The Desire I Kept in My Shop for Twenty-Five Years

Marisol had kept exact count. Twenty-five years since she came down from the village with a suitcase and one fixed idea in her head: to open her own clothing shop in the capital. She was nineteen and had a boldness she couldn’t have said where it came from. The first person to walk through the door of that freshly painted place, even before she hung up the first garment, was Eduardo, the rep who brought her the season’s stock.

He was already nearing fifty then. Marisol remembers staring at him longer than she should have while he spread catalogs across the counter, with those big hands and that voice that seemed to be telling a secret even when he was talking about bulk discounts. That same afternoon she learned two things: that she was going to sell a lot of clothes, and that she liked that man in a way that had nothing to do with business.

The years went by and nothing ever happened. He had his life, she had hers. Marisol married Andrés, another shopkeeper from the neighborhood, and together they built something unusual for the time. They were an open couple before they knew that had a name. They were both bisexual, they both enjoyed men and women, and they both understood early on that hiding things from each other would only make them miserable. They told each other everything. Sometimes they even shared it.

But Eduardo she had never touched. He was the only name she had kept for herself, like someone leaving a bottle unopened, waiting for an occasion that might never come.

That occasion came on a Tuesday in March.

—I’m retiring at the end of the month —he told her that morning, leaving the last order on the counter—. After so many years, it’s over. I won’t be coming by anymore.

Marisol felt the announcement like a tug in her chest. Twenty-five years of catalogs, of shared coffee, of brushes she had fed in her imagination every night. And now he was leaving without her ever having said what she felt.

If it’s not now, it never will be.

—Come back this afternoon, when I close —she said, surprised by her own firmness—. I want to say goodbye properly.

Eduardo looked at her a moment longer than necessary. He nodded. They both knew that “say goodbye properly” meant something else. It meant that tonight he was finally going to fuck her, after twenty-five years of each imagining it on his own.

***

At eight she pulled the metal shutter halfway down and turned off the display lights. She left only the warm lamp in the back room on, that corner where she used to receive trusted customers for alterations. That afternoon she had prepared it differently. She had cleared the cutting table, brought some cushions from the old sofa, left a bottle of red wine breathing beside two glasses. Under her skirt she wasn’t wearing panties. She had taken them off in the bathroom half an hour earlier and left them in a drawer, like someone hiding evidence.

Eduardo arrived on time. Marisol slid the bolt back, let him in, and locked up again. The sound of the latch left them both in silence, alone for the first time in twenty-five years with no counter between them.

—I’m not really sure what I’m doing here —he said, but he didn’t move toward the door.

—I do —she answered—. You’re going to fuck me on that table. And I’m going to let you.

She held out a glass. Their fingers brushed as he took it and neither of them pulled away. Marisol felt her pulse in her throat, and also lower down, between her thighs, that wet throbbing she had been postponing for half her life. They drank while looking at each other, unhurried, measuring the ground like two people who had waited too long to make a mistake now.

—I’ll confess something —she said at last—. The day I opened the shop, you were the first one who came in. And from that day on I wanted this. Twenty-five years wanting it. Twenty-five years thinking about your cock when I was in bed.

Eduardo set his glass down on the table. He raised a hand and brushed a lock of hair from her face with a tenderness that didn’t fit his size.

—I thought it was just me —he murmured—. That I was making it up to keep from getting bored on the road. How many times have I come thinking about your mouth, Marisol. About your ass when you bent down to pick up boxes. You have no idea.

—I do, perfectly.

She kissed him first. She had imagined that kiss for so long that reality almost unraveled her: he tasted of wine and old tobacco, and he kissed slowly, without rushing, as if he too had rehearsed this moment many times alone. Marisol shoved her tongue deep into his mouth and felt him groan softly. She reached for his crotch with her hand, over his trousers, and found a hard bulge pressed tight against the fabric. She squeezed it slowly, weighing it, and felt Eduardo press closer to her.

—Fuck —he murmured against her mouth—. I’ve been like this since you opened the door.

—I’ve been like this since March of ninety-nine —she answered, and bit his lip.

***

—And Andrés? —Eduardo asked when they broke apart, his voice rough—. I don’t want to step where I shouldn’t.

Marisol smiled. She liked that he was concerned. It said a lot about him.

—Andrés knows everything. That’s how things have been from the start. We each have our things and we tell each other about them. He has his own too, trust me. —She ran a finger over his chest, over the shirt, and kept going down to the belt buckle—. Tonight I’m not stealing anything from anyone. This is mine. I’ve owed it to myself for twenty-five years. And I want to collect with interest.

She saw the tension leave his shoulders. The last scruple dissolved into the warm air of the back room.

—Then I’m not going to waste it —said Eduardo.

He unbuttoned her blouse one button at a time, slowly, pausing over each centimeter of skin that came into view. Marisol closed her eyes and let him. There was something intoxicating about being undressed by those hands she had known all her life, but which had never touched her like this. The blouse fell to the floor. Then the bra. The shop’s cool air raised gooseflesh along her skin and made her nipples hard as stones.

He looked at her the way you look at something you’ve waited a long time for. He didn’t say anything corny; there was no need. He took one breast in his whole hand, weighing it, and pinched her nipple between two fingers until she gasped. Then he lowered his head and kissed her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, and kept descending until he closed his lips over one of her nipples. He sucked it hard, tugging on it with his teeth, while with the other hand he squeezed her other breast. Marisol held her breath. She buried her fingers in his gray hair and held him there against her while he worked her with his tongue until she felt her tighten.

—Slower —she asked— or I’ll come without you even touching me down below.

Eduardo laughed softly against her skin. That laugh ran all the way down her spine.

—I’ll take care of touching you down below —he murmured—. For quite a while, too.

He yanked her skirt up to her waist and slipped his hand between her legs. When he discovered she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, he froze for a second, looking at her.

—Bitch —he said—. You came prepared.

—I came wet —she corrected—. Touch me and you’ll see.

He ran two fingers through the slit of her cunt, slowly, from bottom to top. He pulled them out shining. He took them to his mouth and sucked them without taking his eyes off her. Marisol felt herself burn all over.

—You taste like I imagined —said Eduardo.

He stripped her completely, never stopping kissing her, and Marisol ended up braced against the edge of the cutting table, completely exposed under the warm light, with her breasts thrust out and her legs slightly parted. He knelt. He opened her thighs with his hands, set one leg over his shoulder, and kissed her from the inside, first along the inner thigh, then moving up until he found her wet cunt. He ran his entire tongue over her from bottom to top, flat, pressing, and ended up licking her clit with the tip.

—Oh, fuck —Marisol moaned, throwing her head back—. Oh, Eduardo.

She bit her lip so she wouldn’t scream in a shop with the shutter half down.

—Just like that… exactly like that —she murmured, gripping the edge of the table—. With your tongue. Get it inside me.

He drove his tongue into her and she let out a long gasp. He pulled back, went up again to her clit, sucked it like his life depended on it, and slid two fingers into her at the same time. Marisol felt her knees weaken. He held her by the hips with his free hand, not letting her get away, while he worked her cunt with his mouth and fingers at once. He searched for a spot inside her, pressing upward with his bent fingers, and when he found it Marisol jerked involuntarily against his face.

—There, there, there… don’t stop.

He wasn’t in a hurry. He had twenty-five years of patience built up and spent them all in that moment, taking her right to the edge and letting her rest, over and over, until Marisol could no longer hold herself together. When he felt her about to come, he would pull his fingers out and move his mouth away, leave her trembling, gasping, cursing him under her breath, and start again. The third time he pulled the same trick, she grabbed his hair with both hands and pressed his face hard against her cunt.

—If you stop again I’ll kill you. Lick me until I come.

Eduardo laughed against her pussy, and that time he obeyed. He sucked her clit with his whole mouth, sucking hard while he fucked her cunt with three fingers, fast, merciless. Pleasure gathered in her belly like a tide and broke all at once. She shuddered through her whole body, her thighs closing around his head, gasping a name she had spent half her life not saying out loud. She felt herself come in streams against Eduardo’s tongue, soaking his chin, and he didn’t seem to care at all.

***

It took her a while to catch her breath. When she opened her eyes, Eduardo was standing and looking at her with a mixture of desire and wonder, as if he still couldn’t quite believe they were really there. His mouth was shining and his jaw tight. A thick bulge strained the fabric of his trousers.

—We’re not done —she said—. Now I want to see it.

She sat up, unbuttoned his shirt, and took it off him. She undid his belt with fingers that were no longer trembling from nerves but from pure urgency. She pulled down his trousers and briefs in one go, to his knees, and his cock sprang free, hard, thick, bigger than she had imagined for twenty-five years. Marisol stared at it for a moment, mouth slightly open.

—My God —she said—. And you’ve had that in your trousers all this time.

She sat on the edge of the table, grabbed his cock with her hand, and brought it to her face. She licked it slowly, from bottom to top, following the thick vein running along the underside. She kissed the head, took it in her mouth, first just the tip, sucking it as if it were fruit. Eduardo let out a rough groan that rumbled in his chest.

—Fuck, Marisol.

She took him into her mouth little by little, farther and farther, until she felt him hit the back of her throat. She pulled back, swallowed, and took him in again all the way. With one hand she massaged his balls, squeezing them gently. She looked up at him as she sucked him, searching for his eyes. His jaw tightened every time she moved her mouth up and down his cock, leaving it shiny with saliva.

—If you keep doing that I’m going to come in your mouth —he gasped.

Marisol yanked him out of her mouth all at once, breathing hard, keeping hold of the base with her hand.

—Not yet. I want you inside me. Now.

She lay back down on the table and pulled him toward her by the hips.

—Twenty-five years, Eduardo. Don’t make me wait any longer. Fuck me.

He positioned himself between her legs, grabbed his cock with his hand and ran it through her drenched cunt, nudging her clit. Marisol let out a moan of pure frustration.

—Don’t play. Put it in.

Then he entered her slowly, bracing both hands on the table, holding her gaze the whole time. Marisol let out a long sigh, the sigh of something that at last fits into place. She felt him open her, slide all the way in, touch a place that had been waiting half her life to be touched. He stayed still for a second inside her, teeth clenched, so he wouldn’t come right there.

—You’re so fucking tight —he said—. You’re… fuck.

—Fuck me —she answered, her legs already wrapped around his waist—. Hard. Break the table if you have to.

The outside world —the street, the shutter, the years— disappeared. There were only the two of them and the soft creak of wood beneath their bodies. Eduardo started moving, at first with long thrusts, all the way in, and then faster, shorter, slamming his hips against her thighs with a wet sound that filled the back room. Marisol dug her heels into his back, asked for more with her body and with her voice, and he answered every demand. The cutting table, where she had measured so many meters of fabric over the years, held up to the rocking as if it had been waiting all its life for that use.

—Harder —she gasped—. Deeper. Break me.

—You’re going to wake the neighborhood.

—I don’t give a fuck about the neighborhood.

He lifted her off the table, turned her, and set her face down, bent over the wood, ass up and feet barely touching the floor. Marisol let herself be arranged like a doll. She felt him spread her cheeks with his hands, looking at her.

—I’ve been wanting to see this ass like this for twenty-five years —said Eduardo.

He drove his cock into her in one thrust, all the way in, and she let out a muffled cry against the table. He grabbed her hips with both hands and started fucking her from behind, mercilessly, every thrust making her breasts bounce against the wood. He ran one hand up her back, reached her hair, and gripped it, pulling her head back.

—Tell me you’ve been wanting this for twenty-five years.

—Twenty-five years wanting your cock —she gasped—. Every night, Eduardo. Every single one.

He fucked her like that for a long while, until Marisol felt pleasure rising again from very deep inside, deeper and slower than the first time. He slipped one hand under her, searched for her clit, and started rubbing it while he kept driving into her. Marisol clutched the far edge of the table with both hands.

—I’m going to come —she warned—. I’m going to come again.

—I’m not going to last much longer —he gasped into her ear, leaning over her—. Where do you want to come?

—Inside. Come inside me. I want to feel it.

—Me too —he answered, laughing between gasps—. No need to hold back anything.

The second orgasm caught her mid-sentence, deeper and slower than the first. She felt it rise from very deep inside, squeezing her cunt around Eduardo’s cock in violent spasms, while he emptied himself at the same time, driving into her all the way with two, three final thrusts, groaning against her hair. Marisol felt the hot load filling her from within, felt him trembling on top of her, his arms going weak. The two of them clung to each other over the warm wood. They stayed like that for a long while, without separating, listening to each other’s hearts, with semen already starting to drip inside her thigh.

When he finally withdrew, slowly, Marisol let out a small sound of emptiness. She turned on the table, sat up with her legs still open, and ran two fingers through her soaked cunt. She brought them to her mouth without taking her eyes off him.

—We’re alike in our tastes —she said.

Eduardo let out a low groan, watching her do that, and sank down onto the floor, his back against the table, still breathing hard.

***

Afterward, half dressed, they finished the bottle of wine sitting on the floor, backs against the counter. Eduardo slipped an arm around her shoulders and Marisol settled against him as if they had done it a thousand times.

—Twenty-five years for this —he said—. We’ve been idiots.

—Not idiots —she corrected—. Patient. There are desires that taste better when you keep them a long time.

He glanced at her sideways, with a half smile.

—And now what? I’m retired. I won’t have an excuse to come by anymore.

Marisol shrugged and took a sip.

—Excuses can be invented. Now that I know what your cock tastes like, I’m not waiting another twenty-five years. —She brushed his cheek with her lips—. And Andrés is going to love the story. He might even want to meet you. He might even want to watch.

Eduardo burst out laughing, surprised, and for the first time all afternoon Marisol saw something like a future on his face. They toasted in silence, with the shutter half down and the city humming outside, oblivious to the fact that in that small clothing shop a woman had just settled the oldest debt she owed herself.