The Afternoon I Discovered What My Body Could Feel

I got off the bus with my legs shaking and a knot in my stomach. I wasn’t quite sure whether it was nerves or desire, and by then it didn’t matter: both things were pulling in the same direction. We’d been dating for six months and had never once had the house to ourselves.

That March afternoon, Joaquín’s parents had gone to a wedding out in the countryside. They wouldn’t be back until the next day. He’d sent me a message in the middle of the morning, brief, almost innocent: “Come whenever you want. I’m alone.”

I walked the two blocks from the stop with my pulse pounding in my ears. I kept mentally running through what I was wearing: a light cream dress, sandals, brand-new underwear I’d bought with exactly this moment in mind. I’d showered twice. I’d put perfume on places I’d never put perfume before.

I rang the bell. It took him three seconds to open the door.

“Hi,” he said, and stayed there in the doorway, looking at me as if he’d been waiting for me for hours.

He had a white shirt on, open halfway, and nothing underneath. My eyes dropped before I could stop them. The fabric of his pants was bulging in front, outlined, hard, drawing the whole shape of his cock against the jeans: you could see the length, the curve, the thickness. I swallowed on the spot.

He’s like that before I even got here.

That was the first clear thought that went through my head. The second was that I was never going to be able to look him in the eye again without thinking about that, about his swollen dick waiting for me for who knows how long.

“Are you coming in?” he asked with a crooked smile.

I went in. The second he closed the door he shoved me against it and kissed me like he had never kissed me before. Not the careful kiss from the movie theater, or the goodnight kiss at the door of my house. This was a hungry kiss, his tongue coming in with authority, his hands gripping my waist and then dropping right away to squeeze my ass with both hands, kneading it over the dress, parting my cheeks and smashing me against him.

I felt his erection pressed into my stomach. It was impossible not to feel it. It burned through the fabric, hard as iron, throbbing right there where his cock was pressed against my hip bone. He ground his crotch against mine, twice, and the second time I could tell I was already soaking, that I’d show through the light fabric if we didn’t get out of there.

“Up,” he said in my ear, his voice rough.

I started up the wooden staircase with him behind me. At each step he slid one dress strap down, kissed my shoulder, bit the nape of my neck. By the fourth step he’d already pulled the dress down to my waist and was groping my tits over the new bra, squeezing them, tugging at my nipples through the lace. On the sixth he finished taking it off and it fell to the floor, a pale stain on the dark wood. He undid the bra in one yank and ripped it off me. I was left in panties, tits out, feeling the cold of the staircase against my hot skin.

Halfway up the stairs he stopped me. He made me turn around. I ended up sitting one step higher, with him standing between my knees, exactly at the perfect height.

“Look at me,” he said.

I looked at him. He unbuttoned the shirt completely and let it fall to the floor. He loosened his belt, pulled down his pants and boxers in one motion, and his cock sprang forward, hard, thick, pressing against his own abdomen. His chest was carved from the gym he went to three times a week, a thin line of hair ran down his stomach and, lower, there was that thing I’d seen in pictures but never in real life, never that close, never a handspan from my face. The tip was shining, wet, with a clear drop hanging from the glans.

“Do you want it?” he asked, and the question sounded more like a challenge than doubt.

I nodded. I couldn’t make my voice work.

I leaned down and took him in my hand. He was hot, pulsing under the skin, heavier than I’d imagined. I squeezed a little and he let out a sharp breath. I ran my tongue over the tip first, testing the salty taste of that drop. Then I opened my mouth and took him between my lips, first the glans, then a little more, until I felt him touch the back of my palate. Joaquín let out a low, long groan and put both hands on the sides of my head.

“Like that,” he murmured. “Suck it like that, slowly.”

In two minutes I learned what I’d never dared try. I took him as far as I could, pulled back with my lips tight around him, took him again, played with my tongue on the tip, licked down the side and went back to sucking the whole thing. I could feel my own saliva dripping between my fingers, wetting the hand I had around the base of his cock, running down onto his balls. I licked there too, one and then the other, while I kept stroking the shaft with my hand. I could hear his breathing breaking above me, the tight moans slipping through his teeth. One of his hands tangled in my hair and started setting the rhythm, making me go faster, forcing his dick deeper and deeper, until the tip hit my throat and tears were slipping down my face.

“Stop,” he said suddenly. “Stop or I’m going to come in your mouth and this’ll be over before it even starts.”

He pulled himself out carefully, a thread of saliva hanging from my lip, and made me lie back against the stairs. The wood hurt my back a little, but I didn’t care. He yanked my panties off — literally, the elastic ripped — and threw them over his shoulder. He spread my legs with both hands and knelt two steps below me, exactly at the right height.

I felt his tongue before I saw it. A long, slow, flat stroke, from bottom to top, that made my whole body arch. He licked my cunt in one sweep, from where I was soaking wet to my clit, and then came back, even slower. I closed my eyes. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t scream, though there wasn’t a single person in the world who could have heard us.

“Look,” he told me, his mouth pressed to me. “Look at what I’m doing to you.”

I lowered my head and saw him. He held my gaze while he ate me out. The lower part of his face gleamed with my juices. He gripped my thighs with both hands, spreading them wider, and sank his tongue inside, pushing into me, pulling it back out, then going up to my clit and sucking it with his lips closed around it. I had never felt so exposed and I had never wanted to be more exposed. I buried my fingers in his hair and pressed his head against me shamelessly, riding his face while he growled into me. I felt one finger going in first, then two, curving inside me, searching for something, while his tongue never left my clit.

“Let’s go to the bed,” he said after a while, when I was already trembling uncontrollably and he knew that if he kept going one more minute I was going to come right there, on the stairs, against his mouth.

He helped me up. We climbed the last steps holding hands, like two kids coming back from recess, except I was naked and so was he, with his cock pointing at my back as he climbed behind me. The situation gave me a nervous laugh that stopped the second I walked into his room.

His bed was unmade, the white sheets a tangled mess, and it smelled like his cologne and something else, something sweet and dense that it took me a while to recognize as the smell of the two of us together.

He threw me onto the bed with a force that wasn’t rough but wasn’t gentle either, and climbed on top of me. He spread my legs again, settled between them, and I felt the tip of his cock pressed right there, at the entrance, wetting itself with what I had. He rubbed it up and down, two, three times, sliding it over my clit and then back down, until the tip caught where it was supposed to catch.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, and it was true. “Put it in me.”

I felt the first push and dug my nails into his shoulders. It hurt. Not much, but it hurt. I felt him opening me up inside, centimeter by centimeter, a stabbing burn that made me clench my teeth. He closed his eyes for a second and stayed still, half-buried, letting me breathe, letting me get used to it.

“Are you okay?”

“Keep going,” I told him. “All the way.”

He pushed again, more slowly, and I felt myself settle all the way around him, until his balls touched my ass. He stayed there, still, letting me feel every millimeter. Then he started moving slowly, sinking all the way in, coming almost all the way out, going back in. He watched my face, alert to every expression. After a few minutes the pain had turned into something else, into a full, heavy pressure, a thick, throbbing sensation that I still didn’t have a name for and already wanted more of. I realized that each thrust pulled a short involuntary moan out of me, and that he sped up every time I moaned louder.

“You’re soaking,” he said, and laughed softly, almost proudly. “Listen to how it sounds.”

And it was true: every time he pulled out and went back in, it made a wet, obscene sound that filled the room. I laughed too, not really knowing why. We were both sweating, both disheveled, laughing like two idiots in the middle of the first time in my life, with his cock buried to the hilt inside me.

“Come here,” he said suddenly.

He lay on his back and pulled me down until I was sitting on top of him. His cock stood up against his abdomen, hard, shiny, wet with my juices, and he grabbed my hips and drove it into me in one motion downward. I screamed. I had never felt it so deep. From that angle he was hitting a place I didn’t even know I had. I was mounted on him, his hands on my hips and his face looking up at me, surprised.

“Move yourself,” he said.

I tried. At first I felt clumsy, off-center, not really understanding how to move my body with that whole cock buried inside me. But his hands on my hips guided me, setting the rhythm, forward and back, slowly. When I got it, it was as if something inside me clicked.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s it, slowly, don’t stop. Ride it.”

I started moving on my own. He let go of my hips and grabbed my tits, watching them rise and fall as if they were the most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen, squeezing my nipples between his fingers, pinching them right to the edge of pain. I lowered my head and kissed him, tongue and all, and came back up, and kept moving, feeling how I opened and closed around his cock with each downstroke.

Every time I moved back, the tip brushed a place inside me I didn’t know existed. A point that was there and a little farther in, and when it brushed there something climbed up my spine, like an electric current that had no name.

“Wait,” I said out of breath. “Wait, wait.”

I let myself fall forward, propped on his shoulders, my tits against his chest. I changed the angle. I started moving more slowly, almost without taking him out, grinding him inside me, searching for that point, finding it again. With my clit pressed against his pubic bone, every movement doubled. Joaquín understood at once, grabbed my ass with both hands, spread my cheeks, and started moving from below to meet me halfway, giving me short, precise thrusts right there.

“There?” he asked.

“There,” I said. “There, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

What happened after that I still wouldn’t know how to describe well, even now, several years later. It began as a kind of concentrated tingling in one spot, a fine vibration that grew with every thrust. Then it spread inward and outward at the same time, as if my body were opening and closing on its own around his cock.

My ears filled up. The world went silent. I could hear Joaquín as if he were speaking from the bottom of a pool.

This. This was this.

I started screaming. It wasn’t a decision. It was my body screaming before I even realized I was screaming. I dug my nails into his shoulders until I left marks, arched myself all the way, felt like I couldn’t get enough air, felt like I was going to split in two down the middle. I clenched around his cock with spasms I couldn’t control, and he let out a long, surprised moan, feeling me close around him. He held my hips with both hands and told me something I couldn’t hear, something like “like that, come on top of me, come all the way.”

It lasted a long time. Longer than I would have thought something like that could last. Like a wave rising, falling a little, rising again even higher. When I thought it was ending, another tingle ran through me and started all over again, and I kept grinding on him, impaling myself on his cock again and again.

When I finally went still, sprawled on top of him, my face buried in his neck and my heart about to burst out of my chest, he grabbed my hips and started fucking me from below, fast, short, with broken breaths. I felt him get even harder inside me, even thicker, and then I felt him throbbing and unloading. He came inside me in three or four hard thrusts, with a tight moan against my ear, flooding me with his whole load. I felt the hot semen spill inside, stream after stream, while he pressed my hips against his so not a drop would leak out. I could feel myself throbbing around his cock. I didn’t really know where one ended and the other began.

We stayed like that a long time, without moving, with him still inside me, slowly softening, his come mixing with mine and running down our thigh. When I finally got off him, I felt everything he’d left inside me spill out, a warm, thick release that ran down the inside of my thigh to the sheet.

“Was that it?” I asked after a while, when I’d gotten a little air back.

“Was what?”

“What the girls say it feels like.”

He laughed and kissed my forehead, with a strange tenderness after everything before.

“Yes,” he said. “That was it.”

***

That night I went home on the bus, looking out the window, still feeling tiny pulses between my legs, like distant echoes, and his semen slowly seeping out from inside my thigh, warm, reminding me every so often of what had happened. My mother asked me if something had happened, because I looked strange. I told her no, that I was tired from studying.

I wasn’t entirely lying. I was tired.

But there was something else too. Something I didn’t have words for and spent years learning how to name: for the first time in my life, I was inside my own body.