The Afternoon I Bought Something More Than a Watch

Almost two years ago, I posted in an Instagram buying-and-selling group that I was looking for a vintage quartz watch with a brown leather strap. I didn’t have high expectations. Those things usually end up as unanswered messages or blurry photos of something that isn’t what it seems. But Valeria replied that same afternoon, with three sharp photos and the price written without beating around the bush.

Her profile was public. She sold costume jewelry, used clothes, accessories. The photos were clean, well framed, as if presentation mattered to her. She wrote to say she preferred to do the handoff in her workshop — that’s what she called it — which turned out to be the garage of her house, about twenty minutes from mine by car. She’d had a bad run-in with a buyer and no longer trusted meeting in open places. I understood without needing any more explanation.

I arrived on time on a Tuesday at four in the afternoon. I rang the bell and she opened almost immediately, as if she had been waiting right on the other side of the door.

—Come in, it doesn’t bite —she said, and there was something in the way she said it that made you think it wasn’t entirely true.

She was prettier in person. Fair skin, dark curly hair falling over her shoulders, a little under five-foot-five. She wore a black tank top with no bra underneath —her nipples showed through as she breathed—, tight jeans that outlined her hips nicely, and rubber sandals that slapped softly against the floor with each step. She had an easy smile, the kind that requires no preparation, and she gave it to me from the first second as if we already knew each other.

The garage smelled of fabric and old wood. Boxes were stacked against the walls, a long rack full of clothes, shelves with costume jewelry sorted by color, and in the middle a small table with three watches on a dark cloth.

—This is the one from the photos —she said, pointing to the one in the middle—, but I brought the other two in case you like them better.

I tried them on one by one. The first was too big. The second had a badly worn strap. The one from the photos was exactly as she’d described it. I kept it on and started killing time while we talked.

She told me she’d studied Political Science, that she’d lived alone since she was twenty-one, that she liked nineties rock, and that she’d been selling things online for three years, long before everyone else started doing it. She had the ease of someone used to dealing with strangers without getting flustered. She answered questions directly, without embellishment, and at the same time asked questions with genuine curiosity.

—I also sell shoes —she said at one point, pointing to a big box in the corner—. If you have a partner or sisters who wear a size 37 to 39, tell them to write me.

I went over to the box out of curiosity. There were mid-heel pumps, flats in various colors, strappy sandals, a few stilettos that looked barely worn.

—Are they all yours?

—Most of them. Some belonged to my roommate, who moved abroad and left her things with me. For our degree we had to be dressed up all the time, so we accumulated a lot. Now a lot of them either don’t fit me anymore or I just don’t wear them.

—You must look great in heels —I said, without thinking too much about it.

She raised an eyebrow. Then she smiled slowly, as if accepting a minor challenge.

—You think so?

Without waiting for an answer, she reached into the box and pulled out a pair of closed-toe mid-heel shoes, black, with a small gold buckle at the ankle. She kicked off the rubber sandals and slipped them on with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times. Then she straightened and turned slowly in front of me, her back straight.

—What do you think?

—Nice. Formal. But I like those over there better —I said, pointing to a pair of gold sandals with crisscross straps I’d noticed from the moment I walked in and hadn’t stopped looking at.

She looked at them. Then she looked at me.

—Those are my favorites —she said quietly, almost like a confession.

She sat on the sofa at the back and took the sandals out of the box. She put them on slowly, carefully, adjusting the ankle strap with two fingers. When she stood up, the light coming through the window hit her from an angle that changed everything. She walked toward me with a calm that wasn’t exactly indifference.

—Like this?

I didn’t answer with words. I stepped closer, put a hand on her waist, and pulled her toward me very slowly. I gave her plenty of time to move away if she wanted to. She didn’t. I kissed her.

At first it was a short kiss, unhurried. She didn’t fully close her eyes. Then she did. And then she opened: she slid her tongue into my mouth and hunted for mine hungrily, biting my lower lip until a gasp escaped me. I squeezed her ass over her jeans with both hands, hard, and she pressed herself against my crotch, grinding slowly. She noticed the hard cock immediately beneath my pants and smiled against my mouth.

—Wow —she murmured—. Fast.

—Your fault —I replied in her ear, and bit her earlobe.

I settled her on the sofa, careful not to let my weight fall on top of her. I lifted one leg and started kissing her ankle, just above the gold strap. I ran my lips over the fine ankle bone, over the instep, over the side curve of her foot.

I took off the sandal slowly and held it for a moment in my hand before letting it go.

I started with the arch. My tongue moved slowly, following the curve from her heel to the base of her toes. It was salty, warm, with that particular taste feet have when they’ve been inside sandals all afternoon. She didn’t say anything for several seconds. Then:

—What are you doing? —she asked, her voice sounding a little different from before, deeper, more broken up.

I didn’t answer. I moved on to the toes, one by one, sucking them as if they were something else, my tongue sliding into the spaces between them. I took her big toe entirely into my mouth and sucked it slowly, looking her in the eyes. She tensed her leg, let out her breath sharply, and brought a hand to her chest over her T-shirt, pinching her nipple between two fingers.

—Fuck —she whispered.

I took the other foot and repeated the route. Heel, sole, arch, toes. When I pressed my lips to her arch and ran my tongue in one slow line, she made a sound that wasn’t exactly a word. A short, rough, surprised moan.

—No one has ever done this to me before —she murmured, more to herself than to me—. And it’s making me so fucking horny.

She rested one foot on my shoulder and looked down at me with half-closed eyes, her mouth slightly open, with a mix of curiosity and something much more direct. I kept going. I alternated between both feet, unhurried, while feeling my cock bulging rock hard under my pants. I didn’t care. I worked her foot up over my chest, brought it to my chin, then to my mouth. She opened her lips and sucked it herself, never breaking eye contact, as if trying out something new.

I slipped my other hand inside her jeans, forcing open the button. She lifted her hips to help me. The fly gave way and I slid my fingers over her panties. She was soaked. The fabric clung to her, hot, the slit clearly outlined underneath.

—You’re dripping —I told her, squeezing her cunt over the underwear.

—Shut up and keep going —she replied, pulling my hair.

Suddenly she sat up. She stood, still wearing one gold sandal and the other on the floor. She looked down at me for a moment, cheeks red and chest rising and falling fast.

—Come with me. Now. Upstairs.

She took me by the hand and led me inside the house without letting go, pulling firmly.

***

Her room was neat, more than you’d expect from someone living alone. A large bed, a window with the blind halfway down, late-afternoon light entering diagonally and drawing stripes across the wooden floor. It smelled of something soft I couldn’t identify.

She yanked her T-shirt off and let it drop without looking where it landed. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She had the body I’d guessed at beneath her clothes: narrow shoulders, defined waist, generous breasts with a small freckle just below the left collarbone that caught my attention for no particular reason. Her nipples had gone hard, dark, pointing slightly upward.

I knelt to take off her jeans. I ripped them off her along with her soaked panties, leaving her with nothing but one gold sandal on one foot. From there I kissed her thighs, her knees, the instep of her feet. She tangled her fingers in my hair and left them there, this time pressing, pushing me upward, toward where she wanted me.

I spread her legs with my hands and buried my face in her cunt. She was shaved, shiny, swollen. I ran my whole tongue from bottom to clit in one long stroke and she gasped loudly, bracing one hand on the desk beside her.

—Oh, fuck —she let out—. Like that, like that.

I sucked her clit with my lips closed, pulling gently, and shoved two fingers into her at once. She was so wet they slid all the way in without resistance. She bent forward and dug her nails into my shoulder. I started moving them fast, searching for the spot inside while my tongue didn’t stop above. She pushed her hips against my face, looking for more pressure, and rode my mouth with absolutely no shame.

—I’m going to cum in your mouth if you keep this up —she warned me, her voice breaking.

I kept going. I added a third finger and sucked harder. She went rigid for two seconds and then her legs went weak: her whole body trembled, she squeezed her thighs around my ears, and came with a long moan she made no attempt to hold back. I felt her cunt clench in spasms around my fingers and a warm gush wet my chin.

When I stood up, my face was soaked. She looked me in the eyes and wiped it away with her thumb, slowly, before putting it in her mouth.

—Now it’s your turn —she said, and unbuckled my belt without breaking eye contact.

She did it calmly, as if she had all the time in the world. She pulled down my pants and underwear in one motion. My cock sprang out hard, swollen, pointing at her face. She licked her lips and knelt in front of me.

She grabbed it at the base with one hand and licked me from balls to tip, unhurried, looking at me. Then she opened her mouth and took me all the way in, to the back of her throat, until her nose touched my stomach. She gagged a little, pulled back with a strand of saliva hanging from her lips, and took me in again. She sucked me hungrily, cheeks hollowed, making a wet sound every time she pulled back and swallowed me again. With her other hand she was stroking her clit, still sensitive.

—Fuck, you do that so well —I told her, grabbing her hair.

She answered by taking my balls into her mouth one by one while I jerked off with her own saliva all over my hand. She lifted one leg without stopping sucking me and rested her foot on my thigh, the gold sandal still on. The image —her kneeling there, my cock in her mouth, the gleam of gold leather against my leg— almost made me cum right there.

I pulled her up before it was too late. I pushed her backward onto the bed and climbed on top of her. She spread her legs and guided my cock with her hand to the entrance of her cunt. I rubbed it against her clit for a moment, up and down, soaking myself completely.

—Put it in already —she growled—. Don’t keep me waiting.

I shoved it into her in one thrust, all the way in. She arched her back and let out a guttural moan. She was so wet, so hot inside, that the resistance was minimal but the grip was perfect: she clenched on every stroke as if she didn’t want to let go.

She pushed my chest with one hand.

—Wait. Let me.

I lay back and she climbed on top. She started moving. Slowly at first, finding the rhythm, with my cock buried to the hilt. Her eyes were closed and her head tilted slightly back. I held her hips without forcing anything, letting her set the pace. The blind cast a striped shadow across her back that moved with her. I could see her tits bouncing slowly, her nipples hard, the freckle dancing beneath her collarbone.

I brought my thumb to her mouth and she sucked it. Then I moved it down to her clit and started rubbing it while she rode me. She sped up. Faster and faster. The bed started banging against the wall. She gripped my chest and began dropping down hard, swallowing my cock whole each time, mouth open and eyes narrowed.

When she came, she did it in almost complete silence: a short, contained gasp, her fingers dug into my chest, three or four slower movements and then stillness. I felt her cunt tightening around my cock in waves, milking me. She stayed like that for a few seconds, eyes still closed, before lowering her head and looking at me.

—Good —she said, and that was that.

We changed positions and kept going. I put her on all fours, ass up and face buried in the pillow. I grabbed her hips and pushed into her from behind again. From that angle it entered differently, deeper, and she noticed immediately: she let out a long moan against the sheet and started pushing her ass back to take every thrust. I slapped her ass. She gasped and looked back over her shoulder.

—Again —she asked.

I slapped her again, harder. The red mark appeared at once. I grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled back, arching her spine, and started fucking her fast, without restraint. The sound of hips slapping against her ass filled the room. She came again, louder this time, moaning into the arm she’d bitten so she wouldn’t scream.

I turned her onto her back again. I lifted both her legs and she rested both soles of her feet on my shoulders. That was the last thing I remember clearly: her bare feet against my face, the gold straps still on one ankle, my cock going into her to the hilt with every thrust. She sucked on the fingers of my hand while I fucked her.

—Cum inside me —she murmured—. I’m on the pill. Cum inside, I want to feel it.

I held out for three or four more thrusts and then came. I emptied my entire load inside her cunt in long waves while she squeezed me with her thighs and sucked my fingers to the end. When I pulled my cock out, a thick thread of semen spilled from her cunt onto the sheet. She touched it with two fingers, brought it to her mouth, and tasted it with curiosity, as if trying something for the first time. The rest came in softer waves.

***

Afterward we lay there on the bed, the blind still halfway down and the light almost gone. She had one arm bent under her head and was staring at the ceiling. I was staring at the freckle beneath her collarbone.

—It’s the first time I’ve done something like this with someone who... likes feet —she said after a while.

—Did it seem weird to you?

She thought for a moment, genuinely.

—At first, yes. Then not so much. —She paused—. Then pretty good, to be honest. No one had ever sucked my feet while three fingers were inside me. Now I know what I’m going to ask for next time.

I laughed. She did too.

We got up without rushing. While I was getting dressed in the room, she went to the garage and came back with a canvas bag. Inside were the gold sandals and the black rubber sandals she’d been wearing at the beginning.

—I’ll sell you the gold ones —she said—. The others are a gift. So you have something to remember me by.

She charged me for the gold ones at a price that was clearly a friendly price. I didn’t argue.

I left the watch on the garage table. I never actually bought it. I don’t know if it was forgetfulness or an unconscious decision. I left her house with the canvas bag slung over my shoulder and the afternoon still warm outside.

I texted her three days later. She replied cordially, with no distance, but not in a hurry either. Neither of us suggested seeing each other again, and both of us understood that without saying it.

I know what street she lives on. I could look her up. But some experiences work exactly because they happened only once, on that specific Tuesday of that specific month, when neither she nor I had anything planned. Repeating it would risk making it different, and I preferred to keep the afternoon exactly as it ended up: her standing in front of me in the gold sandals, the light coming in through the window, and that smile that wasn’t entirely innocent.

Though, if I’m completely honest, I don’t rule it out either.