On Fridays Valeria Was Always Ready

It was Friday, and Fridays had a language of their own.

I stopped in front of Valeria’s parents’ house and turned off the engine. I didn’t need to call her: the door opened before I even got out of the car, and there she was beneath the doorway, the evening light falling across her from the side. She was wearing the blue dress, the short one, the one that barely brushed her thighs. The V-neck hinted at the curve of her tits without quite revealing them, and that, in itself, was a form of provocation I knew well.

She knew perfectly well what she was doing. For months, we had been building this ritual on the nights that followed sex, when we were both lying there defenseless and I told her my ideas in a low voice, almost a whisper, with my cock still soft against her thigh and her pussy soaked with my cum. She listened, sometimes asked questions, and the following week she would appear transformed into the exact version of what I had described. Today, as always: no underwear. No panties, no bra. Just blue fabric against bare skin and that pussy waiting.

“Hi,” she said from the doorway, with that barely-there smile.

“You look perfect,” I told her as I opened the passenger door.

She got into the car with that grace of hers, crossing her legs slowly, and the dress rode up enough that, before I even put the car into first gear, I could already see the wet shine between her thighs and knew everything I needed to know about the state of things.

***

We left the neighborhood with the radio turned low. As soon as we reached the main avenue, my right hand left the steering wheel.

“Touch yourself,” I said. It wasn’t an order. It was a request we both knew how to finish.

Valeria didn’t hesitate. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of the dress with calm familiarity, without hurry, without theatrics. I heard her inhale through her nose when she brushed her clitoris with the tip of her middle finger.

“I was already wet,” she said, almost to herself.

“I know. Open your dress. I want to see your fingers.”

She pulled the fabric up to her waist without taking her eyes off the windshield. I glanced over: her pussy was open, glistening, two fingers sliding slowly between the swollen lips, a strand of fluid stretching between fingertip and flesh every time she pulled them apart. Her cheeks flushed with that pink that only appeared in these moments. She kept her eyes on the road, wearing the expression of someone trying to seem normal while coming apart inside, and her fingers began moving in slow circles over the clitoris whose rhythm I recognized from her breathing.

“Put them inside,” I said at the next traffic light. “Two. Slowly.”

She obeyed. First she brought the two fingers to her mouth, sucking them with calculated slowness, then lowered them and sank them into her pussy up to the knuckles. The wet sound rose above the radio, that unmistakable smack of fingers entering and leaving a soaked woman. I drove and watched her from the corner of my eye. The red light was almost a gift.

“Slower,” I requested. “I want you to come just before the theater.”

She pressed her lips together and looked at me from the side, with that mixture of irritation and surrender that I found hard to describe in words but recognized instantly.

“You’re impossible, Andrés.”

“I know. Keep going.”

Her fingers obeyed. Slower. More precise. Her thumb on her clitoris, two fingers inside, her wrist barely turning with each thrust. She lowered her shoulder against the seatback, and her breathing grew shorter, more irregular, with brief pauses whenever I stared at her for too long. I watched her pinch one nipple through the fabric with her free hand, watched the tip stiffen against the cotton. By the time we found a parking spot in front of the complex, her neck was resting against the seat, her thighs spread as far as the seat belt allowed, and her eyes were half-closed. The seat beneath her was dark with moisture.

“Now,” I said.

Four seconds later her body tensed, a muffled moan escaped between her teeth, and her hand went still with her fingers buried all the way inside while her pussy throbbed around them. I watched her open her eyes slowly. She pulled out her fingers, dripping with her juices, and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them clean without looking away from hers, savoring the salty, sweet taste.

“Good,” I said, releasing the handbrake.

“You’re such an asshole,” she murmured. But she was smiling.

***

The line at the theater was short. We chose a movie without reading the title, simply looking for the nearest showing. We bought something to drink purely for show. The auditorium was almost empty, with a couple of people in the center rows and someone sitting alone in the back left, staring at the screen without moving.

We sat in the back, in the right-hand corner, and as soon as the lights dimmed, my hand found her knee.

“Spread your legs a little,” I whispered.

Valeria settled into the seat slowly, fully aware of every movement in a way I found impossible to ignore. She spread her legs as far as the seat allowed and let one knee fall against mine. It was as though, in these moments, she became someone else: not less herself, but more. More focused. More present in her own body.

I slipped my hand beneath her dress.

She was hot, still soaked from what we had done in the car, her lips swollen and her clitoris hard beneath my thumb. I felt her hold her breath when I touched her, and that moment of restraint, that second before surrender, was better to me than anything else. I began slowly, drawing small circles over her clitoris, feeling her abdomen contract against the back of my hand. The screen cast colors across her profile. She stared ahead with an expression of absolute concentration on the movie that fooled no one, although no one was watching.

I slid two fingers inside her.

Her pussy swallowed them all at once, tight and slippery, and she gave a small start that made the seat creak. Her hand found my forearm, not to stop me but to hold on, digging her nails into me through my sleeve. Her hips made an almost imperceptible movement forward, seeking greater depth.

“Stay still,” I whispered.

“I can’t,” she replied through her teeth.

“Try.”

I crooked my fingers upward, searching for that rough spot that drove her crazy. I found it. She let out a gasp that I had to muffle by putting my other hand over her mouth. I felt her lips part against my palm, her wet tongue searching for air, her teeth brushing me without quite biting. With two fingers inside her and my thumb on her clitoris, I began setting a rhythm that matched the changes of shot in the movie. I increased the pace, paused, began again. I heard her breathe against my hand, felt her hot breath striking my skin, and her pussy soaking the seat beneath her.

She bit her lip until it turned white. When she came, her hips lifted off the seat and her pussy clamped around my fingers so tightly I could barely move them. The sound she made was so small that only I heard it, half-covered by the soundtrack, but I felt it completely in the way her muscles closed and opened in waves while her body decided without consulting her. I pulled out my soaked fingers, brought them to her lips, and she sucked them slowly, looking at me from the corner of her eye.

We left before the movie ended.

***

We had known about the dirt road for almost a year. It was a turnoff just before the industrial park, among eucalyptus trees that smelled different depending on the season. In spring, they smelled of resin and dry earth, with crickets filling the silence in a way that made everything more intimate.

I parked among the trees. I turned off the headlights. For a moment we remained silent, listening to the engine cool.

“Get out,” I told her.

Valeria got out without asking questions. The hood still held the engine’s heat, and when I gently pushed her against it, her hands searched for support and lay flat on the metal.

I lifted her dress to her waist. Her ass was bare, white beneath the little moonlight filtering through the branches, with that curve of her hip that made me need to fill it with my hands. I ran my open palm over one cheek, squeezed it hard enough to leave the imprint of my fingers, and spread her legs with one knee between them.

“Look toward the trees,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I like it.”

She turned her head. I unzipped my fly, pulled out my cock, and ran it a couple of times between the lips of her pussy to coat it in her wetness. She moaned when the tip brushed her clitoris. There wasn’t much light left, but enough to see the line of her back, the curve of her hips, the way she clung to the metal as though she needed to hold on to something solid. I penetrated her with one thrust, all the way to the hilt, and the sound she made against the night was unlike anything she made between four walls. Freer. Unfiltered. A long, deep moan that disappeared among the eucalyptus trees.

I began to move.

At first slowly, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back into her, feeling her pussy tighten around me with every thrust. She arched her back, raised her ass, searched for the angle. I grabbed her hip with one hand and the nape of her neck with the other, pressing her against the hood, and sped up. The blows of my thighs against her ass sounded obscene in the silence of the woods, a wet, dull slap repeating without pause. Her fingers scratched the paint. I bit her shoulder slowly, then her neck, marking her with my teeth above the collarbone. She threw her head back and said my name twice, the second time almost like a question, and I changed the angle so she would say it a third time.

“Harder,” she begged. “Fuck me harder.”

I gave it to her. I held her by the hips with both hands and pounded her without mercy, watching her ass tremble with every blow, hearing the air escape between her teeth. I ran a finger along the cleft of her ass, wet with the juices running down her thighs, and pressed against her other hole with the fingertip. She cried out, muffled, and her pussy clenched around my cock in a contraction that nearly made me come.

“To the seat,” I said, pulling out with a wet smack.

Then we changed positions. She climbed on top in the back seat, her knees on either side of my hips, her dress pushed up to her armpits. I tore the dress open from the top, leaving her completely naked, and her tits swayed in front of my face with every movement. She gripped my shoulders, lowered herself slowly, and swallowed my entire cock again with a guttural moan. I watched her. I always liked watching her, but in this state more than any other: her eyes half-closed, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her nipples hard and reddened from the friction, beads of sweat sliding between her tits.

I sucked one nipple, biting it gently, while she began riding me faster and faster. Her ass struck my thighs, the seat creaked, and the window fogged with our breath. I grabbed her buttocks with both hands and helped her rise and fall, guiding the rhythm, feeling her pussy squeeze me with every downward stroke.

“Don’t stop,” she said.

I didn’t stop. I thrust up from below, lifting my hips to drive into her all the way, and she dropped down completely, moaning louder and louder, no longer caring about the noise. When she came, she trembled all over, her pussy squeezing me in waves that dragged me along a second later. I came inside her, pushing her down with both hands on her hips, feeling my cum fill her and immediately spill over the edges, wetting my balls and thighs.

We came only moments apart, and afterward we remained still for a long while, her forehead resting against mine, my cock still inside her and slowly softening, the sound of crickets entering through the half-open window. A thread of semen ran down her thigh and stained the upholstery. Neither of us moved to clean it.

***

The first time the patrol found us was in October, almost at the very beginning.

We were in the back seat, Valeria on top of me with my cock inside her, when blue lights illuminated the interior of the car. We both stopped at once, without agreeing to. She stood up, pulled my cock out of her pussy with a wet smack, and lowered her dress. I pulled up my pants with my shaft still wet with her.

A sharp knock on the window.

“Identification.”

The officer was young, barely older than we were. He looked into the car with the expression of someone who already knew what he would find. I handed him my ID, he checked it, returned to the patrol car for a moment, then came back.

“You can’t park here at night. Move along.”

“Understood. It won’t happen again.”

It happened twice more. The second time, Valeria was sucking my cock with her head buried in my lap when the lights arrived; she sat up abruptly with a strand of saliva hanging from her chin. The third time, they simply slowed down, illuminated us for a second with the flashlight, and continued on without stopping. From then on, we only saw the patrol car passing in the distance, slowly, recognizing ours.

We never talked about it much, but something about that risk aroused us in a way neither of us had managed to recreate in any other situation.

***

One November night, we stayed in the car with the windows open and the cold entering in small doses. Valeria was leaning against my shoulder, naked from the waist down, my hand resting between her thighs with two fingers slowly buried in her soaked pussy.

“What do you think when you see me like this?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Like tonight. At the theater. In the car.”

It took me a moment to answer. Not because I didn’t know, but because there was a difference between feeling something and saying it. I moved my fingers slowly, pulling them out and sliding them back in, and she sighed against my neck.

“I like watching you surrender,” I said at last. “Not in a strange way. It’s just that when I see you like this, with your pussy open and dripping, unable to hide it, I know you’re choosing it. And that seems to me the most erotic thing there is.”

She said nothing for several seconds. She only tightened her thighs around my hand.

“And the theater? Knowing there were people nearby?”

“That too.”

“The fear of being seen?”

“Not exactly.” I searched for the words and crooked my fingers inside her. “It’s the idea that someone might see you like that, with my hand between your legs, making you come while you’re unable to keep quiet. Just the idea. That I’m the only one who knows what’s really happening, and that if someone looked, they’d see one thing while I’m seeing something completely different.”

Valeria lifted her head to look at me.

“Voyeurism in reverse,” she said.

“Something like that.”

She remained thoughtful for a moment, my fingers still moving inside her. Then she told me something she had never mentioned before: once, at a college party, she had ended up on the terrace with someone. They hadn’t gone as far as fucking, but she had let him put his hand beneath her skirt, and the moment she realized there might have been witnesses watching her from the garden below, she came harder than ever. Not with shame. With something different, more difficult to name.

“That’s why the theater didn’t surprise you,” I said.

“That’s why it didn’t surprise me.”

I ran my free hand through her hair while I kept slowly fucking her with the fingers of the other. We were speaking in that tone of conversation that exists only very late at night, when defenses drop and things are said without calculating them. She moved slightly, riding my fingers, seeking more pressure.

“Next week,” I said, “wear the black skirt. The short one. No stockings. No panties.”

She smiled against my neck and slowly bit my earlobe.

“Where are we going this time?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.”

“I’m sure you will,” she murmured, squeezing my fingers with her pussy in a slow contraction.

My hand moved slowly down her back to her ass, and the November cold continued entering through the open windows while neither of us did anything to close them.