My First Time Wasn’t How I’d Imagined It

We’d been dating for four months and Mateo was everything my mother would have wanted for me: quiet, polite, attentive, the kind of guy who opens the car door for you and lets you know when he gets home. I adored him for that and, at the same time, hated him a little. Every afternoon of studying at his place ended the same way. Long kisses on the sofa, his hands over the fabric of my blouse, his breath close to my ear and, just when it seemed to me I was going to lose my mind, he would pull away and hold me tight against his chest.

“Better if we stop,” he always said, his voice a little broken.

And he would stop. And I would stay there, looking up at the living-room ceiling, my panties soaked and my nipples pressing against my bra, trying to steady my breathing while he stroked my hair as if he hadn’t just set my whole cunt on fire.

That Saturday was different. I arrived at his place after four, with my microbiology folder under my arm and, underneath, a short skirt I’d chosen on purpose. He was waiting with coffee made and the notes already spread out on the coffee table in the living room. We studied for a while in earnest, or what passes for studying when you’ve had your body burning for weeks and you can’t even read a sentence without thinking about the cock that strained in your boyfriend’s trousers every time you sat on his lap.

“I’m going to the kitchen for a minute,” he said, setting the pen down on the notes. “I’ll make you something. You stay here, okay?”

I nodded without looking at him. The truth is I was grateful. I needed two minutes without him, without that perfume of his clinging to my neck, without his brown eyes skimming me sidelong every time I crossed my legs.

As soon as he disappeared down the hallway, I let my head fall back against the sofa and closed my eyes. And then, without me deciding it, the images came back. Images that had been haunting me for days already. His fingers sliding under my skirt to pull my panties aside. His mouth sucking my neck, moving down to my tits, biting my nipple. The weight of his body over mine somewhere that wasn’t the immaculate sofa in the living room. His cock driving into me against a mattress.

I felt wet almost at once. I hated myself a little for it and a second later I didn’t care.

I heard the sound of the kitchen cabinet. A drawer. The microwave. I knew exactly where he was. I knew it would take him at least five minutes. Five minutes in which he couldn’t see me.

I hiked my skirt up without thinking too much about it, until it was bunched at my waist. My panties were white, plain. I ran my fingers over the cotton and felt the dampness soaked through, a dark stain spreading between my thighs. I squeezed a little, not going in yet, just pressing slowly over my clit, imagining it was his hand touching me. A shiver ran from my cunt to my stomach.

I closed my eyes. I pictured him kneeling between my legs, with that serious face he makes when he’s trying to hold back, and his hard cock straining against his fly. I pictured him ripping my panties off with his teeth and driving his tongue into the lips of my cunt. I slid my other hand inside my blouse, over my bra, until I found my nipple already hard. I pinched it between my index finger and thumb, first lightly, then harder, the way I knew he would.

My breathing began to falter. I could smell toast from the kitchen and hear the knife against the cutting board. The closer I felt him, the faster I moved my fingers over my panties. It was a contradiction I didn’t understand: I wanted him there and, at the same time, it excited me to imagine him coming in right at that moment, finding me like this, with my skirt hiked up, my blouse open and my fingers rubbing my cunt.

I let out a sigh a little louder than necessary. Then another. I wanted to hear myself. Deep down, I wanted him to hear me too.

I slipped my hand under the cotton. When I brushed my skin directly, with no fabric between, I bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan too loud. My cunt was swollen, slippery, hotter than I remembered it ever being. I slid my middle finger between my lips, up and down, soaking it completely. Then I went to my clit and started making small, slow circles right where it was most sensitive. I lifted my hips without realizing it. With the other finger, my index, I pushed myself a little, just the tip, and felt my own cunt clench around it, wanting more.

“Mateo…” slipped out of me.

I said it softly, almost to myself, but I said it. And then the footsteps in the hallway stopped.

“Camila?”

I opened my eyes in a rush. He was in the doorway, two plates in his hands and his face red all the way to his ears. I don’t know how long he’d been there. Maybe seconds, maybe longer. His eyes went straight to my hand between my legs and then to the tits spilling out of my pushed-up bra.

I pulled my hands away as if they burned. I yanked my skirt down. I felt like I was on fire all over, not from pleasure anymore, but from a shame I had never felt before.

“It’s not what…” I started.

He set the plates down on the table, slowly. He said nothing. He came toward the sofa with his eyes locked on mine and knelt between my knees, with a calm I had never seen in him before.

“I heard you say my name,” he murmured.

I couldn’t speak. I nodded.

“Keep going,” he said, still low. “Don’t stop for me.”

“Mateo, I…”

“Please. Show me how you touch yourself.”

That word of his, said like that, in a lower, rougher voice than usual, undid me. I looked at him one more second, trying to find the usual version of him in his face, the careful boy who stopped in time, and I didn’t find it. In its place was someone who had been waiting for months and wasn’t planning to wait anymore.

I lifted my skirt back up myself, this time without hiding. He watched me in silence, his hands resting on my thighs, not moving yet. When I slid my fingers under my panties again, I saw his lips part and the bulge in his jeans strain, pulling the fabric until it warped.

“Take them off,” he said, hoarse. “I want to see you properly.”

I lifted my ass a little and pulled my panties down my legs. I left them hanging from one ankle. I spread my knees slowly, letting him see the soaked cunt, bright, with the lips parted and the clit swollen.

“Fuck, Camila.”

I had never heard that word from his mouth before. Just hearing it made everything inside me contract.

“Like that,” he said. “I want to see how you do it.”

I obeyed. I started touching myself again, this time without hurry, letting him look. I pushed two fingers inside, up to the knuckle, and drew them back out. The pad of my fingers came away shining and he let out a breath through his nose. I felt his hands slowly move up the inner sides of my thighs, but he didn’t touch me there. He stayed close, not invading, as if he wanted to learn my rhythm. I kept rubbing my clit with my other hand, letting my fingers enter and leave my cunt while he watched everything with his mouth slightly open.

“Look what you’ve done,” he said suddenly, with a half-smile.

He lowered his gaze to the bulge straining in his jeans. I hadn’t been able to look at it openly until then, but that afternoon I did. I looked without hiding. The shape of his cock was drawn in full against the fabric, thick, pointing upward. I swallowed.

He took my wrist and, slowly, pulled my hand out from between my legs. He brought my fingers to his mouth and licked them, sucking each one in turn, looking me in the eyes. He had never done anything like that. I had never seen that look on him. I felt his tongue wrapping around my fingers and imagined that same tongue between my legs and nearly came right then and there.

“Take off your blouse.”

He wasn’t asking. I didn’t argue. I sat up a little to pull the garment up and let it fall behind the sofa. The bra followed the same path a few seconds later. He stayed still, looking at my bare tits, my nipples rigid and pointed at his face.

“I’ve been imagining you like this for four months,” he said.

“And why never…?”

“I didn’t want it to be just any way.”

***

He kissed me. This time it wasn’t one of those goodbye kisses at the building entrance. It was another kind of kiss, deeper, with his tongue slipping all the way into my mouth, one hand behind my nape and the other spread over my breast, squeezing until I gasped. He laid me back against the cushions and settled on top of me without stopping kissing me. I tugged at his T-shirt until I got it off him, and then I was the one staring.

His skin was hot. I ran both hands over his chest, over his ribs, over the start of his stomach, where a line of hair marked him before disappearing down toward his belt. I undid the button of his pants myself, with clumsy fingers. He helped me. When he sat up to finish pulling down his jeans and underwear in one sharp yank, his cock sprang free in front of my face. It was hard, rigid against his stomach, the tip shining with pre-cum. It was bigger than I had imagined with his clothes on.

I got a little scared. Not much. Just enough for him to notice.

“Slowly,” he said, reading my face. “You set the pace.”

I nodded. But before he could come closer I reached out and grabbed his cock. It was hot, hard as stone under smooth skin. I squeezed it and he gave a low groan, closing his eyes. I moved my hand up and down, awkwardly, and saw another drop spill from the tip. Without thinking much, I leaned in and ran my tongue over the glans. It tasted salty.

“Camila…” he panted, grabbing my hair.

I took him into my mouth. Not all the way, I couldn’t. I sucked as much as I could, helping with my hand at the base, moving my tongue against the vein running underneath. He held my hair with one hand, not pushing, letting me do it. I heard his broken breathing above me and felt his cock swell even more in my mouth. I sucked harder, licking him the way I’d read about a thousand times without daring to try, savoring the salty taste that kept growing more intense.

“Stop, stop,” he said after a while, easing me away gently. “If you keep going I’m going to come, and I don’t want to come in your mouth the first time.”

He laid me back against the cushions again. He positioned himself between my legs once more. He kissed my neck, my collarbone, the top of my breasts. He stayed a long time on one, licking the nipple with the tip of his tongue and biting just a little, while his free hand slid back down my skirt to my naked cunt. This time his touch was different from mine. More certain, firmer, knowing exactly where to press and when to ease off. He pushed two fingers inside and started moving them slowly, curling them upward, while his thumb pressed my clit.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured against my skin. “My fingers are slipping, fuck.”

“I’ve been like this all afternoon.”

“All afternoon,” he repeated, almost amused. “And I was here reading notes.”

He let out a low laugh and lowered his head to my stomach. I gripped the edge of the sofa with one hand and, with the other, held his hair. When I felt his mouth on my cunt for the first time, I jerked hard and a cry escaped me that I didn’t try to hide. It was more intense than I had imagined. It was something else entirely. It had a rhythm, an intention. He licked me from bottom to top, long and slow, then paused on my clit and sucked it between his lips, pulling gently, and went back down again.

“Oh God,” I gasped. “Like that, Mateo, like that.”

I grabbed his hair harder without meaning to, pressing his face against my cunt. He didn’t complain. On the contrary, he growled and grew hungrier, shoving his tongue all the way in, eating me out like he’d been starving for months. He slipped his fingers inside me again while he licked my clit and I felt something start to tighten deep inside, a tension growing, rising.

Mateo wasn’t in a hurry. He was testing things. Sometimes he would stop and look up at my face, checking, adjusting what he was doing. When he realized I was close, he stopped.

“Wait,” he said, his voice rough and his chin shining with my juices. “I want you to come with me inside you.”

“Don’t stop, please…”

“You’re going to come with me inside you, Camila. I promise.”

He reached for a condom in the drawer of the coffee table, the drawer I had glanced at so many times without daring to ask. He put it on slowly, watching me the whole time, sliding the latex over his hard cock until it covered it completely. He settled over me again. I felt the tip brushing my cunt lips, searching for the entrance.

“If it hurts, you tell me and I stop. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He entered slowly. I clung to his shoulders and closed my eyes. There was a first uncomfortable moment, a resistance, a sharp pinch that made me clench my teeth when I felt his cock opening the way in, centimeter by centimeter. He stayed still, not moving, waiting. He kissed my temple, my cheek, my neck, without pushing further.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Just… stay like that for a second.”

I could feel his whole cock inside me, filling me to a point I hadn’t imagined, and at the same time I could feel my cunt adapting around it, giving up the resistance, starting to grip. He waited. When I began moving a little underneath him on my own, he understood and matched the rhythm I set. At first it was strange, almost clumsy, but we found each other. His hips, mine. His breathing, mine. My name said against my ear, and his again in my mouth.

“Say it again,” he asked.

“Mateo.”

“Again.”

“Mateo…” and a nervous laugh slipped out of me, because it was absurd and wonderful at the same time.

The thrusts became a little deeper. I hooked one leg over his hip and the angle changed. His cock reached farther inside me, brushing a spot I didn’t know existed. Something lit up inside me, a cord tightening. I started clenching around him without meaning to, and he groaned against my neck, low, without theatrics.

“Fuck, you squeeze…” he growled. “How you squeeze.”

“Fuck me, Mateo,” slipped out of me, and I surprised myself by saying it. “Harder.”

His eyes gleamed. He pushed himself up, bracing his hands on either side of my head, and started fucking me harder, his hips slamming against my ass, his cock going in and out all the way. I could hear the wet sound of my soaked cunt around him and I didn’t care, I wasn’t embarrassed, on the contrary, it turned me on more. I looked at his face, tense, focused, and he drove in especially deep, making me cry out.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” he said.

“Neither am I.”

He brought a hand down between us and found my clit with his thumb, rubbing it in circles while he kept thrusting. It was too much. I came first. It was a sensation unlike anything I’d ever done alone in my room. It was bigger, longer, with a cock buried inside me and another person’s hand on my clit. My entire cunt clenched around him in spasms that made my legs shake, and I screamed his name without control, pressing myself against his chest. I clutched at his back and dug my nails in and stopped thinking about how I sounded or what expression I was making. I just let go.

He held out a little longer, thrusting faster during my orgasm, long enough to see me finish. Then he pulled out, tore the condom off in one yank, and jerked himself two or three times with his hand over me. He finished over my stomach with a long groan, coming in hot spurts over my skin, splashing up to my navel and tits. He rested his forehead against my collarbone. His skin was hot and his hair damp, and I felt his cock twitch in its last convulsions while his cum ran down my sides.

***

After that we stayed like that for a long while, in silence, each of us still breathing a little unevenly. He cleaned my stomach with his T-shirt without saying anything, with almost comic tenderness after what had just happened. The toast had gone cold in the kitchen. The microbiology notes were still open on page eighty-seven.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked at last.

“A little at first,” I admitted. “After that, no. After that, nothing.”

He kissed my forehead.

“And you?” I asked, turning to look at him. “Why today?”

He took a moment.

“Because I heard you.” He smiled, a little embarrassed. “I heard you say my name with your hand in your panties and everything went to hell. And because I couldn’t take it anymore, Camila. I don’t think you could either.”

I gave his chest a weak slap. He caught my hand and kissed it.

That night I had dinner at his place. We ate the cold toast, sitting together on the sofa wrapped in a blanket, me naked from the waist up because he wouldn’t let me put my blouse back on, watching a series neither of us paid any attention to. We did it again later, this time in his bed, without the urgency of the first time. He put me on all fours and fucked me from behind, slowly, holding my hips, and fucked me that way for a long time, watching his cock slide in and out while I rubbed my clit with my hand. He made me come twice more before he came inside the condom, biting my shoulder so he wouldn’t shout. And when I woke up the next day, with his arm draped across my waist and my cunt still sore in a way that didn’t bother me at all, I understood what so many friends had tried to tell me and I had never quite believed.

That the first time isn’t forgettable is no cliché. But more than the first time, what you don’t forget is who was with you. And I got lucky.