The Virgin Who Followed Me to the Hotel

I’m five foot eight and weigh the same as I did at twenty, thanks to three mornings a week at the gym. I’ve worn my hair light blond, almost platinum, ever since a trip to Cartagena two summers ago. I suppose that combination—long legs, swimmer’s shoulders, light-colored hair, firm tits that still haven’t surrendered to gravity—is what fills my Instagram inbox every week.

I’m clarifying that from the outset because otherwise what comes next won’t make sense. I rarely answer. Almost never. A curt “hi,” a “thanks” when someone says something nice. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, nor do I want to have long conversations with strangers. It seemed like a simple rule until Mateo showed up.

—Hi, you’re gorgeous.

Mateo was the kind of message you delete without answering. Eighteen years old, newly turned, with a profile picture taken in the bathroom mirror and the smile of a boy who still hadn’t learned to hide anything. I’m thirty-seven. I answered “thanks” and mentally closed the conversation.

—I want to meet you —he wrote ten minutes later.

—I’m older than your mother, Mateo.

—My mother doesn’t have a body like yours.

I closed the app. That should have been the end.

***

It wasn’t the end. The messages came every day, sometimes three times a day, and they always started the same way: a compliment about something I’d posted to my stories, followed by a brutal confession. That he jerked off thinking about me. That he came in his hand imagining it was in my cunt. That he was a virgin, yes, but he was sure that with me he wouldn’t seem like a beginner. That he was dying to suck my tits until he left them red. That he wanted to bury his tongue in my ass and cunt until I begged him to stop.

At first I blocked those lines with a sharp jab of my thumb and went on with my day. Then I started reading them twice. Then, without meaning to, I started waiting for them.

There’s something about the shameless desire of someone much younger that throws you off balance. It isn’t vanity, or it isn’t only vanity. It’s the suspicion that the boy is looking at you as if you were the only woman on the planet, and that, at thirty-seven, after three long relationships and a marriage that ended the way these things end, is a liquor that’s hard to ignore.

One night, freshly showered, I opened his latest message. He described in detail what he would do to me if he had me alone in a room for fifteen minutes: how he would tear off my panties with his teeth, how he would eat my cunt until I grabbed him by the hair, how he would fuck me against the wall with one hand around my throat. As I read, I slipped my hand to the elastic of my panties and discovered I was already soaked. I slid two fingers down between my cunt’s lips and felt them glide as if I’d rubbed myself with oil. My clit throbbed, swollen and searching for my fingertip. I rubbed myself in slow circles, squeezing my thighs together, and pushed my middle finger inside up to the knuckle. I came in less than two minutes, biting my lip, my other hand squeezing one nipple until it hurt. I left the phone facedown on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling, my fingers shining against the sheet.

This can’t be happening to me.

***

—Just coffee —I wrote to him two weeks later—. Somewhere public. And if you wear me out, I’m leaving.

—Wherever you want, whenever you want.

I chose a shopping mall on the other side of the city, an elegant café with large armchairs and tablecloths that reached all the way to the floor. It was Tuesday at five in the afternoon. I wore a navy-blue dress with thin straps, flat sandals, and my hair pulled back in a low bun. I didn’t put on eye makeup. I wanted to look good, not prepared. Under the dress, however, I’d put on a black lace set I hadn’t taken out of the drawer in months. Lying to yourself is an old exercise.

I arrived fifteen minutes early and ordered an iced tea. I was turning a page in my book when I looked up and saw him crossing the seating area.

He was taller than I’d anticipated. Nearly six foot one, broad-shouldered, freshly showered, wearing a white shirt untucked over his pants. He smelled of expensive cologne and teenage deodorant, that strange combination that only smells good when the body wearing it hasn’t gone bad yet.

—You came —he said.

—Don’t start by thinking this means anything.

He laughed. He sat down across from me and stared at me without trying to hide it. His eyes went from my neck to my cleavage and from there to my mouth, back and forth, as if he were measuring distances.

—You’re even prettier in person.

—And you’re even ruder in person.

—It’s just that the screen doesn’t do anything justice.

We ordered our drinks. We talked for twenty minutes about his degree—second-year engineering—the neighborhood where he lived with his mother, and an old dog named Bruno. But it wasn’t a normal conversation. Every time he leaned forward, he did it slowly, as if gauging how close he could get before I pulled away. I didn’t pull away. That was the part that frightened me most.

When the waiters passed by for the last time, the café was almost empty. Our armchairs formed a secluded corner, separated from the rest by a planter full of fake plants. Our tablecloth fell to ankle level.

I felt the brush against my calf before I understood what it was.

I lowered my gaze slowly. Mateo had slipped his foot out of his shoe and was moving up the side of my leg, toe by toe, without breaking eye contact.

—What do you think you’re doing? —I murmured.

—Something you’ve been asking me for weeks without asking.

I squeezed my knees together. He eased off for a moment, then came back, this time along the inside of my thigh. His foot was warm and firm. He went up to the hem of my dress and stopped.

—Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.

I didn’t tell him.

He moved a little higher until he found my panties. The brush of his heel against the fabric drew a sigh from me that I had to disguise with a sip of tea. He began pressing with his big toe, softly at first, then in a deliberate rhythm, searching for the exact spot where my clit was. When he found it, he stayed there, pressing in slow circles, and I spread my legs half an inch without realizing it. I felt my cunt grow wet through the lace, the moisture soaking the fabric and the leather of the armchair beneath me. My nipples hardened against my bra. I had to hold the cup with both hands.

—You’re wet —he said softly, without smiling—. I told you you would be. You can see it even on your face.

—Shut up —I replied, and opened my knees a little farther.

He made me come right there in the armchair with his foot. It was a small, tense, silent orgasm, a tremor that rose from my navel and forced me to close my eyes for two seconds. When I opened them, he was watching me with a calm that didn’t belong to an eighteen-year-old.

—Let’s go —I said.

***

The hotel was three blocks away. We walked without speaking, his hand touching mine only while we waited at the traffic light, my head repeating that I still had time to leave. I didn’t.

The room was small, with a double bed and a large mirror beside the bathroom door. He locked it from the inside and left the keys on the table. He turned and looked at me as if he had just discovered I was there.

—I don’t know where to start —he said.

—I thought you had a complete plan.

—I did a little while ago. Now you’re standing in front of me and I’ve forgotten everything.

That line, from any other man, would have sounded like a tired trick. From him, it sounded true. I moved closer, lifted his shirt over his head, and studied his chest for a moment. It was the chest of a boy who worked out without really knowing why. I ran my palm over his sternum, went down to his navel, and squeezed his cock through his pants. It was rock-hard, and the bulge shifted against my hand like something alive.

—Look at me while I take it off —I said.

I lowered the dress straps slowly. The fabric fell to the floor in a heap around my ankles. I stood before him in a black bra and panties, giving him time to burn every detail into his memory: the curve of my tits rising from the lace, the dark dampness in the crotch of my panties, the bra’s mark on my skin. I watched his pants strain until they were misshapen.

—Had you ever seen a woman like this, in person?

He shook his head.

—Then learn how to touch her.

I guided him patiently. I placed his hands on my hips, my waist, my chest. I unclasped my bra and put it in his hand. I taught him to squeeze the nipple between his fingers, to roll it, to pinch just before letting go. I taught him not to bite before sucking. I grabbed the back of his neck and buried his face between my tits, and he sucked me like a calf, hungrily, and I let him because it had been years since a man had sucked me like that, with that clean desperation, without preliminaries.

—Slower —I told him—. Lick first. Circle the tip with your tongue. Like that. Now blow.

He obeyed, and learned quickly. When he pulled my panties halfway down my thighs and pushed me against the edge of the bed, I had to hold him by the hair to slow him down.

—Slowly. This isn’t a race.

He knelt between my legs. He opened my thighs with both hands and stared closely at my cunt, his mouth half open, as if solving a problem. I was shaved, swollen, shining. I took his right hand and guided two fingers: first on the outside, between the lips, up and down, so he could feel how wet I was. Then I brought the tip of his thumb to my clit.

—Here. This is what matters. Don’t press hard yet. Circles.

He started making clumsy circles. I corrected his rhythm by squeezing his wrist. When he found the right tempo, I brought his face closer.

—Now with your tongue. Flat. Long. From bottom to top.

The first stroke drew a moan from me. The second made me grab his hair with both hands. I directed him with my fingers over his and with my hips: “not there, here, yes, like that, not so fast, there, there, there, don’t stop.” He pushed his tongue inside me, pulled it out, went back to my clit, sucked gently, and when he learned to obey, I stopped talking and let the air leave me in gasps. I put one heel on his shoulder to open myself wider. My legs began trembling after a few minutes. I felt the orgasm climb inside me, a dull heat gathering in my pelvis, and when it burst I had to cover my mouth with the back of my hand so I wouldn’t scream. My cunt contracted around nothing, searching for something to fill it, and he kept licking, more gently, until I pushed his forehead away to make him stop.

When I sat up, I found him looking at me from below, his chin shining and his lips swollen.

—I want to see what you have —I said.

He stood up and undressed without embarrassment. He was bigger than I’d suspected, not because of his exact dimensions but because of the way it curved toward him, slightly upward, like an arrow. Thick at the base, with prominent veins, a reddened tip, and a drop already appearing. I wrapped my hand around it and felt its weight, the heat of the taut skin. It jerked when I closed my fingers.

—Look at me —I said before beginning.

I ran my tongue all along the base, slowly climbed to the tip, and licked away the drop hanging there. I saw his eyes roll back and return to me, frightened to close them in case he missed something. I held the base in my hand, ran my flat tongue from his balls to his frenulum, and then took him into my mouth. First the tip, circling it with my tongue. Then halfway, tightening my lips. Then all the way down, until I felt my throat contract and my eyes water a little. I pulled him out, breathed, and took him back in. I cupped his testicles with my other hand and massaged them while I sucked, moving up and down, letting him watch how he slid in and out of my mouth, glistening.

I ran my tongue over his balls, one first and then the other, and licked from there to the tip in one long stroke. A strange, hoarse moan escaped him, one that didn’t fit his face.

—If you want to last —I warned him, my mouth an inch from the head—, don’t look at me.

He closed his eyes. I took him all the way down again and held him there, my nose against his belly, breathing through my nose while my throat squeezed him. When I let him go, he was glistening all the way to his testicles, and he was breathing as if he’d just gone running.

***

I pushed him onto his back on the bed and sat on top of him. I took his cock in my hand, rubbed it a couple of times against the lips of my soaked cunt, ran it over my clit, and when I couldn’t take it anymore, lowered myself and slid it inside, sinking onto him by myself. The first time it went in was slow and deliberate; we both stayed still for a moment, measuring each other. I felt him opening me inside, millimeter by millimeter, until I sat all the way down and impaled myself on him to the hilt. Mateo let out a sound somewhere between surprise and relief, like someone who finally understands a long joke. His mouth fell open. His eyes grew glassy.

I began to move, barely at first, rocking my hips forward and back, letting my clit rub against his pubic bone. Then I went up and down, first with the tip, then all the way, letting him watch from below as his cock disappeared into my cunt.

—Don’t move —I told him—. Look at me and breathe.

He obeyed. He placed his hands on my hips and let me do the work. I grabbed my tits with both hands, pinched my nipples, and tossed my hair back. I sped up. His cock slid in and out with a wet, obscene sound, and I looked him straight in the face so he would remember it forever. When he began to lose control, when I felt his cock swell inside me and his hands squeeze my hips harder, I slowed down. I stayed still, with him buried to the hilt, and bit his earlobe.

—Not yet —I whispered—. Hold on. Breathe through your nose.

I told him in his ear what pornography had never taught him: that pleasure isn’t only about finishing, that it’s also about knowing how to wait, that you can hold back by clenching your ass and thinking about something else for two seconds, and then it comes back stronger.

We changed positions. He put me on my side, one leg over his shoulder, and entered me again. From that angle he hit a spot that made me clutch the sheets. I felt my cunt open differently, deeper. He fucked me with long thrusts, still clumsy but growing firmer, and I looked over my shoulder at him and asked for more.

—Harder. You’re not going to break me. Give me more.

We changed again. He put me on all fours and buried himself to the balls. He grabbed my hips and began pounding, skin against skin, his testicles striking my clit with every thrust. I arched my back, buried my face in the pillow, and felt another orgasm forming quickly, without warning. I slipped one hand between my legs and rubbed my clit to his rhythm. I came screaming into the pillow, squeezing his cock inside me with contractions that drew a moan from him.

—Fuck —he said. It was the first swear word I’d heard from him.

I let him climb on top of me, looking down with his mouth open and his eyes huge. He grabbed my legs behind the knees and pushed them against my chest, folding me up, and from there he fucked me deep and slowly, watching my face.

—Is this what you wanted? —I asked, my voice broken by every thrust.

—This is what I needed.

When he couldn’t hold back anymore, he pulled out in one quick motion, climbed up until his knees were on either side of my chest, and placed his cock between my breasts. I squeezed my tits together with both hands, pressed them around him, and made a tight, wet channel with the saliva that had spilled from my mouth. I spit on him so he would slide more easily. Five or six strokes and he exploded: one hot jet reached my neck, another my chin, another fell between my parted lips. I licked the last drop from the tip. He let out the laugh of a boy who has just won something and collapsed beside me, breathing hard, still erect, staring at his cock as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

***

I showered alone, with the mirror fogged and my back against the cold tile. I ran my hand over my cunt and felt it swollen, throbbing, sensitive beneath the warm water. I washed the semen from my neck, chest, and chin. I looked at my tits, red from his fingers, and smiled despite myself.

When I came out, I found him sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed, staring at his hands.

—You lied —I said as I put on my dress.

—About what?

—You were a virgin.

—I was.

—That’s not what I mean. You were one two hours ago. But a virgin doesn’t know how to do what you did.

He smiled without looking at me.

—I’ve watched a lot of porn.

—Too much.

He stood and came closer. He kissed me on the forehead, not the mouth, and for some reason that detail broke me more than everything that had come before.

—Thanks for coming —he said.

—Thanks for insisting.

We went down together in the elevator. On the street we parted without hugging. He went down the avenue and I crossed toward the parking lot without looking back. I walked slowly, my cunt still throbbing beneath my dress, feeling the lace stuck to the dampness. Inside, I felt light, almost foolish, as if my body weighed half as much. I didn’t regret it that day, or that month, or ever.

Sometimes he still messages me. The messages are different now. Shorter. More respectful. And always, without exception, I answer them.