In the Cabin, She Learned What It Meant to Desire a Woman

They walked for an hour among the trees before spotting the cabin. The sun had already sunk behind the mountain range, and the only light left to them was that of a waxing moon that took its time forcing a way through the branches. Marisol carried the sleeping child against her chest, wrapped in a bone-colored blanket, and with every step she took, the slow sway of hips that the gray dress could never quite conceal traced itself.

Behind her came Aurora, holding with both hands a bunch of wild violets she had cut at the edge of the path. Her fingers trembled from the cold and from something else she still did not know how to name. She was nineteen, wearing a loose dress the wind clung to with every gust, and she had a way of walking she had not quite finished learning.

All the way there, neither of them spoke. The forest was noisy enough on its own: the crunch of dry leaves, the distant hooting of an owl, some branch giving way under the weight of a small animal. But the silence between them was not the forest’s. It was something else, heavier.

Every so often Aurora would lift her eyes and fix them on the back of Marisol’s neck, where her tied-up hair left a line of pale skin exposed that the last light of evening turned almost luminous. When Marisol turned her head to check that the young woman was still behind her, Aurora dropped her gaze at once and pressed the violets to her chest.

Marisol looked too. Aurora surprised herself by doing it for longer than she should have: the loose brown hair, wind-tousled by the path, a bead of sweat sliding slowly down her neck, the narrow shoulders still angular of someone who had only just stopped being a girl. She looked away toward the trail and concentrated on not stumbling.

They reached the cabin when it was already pitch dark. It was a humble structure, built of logs darkened by rain, with a single window in the front through which a warm light escaped. Marisol pushed the door open with her shoulder, careful not to wake the child, and the interior revealed itself: one single room, a bed made up with a handwoven coverlet, a small table against the wall, a stone hearth where the fire still crackled because the neighbor had come to stoke it. The air smelled of firewood, dried rosemary, blankets warmed by the sun.

—Come in —Marisol said—. Close the door, it’s cold.

Aurora obeyed. She took two steps to the center of the room and stood still, not knowing what to do with the flowers. Marisol laid the baby in a wicker cradle beside the fire. When she bent to tuck him in, the neckline of her dress gave way just a finger’s width and revealed the curve of her right breast, white and taut with built-up milk. Aurora looked away at once. Marisol didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

—The violets. —The woman straightened and smiled at her for the first time since she’d found her on the road—. Put them on the table. I’ll put them in water tomorrow.

Aurora nodded. She crossed the three steps between her and the table and set down the bunch with excessive care, as though something between the petals might break. When she turned back, Marisol was still looking at her.

—Are you hungry? It’s not much. I’ve got milk, a little bread I baked this morning, and some cookies I saved for a visitor who never came.

—Anything —Aurora murmured.

They sat facing each other. The table was narrow, and the knees of one brushed the other’s underneath whenever either shifted in the chair. Aurora quickly learned not to move. The oil lamp burning between them cast shifting shadows over their faces, and each time the flame bent in a draft Marisol’s features changed: now sweet, now serious, now something else the young woman had never seen in a woman before.

—How did you end up alone? —Marisol asked, not looking directly at her, breaking off a piece of bread—. If you don’t want to tell me, no need.

Aurora lowered her gaze to the plate.

—My mother died a year ago. Fever. Three days of fever and she was gone. —She swallowed—. She was all I had left. I never knew my uncle, only from letters my mother kept in a tin box. She said he was a good man, just quiet. When I learned he had died too, I don’t know… something pushed me to come. It didn’t seem right not to know the house where my mother’s brother had lived.

Marisol set the bread down on the table and looked at her for a long moment, as if she had just recognized a familiar voice in a crowd.

—Your uncle was exactly that. Quiet and good. He spoke little, but when he did he never said more than he had to. —She smiled faintly—. I lost my husband, that was him. And now here I am, in this cabin, with a son who hasn’t even turned one yet and the feeling that the silence in this house is going to eat me alive.

Aurora looked up. For the first time in a long time, there was someone on the other side of a table who seemed to know the exact shape of the hollow inside her.

—I’m sorry —she said softly.

—I know.

The two women’s hands were on the table, not too far apart. Marisol moved hers and brushed the back of Aurora’s hand with the tip of her pinky. The gesture lasted less than a second, but gooseflesh rose on the young woman’s forearm all the way to her elbow. Marisol withdrew her hand and covered it by bringing it toward the lamp, as if to warm her fingers.

—It’s late —she said—. You should rest.

***

The child burst into tears before either of them could stand. It was a sharp, hungry cry, the cry of a baby who didn’t care what time it was. Marisol got to her feet with a movement Aurora recognized as practiced a thousand times: quick steps to the cradle, sure hands as she lifted him, a soft voice already soothing before she even touched his head.

—Excuse me a moment —she said—. He needs to eat.

She sat back down, this time with the child in her arms. Aurora thought she would move off to a corner, maybe turn her back. But Marisol sat in the same place, facing her, and with the naturalness of things done every day she untied the bodice ribbon. The fabric loosened and slid off her shoulder, exposing the left breast. The skin was pale, veined with a fine blue line, and the nipple was darkened and firm, ready. The child latched on hungrily. There was a moment of stillness, and then only the muffled sound of sucking could be heard.

Aurora stopped breathing. Not literally, but almost. Her eyes were fixed on Marisol’s breast and she could not lift them. She felt the blood rush up her neck, her ears burning, a current running down her back and throbbing between her thighs, a solid, new heat soaking her underwear without her being able to do anything to stop it. She pressed her hands to her knees. Looked at the violets. Looked at the ceiling. Looked back at Marisol. She could feel her cunt pulsing, swelling against the seam of her panties, each beat of her heart repeated lower down with an insistence she had never known before.

She couldn’t help it.

Marisol was not looking at the child. Marisol was looking at her. And that gaze was not one of modesty. It was one of recognition, as though she had just realized something she had already suspected.

—It’s beautiful to see it like that —Aurora stammered, because she had to say something or she would burst—. So close to you.

—Yes. —Marisol’s voice came out a little deeper than before—. It is beautiful.

The baby kept nursing. Marisol stroked his head with her free hand, slowly, tracing circles in the blond fuzz. Aurora was no longer looking at the child. She was looking at the hand. She was looking at the curve of the breast the child wasn’t using, white and full, with a milky drop showing at the other nipple that slipped slowly down the skin until it disappeared beneath the fallen dress. She looked at the line running from collarbone to bare shoulder. She swallowed so hard she was certain the other woman had heard it.

—Aurora —the woman said.

—Yes?

—You don’t have to look away. If you want to look, look.

Aurora did not answer. She didn’t know how. Her cheeks burned and her thighs pressed together on their own, without her giving the order, rubbing slowly against each other to soothe the pounding growing between her legs. Marisol did not move. She kept feeding the child with the same calm as before, but now there was something different in the way she did it, a consciousness, a way of offering herself to the gaze that was almost an invitation.

Several minutes passed like that. The child fell asleep before letting go of the nipple. Marisol slipped him off with a finger, kissed his forehead, and rose to put him back in the cradle. When she returned, she did not close her dress. She sat across from Aurora with her breast still exposed, swollen and with the milk drop gleaming under the lamp light, as though she had decided not to pretend anymore.

—Come here —she said quietly.

Aurora stood without thinking. She went around the table on legs that barely obeyed her. When she was in front of Marisol, the woman took her hands and laid them on her own knees. Marisol’s hands were warm and a little rough, the hands of someone who carried firewood and washed clothes in the river.

—You’re shaking —she said—. Are you afraid?

—I don’t know.

—Do you want to leave?

—No.

Marisol slid one hand up her arm, slowly, to the elbow. She stayed there. Aurora closed her eyes. She felt the touch, the warmth of the palm on her skin, and that new pulse between her legs that had been growing all night and was now impossible to ignore. She could feel her cunt soaked, the inner lips swollen and pressing against each other each time she breathed in deeply.

—Have you ever been with a woman? —Marisol asked.

—Never.

—With a man?

Aurora shook her head.

Marisol drew her toward her. Not quickly. She sat her sideways on her lap, the way you’d sit someone seeking comfort. She settled Aurora’s head against her bare shoulder and ran a hand through her hair, combing it without a comb. Aurora could feel the other woman’s warm breast against her side, still damp with milk, and a sweet, vegetal scent that made her dizzy.

—Tonight nothing is going to happen that you don’t want —Marisol said into her ear—. But if you want it to happen, it will. That’s your decision.

Aurora lifted her face. Marisol’s mouth was three fingers’ width from hers. She stayed there for a few seconds, looking at her without knowing whether she had permission to close the distance.

—I want it —she said at last.

Marisol did not move.

—Are you sure?

—Yes.

The woman stroked her cheek with her thumb, slowly, and then, when she was sure the answer wasn’t going to change, tipped her chin up a little. When their lips touched, they were soft, almost a question, and only when Aurora answered by pressing a little harder, opening her mouth just a bit, did Marisol understand that the answer was yes. Yes. Yes.

The kiss deepened at once. Aurora had never kissed anyone like that before, but the body knew what words had never taught it. She felt Marisol’s tongue enter slowly, searching for hers, tangling with it, then less slowly: the woman was devouring her mouth, sucking her lower lip, biting it until Aurora moaned into the kiss. One large hand slid from the nape of her neck to the middle of her back, fingers spreading against the fabric of the dress, and the other climbed up her thigh beneath the skirt, without permission but without hesitation, until it settled in the hot hollow of her hip.

—Oh, God —Aurora gasped when Marisol bit her neck.

—I haven’t said anything yet —the woman whispered against her skin, and gave a soft laugh—. Wait.

Marisol took her hand and brought it to her bare breast, the one the child had not emptied. The skin was warm, hard, swollen with milk. Aurora felt the firmness, the weight, the wet nipple against her palm. She closed her fingers slowly and Marisol shut her eyes and let out a sigh that came from deep in her belly.

—Like that —she whispered—. Squeeze it for me. Don’t be afraid, you won’t break me.

Aurora obeyed. She squeezed, and a drop of milk burst from the nipple and ran over the back of her fingers. Marisol took her wrist and brought her milk-stained fingers to her mouth. Aurora sucked them without thinking, eyes open, and the warm sweet taste unleashed something in her groin that made her press her thighs together again.

—Lower your mouth —Marisol said—. Suck my breast. Like the child, but slower.

Aurora slid from her lap to the floor. She knelt between the woman’s open legs, with Marisol’s dress pushed up above her knees, and brought her mouth to the swollen nipple. She took it slowly, first with her lips, then with her tongue, and when she closed her mouth around it she felt milk fill it all at once. She swallowed. Marisol held her head with both hands and pressed her against her breast.

—Yes, like that, babe —she panted—. Drink as much as you can, I’ve been swollen since yesterday, I’m going to burst. Suck me hard, Aurora, harder.

Aurora sucked. She sucked until it emptied, her tongue working the nipple, eyes closed and hands gripping Marisol’s thighs over the dress. The woman stroked the back of her neck, scratched her scalp gently, moaned each time the young woman pulled with her mouth. When the breast went soft, Marisol lifted her head and licked the milk from her lips before kissing her again, this time truly hungry, with her mouth open and her tongue shameless.

—Come —she said, tugging at her hands—. To the bed. I’m not doing this in a chair.

They crossed the four steps separating them from the mattress. Marisol undressed her standing up, unhurried, undoing every knot of the gray dress with steady fingers. When the fabric fell to the floor, Aurora was left in her shift. Marisol lifted the garment over her head and stood looking at her: the small, high breasts, with the nipples already hard and pink, the narrow waist, the flat stomach, and lower down the tuft of dark brown hair between her legs that the young woman tried to cover with her hands by reflex.

—No —Marisol said, gently moving her hands aside—. Let me see you. You have no idea how lovely you are.

The woman undressed in turn, with a speed Aurora found obscene and perfect. The dress fell, the petticoat fell, and she stood naked before her: the large, full breasts, one still firm and the other emptied by the child, the belly with the dark line of pregnancy still visible, the broad hips, the thick pale thighs and, between them, a dense patch of dark hair over a cunt that made Aurora’s mouth water without knowing why.

—Lie down —Marisol said.

Aurora let herself fall backward onto the woven coverlet. Marisol climbed over her astride, and the hot weight of her body crushed her against the mattress in a way that made her moan despite herself. The woman’s breasts hung over her face. Marisol brought one to her mouth and Aurora took it again, with more confidence, sucking until the milk came out once more. With the other nipple, the woman brushed her lips, painted her mouth white, and laughed softly when the young woman stuck out her tongue to catch the drop.

—You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you —Marisol murmured—. Quiet as you seemed.

She began to go lower. She kissed her throat, bit her collarbone, sucked each nipple slowly until Aurora arched her back asking for more. She licked her stomach. She dipped her tongue into her navel. And she kept going down, until Aurora felt the woman’s hot breath between her legs and her whole body tightened at once.

—Open up —Marisol said, pushing her knees apart—. Open up, Aurora, let me see you.

Aurora opened. She felt Marisol’s hands parting the lips of her cunt, felt the cool air of the cabin against the wet flesh, and then, without warning, the tongue. The woman ran her entire tongue over her from bottom to top, slow, flat, sucking everything, and Aurora screamed. It was a short scream, quickly muffled against her own hand because the child was sleeping three steps away, but it was a scream.

—Hush —Marisol whispered against her cunt, and laughed, and licked again.

She licked without pause. She circled the clitoris with the tip of her tongue, first soft, then with more pressure, drawing circles that tore spasms from Aurora’s thighs. She pushed her tongue inside her, as deep as she could, and Aurora felt for the first time in her life something entering her body through that place. She sucked her lips, one and then the other, with her whole mouth. She nibbled the hood of the clitoris with her lips and tugged gently until Aurora moaned against the blanket.

—Marisol —Aurora gasped—, Marisol, I don’t know what’s happening to me…

—You’re going to come —the woman said, lifting her soaked face—. That’s what’s happening to you. Let go.

She went back down with her mouth. Now she sucked only the clitoris, with her tongue quick and her mouth closed around it, and at the same time she slipped two fingers inside her. Aurora felt the stretch, a brief burn, and then a hot fullness that moved everything inside her. Marisol curled her fingers upward and found something, a spot, and began pressing there, inside, while the tongue never stopped outside.

Aurora came with her teeth buried in her own forearm. She came for what felt like minutes, her hips rising and falling on their own, her cunt clenching around Marisol’s fingers again and again, soaking her whole hand, soaking her chin, her mouth, her neck. When it was over she was crying and didn’t know why.

Marisol climbed up to kiss her. Aurora could taste herself in the woman’s mouth, that new salty flavor, and realized she liked it. She liked it a lot.

—Are you all right? —Marisol asked into her ear.

—Yes.

—Want more?

—Yes.

—Want to taste me?

Aurora nodded without speaking. Marisol laughed and arranged her head so they were on their sides, face to face, with their legs tangled. She took one of Aurora’s hands and brought it to her cunt.

—Touch me first —she told her—. Feel how I am.

Aurora touched her. Her fingers sank at once into the dark hair and found a wetness so thick it surprised her. Marisol was drenched. The woman’s cunt was fleshy, open, the lips full and hot, and at the center Aurora found the swollen clitoris, easy to recognize. She began stroking it slowly, imitating what Marisol had done to her, and the woman let out a long sigh and spread her legs wider.

—There, there —she said—. Put them in.

Aurora slid two fingers inside her, and then, when Marisol asked for more with a moan, a third. The woman was wide inside, hotter than the mouth, and she clamped around her fingers in soft spasms each time Aurora pushed deep. Aurora watched her face as she penetrated her, mesmerized by the way her brow creased, how she bit her lip, how her neck tightened. She had never seen anything as beautiful as a woman on the verge of coming.

—With your mouth —Marisol gasped—. Aurora, with your mouth, please.

The young woman went down. She settled herself between the woman’s thick, hot thighs and brought her face to her cunt. The smell was strong, salty, animal, and she liked it. She stuck out her tongue and, timidly, ran it over the inner lips, and Marisol put a hand on the back of her neck and pressed her against her.

—Deeper —she said—. Don’t be afraid. Suck. All of it.

Aurora sucked. That night she learned how to eat a cunt the way someone learns to read a language they only knew the vowels of. She learned that if she ran her flat tongue over the clitoris with a steady rhythm, Marisol gave a long, low moan. She learned that if she slipped her tongue inside, the woman would lift her hips against her face. She learned that a finger in the ass, eased in carefully with the moisture already there, made Marisol writhe beneath her as if her soul were being torn out.

—There —the woman panted, one hand gripping her nape and the other twisting the coverlet—. There, there, don’t stop, Aurora, you little bitch, don’t stop…

Marisol came with both legs closed around Aurora’s face, squeezing her ears with her thighs until she was half-deaf, soaking her chin and neck. When the young woman pulled back, her face was wet and she wore an idiot’s smile, an eager smile, the smile of someone who had just discovered what a mouth is really for.

They didn’t stop there. Marisol laid her face down and kissed her whole back, vertebra by vertebra, until she reached her ass. She spread her buttocks with both hands and ran her tongue between them, and Aurora buried her face in the pillow to keep from screaming. She licked her ass opening slowly, in circles, until the young woman began lifting her hips on her own, asking for more. And from behind, with Aurora on all fours and her face pressed to the blanket, Marisol slipped three fingers into her cunt and with the other hand kept stroking her clitoris until she came a second time, trembling, biting the blanket so she wouldn’t wake the child.

They ended up holding each other, sweaty, with the woven coverlet bunched up at the foot of the bed and their bodies pressed together at the chest, the belly, the thighs. Marisol stroked her back with her fingertips. Aurora had her hand between the woman’s thighs, not moving it, just feeling the heat.

—Tomorrow I’ll teach you more —Marisol murmured into her hair—. Now sleep.

—I don’t want to sleep.

—Sleep anyway. There’s still a lot of night left.

The fire burned low in the hearth. The child slept in the cradle. The cabin was small and the world, that night, even smaller. On the table, beside the lamp that was already beginning to run out of oil, the violets Aurora had carried all the way there waited in silence for the water they would no longer need that night.