — he asked in my ear.

—Yes.

He turned me around. Sat me on the edge of the sink, yanked off my panties, spread my legs all the way, and drove in from the front in one hard thrust. A short cry escaped me. We looked at each other. His eyes were dark and focused, never leaving my face. He pushed deep, slow, and did it again: that same deliberate rhythm that made me fold toward him. He grabbed both my breasts in his hands, pinched my nipples between his fingers, and kept fucking me, slower, deeper, marking each thrust with a low grunt.

—You like that? — he asked, in that Spanish of his.

—A lot — I said. And it was true.

—Say it.

—I like the way you fuck me — I panted, no filter left. — Harder.

He hooked my legs behind my knees, spread me wider, and started fucking me for real again, now face to face, watching each other’s expressions. I dug my nails into his shoulders. The sink groaned beneath me. With every thrust I felt him hitting bottom, the tip bumping inside against something that made my legs tremble.

I lowered my hand and touched my clit with two fingers while he kept going. Théo looked at my hand and sped up. The stall filled with the sound of bodies slamming together, my moans that I no longer tried to hide, his deep panting over me.

The second orgasm was longer, built by every movement of his, my cunt milking him tight in relentless spasms until Théo clenched his teeth too and let out a low, contained sound, buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, and I felt him shaking inside me, his cock throbbing the whole time while he unloaded himself in long waves I felt through the latex. Each beat made me squeeze a little tighter around him.

***

We stayed still for a minute. Just breathing. He was still inside, still hard, pulling out only slowly once his body stopped trembling. The club’s bass kept going on the other side of the wall, indifferent to everything we’d done.

Théo kissed my forehead. No words. Just that.

We fixed ourselves in silence, sharing the mirror. I wiped the smudged mascara with a finger. He put his clothes back in order with an almost domestic calm. Before leaving, he looked at me.

—How long are you staying in Buenos Aires?

—Until July.

—Good. — A pause. — Can I ask for your number?

I gave him my number.

We went out without any particular order. In the hall there were two people leaning against the wall who looked at us with the expression of knowing exactly what had happened in there. It didn’t bother me. I walked back to the dance floor with my legs a little weak and something like a smile I couldn’t quite control all the way.

Théo headed to the bar. I went back to the middle of the floor.

It was almost six in the morning. The DJ was still going. So was I.