The Night I Climbed Over My Friend’s Father’s Gate

I crossed every meter of those damp avenues with my head buzzing and my calves burning, silently repeating to myself that I was making the biggest mistake of my life. The voice inside me was shouting it at me: “He was always out of your reach, you always knew it, you’re an idiot.” But my feet kept moving as if they had made a decision without consulting me.

I had just turned eighteen and my head was full of a liquor too strong that I had stolen from my mother’s cabinet. The city smelled of wet asphalt and garbage, and the few cars that passed at that hour slowed for a second to look at me and then drove off. I kept walking.

The edge of my shoes had torn my pantyhose at the heel. Every step was a lash. Every lash seemed fair to me. I was heading toward Mr. Vergara’s condominium like a penitent, with my dress stained and my breathing ragged, repeating his name to myself as if it were a prayer.

In the distance I heard suspicious whistles, loose words in a slang I couldn’t quite understand. Voices calling to me from dark alleys and inviting me to go into places you don’t come back from. I only quickened my pace and thought about his face. The way he wrinkled his nose when he laughed. The last time he had looked at me longer than a father of a friend should look at an eighteen-year-old girl.

***

I reached the guard post almost without realizing it. The man behind the glass asked where I was going and who I was looking for, and I stammered three different answers that didn’t fit together. When I saw him pick up the phone, I knew he was calling the police and I took off running before he finished dialing.

I skirted the gate for five long minutes looking for a blind spot. I found a corner where a wooden panel for climbing vines doubled as a ladder. I climbed it however I could. My hands were sweaty and slipping, my dress snagged on every splinter, and my whole body felt twice as heavy as normal because of the liquor.

At the top I ran straight into a camera pointed at my face. I saw the red eye lit up, heard the guard shouting at me to come down, and I closed my eyes without thinking. I jumped.

The bush that had looked so dense from above was actually a hedge of thorns. I landed badly, got dozens of spikes driven into my thighs and tailbone, and when I tried to stand I felt hot threads of blood running down my legs. I ran anyway. I passed beside a lit-up pool, dodged a dog barking as if it were my size, hopped a planter, hit a fence, and kept running. I reached Mr. Vergara’s front door with my lungs full of fire.

I rang the bell three, four, five times. Behind me I could already hear heavy footsteps. Please open before they catch me, please, open.

A huge hand grabbed my arm just as the door was beginning to give. The guard was pulling me back with a force that hurt. I clung to the frame, screaming “I just want to see him, let me see him” like a madwoman, my shoes scraping against the cobblestones, my dress ripping at the waist. And then the door opened all the way.

***

It wasn’t him.

A mature woman, tall, wearing a black silk kimono left badly closed and with her hair still disheveled, looked at me from the threshold as if I were a cockroach that had crawled under her door. Her lips were painted red despite the hour. She had a woman’s body, not a girl’s. And she smelled of expensive perfume mixed with bed sweat, that unmistakable smell of fresh semen and freshly fucked cunt that clings to your skin after sex.

Something inside me broke with a dry snap that only I heard.

I looked at the house number, the address, the pots out front. It was the right house. It was the right door. What was wrong was me.

I stopped fighting. The guard put his hands behind my back like I was an ordinary thief and dragged me out to the street, where two patrol cars had arrived with their lights spinning. The walk to the police car was the most humiliating parade of my life. Neighbors in pajamas, women with their arms crossed, all of them wearing the face of people who already had an opinion about what they were seeing.

They put me in the back seat and closed the door. Through the window I saw him arrive. He pushed through the people with his shoulder, hair disheveled, shirt still hanging out over his pants. He argued with the officer, waving his hands a lot, pointing at me, pointing at his house. I couldn’t hear any of what he was saying, but I didn’t need to. He was holding my story up in front of the whole neighborhood.

The officer opened the car door with a sour expression.

—Do you know that man? —he barked, pointing at him.

I nodded.

—Were you coming to see his daughter?

I nodded again, even though it wasn’t the truth and we both knew it wasn’t.

—Do you have any idea how much of a scare you caused? Do you know what time it is?

I lowered my head.

—Did you take something? Are you on drugs?

—No, sir.

—Look at me when you speak.

I raised my eyes as best I could. The officer held my gaze for a long moment, as if searching for some sign of a psychotropic.

—Get out. He’ll take care of it. And thank him, because if it weren’t for him you’d be spending the rest of the night in a cell.

***

Mr. Vergara took me by the neck with an open hand, not violently but with authority, and led me to his house through that sea of neighbors. He didn’t say anything to anyone. To the ones who came close to offer their opinions, he gave a fixed green stare that cut the conversation off at the root. I walked behind him like a punished dog, not daring to lift my eyes from the ground.

When we went inside, the woman in the kimono was waiting with her arms crossed. She sized me up from head to toe with a disgust that hurt me in places I hadn’t known could hurt. He closed the door and gently pushed me onto the sofa.

—Sit down. I’ll be right back.

They went to the kitchen. The argument started in whispers and quickly rose.

—What is that brat doing here? Who is she?

—She’s Mariana’s friend.

—Your daughter’s friend? At this hour? Alone? In this state?

—I’m not sure what happened.

—Send her home, have her parents come get her. It’s not your problem.

—Romina, let me take care of it. Her family situation is complicated, I can’t just throw her out like that.

—Are you serious? You had my legs open ten minutes ago, your dick still inside me, and now you’re going to leave me hanging for this brat?

—She’s been like another daughter in this house for years. Forgive me.

—You’re an idiot. Just so you know. And your load is running down my thighs, in case you want to keep that in mind.

Romina crossed the living room without looking at me, picked up her purse from the coffee table, and slammed the door so hard the picture frames trembled. I stayed on the sofa, squeezing my fingers until they cracked, with my dress stuck to dried blood and my own damp smell that I had discovered two minutes earlier: I had pissed myself a little. I wanted to die, literally.

***

He came back into the living room. He didn’t look at me right away. He stood there with his hands on his hips, staring at a fixed spot in the rug, breathing slowly, like someone trying not to say the first thing that comes to mind.

—Come on. I’ll take you to the hospital and then home.

I didn’t move.

—Please.

Still nothing.

He let out a short curse and went into the bathroom. He came back with a first-aid kit and a pair of latex gloves.

—Take off your pantyhose.

I did it as best I could, fingers trembling, trying not to show anything that shouldn’t be seen. He waited with the gloves on, looking off to the side out of respect. When I finished, he sat at my feet and lifted my right leg to examine it. He frowned with every new cut he found.

—Lie on your back.

I obeyed. I held the skirt of my dress between my thighs like a shield. He cleaned the front wounds one by one with disinfectant, the ones the thorns and the fence had left me. His fingers were firm, professional. He didn’t linger a second longer than necessary.

—Are you going to tell me now what the hell you were thinking?

I opened my mouth, looked for a decent excuse, found none. I shook my head.

—Turn over.

I rolled onto the sofa. The wounds on the backs of my legs were deeper and climbed dangerously close to the fold of my buttocks. His hands started lower and moved upward. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing, but every time his fingers moved up another inch, I felt my panties getting wet. My cunt was getting wet there, on his sofa, with the man I loved between my legs. Even if it was to treat me, even if it was clinical, my body was reacting as if he were really touching me.

—Anything higher up? —he asked when he reached the edge of decency.

I could feel the sting of the bruise on my right buttock with every inhale. The truth was yes. And also yes, I wanted his hand to keep going up, to tear off my wet panties, to put his fingers all the way inside me.

—I’m not sure.

—Touch yourself and tell me if it hurts.

I touched myself. It hurt like hell. And when I touched over the fabric, I accidentally brushed my swollen cunt lips and felt how soaked I was. A sigh escaped me that I tried to disguise as a cry of pain.

—I’m not sure —I repeated, idiotically.

—Let me check.

He said it with the naturalness of a doctor, and even so it made me bite the skin of my forearm so I wouldn’t moan. He lifted the dress carefully and left me exposed to the waist, with my white panties dirty and stained, the only clean ones I had that morning, the ones that had seemed like an insignificant detail when I left home. A cold draft raised goosebumps on my skin and hardened my nipples under the dress. The fabric of my panties had stuck to my cunt, outlining every fold, and the dark wet patch in my crotch was impossible to hide. I begged God that he wouldn’t see it. I begged God that he would.

—Yes, sweetheart. You’ve got one there. And a terrible bruise on your lower back. You fell very badly. What were you thinking?

I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t speak. While he cleaned the cut, his free hand gently moved the edge of the fabric aside to get a better angle. The fabric ended up tucked just barely into the fold of my ass. I almost fainted. I felt his knuckles brush the bare skin of my ass, an accidental touch, just a second, and even so my cunt throbbed as if he had stuck his tongue in me. My eyes filled with tears, but not from shame or pain anymore: it was something else, something I didn’t have a name for yet. I felt a thick drop escape from my lips and slowly run down the inside of my thigh. I was dripping in front of him, with my face against the cushion, biting it so I wouldn’t moan his name.

—And what did you take? What did you put in your body?

—A liquor. From my mother.

—Why did you do such a stupid thing?

—I was sad.

He gave a bitter laugh without opening his mouth.

—Sad? Sad doesn’t justify walking ten kilometers at three in the morning, climbing a gate with a camera, and breaking into a man’s house alone. Do you have any idea what trouble you can get me into right now, with your half-naked body on my sofa?

It was that “half-naked body” that made me open my eyes. He said it in a low voice, almost through his teeth, and I don’t think he realized he had said it.

—I needed to see you.

—Why?

I closed my eyes, drew breath through my nose, gathered what little courage I had left.

—Because I feel things for you, Mr. Vergara.

***

The silence that followed had weight, color, temperature. I didn’t dare open my eyes, sure I would find either disgust or, worse, pity.

He stayed still for a very long time. I heard him set the cotton on the tray, take off the gloves with two dry snaps.

—Sweetheart, sit up.

He helped me turn. I sat on the sofa with my knees together, palms on my thighs, not knowing what to do with my gaze. He sat beside me, leaving a hand’s breadth of distance between us.

—Do you mean something romantic?

I nodded.

—At your age, our minds can play tricks on us. Sometimes we believe things that aren’t real. Maybe you’re confused.

I shook my head. Tears were falling from me silently. He sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

—It’s not possible, sweetheart. You know that.

—I know.

—There are boys your age out there who will love you for real.

And then I broke. I cried like I hadn’t cried in years, with spasms shaking my shoulders and back. His hands came to my nape, to my hair, and gently drew me against his chest. I grabbed his shirt with both hands and held him with all the strength I had left.

—Easy, easy —he whispered to me. His voice cracked a little at the end—. That’s how things have to be. I’m an old man, my little one. You’re just starting out.

I wanted to scream at him that I didn’t care about age, that I didn’t care about problems, that the only thing that mattered to me was him. But my mouth wasn’t working. I let myself collapse and he settled in with me on the sofa, both of us lying on our sides, my face against his chest, his arm passing under my head like a pillow. One of his hands was slowly stroking my lower back. The other was patting my shoulder, slowly. But I was pressed against him completely, and with every movement I felt through his pants the heavy bulge of his cock against my thigh. He was hard. Mr. Vergara was hard for me. That discovery electrified me from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.

—I love you, Mr. Vergara.

—Oh, my little one. Don’t make things harder for yourself, sweetheart. You’re suffering too much for something impossible.

The crying came back. He pulled me against his body and let me drown it all in his shirt.

—Please, sweetheart, you’re going to make me cry too. You’re a wonderful girl who deserves...

—Tell me —I cut in against his chest—. Tell me I’m not crazy. That you feel something, even if it’s just a little. Even if it’s the tiniest thing in the world. Tell me you didn’t let me into your life just out of pity. That you wouldn’t do this for just anyone. Please, I’m begging you, tell me.

There was another silence. I felt him breathe deeply, hold his breath for a whole second, let it out little by little.

—No, sweetheart.

My heart stopped. I stopped breathing.

—You’re not wrong.

The air rushed back into my lungs all at once.

—I feel things for you too.

I squeezed him so hard my numb arm burned. I would have thanked God, the universe, anyone. For the first time that night everything stopped hurting.

—But it’s impossible, my little one.

I looked at him. I just looked at him, both of us with wet eyes. I ran my thumb along the corner of his mouth, slowly, as if I were drawing him. And without giving him time to pull away, I leaned in and shoved my tongue into his mouth. It was a clumsy kiss, the kiss of an eager girl, but he didn’t push me away. On the contrary: after two eternal seconds he kissed me back with a force that left me breathless, sucking my lower lip, pushing his tongue so deep into me that I could taste the whiskey and tobacco from his whole night.

—Don’t do this to me, sweetheart —he panted when he pulled back a centimeter.

—I’m begging you, Mr. Vergara. Just once. Just tonight. And tomorrow I’ll forget.

I lied. We both knew I lied. But he closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and when he opened them his pupils were dilated in a way I had never seen before. He hauled me up onto him in one jerk, hands on my hips, and sat me right on top of his hard cock. The fabric of his pants pressed against my soaked cunt, and the bulge settled exactly between my lips, pressing my clit through my wet panties.

—If we do this, we do it all the way. No half measures. Do you understand what I’m telling you, girl?

—Yes. Yes, sir. Fuck me. Fuck me like I know you fucked her a little while ago.

A rough growl escaped his chest when he heard me talk like that. He yanked my dress over my head and left me in my panties, with my tits bare, small and firm, the nipples so hard they hurt. He lowered his mouth straight to the right one and sucked it whole, with a rough tongue and tight lips, tugging at it with his teeth until I screamed. With his free hand he squeezed my other breast, pinching the nipple between two fingers while I shook over his bulge.

—My God, my little one. Such delicious tits. And you’re so wet. I can feel it through my pants, you’re soaking the fabric.

—It’s for you, sir. It’s all for you. I’ve been getting wet for you in secret for years.

He ran his tongue from my nipple to my collarbone, up my neck, and bit my earlobe. I rubbed my cunt against his cock like a cat in heat, the friction through the fabric a delicious torment that had my thighs trembling.

—Down. Get on your knees —he whispered in my ear.

I obeyed before he finished the sentence. I slid down between his legs and knelt on the rug, my face right at the level of his belt. I opened the buckle with clumsy fingers, lowered the zipper, and when I tugged his pants and underwear down, his cock sprang up and struck my cheek. It was enormous. Thick, veined, with a broad purplish head dripping a thick, clear pearl. I had never seen a cock that close. I had never seen a cock like that, period.

—Do you know how to do it? —he asked, gently gripping my hair.

—Not much. Teach me, Mr. Vergara. Teach me how to suck it the way you like.

Another growl escaped him. He brushed the head along my lips, painting them with his precome, and then slowly pushed in. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and felt his cock filling my tongue, hot, hard, with a salty, soapy taste. I sucked as best I could, clumsy, saliva slipping from the corners of my mouth, choking every time he pushed a little deeper. He guided me with his hand at my nape, setting the rhythm, teaching me how to breathe through my nose when he was all the way inside.

—That’s it, my little one, that’s it. Suck it all. Swallow me whole. Look at how you open that pretty mouth for your Mr. Vergara.

His dirty words made my thighs press together. I swallowed and drooled, eyes watery and mascara streaked, looking up at him with all the devotion I was capable of. I licked from the base to the tip, sucked his balls one by one, slipped my tongue into the hollow of the head, and he let out a curse I had never heard him say.

—Enough, girl. Up. If you keep this up I’ll come in your mouth and I want to come inside you.

He lifted me under the arms and laid me back on the sofa. He ripped my wet panties off in one pull, leaving me completely naked, and spread my legs wide with both hands. He stared at my shaved cunt, swollen and shining with my own juices, and sighed like a man who had just seen something sacred.

—Look at you. Look how wet you are. You’re dripping all the way to your ass.

—Eat me out, sir. Please. Eat my cunt.

He lowered his head and buried his tongue directly in my clit. I screamed so loud I covered my mouth with both hands, terrified the neighbors would hear me. He licked me all over, going up and down, slipping his tongue into my cunt and pulling it out again, closing his lips around my clit and sucking until my whole body arched against his face. He put two thick, curved fingers inside me that found a spot I didn’t know existed, a spot that, when touched, made me lose my mind completely.

—Oh my God, Mr. Vergara, don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t stop!

He didn’t stop. He kept sucking and fingering me until the first orgasm of my life struck through me like lightning. I convulsed against his mouth, gripping his head with my thighs, letting out animal moans I didn’t recognize as my own. I soaked his face. I felt a warm gush come out of me and he kept sucking, growling against my cunt, swallowing everything I gave him.

—Oh, girl. You’re a little fountain. I’ve never made anyone cum like that before.

He climbed over me, still dressed from the waist up, with his cock pointed straight at my entrance. He gripped the shaft and rubbed the head against my dripping lips, up and down, tapping my clit with the tip in a way that had me moaning nonstop.

—Are you sure, my little one? Now is the time. After this there’s no turning back.

—Put it in me, Mr. Vergara. Fuck me. Break me. Make me yours.

He pushed in slowly. I felt his head open me, felt my cunt stretch around him to accommodate him, felt how every inch that entered filled me more than I had ever imagined. I let out a long moan when he reached the hilt. It hurt and at the same time it was the most wonderful sensation in the world. He was inside me. Mr. Vergara was inside me.

—You’re so tight, you little bitch. Such a delicious cunt. You’re choking my cock.

—It’s all yours, sir. My whole cunt is yours. Fuck me hard, please.

He started moving. At first slowly, with long thrusts that almost pulled me all the way out and filled me back up to the very last inch. Then faster, and faster, until the sofa began hitting the wall and his balls slapped against my ass with a wet smack that filled the whole room. I tangled my legs around his back, opening myself as much as I could, feeling his cock slam into my depths with every stroke.

—Yes, yes, yes, like that, sir, harder, don’t stop, fuck me, fuck me.

—Look how it goes in and out, girl. Look at yourself. Look at my cock going into your little cunt.

I looked down and almost came again just from seeing it. His cock shone all over with my juices, going in and out of me with a sticky sound, and my cunt hugged it, sucked it, didn’t want to let it go. He grabbed my hips and pounded into me even harder, his face transformed, teeth clenched, a possessed man.

—Get on all fours. I want to see your ass while I fuck you.

I turned so fast I almost fell off the sofa. I got on all fours, face pressed into the cushion and ass lifted toward him. I felt him spread my cheeks with both hands, felt him look at me all over, felt him land a sharp slap on my right cheek that made me scream.

—What a little ass. Holy God, what a pretty little ass you have, girl.

He shoved it in with one hard thrust and this time I felt it even deeper. He started fucking me from behind, gripping my hair with one hand and my hip with the other, setting a brutal rhythm that made me bite the cushion so I wouldn’t scream. Every thrust shook my whole body. My tits bounced against the sofa fabric, my thighs trembled, and the orgasm was building in my belly again.

—I’m going to come again, sir, I’m going to come, I’m going to come.

—Come, my little one. Come on my cock. Soak me completely.

I came screaming into the cushion, thighs shaking and cunt clenching his cock in spasms that he felt because he let out a savage growl and sped up even more. He drove his thumb into my ass entrance, just barely in, and I almost died of pleasure.

—I’m going to come too, sweetheart. Where do you want me to put it? Tell me where.

—Inside, sir. Inside me. Fill me up. Let it run down my thighs like it ran down hers.

It was the last thing he needed to hear. He thrust three, four more times with all his strength, sank all the way in, and I felt his cock swell inside me and explode in hot, thick spurts that filled me completely. There were many of them, one after another, long, and he moaned my name against my nape, biting my shoulder, grabbing my tits from underneath with both hands while he emptied himself inside me.

We stayed like that for a long while, joined together, unable to move. When he finally pulled away, I felt his semen start to trickle down my thighs, warm and thick, exactly as I had imagined. I turned slowly and lay back on my spine, legs still open, looking at him. He collapsed beside me, panting, his cock still hard and shiny with my fluids and his come.

—Don’t do this to me, sweetheart —he whispered, but without any strength left.

—It’s okay.

And I smiled. I smiled like an idiot, my skin full of thorns, filthy, stained, exhausted, soaked inside and out by a man who had been impossible for years, discovering that you could be lost and happy at the same time.