I Followed That Woman to a Place I’d Never Been Before

Dear diary:

I’m going to tell you something I haven’t told anyone. Not because I’m ashamed, but because some things belong only to yourself and to the paper where you write them. And this is one of those things.

I’d been in that city for eight days when it happened. A city that wasn’t mine, where I didn’t know the streets or the bars or the way its people looked at strangers. The company had sent me there to wrap up an audit that had gone on longer than expected, and between Rodrigo, the consultant who acted as my guide in the mornings, and Lorena, the manager’s secretary who handed me the orders every afternoon, I practically had no one else to talk to all day.

The work ended on the dot. Company hotels have that particular quality: clean room, decent wifi, and the emptiness of the afternoons staring at you from the window as if it expected payment. After Tuesday’s meeting I went out with no particular destination. I needed to walk, feel the weight of my feet against the asphalt, forget for a while about the numbers and spreadsheets and Rodrigo’s bored face explaining the local context.

It was on a narrow street, about ten blocks from the hotel, that I saw her.

She was walking ahead of me, about twenty meters away. Dark skirt to the knee, low heels, a cadence in her stride that made it hard to look away. Her black hair fell to her shoulders and she had a waist that contrasted with the generous width of her hips. I followed her legs without fully deciding to, the way you follow music from a loudspeaker without consciously choosing to walk toward it. Her ass showed under the fabric every time she set down a heel, two firm hemispheres moving with that hypnotic rhythm one recognizes from ten meters away and that gets into your blood without asking permission.

At some point she turned her head. She saw me looking at her. Instead of speeding up or getting uncomfortable, she stopped just slightly, looked me straight in the eye, and gave me the most mischievous smile anyone had given me in a long time. Then she gave a slight shake of her head forward, as if inviting me, and pushed open the metal door of a place I hadn’t even noticed.

The door had no sign. Just a small plaque and a silver intercom beside the frame.

I stood on the sidewalk for a few seconds. My heart was beating faster than was reasonable for the situation. For months I had been turning over the idea after accidentally seeing a video that had left me with a curiosity that was hard to ignore. I had thought about it seriously, dismissed it, then thought about it again while falling asleep, while jerking off in the shower imagining anonymous mouths on the other side of a wall. I was in a city that wasn’t mine, where nobody knew me, where in fifteen days I’d be just a name in a hotel log.

What could I lose?

I pressed the intercom.

The door opened with an electric click.

Inside there was a narrow hallway, lit with a soft, warm glow, leading to a small sort of reception area. Behind a desk was a young woman with a professional, efficient smile who greeted me as if this were the most natural thing in the world, took my details discreetly, and explained the rules without my having to ask anything.

—Everything is consensual —she said—. No means no. With our girls, condom always. Sex between clients is your own responsibility. No fights.

Then she pointed toward the back: the bar in the center, the cabin area to the right, the house girls to the left.

I went straight to the cabins.

It was a corridor with thick walls, lit by a light that was almost darkness. The wall was punctured at regular intervals: holes the size of a fist, some covered with little plastic caps, others open. On the opposite side, which I couldn’t see, there were other people. What they did or didn’t do was left to each person’s imagination, and that was part of the game.

I spent a while looking without doing anything, learning the silent mechanics of the place. There was a logic to it all, an unwritten order people followed without having signed any contract. Some holes had hands waiting on the other side, tongues that poked out for a moment and disappeared, the brief flash of lips. In one I caught sight, for half a second, of a thick cock sliding into an invisible mouth on the other side. I took a breath, positioned myself in front of one of the free holes, and without much ceremony unzipped, pulled my boxer shorts down to my thighs, and brought my cock to the wall. It was already half-hard before I put it through the opening.

The wait was shorter than I expected. A hand appeared on the other side. Slim fingers, unpainted nails, a soft touch. It handled me with a calm I hadn’t anticipated, running slowly up the shaft from the base, up to the tip, then back down. The thumb stopped at the glans and traced slow circles, spreading the thick drop that had already begun to emerge from the slit. Nothing rough. Nothing mechanical. Just a hand that knew what it was doing and had no rush to finish.

I got hard immediately. My cock stiffened against those anonymous fingers until it was taut, pulsing, and that hand felt it: it closed into a fist and started giving me a slow, very neat handjob, gripping firmly at the base and easing off at the head, twisting the wrist just a little on each upward stroke like someone who knows exactly which nerve endings to touch.

The motions gradually sped up, I found the rhythm, and I began pushing my hips slightly against the wood to work my cock in and out of the other person’s fist. A low moan escaped me and echoed down the corridor. I gave in for a moment. Then it stopped. Without warning, without transition, the hand withdrew and the hole was empty again.

Frustration clung to my body. My cock, hard and wet with saliva and precum, trembled alone in front of a black hole.

I waited. One minute. Two. The silence of the corridor was thick, broken only by some distant, unidentifiable sound —a muffled moan, the wet smack of a mouth working in another booth—. Nothing for me.

I was about to back away when I felt something different: lips. Wet and slow, brushing the tip lightly before pulling away. Then a tongue traced a very slow line downward along the shaft, and when it reached the base it didn’t stop but kept going, reached my balls, gave them soft, patient licks, sucked one first and then the other, taking them fully into the mouth. The pre-cum was already appearing at the tip and was collected without hesitation, naturally, the tongue winding around the glans and cleaning it completely as part of the same uninterrupted movement.

Then the mouth opened wide and swallowed me whole.

I closed my eyes.

I felt my cock sink all the way to the back of that anonymous throat, the lips closing at the base against the wood, the tongue flattened underneath and moving in waves while I was inside. It was one of those sensations you can’t describe properly without betraying it. Heat, pressure, the warm, dense moisture of a mouth that knew what it was doing. The rhythmic motion of something that knows exactly how to work: it drew my cock out until only the head remained between the lips, sucked hard with an obscene sound, and swallowed it whole again. Again. And again. A hand accompanied it from below, calibrating the tension, adjusting the rhythm, squeezing my balls with just the right firmness that made my legs prickle.

I was moving toward something I already felt was inevitable. My balls had shriveled up, the base of my back tingled, I was pushing my hips against the wall to get every centimeter into that throat. And just when I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop it, when I could already feel the orgasm climbing up from inside me, the contact cut off again. The mouth pulled away abruptly, leaving my cock slick with saliva and throbbing in the cold air of the corridor.

A low curse slipped out between my teeth.

I stayed leaning against the wall, breathing hard, my body held in a tension I didn’t quite know how to resolve. I was tempted to finish myself, grab it and jerk off there against the wood, but something made me hold out. I waited almost another half hour, resting against the cool wall, cock half-soft now, listening to the silence of the corridor. No one else came to the hole in front of me.

I pulled my pants up with my cock still sensitive against the fabric, and went to the bar.

I ordered a cold craft beer and drank it slowly, looking more at the bottom of the glass than at the rest of the place. The bar was quiet at that hour. Two men were talking near the entrance in low voices. A woman by herself was reading something on her phone, looking like she was anywhere else. The bartender was wiping glasses with a cloth, not looking at anyone in particular. There was something almost domestic about it all, about that place that in another context could have been any neighborhood bar.

I finished the beer and ordered another. I drank it faster. I could still feel my cock throbbing against the seam of my pants, the frustration built up from the two times I’d been left hanging.

Then I went to the other side.

***

The girls’ area was different. More silent, paradoxically, than the corridor of the cabins. Small openings along a wall, each with its own very dim lighting. Some girls were lying face down, showing their backs, their buttocks, the outline of a well-shaped leg. Others were facing forward, hands on their sides, shaved cunt or a thin strip of hair peeking between their thighs. One had her legs stretched out beyond the booth with an attitude that needed no explanation: the lips of her pussy slightly parted, glossy, offered like a shop window display.

I walked slowly down the corridor, looking without hurry, without urgency.

And then I recognized her.

The legs of the woman I’d followed from the street. I can’t explain exactly how I knew. You learn to recognize certain things when you’ve followed them for three blocks paying complete attention. The calves, the way the ankle rests, the curve of the inner thigh. She was face down, hips lifted just a little, offering that generous, round ass I had studied on the sidewalk without knowing that a few minutes later I’d have it within reach of my hand. Between her thighs, her pussy looked swollen and wet, already ready, shining on its own.

I stopped.

I moved closer slowly. I started at her ankles, ran my open palm up her calf, up her thigh, reached her buttocks. I squeezed them carefully, gauging, sinking my fingers into the firm flesh until I saw my fingertips mark it and then release. Her skin prickled slightly under my hands, a small involuntary shiver that ran through her whole back. I spread her ass cheeks with my thumbs and saw her wet cunt up close, the inner lips peeking out between the outer ones like an open flower, and higher up the small, dark asshole that tightened every time her breathing changed.

I leaned forward and kissed the base of her back. I bit each buttock softly, leaving the mark of my teeth on her pale skin. I lowered my mouth and ran my tongue along the slit, long and slow, from bottom to top, from clit to asshole, and stayed there for a while licking her whole cunt, sucking on her lips one by one, sliding my tongue as deep as I could. She pushed her hips toward my face and let out a muffled moan, the first human sound I’d heard from her. I felt her tense and then relax, as if she had been waiting for exactly that. I pressed my tongue to her clit and worked it there, circles, short sucks, until her legs started to tremble.

I straightened up. I took a condom from my pocket —I had bought them that same afternoon at a pharmacy, almost without daring to think too carefully why— and put it on. My cock, after everything it had endured in the corridor, got rock hard just from rolling the latex over it.

I positioned myself behind her.

I pressed the tip to the entrance of her cunt and ran it up and down, wetting it with her own moisture, brushing her clit with the head. She pushed her ass back toward me, impatient, searching for me. I grabbed her hips with both hands.

I went in slowly.

She was ready, willing, so wet that my cock sank all the way in without resistance until my balls bumped against her clit. There was no negotiation needed. A long, guttural moan escaped her, and I felt her inner walls close around my cock, squeezing and loosening by reflex. The body speaks a language the two of us understood without translations or detours. I paused for a moment to let everything settle, to let myself finish locating where I was in what was happening, and then I started moving.

First I looked for her rhythm. Slow, long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in to the hilt, feeling every centimeter entering and leaving that hot cunt. I watched the signs the body gives when something is working: the tension in the thighs, the way the back arches just slightly, the breathing that changes pace almost without you noticing. When I found what I was looking for I held it there, without changing or speeding up, for longer than I would have lasted if I’d only been thinking of myself.

I drove a wet finger into her asshole while I kept fucking her and felt everything clamp down, the cunt gripping me even tighter. I leaned over her back, without stopping, and slid my other hand underneath to find her clit. I rubbed it with two fingers in time with my thrusts, making tight circles, and she started moving her hips back against me, fucking me herself, pushing her ass back every time I thrust forward, until our thighs collided with a wet, fleshy sound that filled the booth.

—Like this, like this, don’t stop —she said, the first and only words she said to me all night, her voice broken.

I sped up. I grabbed her waist with both hands and started driving into her harder, drier, each thrust ending with my balls hitting her clit. She buried her face wherever she could and let out a long scream, muffled against something, and I felt her cunt clenching around my cock in spasms, squeezing and releasing in waves, soaking the condom with hot fluid that ran down to my balls.

When she got where she needed to get, she let me know in ways that didn’t need words.

Only then did I let go.

I shoved my cock in as deep as it would go and held it there, crushed against her ass, feeling the orgasm rising from the base of my back, from my balls, from somewhere even deeper. I let out a rough groan and emptied myself into the condom in three, four thick spurts that I felt pulse one after another inside her, my cock shaking on its own while her cunt kept squeezing by reflex, milking me dry to the last drop. It was brief and complete. One of those climaxes that arrive before you’ve finished preparing yourself to receive them, with no room to think or pace it out. You emptied me without remorse, I told myself afterward. And it was true.

I pulled out slowly, feeling my cock come out still hard, dragging a thread of fluid. I tossed the loaded condom into the bin beside the booth, the thick semen pushing the latex from inside. I adjusted my clothes with fingers still a little clumsy, my legs weak.

I left the place without saying a word to anyone, without looking for the woman’s face, without looking back.

Outside, the night air was cold and clean. I walked back to the hotel with my hands in my pockets, my cock still sensitive against my underwear with every step, thinking about things I wouldn’t know how to write even if I tried.

I didn’t know her name then. I don’t know it now, and I don’t care to know. I never went back to that place, or to that city more than was strictly necessary to close the audit.

But there are nights, the kind when routine feels too heavy and the usual bed seems too predictable, when I think about that mischievous smile on the street, about that metal door with no sign, about the anonymous mouth that sucked my cock almost to the point of making me come, about that wet cunt that squeezed me until I emptied myself.

And I’m glad I followed that woman.