The Night I Discovered My First Obsession
There is something that has turned me on ever since I first saw it. I don't know if it has a name, I don't know if it happens to other women, and I don't know if it matters. What I do know is that that night, at nineteen, with a curiosity I had never been allowed to explore, I discovered something about myself that hasn't changed since.
I grew up in a family where the body was a forbidden subject. My parents were the sort who changed the channel whenever a prolonged kissing scene appeared, lowered their voices when pronouncing certain words, and sent me to an all-girls school throughout my entire education. It wasn't that I was a repressed girl; I simply had never had the opportunity to learn in any way other than the abstract theory of a biology textbook they gave us in our fourth year of secondary school. Sex existed somewhere vague, between the forbidden and the unknown, and I had left it there without asking too many questions.
Mateo came into my life through a university classmate. I met him at an informal afternoon get-together she organized at her apartment, one of those gatherings with no real purpose where people arrive with cheap wine and end up staying longer than expected. He was tall, the kind of man who fills a room without meaning to, with a way of listening that made you feel what you were saying genuinely mattered. He asked for my number at the end of the afternoon with a naturalness that surprised me. That night I couldn't think about anything else.
We went out three times before that night. Short dinners, walks, one afternoon when we went to the movies and his hand brushed mine on the armrest without either of us saying anything or pulling away. It was the first relationship I'd had with a boy that wasn't completely platonic, and every meeting left a sort of accumulated electricity inside me that I didn't know how to manage. When I got home after seeing him, I had trouble sleeping. I tossed and turned in bed, thinking about things I had no vocabulary for, squeezing my thighs beneath the sheets without understanding why my pussy throbbed like that, not knowing that the heat between my legs was called desire and that there was a name for what I was asking for.
The fourth time was different. Mateo invited me to a gathering at a friend's house. Not a party, he clarified, just a quiet get-together: about fifteen people, music at a moderate volume, something to eat. My parents asked, as always, and I explained, as always, that it was something informal and that I'd be home before midnight. They let me go.
The house was large, the kind with several floors and lots of corners, and there were more people than Mateo had anticipated. The atmosphere was noisier than I found comfortable. I spent the first forty minutes glued to him, getting used to the noise, drinking the glass of wine someone put in my hand, which I drank faster than I should have. It wasn't enough to get me drunk, but it did loosen some of the tension I always carried in unfamiliar places.
At one point Mateo took my hand and led me toward the back of the house, where there was a small covered terrace with two chairs and a large bamboo planter that served as a natural divider from the rest of the garden. No one else was there. The music reached us muffled from inside, and the air was cold but not unpleasant.
“I wanted us to be able to talk without shouting,” he said.
I laughed because it was exactly what I needed to hear.
We sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. We talked about things I can no longer remember clearly, those conversations that seem full of meaning in the moment and later grow blurry because what mattered wasn't the words but the warmth of being close. At some point we stopped talking. At some point we looked at each other. And at some point his lips found mine.
It was the third or fourth time we'd kissed, but this time was different. There was no hurry to finish, no one watching, no excuse to stop early. His tongue made its way between my lips and I welcomed it, awkward at first, letting him set the pace. His hands began on my cheeks and moved slowly downward: along my neck, my shoulders, the sides of my body. I was wearing a fairly thick blouse and a jacket over it, which made everything slower, clumsier, more real. When his fingers brushed the side of one breast through the fabric, a low moan escaped me into his mouth. He answered by squeezing harder, trapping my nipple between his thumb and forefinger through my bra and pinching it until I arched my back.
I felt the heat before I understood what it was. A concentration of something between my legs, a pulse of its own that I didn't recognize right away because no one had explained that this was what happened when the body wanted. I realized I was wet, soaked, my panties stuck to my pussy and a hot thread sliding down the inside of my thigh, without having touched myself, without anyone having touched me there, simply from being close to him and feeling his hands moving over my clothes.
My nipples were taut beneath my bra, so hard they hurt against the lace. Every time he changed the pressure of the kiss, something ran through my body like a small current that ended right at my clitoris. I didn't know what to do with it. I stayed still, receiving, trying not to show how much something as simple as his breath on my neck affected me. He lowered his mouth to the spot between my ear and shoulder and sucked slowly, leaving a wet mark that the cold air made me feel twice as intensely. His hand slid up beneath my blouse, found the edge of my bra, and slipped inside. When his thumb touched my bare nipple, a moan escaped me so loudly that he had to cover my mouth with his other hand, laughing softly against my neck.
“Shhh, princess,” he whispered. “They'll hear us.”
He was the one who carefully took my hand and guided it toward him. Toward the front of his pants. I felt the heat even before I touched him, and then I felt the shape there, hard, insistent, shifting slightly when my hand came into contact with it. It was bigger than I had imagined, pulsing beneath my fingers as if it had a life of its own.
“If you don't want to, it's okay,” he murmured against my ear.
But I did want to. I didn't know exactly what it was I wanted, but I did know I didn't want him to stop.
I let my hand remain where it was. I learned the shape of that cock through the fabric, its temperature, its rigidity, the vein running up the side that stood out clearly even though I couldn't see it. He was breathing differently now, more slowly and more deeply at the same time, as if controlling himself took effort. That affected me too in a way I hadn't expected: knowing that what I was doing altered him like that, that his hard cock was because of me, that I had the power to put him in that state.
After a while—I don't know how long; time worked strangely that night—he pulled away a little and, with clumsy but deliberate movements, opened his pants. He slowly lowered the zipper, adjusted his underwear below his testicles, and in the scant light coming from inside the house I saw him pull out something I knew only from illustrations in science books.
The first thing I noticed was the heat radiating from it. The second was the size: thick, long, with tight skin and a swollen head, darker in color than the rest. The third was that there was a transparent liquid at the tip, not just a tiny drop but a thread that hung there and stretched without falling, gleaming in the dim light. Something inside me reacted to that in a way I didn't understand at the time. It wasn't disgust. It was curiosity mixed with something more intense, something that made the pulse between my legs more urgent and harder to ignore. My mouth watered. Literally. I felt the glands beneath my tongue activate as if I'd just smelled food.
“You can touch it,” he said, not demanding anything, just offering it as an open possibility.
I did. With my fingers first, tentatively, as if I might break it. I wrapped my index finger and thumb around the base, surprised that I couldn't close the circle, and he let out a soft sound—not exactly a moan, more a restrained exhalation that escaped him involuntarily. I gathered the transparent liquid with the pad of my thumb and slowly spread it over the entire surface in my hand, circling the head, feeling it slide more easily as I spread it. It was warm, almost frictionless, and something about its texture made me want to keep touching him rather than stop. I closed my fist around him, squeezing lightly, and noticed how the skin moved over the hardness inside, sliding up and down like a sheath.
“That's it,” he murmured. “Just like that. A little harder.”
I let his reactions guide me. When I squeezed a little harder, his breathing changed. When I moved my hand at a steady rhythm, his fingers tensed on my shoulder. When I went down to the base and brushed the knuckles of my hand against his tense, hanging testicles, a low growl escaped from deep in his throat. There was no manual for this, no prior theory that could help me; there were only his signals and my own attention focused on them. I spat into my palm without knowing why, from pure instinct, and closed my fist again around the cock, now much more slippery, and he let out a “fuck” so low and so full of feeling that I felt my pussy contract on its own, as if he had touched me instead of the other way around.
As the minutes passed, the sensation between my legs became nearly impossible to ignore. I noticed that I was squeezing my thighs without deciding to, rubbing them against each other to find some kind of relief, that my breathing had changed too, that part of me wanted to put my hand inside my panties and sink my fingers into my pussy but I didn't dare with him so close and watching me. He must have noticed, because his free hand moved down from my shoulder to my thigh and began sliding up beneath my skirt, slowly, giving me time to say no.
I didn't say no. I opened my legs a little, just enough, and his hand found the wetness before he even touched me, because the insides of my thighs were already slick. When his fingers finally reached the center, over the soaked fabric of my panties, a moan escaped me so long that he had to cover my mouth again.
“You're dripping,” he whispered against my ear, his tone half surprise, half hunger. “God, you're dripping and I haven't even touched you.”
He moved my panties aside and ran two fingers along my entire slit, from bottom to top, gathering everything that was coming out of me and carrying it up to my clitoris, where he began making slow circles, almost exploratory ones. It was the first time in my life anyone had touched me there and I thought I was going to die. My whole body jolted with the first stroke, and by the second I was biting my lip to keep from screaming. I kept moving my hand over him, faster now, clumsier too, because I was having trouble concentrating on two things at once.
His hips moved forward involuntarily, thrusting his cock into my fist, and his hand covered mine to guide it for a few seconds, setting the exact rhythm he needed. Then he let go and returned to what he was doing between my legs, now pushing the tip of one finger inside my pussy, barely the first joint, and I felt my body close around him reflexively, sucking him inward.
“I'm very close,” he said in a voice that sounded different from before, raspier, less controlled. “I'm going to come, fuck.”
I don't know why I did what I did next. It wasn't a rational decision. I simply turned to look directly at him instead of looking away as I might have done, and lowered my gaze to my hand at the exact moment he lost control. And then it happened.
I saw it. I saw the exact moment his body lost control. I saw him tense from his shoulders to his legs, his mouth opening without making a sound, his cock swelling even more inside my fist and pulsing once, twice, before it shot. I saw the first jet of cum come out, white and thick, a long lash that landed on his belly and my wrist, followed by another that came out with the same force, and another that spilled over my fingers and ran hot down to the base. His hand squeezed mine hard, forcing me to keep stroking, milking him, drawing out every last drop, and his entire body trembled for several seconds that seemed enormous to me. His cock throbbed inside my fist with every jet, and I felt each of those pulses as if they were inside me.
I don't know how to describe what happened to me in that moment. Something came undone. The pressure I had been building all night suddenly found a breaking point, and with his fingers still inside my pussy and his hot semen sliding over my hand, I felt a wave of heat sweep through me from my crotch to my chest. My thighs closed on their own around his hand, trapping it against my clitoris, and I came right there, without meaning to, without seeking it, in spasms that shook me from the inside and made me clench my teeth to keep from screaming. It lasted longer than I expected, wave after wave, my pussy contracting around his finger again and again, so hard that he let out a soft “oh my God” when he felt it. I closed my eyes. When it finally stopped, I was speechless, my knees trembling and my head completely empty of thoughts, my right hand still smeared with him and my pussy still tight around his fingers.
When I opened them, he was looking at me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, because I had no words to explain what had just happened.
We remained silent for a moment. He slowly, carefully pulled his fingers out of me and raised them to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off mine. That gesture, the way he licked up what had come out of my pussy as if it were the best thing he'd ever tasted, made me squeeze my thighs again, with a tremor of aftershock I hadn't expected. Then he straightened his clothes. I remained staring at my own hands, aware that I had something on my skin that no one had taught me to name, and yet it seemed strangely familiar, as if my body recognized it even though my mind still didn't know what to do with it.
***
We went back inside after a while. We stayed at the gathering for another hour, talking with everyone else as if nothing had happened on that terrace. My panties were soaked with my own orgasm and his, stuck to my pussy and reminding me every time I changed position. He held my hand when we went out into the street. He walked me as far as the corner of my building.
“Next time we'll stay longer,” he said before leaving, with a smile that wasn't innocent. “And next time I want to taste you.”
I went up to my apartment thinking about that, about the implicit promise of a next time, about the idea of his mouth between my legs, doing to me what his fingers had done but better. But I was thinking about something else too. The exact moment. What I had seen. The reaction it had triggered in me without my seeking or expecting it.
In the bathroom, before showering, I stood still for a moment. I brought my fingers to my nose. The smell was new, strange, semen mixed with me, and yet something in my body responded to it exactly as it had before, with that dull, urgent pulse I already knew. Without thinking too much, I stuck out my tongue and tasted what was on my thumb. Salty, thick, with a strange undertone I couldn't describe. And my pussy throbbed again, so hard that I had to lean against the sink. I slid my free hand inside my panties, found my swollen, still-sensitive clitoris, and made myself come standing there in less than a minute, biting my other arm so my parents wouldn't hear me from the hallway, with the taste of him still in my mouth.
I did what people do when they discover something that confounds and attracts them at the same time: I kept it to myself. I told no one. I didn't look for explanations or try to give it a name. I only knew that that night I had discovered something about myself that I wasn't going to forget easily, and that I very, very much wanted the next time to come.
But what happened afterward is another story.