My Neighbor Wanted Me to Be Her First Time

When I moved to Las Acacias, I still slept with the living room light on. My wife had died in May, and the house we had chosen together weighed too heavily on me. I had inherited the apartments in the complex from my mother, and one of them was empty. I thought I would stay three months; I ended up living there for almost four years.

I met Camila the second week. She was sixteen and came down to my door with a plate of empanadas her mother sent over as a welcome gift. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt, frayed shorts, and her hair was short and dark. She handed me the plate, said, “I’m from upstairs,” and left before I could finish thanking her.

Her mother, Renata, was a cardiologist at the regional hospital and was around forty-eight. Widowed too, she was raising her only daughter on her own. Within a few months we became friends: coffee on my balcony on Sundays, a beer when she got out late from the clinic. Camila orbited those conversations. Sometimes she joined us with a book and her bare feet on the stool; other times she just crossed through the kitchen and waved at me.

The two years between her sixteen and her eighteen I remember as one long summer. Camila had grown taller, lost the softness of the beginning, and started wearing skirts so short that her mother, when she was around, would ask her to change. I never said anything. I had gotten used to seeing her like that, just as I had gotten used to her slightly hoarse voice, the way she bit the ice cubes in her glass while telling me her things. For a while she seemed like a niece to me; then she stopped seeming like a niece.

The day she passed the university entrance exam, she came up to tell me. She climbed onto the kitchen stool, wearing a skirt, and sat there swinging her feet. She had on a thin blouse and a sports bra that showed underneath. They were no longer the breasts of the girl on the balcony. They belonged to someone else.

—I’m going to study medicine —she said—. Like Mom.

—You’ll do great.

—I know. —She smiled—. Mateo, can I ask you something kind of weird?

—Try me.

—Do you think I should start taking the pill?

I stared at the glass for a second, not at her.

—Are you with someone?

—No. But I’m starting at the university, I’ll meet people, I’d rather be safe.

—Talk to your mother about it.

—It’s easier with you.

I looked up. Her green eyes were fixed on me, unblinking. It wasn’t a question from a surrogate daughter. I understood that then, even though I didn’t want to understand it fully.

Don’t do this to me now. I have no way to defend myself.

***

The following weeks were strange. Camila started coming downstairs more often, at odd times. She would show up with her gym bag and ask if I had any cold water; she’d come out wet from the pool at the back and ask me for a towel. One afternoon she tried on a new dress in my living room, in front of the hallway mirror, and asked me if it looked good from the front and also from the back. When she turned around so I could look, it took me a while to answer.

—It looks good —I said.

—Just good?

—It looks very good.

—Better.

Renata kept doing her forty-eight-hour shifts. Sometimes she called me from the hospital to say she was going to be late; I told her Camila was studying at my place, when in fact she was downstairs, in my kitchen, barefoot, eating rice straight from the pot with a fork.

One Saturday night we put on some random series on the TV. It was late. Camila had her legs crossed under her body and a glass of wine in her hand. She was wearing a faded blue denim skirt and a sleeveless orange blouse. She turned the volume down without asking.

—Mateo, I want you to be honest with me.

—Go ahead.

—Don’t you like me, or don’t you like me as a woman?

I set the glass on the coffee table. My mouth was dry.

—Camila…

—I did everything I could think of to make you notice. I’m not stupid. I act like I don’t notice, but I do notice.

—I’m thirty-five.

—And I’m eighteen. Legal age. Anything that happens between us is between us.

—Your mother is my friend.

—My mother isn’t here.

—It’s not that simple.

She sat up straight on the sofa and smoothed her skirt down with both hands, slowly, as if weighing every gesture.

—I’m going to make this easy for you —she said—. I want it to be you. My first. I want you to kiss me and I want you to do whatever comes to mind. If you say no, tomorrow I’ll act like this never happened, but I won’t speak to you again. I can’t take this anymore.

There was a long silence. I could hear the refrigerator humming on the other side of the wall. I thought of Renata, of the Sunday coffees, of the guilt that was going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I also thought of the neckline of the orange blouse, of the thin line of sweat on Camila’s neck, of the exact shape of her crossed knees.

The body didn’t ask. I went over and kissed her.

***

Camila’s lips were cold from the wine. At first I was the one kissing her; within seconds it was she who was pushing her tongue against mine, holding my face with both hands as if I might slip away from her. She smelled of cheap shampoo and her mother’s borrowed perfume. I slipped my hand under the orange blouse and felt her skin, hot, prickled, as if current had run through her. She arched into my palm and found my mouth again, biting my lower lip with more hunger than technique.

—Tell me yes —she murmured between kisses.

—Yes.

—Again.

—Yes, Camila. Anything you want.

I lifted the blouse’s straps off her shoulders and pulled it over her head. Underneath she had the sports bra; I pulled it up with both hands and her breasts fell free, heavier than I had imagined, white with dark, hard nipples like little stones. I ran my tongue over one and felt the shiver travel down to her hips. I bit the other one slowly, without letting go of the first between my fingers, and heard a new sound from her, sharp, which she cut off herself by covering her mouth.

—Don’t cover yourself —I told her, with my mouth still attached to the nipple—. No one can hear you here.

—I’m embarrassed.

—You’ll be even more so.

She laughed. A short, nervous, real laugh. Then she stopped laughing because I took her whole breast into my mouth and ran my tongue around the nipple, in slow circles, until her breathing started to shake.

I lifted her skirt to her waist. The panties were white, cotton, and wet in a way you can’t fake; the dark hair underneath showed through, and a darker patch marked exactly where her cunt was. I ran my fingers over the fabric and felt her tremble; when I hooked the elastic aside and touched her directly, she let out a dull moan and threw herself back against the sofa. She was soaked. My fingers slid between her lips as if I had spilled something on her. That was when I realized she had been touched very little. Almost nothing.

—Do you want me to stop?

—I swear to my mother if you stop I’ll kill you.

I knelt between her legs. I yanked off her panties and left them hanging from her ankle. She had fine, dark hair trimmed into a neat triangle, and the smell of a girl fresh out of the shower mixed with something stronger, more animal, that made me clutch my cock through my pants. I leaned in and ran my tongue from bottom to top, once, slowly, measuring the effect. She arched and gripped the sofa’s leather with both hands.

—Mateo… —That was all she could say.

I didn’t stop. I opened her cunt lips with two fingers and sought her clit with the tip of my tongue. It was swollen, prominent, much more sensitive than she herself knew. A short, steady motion was enough; I ran my tongue across it, then in circles, then sucked it whole, closing my lips around it and tugging slightly upward. Camila writhed. She trapped my head between her thighs and then let me go, regretful, as if afraid she might break me. I slid one finger into her cunt while I kept sucking her clit, and felt the walls clamp down on me like a fist.

—Oh, Mateo, Mateo, I can’t… —she panted—. I can’t, I…

After a minute her thighs tightened against my ears, her knees closed around my head, and she came with a muffled cry into the cushion. I felt her gush onto my chin, hot, and I kept licking until she pushed me away with both hands.

—Stop, stop —she said—. I can’t take it, I can’t take it.

—You can.

I went back up. I kissed her with her own taste in my mouth and made her run her tongue over my lips so she could taste herself. I pulled off her skirt completely. I still had my pants on. I shoved them down to my knees and freed my boxers. My cock sprang out, hard, swollen, the head already wet. Camila looked at me without blinking, just as she had that afternoon in the kitchen, and bit her lower lip. Not coquettishly. With fear and desire in equal parts.

—It’s bigger than I thought —she said softly.

—Come here —I said.

—Do you want me to suck it?

—Later. Come here now.

—I want to now.

She dropped to the floor on her knees before I could answer. She gripped my cock with both hands, studied it for a second as if measuring it, and took it into her mouth in one go as far as she could. She gagged, coughed, laughed with tears in her eyes, and tried again. The second time was slower. She ran her tongue over the tip, sucked the head with her lips sealed around it, and went down again, now without rushing. I put a hand on the back of her neck, not pushing, just feeling her short hair between my fingers. She went up and down, setting the pace herself, looking up at me with her green eyes wide open, and the third time I felt her take me all the way to the back of her throat.

—That’s it, Camila. That’s it. You learn fast.

She pulled my cock out of her mouth with a wet click, shining with saliva, and dragged it across my cheek, my neck.

—Is that okay? —she asked.

—That’s perfect.

I lifted her off the floor. If I let her go on one more minute I was going to come in her mouth and I didn’t want that, not yet. I settled her on the sofa with her legs open and her back reclined. I made room between her thighs and ran the tip of my cock over her cunt lips, up and down, wetting myself with her. Camila watched me do it, mouth slightly open.

—Put it in —she said—. Put it in now.

—Slowly.

—No, not slowly. Now. Before I change my mind.

—You won’t change your mind.

When I entered her, I did it slowly, watching her face change. I felt the first resistance immediately; she clenched her teeth and dug her nails into my forearm, but she didn’t ask me to stop. I pushed a little farther and knew I had gotten past it. I stayed still, my cock inside her halfway, feeling her squeeze me from all sides.

—Are you okay?

She nodded with her eyes closed. There were two tears between her lashes, not from sadness, from released tension. I kissed her eyelids, her eyebrows, her forehead.

—Tell me when you want me to move.

—Move. Slowly.

I moved slowly. I eased in millimeter by millimeter, letting her get used to it, until I felt myself all the way inside her. Camila opened her eyes and looked at me as if she had just understood something.

—You’re all the way inside now —I whispered in her ear.

—I know. I can feel it. I can feel everything.

After a while it was she who started moving against me. She sought me out with her hips, timid at first, then with more hunger. I felt her wet my thighs, give herself over completely. When I saw she was no longer clenching her teeth, that she was smiling with her mouth half open and digging her nails into me for a different reason, I found a rhythm. The sofa creaked. I started fucking her harder, deeper, watching her breasts bounce with every thrust. I took one in my hand and pinched the nipple; she let out a cry and clenched her cunt around my cock.

—Keep going —she panted—. Keep going like that, don’t stop, like that, like that, like that.

—You like it.

—I love it. I love it, I love it.

—Say you like being fucked.

—I like being fucked. I like it. Fuck me.

Camila started saying things I couldn’t understand, words that sounded like another language. I lifted one leg and put it over my shoulder to go deeper into her. The angle changed and she noticed it at once; she grabbed the back of the sofa with both hands and arched her back until her breasts pressed against her chest.

—There, Mateo. There, there, there.

—Come for me. Come for me.

She came again, this time with her spine arched and her heels dug into the cushion, screaming without covering her mouth, squeezing my cock inside her with spasms that nearly made me come with her. I held on a few seconds longer, biting my lip, until I couldn’t, and pulled out just in time. I came over her stomach and her breasts, with a long stream that reached the hollow of her throat, and another shorter one that stained her navel.

—Why did you pull out? —she panted, looking at the semen on top of her as if someone had given her a gift—. I told you I take the pill.

—Force of habit. Sorry.

—Next time don’t pull out. I want to feel you come inside me.

She ran two fingers over her belly, scooped up some of the cum, and put it in her mouth, looking me in the eyes.

—It’s salty —she said.

—Hadn’t you tasted it before?

—I hadn’t tasted anything, Mateo. Nothing.

***

We went to the bathroom. I showered her, ran soap over her back, over her ass, between her thighs. I could feel her body different, settled. When I passed the sponge over her cunt, swollen and still red, she complained softly and leaned against me. Her nipples stood up under the hot water. When we got out, Camila stood in the middle of the room, naked, with a thin gold chain around her neck, looking at me as if waiting for instructions.

—Face down —I said.

She lay down. I ran my tongue over her nape, between her shoulder blades, down the groove of her back. I took my time. I bit her ass cheeks, one and then the other, leaving pink tooth marks, and heard her laugh into the pillow. When I lowered myself a little more, I felt her tense.

—Mateo, not there.

—Trust me.

—It’s just that it gives me…

—Tickles?

—Tickles. And embarrassment.

—If you want me to stop, tell me and I’ll stop.

She said nothing. I parted her cheeks with both hands and ran my tongue between them, slowly, without pressing. I felt her whole body contract at the first contact. I ran the tip of my tongue around her asshole, in circles, pressing little by little, and then nudged just slightly inside. Camila let out a new sound: a sort of weak laugh that turned into a moan. She clutched the sheet with both hands and lifted her ass toward my face.

—My God —she said softly—. My God, Mateo.

I ate her ass for a long while, unhurried, alternating between licking her hole and going down to suck her cunt again from behind. I slid two fingers into her cunt while I kept working her ass with my tongue, and felt her get even wetter. I felt her come again from just that, with a shiver that ran through her calves and shoulders at the same time, squeezing my fingers inside her. When I lifted my head, her face was buried in the pillow and her shoulders were shaking in a mixture of laughter and crying I had never seen in any grown woman.

—Are you okay?

—I didn’t know that existed —she said into the pillow—. Nobody told me that existed.

—There are more things you don’t know.

—Teach me all of them.

I turned her over and slid into her cunt again, now from the other side, with her on her back and her legs over my shoulders. I pushed all the way in on the first thrust. Camila looked up at me with shining eyes and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

—Don’t pull out this time —she reminded me—. Promise.

—Promise.

I fucked her more slowly than on the sofa, deeper, watching her face the whole time. I rubbed my thumb over her clit while I fucked her, and felt her tense immediately. She gripped my wrists and started moving with me, setting the pace from underneath.

—Come inside me —she begged—. Come inside me, Mateo, I want to feel it.

This time I didn’t pull out. I increased the pace until I felt her come one last time, with a long moan that rose from deep in her chest, and I let go inside her with three deep thrusts. I felt her clamp down on me as I came. I stayed there a while, sunk deep, feeling my cum seep between the two of us. When I pulled out, Camila reached for her cunt, touched herself, looked at the shiny fingers covered in semen, and laughed.

—It’s coming out.

—It’s coming out.

—I like it.

She stayed wrapped around my neck, not speaking, smelling of shampoo and sweat and something that was new. The clock on the nightstand read eleven twenty.

***

At midnight the landline rang. It was Renata.

—Mateo, sorry for the hour. Is Camila down there? She isn’t answering her cell.

—She’s here. We were watching a movie. She fell asleep on the sofa.

—What a relief. Thanks for looking after her. I’m not getting out until tomorrow, I have an emergency.

—Don’t worry.

—You’re a gem.

I hung up. Camila was leaning against the doorway, wrapped in a towel, looking at me with a smile that had nothing innocent about it.

—My mother?

—Your mother.

—How long is she on duty for?

—Until tomorrow night.

—Then I’m not leaving.

***

She didn’t leave. We spent five months like that. Camila came down with a bag, slept with me, went back up to her apartment before breakfast. She learned quickly everything there was to learn, and some things I hadn’t known could be learned. Renata never suspected, or if she did she never said a word; she invited me to Sunday barbecue, asked about my life, offered to introduce me to a colleague from the clinic. I declined politely and turned red in a way she interpreted as shyness.

Later they offered me the vice presidency of the company in another province and I left. We talked about it for several nights before. Camila told me it was fine, that it was what I had to do, that she had university and life ahead of her. She cried a little the last night and then no more. We’re both doctors, she would tell me years later as if it were an old joke, we both chose you.

A few days ago she texted me. She’s a doctor, like her mother. She’s married and has two daughters about the age she was when she came down to my door with the plate of empanadas. She asked if I remembered. I told her I remembered everything: the ice in the glass, the sports bra, the expression on her face that first time on the orange sofa. She replied: I remember your voice when you told me “don’t cover yourself.” And then, a minute later, another message: sometimes I still don’t cover myself.