What Happened in That Dressing Room I Never Told Anyone

What I’m going to tell happened two years ago, when I was still studying architecture in Seville and living in a shared flat near the faculty. I’m telling it now because it keeps coming back every time I walk past a shop window, and I need to get it out of me even if it’s only by writing it down. I never told anyone. Not the girlfriend I had then, who lasted three months more, not my flatmates, who would have teased me about it for years.

It was a Friday at the end of September, it was still hot outside, and I had decided to skip my five o’clock class to refresh my wardrobe. I’d run out of decent jeans and the only shirt I wore out had a hole in the elbow my mother had promised to sew up three months earlier. I went into a shop on the main promenade, one of those big ones with two floors, headless mannequins and music at an uncomfortable volume. My name is Mateo. I was twenty-two and had the classic student look: tall, skinny, brown hair that never stayed still, a face like I’d never done a bad thing in my life.

I spent a while wandering among the racks, unable to decide. I’d pick up a garment, look at it, put it back. I was thinking of leaving when someone stopped beside me.

—Do you want help finding something, or would you rather keep shoving hangers around?

I looked up. The sales assistant was thirty, maybe a couple of years more, and wore the shop’s black uniform as if she’d designed it herself. She was Dominican, I understood that the moment she opened her mouth, though she spoke with a mixture of accents that was hard to place. Her name was Camila, according to the metal badge above her left breast. Hair gathered into a high bun, big earrings, lips painted a red that was not the red of ordinary shop assistants. It was the red of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

—I’m looking for jeans —I said, trying to keep my voice steady—. Waist forty-two, skinny. And a shirt.

—Come with me.

She took me by the elbow with a familiarity that didn’t belong to an employee and led me to the far end of the floor. She didn’t let go until we reached a rack at the back. She smelled of something citrusy, grapefruit or bergamot, I don’t know, I’ve never understood perfumes. But she smelled good. She smelled like someone who had put on perfume that morning knowing someone would smell it on her.

—These will fit you well —she said, pulling out two dark jeans and pressing them against my chest—. And this shirt too. Trust me.

—Why should I trust you?

She smiled without showing her teeth.

—Because I’ve been doing this for six years and because I like you. Let’s go to the fitting room.

The fitting rooms were at the back of the floor, in a long corridor with cubicles on both sides separated by thick burgundy curtains. No one else was waiting. The whole floor was half empty at that hour; it was that dead stretch before people got off work. Camila lifted the curtain of the last cubicle, the one at the back, and nodded for me to go in.

—If they’re too big, call me. I’m right outside.

I closed the curtain. I took my trousers off quickly, without thinking much, and tried on the first jeans. They were tighter than I was used to. The shirt also clung a little to my shoulders. I looked at myself in the mirror at the back of the cubicle and didn’t fully recognize myself. I looked better. I looked as if I had a different body.

—How are they? —asked the voice from outside.

—I think they’re good.

—Come out and we’ll check them in the big mirror.

I came out. The big mirror was at the end of the corridor, a whole wall. Camila was leaning against the curtain opposite, arms crossed, her eyes slowly taking me in from feet to head. I felt my ears go hot.

—Turn around.

I obeyed without thinking. And then, looking at my own reflection from behind, I felt her hand on the waistband of the jeans. Her fingers slipped under the waistband, cold, checking something that didn’t need checking. Her fingers went a little lower than necessary, brushing the curve of my ass over my boxer briefs, and stayed there a second too long, measuring me in a way that had nothing to do with the clothes.

—These are a bit loose on you here. Go back to the fitting room, I’ll bring another size.

I went back to the cubicle without arguing. I waited standing up, not knowing what to do with my hands, looking at myself in the mirror. My face was redder than I remembered ever seeing it. And I had something else: my dick was half-hard under my boxers, showing through the fabric, rising on its own from the instant she’d touched my waist. I adjusted myself in embarrassment, as if the mirror were looking at me too. Camila came back a minute later with other jeans and, instead of passing them to me under the curtain, she came into the cubicle with me and drew the curtain behind her. The booth was narrow. Too narrow for two.

—Is this allowed? —I asked, trying to sound casual and failing completely.

—What’s allowed and what’s done are two different things, college boy.

She looked at me with a smile that was not innocent and crossed her arms to indicate that I should change in front of her. I froze for a second. Then I turned my back to her and started taking off the jeans with clumsy hands. I could feel her eyes on my neck, on my shoulders, everywhere.

This isn’t happening.

But it was happening.

I was left in my boxers. And before I could put on the new jeans, I felt her hand on my hip. A firm hand, knowing exactly where it was going. The other came around the front and squeezed my dick over the cotton without any preamble, checking how hard I was with the same confidence with which she’d measured my waist a moment ago. A short gasp escaped me and bounced off the fitting room walls.

—Easy, Mateo. And quiet. You’ve got it nice and hard already, huh? —she whispered, squeezing again, this time with her whole hand, making the bulge show between her fingers—. It’s obvious no one’s touched you properly in a while.

—I didn’t tell you my name.

—It’s on the bank card sticking out of your jeans pocket. Want me to stop?

I had to say yes. I had a girlfriend. I had an exam on Monday. I had a thousand rational reasons and none of them came to mind in time. Her hand was still there, moving now in a slow rocking motion over the fabric, and every brush of her fingers sent the blood up to my face and down in the opposite direction.

—No.

That was the only thing I managed to say.

Camila turned me toward her. She pushed me gently against the back wall and kissed me. Her mouth tasted of mint gum and of something else, coffee or something bitter under the sweet. Her lips were softer than they looked, but she used her teeth with intent. She bit my lower lip just as I started to relax and I let out a ridiculous sound I’d never made in front of anyone. Her tongue found mine and sucked it deep, slowly, as if she were showing me in miniature what she meant to do to me in full. At the same time, her hand stayed on my groin, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that had me pushing my hips against her without realizing it.

—Shhh. There are people outside. If we get caught, we’re both in trouble. And if they hear you moaning like a girl, even worse —she whispered against my mouth, and smiled when another gasp slipped out of me as she squeezed harder.

I nodded. My voice wouldn’t come.

Her hands went down my chest, over my stomach, to the elastic of my boxers. She pulled them down to my ankles without the slightest ceremony. My cock sprang up, hard, the tip already shining with fluid, and Camila let out a low sound somewhere between her throat and her teeth.

—Fuck, college boy. Look what you had tucked away down there.

She grabbed it with her right hand, all of it, closing her fingers around the base and squeezing just enough to make me shut my eyes. She moved it slowly, up and down, dragging her thumb over the glans every time she reached the tip, spreading the fluid that was leaking out of me on its own. I was already hard, had been hard since the moment she drew the curtain behind the two of us. My whole face was burning and my mouth had gone dry.

—For a good boy, you’ve got the look of someone who’s drooling —she said, kneeling in front of me without letting go of my cock for a second—. And a cock that’s nothing like a good boy’s. Let’s see if you can keep quiet.

—I’m not that...

I didn’t finish the sentence. She took me into her mouth in one movement, all the way to the back, until I felt the soft palate close over the glans, and anything I was about to say turned into a groan that I had to swallow halfway by biting my fist.

Camila was good. Really good. Her tongue did things I didn’t know could be done, and she combined suction with pressure and with a hand moving around the base that had me gripping the curtain for fear I’d fall. She went up and down with her mouth sealed tight around me, until she pulled my cock out completely and ran her tongue flat over the tip, licking up the fluid that was coming out, sucking my glans with her lips closed as if it were a candy. Then she took me back in whole, her throat yielding to me, and held there for a few seconds with her eyes closed and her cheeks hollowed before coming back up, a thread of saliva connecting her mouth to the tip. She spat on me, a small, controlled spit, and used her own saliva to give me a long, slow handjob while she sucked my balls one by one, taking them into her mouth with a soft suction that made my knees actually buckle.

She looked at me from below. That was the worst part. That was what was going to make me finish too soon. Her face knew exactly what she was doing, knew the effect she was having. The red lipstick had smeared a little and ringed her mouth with a wet border, my cock going in and out between those stained lips, her chin shining with spit. She took her free hand to her breasts over the uniform and squeezed them through the fabric, and with the other she kept jerking me in sync with her mouth.

—Stop —I whispered—. I’m going to... Stop.

She pulled away with her mouth shining and a crooked smile.

—Not yet, college boy. I want to see how far you can go.

She squeezed the base of my cock hard with two fingers, cutting off my orgasm dead, and held me like that for a few seconds until the trembling died down. She stood up and, without taking her eyes off me, slipped her hand under the skirt of the uniform. I saw the movement. I felt as if my heart had stopped. She pulled out a black panty, plain, cotton, and held it dangling from one finger for a few seconds before stuffing it into the pocket of the jeans on the floor. The panty was wet. I saw it. It had a dark stain in the middle of the cotton that left no doubt about anything.

—So you’ll remember me.

—Camila...

She took my hand and slid it under her skirt herself. She guided my fingers to a soaked pussy, hot, with no hair, the lips already swollen and parted. She made me run my fingers all the way through the slit, up and down, and the moment I brushed her clit she let the air out through her nose and bit her lip.

—See? I’ve been like this too. Since I saw your face by the rack.

She put two of my fingers inside her, guiding me, and moved them slowly until she pulled them out wet. She brought them to her mouth and sucked each one clean, staring fixedly at me without blinking.

—Turn around.

She turned me and pushed my hands against the mirror of the cubicle. I felt her skirt being hiked up to her waist. One of her legs slid between mine to pull them apart. Her hand guided me to where I needed to be, rubbing the tip of my cock all over her slit, soaking it with her, sliding it up and down until she lined me up at the entrance. She pushed her hips back and took me in one go, all the way, until I felt the fabric of her skirt wrinkled against my balls. When I went in, both of us held our breath at the same time. The gesture was identical. We almost laughed against the mirror.

—Fuck, you’re so tight —I blurted out, and had to bite my tongue at how clumsy it sounded.

—Shut up and fuck me properly, college boy. No noise.

—Don’t make noise —she whispered into my ear, and started moving against me.

She held me tight. She was hot inside, wet in an obscene way, and every time she pushed her hips back I felt her cunt sucking me in whole, contracting around me and refusing to let go. One of her hands dug into my thigh, the other braced against the mirror beside mine, fingers spread as if she were trying to hold on to something that kept slipping away. I tried to go slowly, tried to last longer than I was going to last, but she set the pace and the pace kept getting faster. She was fucking me, really, driving herself against the mirror with her hips, taking my cock all the way to the hilt with each movement, breathing low with her mouth shut against my shoulder. I felt her teeth in my neck. I felt one of her hands come around the front and grab my balls, squeezing them softly in time with her thrusts.

—Harder —she breathed into my ear—. You push too. Tear my cunt apart, come on.

I started pushing back against her, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in to the hilt. A short moan escaped her, which she herself smothered by biting her sleeve. The whole cubicle smelled of sex, of my cock wet with her, of her open cunt, of grapefruit from the perfume mixed with sweat. The fitting-room curtain trembled with every movement. Down the corridor, another saleswoman’s voice could be heard speaking to a customer about blouses from the new collection. My forehead was pressed against the mirror, right beside the reflection of her face, which smelled of her perfume and fresh sweat, and I was thinking that anyone, anyone, could open that curtain and find us like this, with my hands spread against the glass and her skirt hiked up to her waist and her naked ass slapping against my groin with a wet sound we had to cover by breathing in short, broken gasps.

Camila took one hand to her pussy while I kept driving into her. I saw it in the reflection, her fingers moving fast on her clit, her mouth open against my shoulder, her eyes half closed. She pressed closer to me, crouched a little so the penetration hit her differently, and suddenly I felt her close around my cock in a series of spasms that left me breathless. She came, biting the palm of her hand so she wouldn’t scream, pushing her ass back so I wouldn’t pull out, grinding herself against me through the last tremor. Her cunt was dripping. I felt a hot thread slide down over my balls.

That thought finished me off.

—Don’t hold back —she murmured, reading my face in the reflection—. Not inside. Pull it out and come over me, wherever you want. But don’t let go until the end, give me more, just a little more.

I gave her three or four more thrusts, fast, brutal, my open hand on her hip to hold her there, and when I felt there was no turning back I withdrew with an effort I didn’t think I could make. I grabbed my cock and finished over her thigh with a series of spasms that almost buckled my knees. Thick, hot ropes came out, one after another, first against the inner thigh and then against the lower part of her ass, sliding down her dark skin in two white trails that joined and slowly ran toward the crease behind her knee. It was long. Longer than I myself expected. When I was done, my legs were trembling and my hand was full of warm semen. Camila held me by the nape and kissed me until I stopped shaking. Her mouth still tasted of mint. It didn’t matter what happened, she still smelled and tasted clean.

—Good boy. Good boy, college boy. What a load you had saved up.

—And you?

—I already came with you inside me, idiot, didn’t you notice? —she laughed softly, biting my earlobe—. And at home I’ll take care of it again, slowly, thinking about that face you’re making right now. This was for you.

She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt, cleaned my cock carefully, running the cloth over the whole length and over my balls too, wiped her thigh and the semen sliding down the back of her leg, and put it away as if it were evidence. Then she straightened her uniform, fixed her bun, put her lipstick back on without a mirror, and licked a corner of her mouth where a shiny trace remained. I was still trying to catch my breath, leaning against the wall, with my cock still half-hard and hanging, unable to move.

—Get dressed. I’m leaving first. Wait two minutes.

—Camila.

—Yeah?

—Did this...?

—This happens. Now pay for the jeans and go home to finish coming thinking about me, because I know you’re going to do it.

She walked out as if nothing had happened. I stayed there leaning against the mirror, listening to the pulse in my neck still pounding in my ears and the throb of my cock still in my hand. I dressed with clumsy hands, getting the buttons of the shirt wrong, my legs still weak. When I came out of the fitting room, she was on the other side of the floor serving a couple of tourists, not looking at me.

I paid for the jeans and shirt at a different till. I did it on purpose. The cashier charged me without lifting her eyes from the barcode reader. In the pocket of the new jeans, folded in four, was the black panty, still damp inside.

***

I stepped out into the street with the feeling that the air weighed differently. My legs were shaking a little. My head was spinning. I sat on a bench in the nearest square and stayed there for a while looking at a fountain, not thinking about anything in particular. Three buses passed. Two couples with strollers passed. A group of German tourists passed while a guide explained something to them about the cathedral.

I went back to the shop twice more over the following month. The first time she wasn’t there. The second time she was, but she was busy with a customer and only looked at me for a second, a look that said something like: not now, college boy, not on my shift. After that I stopped going back. Not out of pride. Out of fear that it would happen again and out of fear that it wouldn’t.

That was two years ago. The black panty is still at the bottom of the sock drawer, under a couple of pairs I never wear. I took it out once, a few weeks ago, just to make sure it had existed. It still smells like that grapefruit, though that must be my imagination by now. I put it back at the bottom and closed the drawer. Some nights, when I’m alone at home, I take it out again and jerk off slowly with it between my fingers, smelling it, closing my eyes and going back to the cubicle, to her lipstick-smeared mouth sliding down my cock, to the reflection of her face biting her hand in the mirror. Then I fold it back into four and put it away, as if keeping it properly could make it last longer.

I’m telling it now because you eventually understand that some afternoons don’t stay in the afternoon. They stay inside and move around. And if you don’t let them out, you end up writing them down. Here’s mine.