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 places where everyone knows each other by name and the elevator breaks down every fifteen days. Doña Marisol lived on the second floor, two flights above ours, and as long as I could remember I’d seen her coming down the stairs in her heels, wrapped in her heavy perfume.

It was Sunday afternoon. My mother had gone out to lunch with her sisters and left me alone in the apartment. I was in the kitchen trying to make myself an omelet when I realized we were out of eggs. Before calling my mother and putting up with her lecture, I thought I’d ask to borrow some from someone in the building.

Doña Marisol was the first person who came to mind. Not because I knew her very well, but because she was the only one who always greeted me with a wink when we crossed paths in the hall. My mother said she was a woman on her own ever since her husband died and that sometimes she got bored in that big apartment.

I climbed the two floors on foot. I rang the bell with my heart beating a little faster, not really knowing why. She took a while to open the door. When she did, I froze in the doorway.

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

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

—No, Doña Marisol, sorry to bother you. It’s just… 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, not mocking, almost kind.

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

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

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

—Sit down there —she said, pointing to one of the stools at the breakfast bar—. I’ll get you the eggs. Want a glass of water or something? It’s brutally 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 swell of her breast, the skin still damp, and the hint of a dark nipple pressing against the silk. I looked away too fast and she noticed. I know she did because she smiled. She didn’t say anything, but she smiled.

—How old are you, Mateo?

—Eighteen —I answered, too seriously.

—Eighteen —she repeated, as if weighing the word—. And already a man. When you moved into the building you were this little.

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

—Do you have a girlfriend?

—No.

—Never had one?

I shook my head. My face burned. It wasn’t a lie. I had kissed a classmate at a year-end party, but that had been the end of it. The rest I only knew from what I watched on my phone screen, locked in my room, with my hand in my pants and the volume turned way down so my mother wouldn’t hear me.

Doña Marisol came closer to the bar. She rested her elbows in front of me and held my gaze. Up close, she had small lines around her eyes, lines that made her seem more alive, not older.

—You know something, Mateo? At eighteen I already knew a lot 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 stretched out her hand and placed it over mine. Her fingers were long, with nails painted a earth-tone color. She didn’t move them; she just left them there, on top of mine, as if waiting to see what I would do.

I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t. My mouth had gone dry. I just 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, and straightened up.

She came down from the other side of the bar, walked over, and lifted me off the stool with no effort at all. 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, that long brown leather couch I had seen through the half-open door so many times.

—Sit.

I sat. She stood in front of me, looking down at me. Then, never breaking eye contact, she loosened the belt of the 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 wasn’t wearing anything underneath, except for white cotton panties that looked tiny against that grown woman’s body. She had wide hips, full heavy breasts, with dark nipples already hard, 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 my cock throbbed against my jeans and hurt. She put a hand on my thigh and waited again. That was her way. She wouldn’t go 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 unbuttoned my pants in two motions. She pulled my jeans and underwear down to my knees, and my cock sprang out, stiff, already wet at the tip. A low sound escaped her, almost a purr, and she grabbed it with her right hand, squeezing at the base.

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

She started 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 everything was going to end right there and then. She licked me from base to tip, with a broad, flat tongue, and then sucked my head in whole, closing her lips as if she were giving my cock a deep kiss. She eased off the pressure, blew on my wet skin, and let me breathe for a second. Then she opened her mouth and took it all the way in, until I felt the tip hit the back of her throat.

—Marisol… —I moaned, gripping the sofa.

She bobbed her head up and down in a slow rhythm, taking me out to the head and swallowing me whole again. A string of saliva hung from her chin, and she used that saliva to jerk me at the base with her hand while she sucked the tip. I could see her breasts moving with each motion, her nipples brushing my thighs. I dared to lower my hand and grab her hair, not to force her, just to have something to hold on to.

—Easy, easy —she said every time I held her hair too tightly, pulling my cock from her mouth with a wet pop—. We’ve got all afternoon. If you cum now, you won’t make the most of it.

She took me back into her mouth, this time faster. She sucked me while looking straight into my eyes, and that look burned more than her mouth did. She let one hand drop and began stroking my balls, weighing them in her palm, and I felt my legs start trembling on their own. She pulled my cock from her mouth, held it against her face, and licked my testicles one by one, taking them into her mouth, sucking them carefully. Then she went back up and sucked me again, taking me to the throat, swallowing saliva around my cock.

***

I don’t know how long that first part lasted. I do know that at some point I had to stop her because my balls had drawn up tight and a current was climbing up from the base of my spine. I grabbed her hair and told her, almost begging, to stop. She pulled my cock from her mouth with the tip dripping spit and smiled at me with swollen lips.

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

She took off my T-shirt. She pulled my pants and underwear off completely. She made me lie back on the long sofa, with my cock pointing at the ceiling, hard and wet with her saliva. Then she took off her white panties, slid them down over her hips, and let them drop to the floor, and for the first time in my life I saw a woman’s cunt up close, with trimmed hair, parted shining lips, pink flesh peeking through the dark hair.

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

I slid two fingers inside almost without thinking, clumsy, and she moaned and shifted over my hand to get more comfortable. She was wet, so wet my fingers went in without resistance, making a wet sound that got me even harder. She guided my thumb to a swollen little spot at the top and made me circle it.

—There, m’ijo, there. That’s the clitoris. Learn where it is and never forget it. Every woman will thank you for it.

I bit my lip and did as I was told, 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 into my eyes the whole time. She grabbed my cock with her hand, rubbed it against the lips of her cunt, soaking me, and then started easing it inside, lowering her hips centimeter by centimeter. I felt a tight, wet heat wrapping around my entire cock, and a fear I had never felt either. I thought I was going to faint.

—Breathe —she said when she had it all the way in, her thighs pressed against mine—. Breathe with me. Don’t cum yet. Hold on for me.

And I breathed. She started moving slowly, setting the rhythm with her hips, rising until she almost slid off me and dropping back down again all at once to the bottom. She had both hands on my chest, and every so often she would lean down to kiss me with an open mouth, slipping her tongue into mine. 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 teaching him something in silence.

—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. I watched her ride me, moving her hips in circles, letting all her weight drop on me. I watched her arch her back until her breasts were at my face, and I grabbed one with each hand, squeezing them, pinching her nipples as best I could. She moaned and sped up, riding me harder, faster, until the sofa creaked beneath us and her ass slapped against my thighs with a dry smack.

—Suck them —she asked, pushing one breast to 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, licking around it. She shuddered all over and pulled my head against her chest. I could hear her gasping in my ear, saying dirty things I had never heard a woman say before.

—Like that, like that, give me your tongue… you’ve got it inside, do you feel it? Can you feel how tight I’m squeezing your cock?

And I could feel it. I could feel her cunt closing around my cock in waves, could feel it moving by itself inside, milking me. I watched her whole body clench and loosen, watched the skin on her forehead and chest shine with sweat. She straightened up, braced her hands on my bent knees, and started bouncing on me, mouth open, shamelessly showing me how my cock went in and out of her.

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

I looked down and saw what she was showing me: my cock, glossy and wet, disappearing into her over and over again. It was too much. Everything inside me tightened and I shouted that I was going to cum. She squeezed my balls in her hand and then let them go, cutting me off at once.

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

She sped up, leaned forward, and rubbed her clit against my pubic bone with every thrust. She dug her nails into my shoulders. Her mouth opened soundlessly and then she let out a long, hoarse moan from deep inside. When she came, I felt it like it was squeezing my soul: her cunt clamped down in spasms around my cock, squeezing me so hard I almost screamed, and she stayed rigid for a few seconds with her back arched before collapsing onto me, trembling, her head on my neck and her broken breathing against my ear.

I still hadn’t finished, and she realized it right away from the way I kept thrusting up from below, searching for friction.

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

She made me turn over. She lay beneath me, opened her legs, and guided me with patience, grabbing my cock and slipping it back into her cunt. She squeezed my buttocks with both hands, pushing me against her.

—Fuck me, m’ijo. Hard. However you want.

I fucked her. At first with fear, watching her face to see if I was hurting her, but she bit her lip and whispered slower, faster, there, like that, deeper, give me more. I obeyed every word as if my life depended on it. I lifted one leg, draped it over my shoulder, and drove in deeper, and she screamed and scratched my back. I could feel her slippery, hot cunt gripping me with every thrust, and the wet sound of my cock going in and out filled the whole living room, mingling with her moans and the slap of my hips against her thighs.

—Like that, like that, don’t stop, fuck me harder, m’ijo, harder.

I felt it building again. I told her I was about to come and she squeezed her buttocks against me, pinning me in deep.

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

And I came. I came in a jolt that shook my legs and made my voice tremble, long spurts emptying into her while I kept thrusting slowly, teeth clenched, moaning against her neck. I felt my semen mixing inside her, starting to leak from the edges of her cunt around my still-hard cock. I stayed on top of her for long seconds, not moving, my cock buried to the hilt, feeling her cunt keep throbbing around it.

Marisol ran her fingers slowly down my back, the way you stroke a boy. She pulled me out little by little, and I felt a warm tug when it came all the way out, with a white thread slipping between us.

—That’s it, m’ijo —she said—. You’re a man now.

***

I don’t know how long we spent after that holding each other on the sofa. At some point she got up, picked the robe off the floor, and put it back on over her body, still sweaty and still wet between the legs. She brought me a glass of water and told me to get dressed спокойно, that my mother still hadn’t come back.

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

—The eggs are right here —she said, giving me two soft taps on the pocket of my shirt—. And half a dozen are in the fridge for your mother.

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

At the door, before I left, she took 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 went down the two floors without really knowing whether I was walking or floating. My mother came back an hour later, distracted, and asked me to help 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 had to bite my smile with my face turned away.

I went back up to her apartment several more times over the months, always with some excuse, always on Sunday afternoons. I never told anyone anything. And although I later had girlfriends, lovers, a woman or two who really marked me, that May afternoon with Doña Marisol was the one that taught me everything worth knowing. To this day, whenever I pass the door of an old building and smell cream and soap, I’m eighteen again.