The First Time I Went Home with a Stranger

I’m brunette, with shoulder-length brown hair and green eyes that sometimes look gray depending on the daylight. A curvy body, wide hips, medium breasts with large, sensitive nipples that show through my clothes when I’m cold or when something turns me on. I had never described myself like that before that Thursday afternoon, but I suppose it was that day that I started seeing myself differently.

We had been living in Querétaro for three months. Diego, my boyfriend, traveled often for work and I was still learning the city, deciphering its streets, figuring out which café was worth it and which wasn’t. That Thursday I was meeting two new friends at a place in the historic center, one of those terraces with flowerpots on the walls and soft music that doesn’t bother anyone.

The friends were late. Half an hour after the agreed time, I was still alone at a table for four, with a cold coffee in my hands and my phone on the table, looking at the apology messages that trickled in one by one. I’m almost there. Horrible traffic. Wait for me.

That was when I saw him approach.

Tall, dark, around forty. Dark blue shirt rolled up to the elbows, gray trousers. He walked like a man with nowhere urgent to be, looking calmly at the tables until he looked at me. And he didn’t look away.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked when he reached my side.

“Some friends,” I said. “But they’re taking their time.”

“Do you mind if I keep you company while you wait? It doesn’t make sense for two tables to be occupied by one person each.”

I pointed to the chair across from me. He had a way of speaking that wasn’t urgent or anxious. As if he already knew beforehand that everything would turn out fine, no matter what I answered.

We talked about the city, whether I had settled in, which parts of the center were worth seeing. He asked what I did for a living. I asked him the same. He spoke well, in complete sentences, without filling the silences with unnecessary noise. I liked that.

At one point in the conversation, he looked at me with a direct expression and asked:

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” I answered, without thinking.

I don’t know why I said it. Diego was four hundred kilometers away, in a work meeting that would end on Friday night.

“Strange,” he said. “A woman like you should have someone waiting for her at home.”

It wasn’t a clumsy compliment. He said it with a naturalness that completely threw me off. I took a sip of my coffee just to have something to do with my hands.

“When you arrived, I couldn’t stop looking at you,” he continued, without lowering his voice but without bragging either. “You wear that dress as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And yet it’s hard not to notice.”

I felt the heat rising up my neck, and lower too, a tug between my legs that made me cross them under the table. It wasn’t discomfort. It was something else.

“Listen,” he said, leaning slightly forward. “I know this is odd. But I’d like to keep talking somewhere quieter. Do you live nearby?”

“Three blocks away,” I said.

There was a brief pause. He said nothing else. He just looked at me.

I should have told him no. I knew it perfectly well. But my panties were already wet and he, with those calm eyes, seemed to know it.

I put my phone away, left money on the table, and stood up.

***

We walked the three blocks in near silence. He stayed beside me without touching me, without pressing me, without talking just to fill the space. When we reached the entrance of my building, I took out my keys and noticed my fingers were trembling a little.

The apartment smelled of vanilla from the candle I had left burning that morning. I let him into the living room. I went to the kitchen to get water. When I came back, he was standing by the window, looking out at the street.

“You’re nervous,” he said, without turning around.

“A little.”

“If you want me to go, I’ll go. No problem at all.”

I didn’t want him to leave. That much I knew.

He came closer slowly. He lifted a hand and brushed the strand of hair that had fallen across my cheek aside. That gesture—that slowness, that precision—made my pulse race more than anything else that had happened in the last hour.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

I nodded.

The kiss was gentle at first. Patient. He held me by the waist with both hands and pulled me toward him little by little, without rushing. When I opened my mouth, I felt him smile against my lips and slide his whole tongue in, hot, searching for mine. I moaned softly and he pulled me tighter against his body. Through his trousers I felt the hard, thick bulge pressed against my stomach.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re wet already, aren’t you?”

I leaned back against the hallway wall. He followed without breaking contact, his hands traveling along my sides over the dress, up to my breasts, squeezing them over the fabric until my nipples hardened like stones. His hands were big and firm, and he knew exactly what to do with them: neither too much pressure nor too little. He slid one knee between my legs and forced me to ride his thigh. I started rubbing without being able to help myself, grinding my pussy against his trouser leg, feeling the fabric grow damp between us.

“That’s it,” he said against my ear, his voice low. “Ride it, fuck my leg. I want to feel how hot you are.”

I bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan too loudly. His hand slid down, under the dress, and his fingers brushed the elastic of my panties, followed the fabric and pressed right there. I arched against him.

“You’re soaking,” he whispered. “Is there a bedroom?”

“Yes,” I said, out of breath. “At the back.”

***

The bed was made, luckily. He took off his shirt while I lowered the zipper of my dress. When I turned around without it, I saw him looking at me without any attempt to hide it, his eyes fixed on the nipples outlined beneath my bra and then dropping to my wet panties.

“Beautiful,” he said. “And that pussy is showing from here.”

He had a good body. Not magazine-good, but real: some muscle in his arms and shoulders, a smooth stomach without overdoing it. He pulled down his trousers and underwear in one motion, and his cock sprang free, hard, thick, with a shiny glans and a vein running all along it. My mouth watered. What struck me most was how completely comfortable he seemed, with no posing, no acting, as if he were used to being looked at like that.

He took my hand and carefully lowered me onto the bed. He yanked my bra off with one clean movement and bent over my tits, sucking one nipple until it made a sound when he let it go, nibbling it, tugging it with his lips. He found a spot just under my ear that made me close my eyes, and with his other hand he yanked my panties down.

“What do you like?” he asked against my skin.

“Everything,” I said, because it was the truth and because at that moment I couldn’t think of anything more elaborate. “Whatever you want.”

He slid a hand down my thigh and spread my legs. His fingers ran over my pussy lips from top to bottom, with enough pressure to feel but not enough to satisfy. I was so wet it could be heard. He bit my earlobe and slowly lowered his fingers until he parted me and pushed one inside, then two. I arched without meaning to, clenching around them with my inner walls. He gave a low laugh, without mockery.

“Easy,” he said. “No rush. This little pussy isn’t going anywhere.”

There was a rush. A big one.

He started moving his fingers inside me, curling them, searching for that spot that made my hips twist. With his thumb he worked my clit in small circles, always the same pressure, never changing the rhythm. I felt like I was going to come too fast and tried to hold back.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, as if he could read my face. “Come on my fingers first. Then I’ll give you the rest.”

I opened his belt before that, my hands trembling. I reached down and grabbed his cock, feeling its weight, the hardness pulsing against my palm. I ran my thumb over the glans and collected the drop of fluid already beading there. He let me do it. I slid down the bed, settled between his legs, and took him into my mouth without warning, all the way to the back, until I felt him hit my throat.

“Fuck,” he let out, his voice raspier than before. “Like that, look at me.”

I looked up at him from below while I sucked him whole. I took him out and ran my tongue over all of him, from base to tip, then went down to his balls, sucking them one by one. I took him back into my mouth and wrapped my hand around his shaft, moving it in time with my lips. He put a hand in my hair, not forcing, just resting there, and I liked that more than if he had pushed. I could feel him growing even harder inside my mouth, the vein underneath throbbing against my tongue.

After a while he tugged gently on my hair.

“Up. Now you. I’m losing patience.”

He turned me over carefully, laid me on my back, and lowered himself down my body. He spread my legs as wide as he could and buried himself between them. What he did then was precise and direct, without detours, without much testing. He sucked my clit with his lips, trapped it between them, and ran his tongue flat over it. He knew what he was looking for and found it fast. He pushed his tongue inside me and moved it as if he were fucking me with it, then came back up to my clit and sucked harder. At the same time he slid two fingers in and curled them upward.

I clenched the sheets in my fists and tried not to make noise, though there was really no one who could hear me. But when he curled his fingers again and sucked my clit harder, a long moan escaped me. My thighs tightened around his head and I came in his mouth, pushing my pelvis against his face, feeling my walls squeeze his fingers in spasms.

He didn’t stop. He kept licking softly, milking the orgasm out of me, until I pushed his head away because I couldn’t take any more.

When he came back up, I no longer wanted to wait. I reached for the trousers on the floor.

“Right pocket,” I said.

He smiled. He pulled out the condom, tore it open with his teeth, and put it on, squeezing his shaft with his hand. When he spread my legs and positioned himself, he ran the glans over my pussy lips, up and down, wetting it well, giving me little taps on the clit that made me moan again. He looked at me before entering.

“Good?”

“Yes,” I said. “Put it in already. Please.”

He went in slowly, pushing centimeter by centimeter. I felt him opening me, his thick cock making room inside me, until he sank all the way in and rested against my bone. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t scream. But I moaned anyway, loud and shameless. He stopped for a second, looked at me with an expression that wasn’t surprise but satisfaction, and moved again.

“Your pussy is so fucking tight,” he murmured against my neck. “It’s sucking me in whole.”

The rhythm gradually increased. No rush at first, each thrust pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in fully, then with more intensity, gauging my reactions the whole time. He grabbed my legs and lifted them, setting them on his shoulders, folding me almost in half. From that angle he went even deeper. When I tightened my fingers in his back, he noticed and kept going that way. When I twisted a certain way, he adjusted the angle until he found the exact spot that tore a gasp out of me.

“Touch yourself,” he told me, never stopping his thrusts. “Rub your clit for me. I want to see you.”

I lowered my hand and started rubbing myself while he fucked me. His face changed, more focused, watching my fingers move between our bodies.

I had never been with someone so attentive.

He yanked his cock out suddenly, turned me over, and put me on all fours. Not roughly, but not shyly either. I rested my palms on the mattress, my ass lifted, and he positioned himself behind me. He ran himself along my slit again, rubbing his cock over my pussy and ass, teasing, until he thrust back in with a shove that made me collapse face-first onto the pillow.

“Fuck,” I gasped, gripping the sheets.

He started fucking me hard, grabbing my hips with both hands, pulling me back each time he pushed in. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, along with the moans I no longer bothered to hold back. The first time he brought his palm down on my ass, I jumped. The second time, I liked it so much that I held my breath and arched my ass toward him more.

“Does it bother you?” he asked, his voice broken by the thrusts.

“No,” I said. “Don’t stop. Harder.”

He hit me again, and again, alternating cheek to cheek until they were hot. He leaned over my back, planted one hand on the bed, and brought the other around to find my clit. He started rubbing it while still fucking me from behind. He grabbed my hair with his other hand and pulled firmly backward, forcing my face up.

“Come,” he told me in my ear, hoarse. “Come again with my cock inside you. I want to feel it.”

The heat of his chest against my back, the sound of our two bodies, the hand working my clit in the same rhythm as the thrusts, the pull on my hair... It all built at once, without warning.

When I came, I couldn’t hide it even if I’d wanted to. A sound I didn’t recognize as my own burst from my throat, almost a scream. My arms trembled and folded. My pussy clenched around his cock in waves, milking it inside me. I had to lower my head and breathe deeply, once, twice.

He kept going for a few more seconds, now without rhythm, thrusting fast and dirty, until he buried himself to the hilt, made a low sound against my nape, and went still. I felt him pounding inside, emptying himself into the condom, squeezing my hips with his fingers hard enough to leave marks.

***

We stayed like that for a moment, still joined. When he pulled away, he came out slowly and I felt the immediate emptiness. He lay down beside me on his back, staring at the ceiling, his breathing still fast and the condom full.

“That was very good,” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed, breathless.

I sat up and looked at him. He removed the condom, tied a knot in it, and dropped it on the floor. His cock stayed there, still half hard, shiny and heavy on his stomach. I leaned down and took it into my mouth again, just for a few seconds, sucking slowly, tasting latex and the rest of everything, because I wanted to. He didn’t object. He rested his hand on my hair with the same calm as before, and I felt him harden again against my tongue.

“It goes without saying that you’re very good at that,” he murmured.

He got up ten minutes later. He dressed with the same calm with which he had undressed. I wrapped myself in the sheet and watched him from the bed, not moving, my pussy still throbbing and my thighs sticky.

“I can leave you my number,” he said, already wearing his shirt.

“All right,” I said.

I took it, though I didn’t know if I was going to use it.

After he left, I sat for a moment on the edge of the bed. The afternoon light came in slanted through the window. On my phone there were seven messages from my friends apologizing for being late, asking if we could still meet.

I told them it was already too late for me. Better another day.

I didn’t tell Diego anything. That night we talked by video call, as always, and I listened to his voice and looked at the camera and thought about how many different things can fit into a single Thursday afternoon.

I still think about it sometimes. Especially when I’m alone in bed.