My First Time with Daniela Started on the Street

I close my eyes and hear it all over again: her breathing as she brushed against my skin, the creak of the mattress when she changed position, the silence that followed, that thick, warm silence that only appears when two strangers have just discovered there’s something between them that wasn’t there an hour before.

Now I’m lying on my back in her bed, my heart still racing and the sheet at hip level. Daniela is standing in front of the mirror, completely naked, detangling her hair with her fingers as though I weren’t there.

But she knows I’m watching her. That much is clear to me.

Her body is exactly what I sensed when I saw her at the door: slender but curvy where it should be, skin the shade of dark caramel contrasting with the wrinkled white sheets behind me. Her hips move with calculated laziness as she raises her arms to tie back her hair, and I lose myself in that image—the dark nipples still hard, a thread of my semen sliding down the inside of her thigh—for an amount of time I’m unable to measure.

Her eyes meet mine in the reflection.

She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t smile, either. She just holds me with that calm, almost defiant expression I’d already seen when she opened the door to her house. As if to say: I already know what you’re thinking. Keep thinking it.

I get up slowly. I circle the bed, come up behind her, and press my lips to her neck before even touching her with my hands. I feel her tense for a second and then yield, as if her body remembers what we’ve just done and decides it wants more.

My arms go around her. My mouth travels from her neck to the nape, then drops back to her shoulder. She tilts her head to one side to give me more room, and I rest my forehead against her hair for a moment before kissing her again. My cock, still half-hard, begins to swell again against the cleft of her ass, and she notices: she arches backward slightly and rubs herself against me without saying a word.

I could stay here forever.

***

But we weren’t here two hours ago. Two hours ago I was walking alone through the park with a ham-and-cheese sandwich in my hand, thinking I had to call my mother, that I was out of oil at home, nothing in particular.

Then I saw him.

He was a huge golden retriever, his fur dirty from the leaves on the ground and his tongue hanging out, trotting along the park path as if he knew exactly where he was going. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He kept circling near the bench where I was sitting, sniffing the ground with that absurd concentration dogs have when they’ve lost the trail of something.

I offered him a piece of sandwich. He swallowed it in one bite and sat at my feet as if we’d been friends our whole lives.

He had a collar. I crouched down to read it: “Atlas. Daniela Vargas. 312 Las Acacias Street.” And a phone number I didn’t recognize as local.

I could have called. But the street was a ten-minute walk away, and Atlas was looking at me with those brown eyes of his that left me no choice.

***

The walk was strange in a pleasant way. People turned to look at the dog, not me. Children pointed from their strollers. A guy on a bicycle almost fell because he was distracted. Atlas walked close to my heels, calm and completely oblivious to the attention he attracted.

Las Acacias Street turned out to be a quiet street with tall trees and very few people. Number 312 was a two-story building with a high exposed-brick wall and a wrought-iron gate. The number was on a handmade dark-wood plaque, with silver-headed screws creating a curious contrast. The kind of detail someone adds because they care about how it looks, not because they have to.

I pressed the intercom.

Nothing.

I pressed it again.

Three seconds later, a slightly hoarse voice, like someone who had just woken from a nap, said:

—Yes?

—Good afternoon. I found your dog in the park. He has a collar with this address.

Silence. Then a buzz, and the iron gate opened.

***

Daniela came down the stairs from the inner garden barefoot, wearing wrinkled linen pants and a sleeveless shirt that hung loose around her shoulders. Her hair was tied back anyhow, and her expression wasn’t welcoming or rejecting: it was the face of someone who hadn’t yet decided what to think of you.

She looked at me for a second.

Then she saw Atlas.

The transformation was instant. She crouched down, opened her arms, and the dog charged into her with such enthusiasm that he almost knocked her to the ground. She laughed and spoke to him in a low voice while scratching behind his ears, with the intimacy that exists only between a person and the animal who truly knows them.

When she stood up, there was something different in her eyes. Warmer. Still wary, but less closed off.

—Thank you —she said.

And she hugged me.

It was a brief hug, the kind people give when they aren’t quite sure how to express something. She smelled sweet and clean, coconut or vanilla; I couldn’t tell which. Atlas ran into the house ahead of us.

—It was nothing. I found him lost, and the collar had this address.

She nodded, but didn’t step back.

—Do you want to come in? I can offer you a coffee.

It wasn’t a polite invitation. It was a real invitation. I noticed it in the way she looked at me while making it, waiting for my answer with an attentiveness that isn’t normal in someone who has just met you at her front door.

—I’d love one —I said.

***

Her house was the kind that appears in architecture magazines: high walls, open spaces, light coming in from every angle. The floor was polished concrete, the furniture neutral-colored, with cushions that broke up the austerity without forcing it. On the far wall hung a huge black-and-white photograph: a woman seen from behind, wrapped in a sheet from the waist down, looking toward a window with the lights of a city in the background.

It took me a second to realize it was her.

—Was it taken here? —I asked, pointing at the photograph.

—In another city —she said without stopping to look at it—. A long time ago.

Atlas was lying beside the sofa, chewing on a rope toy with a satisfied expression. The coffee was an excuse. We both knew it.

We didn’t make it to the kitchen.

I don’t know who stopped first. I only know that at some point along the way, we both turned at the same time and our mouths met.

It wasn’t a tentative or polite kiss. It was a kiss that said what we’d both been thinking since the garden gate opened: there was something there, and it made no sense to ignore it.

Her hands grabbed my shirt and pulled it upward. I let her. I felt her nails travel over my ribs, climb up my back, and stop at my shoulders as if taking note of every detail. Her hand moved down and squeezed me over my pants, measuring the hard cock already pressing against the fabric.

—You’re so fucking horny —she said against my mouth, almost amused.

—And you’re wet. I can smell it from here.

She laughed softly and bit my lip.

—Upstairs —she said.

I didn’t ask where.

***

The stairs were floating, made of pale wood, with no railing. I climbed behind her, counting them without meaning to: nineteen steps to the attic. A large room beneath the roof, with skylights in the ceiling letting in the afternoon light. An unmade bed, a worktable covered with papers, and the standing mirror in the corner where we’re both standing now.

Daniela turned toward me before I reached the last step.

I pushed her gently against the wall. I took her neck between my hands, not to squeeze it, only to feel her pulse. It was racing. Just like mine.

I lowered my mouth to her neck and licked it slowly. I felt her hold her breath, felt her skin prickle even though the temperature in the room was perfect. I found the exact spot beneath her ear that made her close her eyes.

Good. Now I know where to go back to.

I pulled off her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were exactly what I expected and at the same time nothing like what I’d imagined: more real, warmer, more present beneath my hands. Her nipples hardened against my palms before I even squeezed them. I lowered my mouth, caught one carefully between my teeth, tugged, sucked, then switched to the other. She grabbed my hair and pressed my face against her tits, panting softly.

—Like that —she murmured—. Bite them. Don’t hold back.

I bit her harder. She let out a short moan and arched her back to offer me more. I ran my tongue through the hollow between her breasts, down her sternum, and licked my way to her navel while my hands undid her pants.

She dropped to her knees before I could react. She yanked down my pants and underwear, and my cock sprang hard in front of her face. She looked at it for a second, as if sizing it up, and smiled.

—Look what you were hiding.

She took me by the base with one hand and licked me from underneath to the top in one long stroke, flattening her tongue against the vein running along the underside. When she reached the tip, she took the head into her mouth and sucked it slowly, lips tight, looking up at me.

What she did next was entirely unhurried. Deliberate, precise, like someone exploring rather than performing. She swallowed me whole, all the way down, until I felt the tip pressing against her throat, and she didn’t pull back. Her lips, her tongue, the edge of her teeth at exactly the right moments. She sucked and pulled off with an obscene wet sound, spitting saliva onto my cock and using it to jerk me off while she licked my balls, one and then the other, putting them in her mouth too.

I had to brace one hand against the wall behind me to keep my balance. With the other, I grabbed her hair and began moving my hips against her mouth. She took it, opened wider, let me fuck her throat at my pace. Her eyes filled with tears and saliva ran down her chin to her tits, and she didn’t stop.

I stopped her before it was too late. I pulled my cock from her mouth with a tug that left her lips shiny and swollen. A thread of saliva still hung from my glans to her tongue.

—If you keep going, I’m going to come in your mouth —I told her.

—I know —she replied, and slowly ran her tongue over her lips—. That’s why you stopped, not me.

I got her to her feet, turned her around, and slowly pulled down her pants. No underwear. I slid my hands from her hips toward the front, until I found the heat between her legs. She was soaked. Her slit was dripping; she was so wet that when I barely brushed her lips, my fingers sank in without resistance. I rubbed her with my middle finger, up and down, smearing her own juices over her clitoris.

—What a fucking wet pussy you have —I said in her ear—. All this from sucking my cock.

—All this from what you’re going to do to me now —she answered, pressing her ass against my cock.

I thrust two fingers into her at once. She moaned loudly, a moan that came from deep in her throat, and grabbed the edge of the worktable to keep from falling. I finger-fucked her hard and fast, until my knuckles struck against her lips every time I thrust. My thumb brushed her clitoris with each stroke.

My fingers moved and she leaned back against me, letting her head fall onto my shoulder. Her hips began moving, seeking more pressure, more friction, more than I was giving her. I bit her neck while I kept fingering her; with my other hand I pinched one nipple and twisted it gently, and she wouldn’t stop trembling.

—More —she said quietly. Not as a plea. As an instruction.

I obeyed. I pushed in a third finger and sped up. The wet sound of my hand moving in and out of her cunt filled the room, mixed with her quick breathing and the dirty words she began to let loose without a filter.

—Yes, like that, like that, don’t stop, you son of a bitch, I’m coming, I’m coming…

Her orgasm arrived in silence, or almost. A low, continuous sound escaped her without her being able to control it, followed by the trembling in her legs that made her knees buckle slightly. I held her around the waist while she kept pressing against my hand, wringing out every last contraction. When I pulled out my fingers, I brought them to her mouth, and she sucked them without hesitation, looking at me, tasting herself completely.

***

The bed received us without preliminaries. I laid her on her back and opened her legs with my knees. I saw her swollen, red pussy, still shining with her own orgasm, and I couldn’t resist: I lowered my face and buried my tongue deep inside her.

Daniela cried out and grabbed my hair with both hands. I sucked her clitoris, took it between my lips and drew on it, ran my flat tongue from her ass to her clitoris in one long lick. Her taste was thick, salty, so intense that my cock grew even harder. I pushed my tongue inside her and moved it as if I were fucking her, and she thrust her hips against my face without any shame.

—Fuck me already —she panted—. Put it in me, please, put it in me already.

I rose up. She opened herself to me with her hips, and I entered her while looking into her eyes, slowly for the first few inches, letting her body get used to mine. She was so wet and so tight at the same time that I had to grit my teeth not to come right there. I pushed all the way in, until my balls touched her ass, and she let out a long moan that broke in her throat.

And then without pause, with all the urgency that had built up over the afternoon.

Daniela arched her back. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, then my back, and I felt her scratch me until she drew blood. I didn’t care. I was fucking her hard, pulling my cock almost all the way out and driving it back into her with a thrust, and every blow drew a short, sharp “ah” from her that she no longer tried to suppress.

—Harder —she asked—. Break me.

I grabbed one leg and lifted it onto my shoulder. The angle changed, and she writhed beneath me, eyes closed and mouth open, letting loose a stream of curses I never would have attributed to the serene woman who had opened the door for me.

—Yes, like that, give me the whole cock, give me all of it, fuck that cock all the way inside me…

I pulled out. I turned her around. I put her on all fours and sank into her again from behind, grabbing her hips and driving into her at my own pace. Her pert ass bounced against my pelvis with a sharp smack that echoed through the room. I slapped one cheek and she pushed back to ask for another. I gave it to her. And another.

I grabbed one breast with one hand, seized her hair with the other, and pulled back until her spine arched and I could bite her shoulder. Her pussy squeezed me, contracting around me every time I buried myself inside her, and I felt her come again, trembling and moaning my name for the first time all afternoon.

The rhythm grew on its own, the way these things grow when there’s no need to negotiate. Her hips came to meet mine halfway. The room filled with the sound of two bodies that had met that afternoon behaving as though they’d been doing this for some time: the slap of skin against skin, the squelch of her soaked pussy, broken moans, the creak of the bed.

I put her on her back again because I wanted to see her face when I came. I lifted both her legs and rested them on my shoulders, then drove all the way in. She gripped the sheets and twisted them in her fists.

—I’m going to come —I warned her through clenched teeth.

—Not inside —she said without opening her eyes—. On top. I want to watch you.

When I reached the limit, I pulled out of her and gripped my cock with my hand. Three quick strokes were enough to send my orgasm spurting hotly over her belly, splashing up to her tits, one strand reaching her neck. She ran two fingers over her stomach, gathered some of my semen, and brought it to her mouth without taking her eyes off mine.

Daniela placed her hand over mine for a moment without saying anything. Then she cleaned herself, turned toward me, and rested her head on my chest with the same naturalness Atlas had shown when he lay down on the sofa downstairs.

We slept for a while. Or maybe we didn’t sleep. The light from the skylights shifted angle without my noticing.

***

And now I’m here, my lips on her neck and her hands over mine, the mirror showing the two of us in that orange afternoon light pouring through the skylights. My cock is hard again against her ass, and she knows it: she moves her hips in a slow circle, testing, promising a third time before night falls.

—And Atlas? —I ask against her skin.

—Downstairs —she says—. With his kibble.

—Good dog.

She laughs. The first real laugh since I arrived. I watch her in the mirror for a moment and think that if someone had told me this morning, while I was making that sandwich, that I would end the day like this—naked behind this woman, her pussy still dripping with me, and wanting to put it back inside her—I wouldn’t have believed him.

There are days you don’t see coming. And they turn out to be the best.