My First Time Was an Afternoon of Studying in March

I was starting college at eighteen, newly turned, with my head full of fantasies I had never been able to test. My town was small, there were few girls, and my aunts kept a closer watch on me than the school doorman. When I landed in the capital with two suitcases, a new mattress, and an apartment rented half a block from the university, I felt that life was finally about to begin for real.

I met Antonella during the second week of classes. She was skinny, dark-haired, with straight hair cut to her shoulders and a soft way of speaking that made you lean in to hear her. She wasn't magazine-model beautiful, but she had something. And that something became more obvious as the days went by, when the March heat forced us to wear less and I began noticing her body beneath her thin T-shirts: her small, firm tits when she went braless on the hottest days, her nipples showing beneath the cotton, the pert ass outlined whenever she bent down to pick up her backpack.

We had started studying together purely for convenience. We lived close by, our notes complemented each other, and we were both terrified of the first midterm. We shared mate in the library, then at some bar, then in my apartment. I hadn't said anything that might make her uncomfortable. She, on the other hand, had told me about a guy from her hometown she exchanged letters with, some Joaquín who promised to visit her but never quite managed to make it happen. At night, before going to sleep, I wondered whether she read those letters twice or had already begun reading them out of habit. Then I'd jerk off thinking about her, imagining her pussy, imagining her face if I found her one afternoon kneeling between my legs.

It wouldn't have mattered much anyway. My history was a scant one. A little groping at a quinceañera, a long kiss at a cousin's birthday, a couple of magazines hidden behind the wardrobe, with enormous tits and wide-open pussies that had taught me more anatomy than any biology class. What I knew about sex, I knew from imagination and my hand. What I didn't know, I guessed. And I guessed at Antonella in such detail that I would get a hard-on in the middle of algebra class.

“When does this end?” she asked that afternoon, letting her pencil fall onto the table.

We had been in my apartment since noon. We'd eaten two ham sandwiches, drunk liters of mate, and barely made it through twenty pages. The midterm was on Monday. I couldn't concentrate. Neither could she.

She was wearing a white linen blouse with buttons down the front. The first two were open because of the heat. When she bent over her notes, the fabric parted slightly, and I could just make out the outline of a pale bra and the clean curve of a tit that looked small from a distance and like something else up close. Her nipples showed beneath the linen, small, hard, pointing forward. I kept staring, pretending I was thinking about an equation I no longer understood, with my cock tight against my fly and my pulse beating at its tip.

“I don't know,” I answered. “I don't understand what I'm reading anymore.”

Antonella laughed and stretched out on the couch. She was wearing a pair of loose shorts. She was barefoot, her feet resting on the cushion. Every time she crossed or uncrossed her legs, the fabric crept a little higher, and I lost my train of thought. It was an innocent kind of torture, the sort you bring on yourself and have no right to complain about.

“My neck is all knotted up,” she said, bringing a hand to the nape of her neck. “I can't take it anymore.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“I want you to give me a massage. Or didn't they teach you that in the country?”

She said it jokingly, with that half smile I'd seen a few times already and whose meaning I could never quite figure out. I laughed. I'd read a couple of books on acupressure, practiced on my mother and sister, and knew enough not to hurt her. And I needed an excuse to get closer.

“I know a little,” I said. “Let's try.”

***

I asked her to sit on the floor with her back against the low couch. I settled onto the couch behind her. From there, my hands reached her shoulders perfectly without making her move.

I began with my palm open, pressing slowly over the fabric of her blouse. I stroked the base of her neck with my thumb, searched for the knots with my index and middle fingers, and squeezed with carefully measured firmness. I heard her let out the air in a soft little moan that wasn't caused by pain.

“Like that,” she said. “Harder.”

I answered without speaking, pressing more decisively. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The words gradually fell away from us. She kept her eyes closed, her head tilted slightly back. I had both hands on her shoulders and my pulse everywhere but in my fingers. My cock was swollen, pushing against my pants, and from where I sat I could see her cleavage opening a little more every time she took a deep breath.

At one point she brought a hand to the buttons of her blouse and undid two more.

“So you can reach better,” she said without looking at me.

I nodded, though she couldn't see me. The fabric fell from her shoulders and hung from her arms. Her bra was simple and white, with a fine lace trim along the edge. The skin of her back was lighter than I'd imagined, almost translucent, and a few tiny freckles showed across her shoulder blades that made me want to count them with my tongue.

My hands stayed where they were. Shoulders, the base of her neck, trapezius muscles. Every now and then my fingers dipped a little lower, brushing the beginnings of her shoulder blades. She said nothing. She only breathed more deeply, more slowly.

I lowered my hands to her waist and slowly brought them back up along her sides. When my thumbs passed alongside her tits for the first time, it was almost accidental. She raised one hand—I thought she was going to stop me—and quickly lowered it again onto her leg. After that she said nothing. A little while later I passed over them again, and still she said nothing. The third time was no accident: I cupped my palms over her bra and squeezed her tits in their entirety, feeling her nipples stiffen against the cotton.

“Does it bother you?” I asked softly, close to her ear.

“No.”

***

I pulled her blouse down to her elbows. No hurry, without asking permission, without pretending it was part of the massage. I kissed the base of her neck, where her hair gathered, and felt her shiver. Her skin was slightly salty, warmed by the heat of the afternoon and the heat of what was happening.

“I've been watching you all month,” I told her. I don't know why I said it.

“I've been watching you too.”

That sentence was like a door opening from the inside out.

I ran my hands over her waist and unclasped her bra with a clumsiness she herself finished remedying. She let it fall to the floor. When I brushed her tits with my open palms, I found her nipples so hard they seemed to be asking for it. They were small, pink, almost translucent, crowning two firm tits that fit perfectly in my hand. I lowered myself to the floor, sat facing her, and kissed her on the mouth for the first time.

It wasn't a movie kiss. It was slow, hesitant, our breathing mingling. I bit her lower lip and felt her laugh against my mouth. Then I thrust my tongue all the way in, and she sucked it with a slowness that made me moan inside her mouth. She climbed onto my lap without my asking, planting both knees on either side of my hips. My cock stayed trapped against my pants, right beneath her, and I felt perfectly how her loose shorts shifted and the soaked bulge of her panties pressed against the hard bulge beneath my fly.

“It's been so long since anyone kissed me,” she said.

“What about your boyfriend?”

She smiled crookedly.

“My boyfriend writes letters.”

I stroked her tits slowly, first with my fingertips, then with my whole palm. I squeezed them together, lifted them, and spent a long while looking at them the way you look at something you remembered wanting just when you finally had it in front of you. I lowered my head and ran my tongue over one nipple. I licked it slowly, circling around it, then sucked it whole, taking it into my mouth up to the areola. She let out a short, sharp sound, as if I'd startled her in the middle of a dream. I moved to the other nipple, bit it gently, tugged it with my teeth. She wrapped her hands around my head, pulled my hair, pushing me down and up at the same time, unable to decide.

“Suck my tits, come on,” she whispered, in a hoarse voice that wasn't her own. “Suck them hard.”

I did as she asked. I bit her, licked her, ran my flat tongue all over one tit and returned to the nipple, moving from one to the other, leaving her skin shiny with saliva. She writhed on top of me, moving her hips in circles, rubbing her pussy against my cock through our clothes.

My cock strained against the zipper of my pants with a ridiculous urgency. Every time she moved over me, it became harder to think. I ran one hand up her leg, beneath the loose shorts, and touched the inside of her thigh. She was hot. Hotter than I'd expected. I went a little higher, not knowing whether she'd stop me, and brushed her panties.

She was soaked. The fabric, her thighs, everything. My fingers sank into something soft and hot that offered only the slightest resistance through the cotton. I felt her hold her breath and release it all at once.

“Wait,” she said.

I went still.

“No,” she corrected herself. “Don't stop.”

***

The fabric was minimal. A white thong of fine cotton that clung to her body and left little to the imagination. I ran my fingers over it, tracing the edge without slipping inside yet. The cleft of her pussy showed perfectly through the soaked cotton, a groove splitting the fabric in two, and I traced it from top to bottom with the pad of my middle finger. She kissed me on the mouth more insistently, and every time my fingers pressed down, she let out a broken moan against my tongue.

When I finally moved the fabric aside and touched her directly, she let out a longer moan and clutched my shoulders with both hands. I found a pussy that was almost completely shaved, with a little cushion of short hair above it and smooth, swollen, hot lips. She was truly drenched, dripping, with a thick wetness that coated my fingers as soon as I ran them through the middle. I opened her lips with two fingers and spent a second touching everything with my fingertip, learning the geography at eighteen as if it were a map I'd been waiting my whole life to see.

I found her clitoris almost by accident—I had never really touched one, only read about it and imagined it, but it wasn't the same—and she confirmed it with a movement of her hips that showed me where it was and how she wanted to be touched. It was a hard little pearl, swollen and hidden among the folds. I rubbed it with my middle finger in small circles, and she gave a start, folding against my chest and digging her nails into the back of my neck.

“There, there, there,” she panted, her mouth against my neck. “Don't let go, like that, come on.”

I followed her rhythm. In two minutes I learned what I hadn't learned in eighteen years: that you had to keep at the same spot, with the same pressure, without changing the rhythm even when your fingers grew tired. With my free hand I grabbed one of her tits and squeezed it, pinching her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I kissed her neck, gently bit her ear, and whispered whatever came into my head.

“Put it in,” she suddenly begged, breathless. “One finger, put it in me.”

I lowered my hand a little farther and sank my middle finger into her pussy. It went all the way in, without resistance, swallowed by a hot wetness that squeezed me like a mouth. A long, guttural moan escaped her, and she arched her back against me. I pulled it out and slid it back in, slowly, learning the movement. Then I put in two. She pushed her hips downward, riding my fingers, searching for the deepest point, her breathing ragged.

“Thumb on top,” she guided me. “Come on, up there, on the clit, while you put them in me.”

I did as she said. Two fingers moving in and out, my thumb rubbing her little pearl, my mouth sucking the tit closest to me. She dug her nails into the back of my neck and called my name twice, in a voice I'd never heard from her before.

Then she trembled all over. It was strange and beautiful at the same time: her body tensed, her breath caught in the middle of a moan, and she began to shudder in short pulses that ended in a muffled scream against my shoulder. I felt her pussy clench around my fingers in spasms, sucking them inward and soaking my hand up to the wrist. I wrapped my free arm around her back and held her against me without moving until the trembling became uneven breathing.

“Sorry,” she said afterward, laughing and covering her face with one hand.

“Why?”

“I don't know. For screaming. For coming on your hand.”

“Come as many times as you want.”

She laughed, covering her eyes with her forearm. Her tits were still bare, her nipples reddened and glistening with my saliva, her pussy soaked. I pulled out my fingers and looked at them: they shone, fine strings hanging between my knuckles. I brought them to my mouth without thinking and tasted her, salty, thick, a little sour. She watched me with her eyes wide open, and something inside her lit up again.

“Goddamn,” she murmured.

I wasn't finished yet. My pants were about to burst, and she realized it. Without warning, she lowered her hand, found my zipper, pulled it down clumsily, and slipped her hand over my boxer briefs. She barely touched me—barely, her palm closed over the fabric—and I came apart against her hand like the teenager I was. I felt the warmth soak the cotton, the immediate relief, the embarrassment, the desire to go on. My cock throbbed three or four times against the fabric, shooting my load as if it had been stored up for months, and she held it in her hand, squeezing it gently and feeling me pulse against her palm.

She didn't laugh. She looked at me with a tenderness I'd never seen in her before and left her hand there a little longer. She pulled down my boxers, curious, and looked at my cock for the first time: bright red, still hard, its tip glistening and semen running down the shaft. She ran her finger slowly from base to tip, gathering the cum as if it were honey, and brought her finger to her mouth without taking her eyes off me.

“You're not getting off that easily,” she said.

She gripped me with her closed hand and began stroking slowly, sliding the skin up and down and using my own cum as lubricant. I was so sensitive that a moan escaped me as soon as she started. She squeezed the tip with her thumb, pulled the skin all the way down, then slid it back up. In a minute she had me hard again, harder than before, throbbing in her hand.

“Come here,” she said.

She climbed off my lap, knelt between my legs, and opened my knees with her hands. She looked up at me with that half smile of hers and slipped the tip into her mouth without saying anything. It lasted a second, barely a wet kiss around the head, but everything went cloudy for me. Then she took me all the way in, and I felt the hot back of her throat squeezing the tip. She came back up with a wet sound, spat a string of saliva onto my cock, and went down again.

“Look at me,” she asked, her mouth full.

I looked at her. Her eyes were dark and large, slightly wet, her mouth stretched around my cock, her hair falling over her cheek. She sucked me slowly, moving up and down, helping herself with one hand, pausing at the tip to run her tongue over my frenulum. When she realized I was about to come again, she sped up. She squeezed my balls with her other hand, took my cock all the way in until I felt it hit the back of her throat, and stayed there, swallowing around me.

“I'm going to come,” I warned her, barely able to speak.

She didn't pull her mouth away. On the contrary, she went down once more, all the way to the base, and squeezed my balls just as I exploded. I came down her throat in long spurts, feeling her swallow each one, my legs trembling and my fingers buried in her hair. When it was over, she pulled away slowly, her tongue still clinging to my glans, and kissed the tip.

“Now that's better,” she said, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

She brought it to her mouth and licked her finger clean.

***

We stayed silent for a while. Antonella got up, adjusted her bra, ran a hand through her hair, and went into the bathroom. She took ten minutes. When she came back, her blouse was buttoned, her eyes bright, and she wore the smile I already knew but which now meant something else to me.

“What was that?” she asked, sitting beside me on the couch.

“I don't know.”

“Me neither.”

I heated some water, prepared a bitter mate, and we drank it slowly. The notes were still open on the table, ridiculous. Neither of us made the obvious joke about getting back to studying. We talked about anything and everything: the heat, the bus that never came, a movie she'd seen on Saturday. We didn't say a word about Joaquín or the letters, as if naming them would make them real again.

At eight she gave me a quick kiss on the mouth and left. From the doorway she told me she was free Saturday afternoon and that, if I wanted, we could study together again. She said it with the same half smile as always, but I no longer needed to interpret it.

We passed the midterm. We passed every one that came afterward too. I didn't hear Joaquín's name again until two years later, when she mentioned him herself with a laugh, talking about an old life that seemed to belong to someone else.

I learned two things from that afternoon, and I still remember them. That letters, no matter how long they are, can't withstand a well-done massage. And that your first time, when it comes, doesn't arrive the way you've imagined it a thousand times. It arrives the way it has to: clumsy, urgent, and better than any jerk-off ever knew how to promise.