The Afternoon Doña Marisol Opened the Door for Me

I had just turned eighteen when it happened. I lived with my mother in an old building downtown, one of those where all the neighbors know one another by name and the elevator breaks down every fifteen days. Doña Marisol lived on the second floor, two floors above ours, and for as long as I could remember I had watched her come down the stairs in her high heels and heavy perfume.

It was Sunday afternoon. My mother had gone out to have lunch with her sisters and had left me alone in the apartment. I was in the kitchen trying to make myself an omelet when I realized we had run out of eggs. Before calling my mother and enduring the sermon, I thought of asking someone in the building to lend me some.

Doña Marisol was the first person who came to mind. Not because I knew her well, but because she was the only one who always greeted me with a wink whenever we crossed paths in the hallway. My mother said she had been alone ever since her husband died and that she sometimes got bored in that huge apartment.

I walked up the two flights. I rang the bell with my heart beating a little faster, without really knowing why. It took her a while to open. When she did, I stood frozen in the doorway.

She was wearing a robe. A short, cream-colored silk robe, tied with a belt that barely held together her cleavage. Her hair was wet and loose over her shoulders, and she smelled of that mixture of soap and cream that I later learned to seek out in other women and never found quite the same way again.

—Mateo —she said, surprised—. Is something wrong?

—No, Doña Marisol, sorry to bother you. It’s just that… we ran out of eggs and my mother isn’t home. Would you happen to have a couple I could borrow?

She laughed. A low laugh, without mockery, almost kind.

—Come in, m’ijo. I’m not going to make you stand in the draft at the door.

I went in. The apartment smelled like her. Warm light came through the large living-room windows, and there was a silence that made me feel as if I were stepping into a forbidden place. Doña Marisol walked toward the kitchen and I followed her, trying not to look at her legs. They were long and tanned, and the robe opened slightly with every step.

Don’t look, I kept telling myself. Don’t look.

—Sit there —she said, pointing to one of the stools at the counter—. I’ll get you the eggs. Do you want a glass of water or something? It’s awfully hot.

—Yes, please.

She poured me water from a glass pitcher. As she filled the glass, she leaned forward and the robe loosened a little more. I saw the top of her breasts, her skin still damp, and the tip of a dark nipple showing through against the silk. I looked away too quickly, and she noticed. I know because she smiled. She didn’t say anything, but she smiled.

—How old are you, Mateo?

—Eighteen —I answered, much too seriously.

—Eighteen —she repeated, as if weighing the word—. And you’re already a man. When you first came to the building, you were this little.

She made a gesture with her hand, at the level of her waist. Her waist was right where the robe’s belt was tied. I didn’t know what to say.

—Do you have a girlfriend?

—No.

—Never had one?

I shook my head. I felt my face burning. It wasn’t a lie. I had kissed a classmate at an end-of-year party, but that was where it had ended. I knew the rest only from what I watched on my phone, shut away in my room, with my hand inside my pants and the volume turned down as low as possible so my mother wouldn’t hear me.

Doña Marisol came closer to the counter. She rested her elbows in front of me and looked me straight in the eyes. Up close, she had tiny lines around her eyes, lines that made her seem more alive, not older.

—You know something, Mateo? When I was eighteen, I already knew much more than you do now. And that isn’t fair.

—I don’t know what to say.

—You don’t have to say anything.

***

She reached out and placed her hand over mine. Her fingers were long, and her nails were painted an earthy color. She didn’t move them; she simply left them there, on top of mine, as if waiting to see what I would do.

I did nothing. I couldn’t. My mouth had gone dry. I only looked at her, and she must have seen in my face everything I wasn’t able to put into words.

—Come here —she said softly, straightening up.

She came around to the other side of the counter, approached me, and lifted me off the stool effortlessly. I let her lead me as if I were much younger than she was, and in a way, I was. She took me to the living-room sofa, the long brown leather sofa I had seen so many times through the half-open door.

—Sit down.

I sat. She remained standing in front of me, looking down at me. Then, without taking her eyes off mine, she loosened the belt of her robe. She did it slowly, almost calmly, as if she wanted to give me time to run.

I didn’t move.

The robe fell to the floor. Doña Marisol wore nothing underneath except a pair of white cotton panties that looked small against that large woman’s body. She had broad hips, full, heavy breasts, with dark, already-hard nipples pointing toward me, and a nearly invisible horizontal scar below her navel. She was everything I had never seen in person.

—Don’t be embarrassed —she said—. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want.

She knelt between my legs. I had been hard for a while, so hard that my cock throbbed painfully against my jeans. She placed one hand on my thigh and waited again. That was her way. She didn’t go any further unless I told her yes.

—Yes —I said, my voice breaking—. Yes, Doña Marisol.

—Just call me Marisol, m’ijo.

—Marisol.

She smiled and undid my pants in two movements. She pulled my jeans and underwear down to my knees in one tug, and my cock sprang free, stiff, its tip already wet. A low sound escaped her, almost a purr, and she took it in her right hand, squeezing at the base.

—Look what you’ve got here, m’ijo —she murmured—. Look at this beauty. And wasting it alone, shut up in your room.

She began moving her hand up and down, slowly, the skin sliding over the head. When she touched me with her tongue for the first time, I swore I was going to come right then and there. She licked me from the base to the tip with her broad, flat tongue, then sucked my cockhead completely, closing her lips as if she were giving my cock a deep kiss. She loosened her pressure, blew over my wet skin, and let me breathe for a second. Then she opened her mouth and took all of me inside, until I felt the tip hit the back of her throat.

—Marisol… —I moaned, gripping the sofa.

She moved her head up and down in a slow rhythm, pulling me out to the head and swallowing me whole again. A string of saliva hung from her chin, and she used it to stroke the base with one hand while sucking my tip. I could see her breasts moving with every motion, her nipples brushing my thighs. I dared to lower one hand and grab her hair, not to force her, but to have something to hold on to.

—Easy, easy —she said whenever I gripped her hair too tightly, pulling my cock from her mouth with a wet smack—. We have all afternoon. If you come now, you won’t get anything out of this.

She put me back in her mouth, faster this time. She sucked me while looking into my eyes, and that look burned me more than her mouth. She lowered one hand and began caressing my balls, weighing them in her palm, and I felt my legs trembling on their own. She pulled my cock from her mouth, held it beside her face, and licked my testicles one by one, taking them into her mouth and sucking them carefully. Then she went back up and sucked me again, taking me down her throat and swallowing around my cock.

***

I don’t know how long that first part lasted. I know that at some point I had to stop her because my balls had tightened and a current was rising from the base of my spine. I tightened my grip on her hair and told her, almost begging, to stop. She pulled my cock from her mouth, its tip dripping with saliva, and smiled at me with swollen lips.

—That’s the idea —she said, squeezing the base with two fingers to bring me down—. The idea is for this to last. For you to remember it, m’ijo.

She took off my shirt. She removed my pants and underwear completely. She made me lie back on the long sofa, with my back against it and my cock pointing at the ceiling, hard and wet with her saliva. Then she took off her white panties, pulling them down over her hips and letting them fall to the floor, and for the first time in my life I saw a woman’s pussy up close, with trimmed hair, open, glistening lips, and pink skin showing between the dark hair.

—Come on, touch me —she said, taking my hand and guiding it there.

I pushed two fingers inside her almost without thinking, clumsily, and she moaned and moved over my hand to position me better. She was wet, so wet that my fingers slipped in without resistance, making a wet sound that made me even harder. She guided my thumb to a swollen little point at the top and made me rub it in circles.

—There, m’ijo, there. That’s the clitoris. Learn where it is and never forget it. They’ll all thank you.

I bit my lip and did as she said, watching her close her eyes and arch her neck. After a while she couldn’t take it anymore and pulled my fingers out, then climbed on top of me slowly, looking me in the eyes the whole time. She took my cock in her hand, rubbed it against the lips of her pussy, soaking it, and then began taking it inside little by little, lowering her hips inch by inch. I felt a tight, wet heat wrapping around my entire cock, and a fear I had never felt before either. I thought I was going to faint.

—Breathe —she told me when she had taken all of me inside, her thighs resting against mine—. Breathe with me. Don’t come yet. Hold on for me.

And I breathed. She began moving slowly, setting the rhythm with her hips, rising until I almost slipped out and then dropping hard back down to the bottom. She had both hands resting on my chest, and every so often she leaned down to kiss me with her mouth open, slipping me her tongue. Her kisses were slow, slower than the movements of her body. That afternoon I learned that a woman can kiss a man as if she were silently teaching him something.

—Look at me —she said—. Don’t close your eyes. I want you to remember this forever. I want you to see how a woman moves when she likes it.

And I looked at her. I watched her ride me, moving her hips in circles, letting all her weight fall onto me. I watched her arch her back until her tits were level with my face, and I grabbed one in each hand, squeezing them and pinching her nipples as best I could. She moaned and quickened the pace, riding me harder, faster, until the sofa creaked beneath us and her ass struck my thighs with a dry slap.

—Suck them —she asked, pushing one breast against my mouth—. Suck them hard, m’ijo, don’t be shy.

I caught one nipple between my lips and sucked it as best I could, biting it slowly and running my tongue around it. Her whole body shuddered and she pressed my head against her breast. I heard her panting in my ear, saying dirty things to me that I had never heard a woman say.

—That’s it, that’s it, give me your tongue… you’ve got it inside, can you feel it? Can you feel how I’m squeezing your cock?

And I could feel it. I felt her pussy closing in waves around my cock, moving on its own inside, milking me. I watched her entire body contract and relax; I watched the sweat shining on her forehead and chest. She straightened, braced her hands behind her on my knees, and began bouncing on me, mouth open, showing me without shame how my cock entered and left her.

—Look, m’ijo, look how you’re fucking me. Look how it goes in.

I lowered my gaze and saw what she was showing me: my cock, shiny and wet, disappearing inside her again and again. It was too much. Everything tightened inside me and I shouted that I was going to come. She squeezed my balls with one hand and released them, stopping me abruptly.

—Not yet. Hold on a little longer. Me first.

She quickened her pace, leaned forward, and rubbed her clitoris against my pubic bone with every thrust. She dug her nails into my shoulders. Her mouth opened soundlessly, then released a long, hoarse moan that came from deep inside her. When she came, I felt it as if she were squeezing my soul: her pussy clenched in spasms around my cock, gripping me so tightly I almost screamed, and she stayed rigid for a few seconds with her back arched before collapsing on top of me, trembling, her head resting against my neck and her broken breathing against my ear.

I still hadn’t finished, and she realized it immediately from the way I kept thrusting up beneath her, seeking friction.

—Your turn —she whispered in my ear, her voice hoarse—. Now you do it. Whatever you want.

She made me turn over. She lay beneath me, spread her legs, and guided me patiently, taking my cock and putting it back inside her pussy. She squeezed my ass with both hands, pushing me against her.

—Fuck me, m’ijo. Hard. Any way you want.

I thrust into her. At first I was afraid, watching her face to see if I was hurting her, but she bit her lip and whispered slower, faster, like that, there, deeper, give me more. I obeyed every word as if my life depended on it. I lifted one of her legs, draped it over my shoulder, and sank deeper, and she cried out and scratched my back. I felt her slippery, hot pussy squeezing me with every thrust, and the wet sound of my cock going in and out filled the entire living room, mixed with her moans and the slap of my hips against her thighs.

—That’s it, that’s it, don’t stop, fuck me harder, m’ijo, harder.

I felt myself about to come. I told her I was going to finish, and she pulled my ass against her, locking me deep inside.

—Inside. Come inside me. Give me all your milk, m’ijo, don’t be afraid.

And I came. I came in a release that shook my legs and made my voice tremble, long jets emptying inside her while I kept thrusting slowly, gritting my teeth and moaning against her neck. I felt my semen mixing inside her, beginning to spill over the edges of her pussy around my still-hard cock. I stayed on top of her for several long seconds without moving, my cock buried to the hilt, feeling her pussy continue to pulse around it.

Marisol ran her fingers slowly down my back, the way you caress a boy. She pulled me out little by little, and I felt a warm tug as I came free, a white thread trickling between us.

—That’s it, m’ijo —she said—. Now you’re a man.

***

I don’t know how long we stayed afterward, embracing on the sofa. At one point she got up, picked up the robe from the floor, and put it over her still-sweaty body, still wet between the legs. She brought me a glass of water and told me to get dressed at my leisure; my mother still hadn’t come back.

—What about the eggs? —I asked without thinking, and she laughed so hard she had to sit down again.

—You’ve got the eggs right here —she said, tapping me twice on the shirt pocket—. And half a dozen in the refrigerator for your mother.

She placed them in my hand. They were cold. I was still hot.

At the door, before I left, she held my face in both hands and gave me a long, clean kiss, without urgency.

—You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?

—No.

—Good boy.

I walked down the two flights without really knowing whether I was walking or floating. My mother arrived an hour later, distracted, and asked me to help her set the table. I handed her the eggs and told her Doña Marisol had given them to me, and my mother said, “How kind.” I bit back my smile with my face turned away.

I went back up to her apartment several more times over the following months, always with some excuse, always on Sunday afternoons. I never told anyone anything. And although I later had girlfriends, partners, and a few women who truly left their mark on me, that May afternoon with Doña Marisol was what taught me everything worth knowing. To this day, whenever I pass the door of an old building and smell cream and soap, I become eighteen again.