The Silhouette That Came into My Living Room That Night

There are confessions one drags around for years without daring to give them shape. This is one of them, and I still don’t know whether I’m telling it to free myself of its weight or to live through it once more. The house was silent that night. I had fallen asleep on the sofa with the television on, that bluish light trembling against the walls when no one is looking at it anymore.

I woke with a presence. Not with a noise: with a presence, that animal certainty that you are no longer alone in a room. I opened my eyes and could only make out a shape in the gloom, outlined by the flicker of the set. A silhouette standing there, motionless, naked. I said nothing. Neither did she.

She knelt in front of me without a word and tugged at my pants and my underwear with a decisiveness that admitted no questions. I lifted my hips to make it easier for her, as if some part of me already knew, already expected it, already had consented long before waking up.

She started softly. Her mouth closed over the tip, which had already been hardening for a while, and her lips made a slow, precise suction. Her tongue teased the frenulum, that sensitive flesh throbbing with more and more urgency. She didn’t let me in all the way, not yet. Just the glans, trapped between her lips, while she sucked, licked, and pulled in a suction that tore the first moan of the night from me.

Now and then she looked up and met my eyes. I couldn’t see her face well in the dark, but I felt that gaze as another hand on my skin. Then she went back to her task, focused, like someone giving herself over to something long desired.

Saliva gathered on the tip and mixed with my own fluid. Then she opened her mouth wider. Her tongue withdrew and let her whole mouth sink down, deep. Her lips clenched around the shaft, her tongue pressed hot and wet against the underside, and everything in me began throbbing again with an anxiety I didn’t remember feeling in a long time.

She went up and down slowly. She tipped her head back, leaving a trail of saliva on the burning skin, and then sank forward again with a wet sound until she reached the back of her mouth. She did it unhurriedly, as if we had the whole night ahead of us and no reason to rush.

Her hands, which until then had only been used to pull down my clothes, joined in. One closed around the shaft, hot, firm. The other soaked up the saliva dripping down and moved to stroke the rest, and when I felt that contact a shiver escaped me. She answered with a low sound, a brief, contained laugh that vibrated through her mouth and ran through me like a second wave of pleasure.

***

Her head moved up and down faster and faster. I could feel her breasts brushing my legs in rhythm with the blow job, her hardened nipples barely dragging over my thighs. I knew those breasts. I knew that if I squeezed them, bit them, trapped them in my hands, she would come apart. But that night I didn’t want to interrupt her. I wanted to see how far she intended to take me.

The suction drove me insane. She pulled at the skin, compressed every vein, demanded something I wasn’t yet ready to give. One hand accompanied the motion of her lips, tightening on the way up and easing on the way down until it touched her own mouth. The other was driving me crazy: weighing, massaging, playing with a calculated slowness that pressed my back against the sofa.

Suddenly her mouth stopped. It slid downward in a long, continuous kiss along the shaft. I felt her tongue come out, reach the root, lick, while her hand never stopped moving, making use of all the saliva she had poured out. She went lower. A wild shiver raced through me when her hot mouth closed over the rest, searing, sucking, her tongue caressing and tightening the skin.

Then a slow side-to-side motion, licking, rising again to the tip to collect the clear drops and descending once more. That time she went lower. She gently moved me aside with her hand and kept going down, and I felt her tongue on a spot where I had never believed pleasure could hurt so good. I felt my spine breaking apart. Her two hands never stopped.

One of them left its place and pushed one of my thighs aside. I knew what she was after. I shifted a little on the sofa and made the way easier for her. Her tongue went even lower, explored, dared, pressed. I heard her lips kissing, sucking, her breath spilling against the most sensitive skin while the other hand kept running over me from top to bottom without mercy.

***

And then she came back up all at once. Her lips parted, she moaned as she swallowed the whole shaft again, and began to gain ground with every movement. One hand disappeared for a moment. The other kept working down below, playing, until one of her fingers pressed slowly and finally slipped inside me. Her mouth sucked hard, with determination, like someone claiming something she considered hers by right.

Then I heard another sound. A faint, rhythmic splashing. She was fingering herself while sucking me off and taking me with her finger. She was so aroused that I felt her shudder soon enough; her mouth vibrated in a stifled moan around me until she nearly cried out, coming apart in a fast orgasm she had brought on herself, never letting go of me.

She didn’t stop. The finger going in and out, the other hand squeezing, the mouth taking me deeper and deeper, holding me there at the edge, letting thick saliva fall and trying again. She brought her hand, soaked with her own pleasure, to my lips and offered it for me to lick while she kept sucking. I did. It tasted sweet and salty at once, dense, with the promise of much more.

My hands gripped the arms of the sofa. I was starting to throb all over and she had to be feeling it. The finger sank in without mercy, the free hand started jerking me with need, along the shaft while the palm of the other hand squeezed, claiming the harvest. And then it came.

A shiver climbed my back. I felt my ears clog, as if my whole body were asking for reinforcements all along my spine. That ecstatic second, that little death, that suspended instant in which, just before spilling, time is reduced to nothing: life, death, the universe, or perhaps only that sofa. I don’t know if the hands of the clock kept turning. Then one, two, three throbs and I started emptying myself in lashes that made me groan and press into her mouth.

She opened it fully and I felt her swallow, slowly, her hand milking me with an almost reverent softness. The other left my body to caress what was left, never stopping pressing that spot between the legs that was still throbbing. When I thought I had no air left, when I thought surrender would take hold of me, she did not give in.

***

She kept sucking harder, moaning around the shaft, not letting the blood recede. The pleasure turned almost painful, hypersensitive, and then transformed into a second erection, more intense, more awake than the first.

She pulled me out of her mouth, mouth full, and finally spoke:

—Give me more… give me more, please —she said, barely parting her lips from the skin.

My fingers dug into the sofa arm. She straightened up on her knees, drew the shaft toward her mouth, and I let out a moan when I saw a slow thread of saliva slide over the tip, lubricating it for what was coming. Her mouth came down over it all, all the way to the root, all the way to the back. I felt her breath on my skin as she held it there, motionless, not letting go of the hand that was squeezing again.

And she started fingering herself again. I heard her soak herself, moan, until she came again, and her orgasm set mine off. The train derailing once more, the pounding, the vertigo. That time she moved away gently and guided me toward her open hand. One hand milked me, the other gathered everything, unhurried, while I moaned and struggled to breathe. Only when I was finished, when I thought I’d have to fight for every breath, did she get to her feet.

Naked again, a shadow in the dark. She opened her legs slowly, passed one over mine, and sat right in front of me, struggling to breathe. Without taking her eyes off me, she began to lick the semen from her hand. Her tongue came out in long strokes, her lips sucked at her palm, her fingers disappeared one by one inside her mouth.

But there was still a little left. A heavy thread fell slowly, almost in slow motion, onto my chest. I felt it slide. Then she leaned in and scooped it up with her tongue, that same tongue that had been everywhere, and followed the trail upward, over my neck, over my chin, until she kissed me. A thick, heavy kiss, drunk on sex and night.

It tasted like that, like everything that had just happened, but also like her own arousal and the mute promise that it wasn’t over yet. She pulled away. She looked into my eyes in the half-light. Her tied-up hair, reddish, shone faintly in the television glow.

And then she said it, with a smile that still haunts me today:

—Did you like it, daddy?