My First Time with a Woman Was Behind the Counter

It was nine-thirty at night, and I still had seven days to go before payday. My account balance was lower than what I needed to make it through the end of the month, and I was still walking through the aisles of the corner minimarket with my grocery list in hand, unable to fully accept that I was going to have to leave something behind.

It was a small store, the kind that stays open late and never has more than one customer at a time. Pasta, oil, coffee, toilet paper, a box of tampons. Things that couldn't be postponed.

When I reached the checkout with my basket full, I caught the cashier's eye, and for a second my internal monologue about prices came to a halt.

Her name was Camila—it said so on the little name tag stuck to her black uniform—and she had to be in her early twenties. Dark, gleaming skin, freshly moisturized. Her hair was pulled back into two long braids that fell over her shoulders, with those immaculate ends you get from patiently doing your hair in front of a mirror. Long eyelashes, full lips, a professional smile that never quite committed itself.

“Good evening,” she said as she began scanning the products.

“Hi,” I replied, and found myself staring at her hands.

The total appeared on the screen, and before I even reached into my purse, I knew I wouldn't have enough. I counted the bills slowly, wishing multiplication were an option. I was almost four thousand pesos short.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“I'm short,” I said, and my face caught fire.

“You can leave something and…”

“I can't leave anything,” I interrupted. “I need all of it.”

She shrugged with the tired kindness of someone who repeated the same sentence twenty times a shift, and explained that there was no store credit, that she couldn't give discounts, that the owner checked the register through the security cameras. I believed every word. Even so, I leaned on the counter and lowered my voice.

“Can I make you a proposition?” I said.

She tilted her head, waiting. And then, without really knowing why—or perhaps knowing perfectly well—I moved a little closer, until my mouth was near her ear, and whispered exactly what I was thinking: that she should let me pay the rest with my tongue, that she should let me eat her whole in the back storeroom, that she should take the products and, in exchange, I'd make her come twice before I left.

Camila jerked backward as if I'd burned her. Her eyes widened, her professional smile vanished, and for a second I thought she was going to call someone. But she didn't call anyone. She bit her lower lip, looked toward the door, looked at the cameras, looked at me, and fell silent.

“You don't have to accept,” I added. “If I bothered you, I'm sorry. I'll go.”

“Wait.”

She said it quietly, almost to herself. Then she walked to the door, slid the lock into place, turned the sign to “closed,” and said:

“Come to the back.”

***

The storeroom was narrow, with metal shelves loaded with boxes, a little wooden table against the wall, and a smell that was a mixture of cardboard, soap, and some cheap air freshener. A fluorescent tube buzzed on the ceiling. It wasn't the setting anyone would choose for something like this.

But we were alone, the front door was locked, and I'd crossed a threshold there was no turning back from. Camila leaned against the little table, arms crossed, and looked at me uncertainly.

“Are you really going to do it?” she asked—not me, but the air between us.

“Only if you want me to. But if you let me, I'll suck you so well you'll forget about the cameras, your boss, and everything else.”

She laughed nervously. A short laugh that escaped her without permission.

“Never with a woman,” she said, and didn't finish the sentence.

“Me neither,” I replied, and it was true. Neither of us really knew what would come next. The only thing I knew for sure was that just looking at her mouth had soaked my panties.

I began unbuttoning my shirt slowly, looking at the floor. My hands felt a little clumsy, my fingers cold. When I reached the last button, I let the shirt fall onto a box. I took off my pants. Camila didn't move a muscle, but she was breathing faster, and I could see her nipples pressing against the T-shirt of her uniform. I stood in my bra and panties in the middle of the storeroom, and for the first time in a long while I was glad to have the body I had. Large, natural breasts outlined by my bra; a short waist; wide hips that my mother cursed at every birthday and that I'd learned to love.

“You're beautiful,” Camila said, her voice breaking. “Fuck, you're beautiful.”

“Come closer. And touch me.”

She took two steps forward. I took her hands and placed them on my hips. She was freezing; her fingers were trembling. I slowly guided them up to my breasts, over my bra, and pressed her fingers against my tits so she'd make up her mind.

“Breathe,” I urged.

She did. A long, deep inhalation, and as she exhaled I felt her shoulders relax and her thumbs press into my nipples. I drew her a little closer and kissed her.

The kiss was awkward at first. As first kisses with someone who doesn't know whether she's nervous from desire or fear usually are. Then we found our rhythm. Camila's tongue was soft and sweet, and she began matching my pace with an urgency that hadn't been in her eyes a minute before. I bit her lower lip, the one she'd been biting herself, and heard her let out a short sigh against my mouth. I brought one hand to the back of her neck and the other to her ass, squeezing it hard over her uniform pants, and she thrust her hips against mine as if she could no longer stop herself.

“I want to see you,” I told her against her mouth. “Take everything off.”

She pulled away, took hold of the hem of her T-shirt, and hesitated for a moment before pulling it off. Underneath, she wore a simple white cotton bra. She unclasped it in front and let it fall too. Her breasts were smaller than mine, round, her nipples dark like the rest of her skin, already hard from the cold air in the storeroom. I moved in and took them in my hands, carefully at first, then more firmly, until she threw her head back and bit her lip. I pinched her nipples between my thumb and forefinger, rolled them, and she let out a moan that rose from her stomach.

“I can't believe this,” she whispered.

“Then believe it,” I said, and bent down to take one of her nipples into my mouth.

Camila braced herself against the little table. I felt her knees go weak. I sucked one breast and then the other, using my tongue, my teeth very gently, tugging at her nipple until a moan escaped her every time I let it go. I ran my tongue between her tits, bit the skin over her sternum, returned to her nipples, and sucked them until they were swollen and glossy. While I did it, I pulled her uniform pants down to her ankles. She finished taking them off, taking two short steps, and stood there in panties just like me.

I ran my hand over the fabric. She was already wet. Very wet. Her panties had a pale stain in the center, and she moaned when I pressed my fingers against her pubic mound, searching for her clit through the cotton. The fabric was wedged between her lips, soaked. I brought my fingers to my mouth and watched her suck them, and Camila let out a “goddamn it” that I couldn't tell was admiration or embarrassment.

“You're dripping,” I whispered in her ear. “You can tell you've wanted someone to eat your pussy for a while.”

“Shut up and do it,” she replied, grabbing my wrist. Not to push me away. To guide me.

***

We sat on the floor, on my shirt spread out like an improvised blanket. I was between her legs, her back against the wall. I pulled her panties down slowly, never taking my eyes off hers, and when I got them past her ankle, I tucked them into the pocket of the pants lying nearby, like a trophy. They were warm and heavy with how wet they were.

“Mine,” I said, almost joking.

“Keep them.”

I opened her legs with both hands and spent a second looking at her pussy. Her pubic hair was neat and trimmed, her lips dark and swollen, shining in the middle because she was so wet. I ran one finger along her entire slit, from bottom to top, and she arched her back as if I'd stabbed her with something.

“Look at you,” I whispered. “Your whole cunt soaked because of a stranger.”

“Please,” she said, and I didn't need her to clarify what she meant.

I kissed her from her neck to her navel, and from her navel farther down, and when my mouth reached the middle of her legs, I felt her tense and relax at the same time. She tasted clean and salty, with a sweetness I hadn't imagined. I started slowly, with the tip of my tongue, drawing circles around her clitoris without quite touching it, until she began thrusting her hips against my face, seeking me out.

“Don't tease,” she panted. “Suck it properly.”

I did as she asked. I caught her clit between my lips and sucked it as if I were sucking a little cock, taking it in and out with my mouth while my tongue circled it again and again. Camila covered her mouth with her forearm so she wouldn't make any noise, but her moans still escaped around the sides of her arm. I ran my whole tongue from the entrance of her pussy to her clitoris, slowly, savoring her, and then again, and again, until I saw her legs begin to tremble.

Until she couldn't take it anymore and began pressing my head against her with both hands, moving her hips against my mouth without the slightest shame. I understood. I increased the pace, thrust two fingers into her all at once, felt them slide deep into that tight, hot cunt, and curled them upward in search of that spot some women say doesn't exist. I found it. I felt her heel dig into my back, her whole body arch, and the walls of her pussy squeeze my fingers as if she didn't want to let me go.

“I'm coming, I'm coming, don't stop, goddamn it, don't stop,” she whispered against her own arm, and I felt her come over my mouth with a muffled cry, biting her skin so she wouldn't howl. Her pussy throbbed around my fingers, three, four, five times, each contraction releasing a warm spurt into my palm.

I kept licking her slowly, savoring her orgasm, swallowing everything that reached my mouth, until she gently pushed me away, laughing, exhausted.

“Stop, stop,” she said. “It's too much. I can't take any more.”

I sat beside her. My face and chin were shining with her, and I ran my tongue over my lips without trying to hide it. She was sweaty, disheveled, her braids half undone, and I'd never seen her look more beautiful than she did then.

“Your turn,” she added, still short of breath. “Come here. Let me taste you.”

I moved with my back against the little table and opened my legs. Camila slipped between them with a new determination, different from the girl who had opened the door for me ten minutes earlier. She yanked my panties off—she didn't wait to ask for them—and tucked them into her shoe.

“Me too,” she said. “My souvenir.”

Then she leaned in and kissed the insides of my thighs, barely biting as she moved upward. She opened the lips of my pussy with her thumbs and paused to look at me, wearing a new, slightly wicked smile.

“You're just as soaked as I am,” she said, and blew softly over my clitoris. My hips jerked involuntarily.

“Stop fucking around and eat me,” I moaned.

When she licked me for the first time, the air rushed from my lungs. Her tongue was firm and patient, with a steady rhythm that brought me to the edge very quickly. She sucked my clitoris as if she knew exactly what she was doing—or maybe the moment had gotten her so turned on that it came naturally—alternating broad licks with short sucks that made me lift my ass off the floor. I buried my hands in her braids and pulled her against my pussy without shame, and she moaned with her mouth full of me.

And when she began alternating her tongue with her fingers—two, then three, sliding in and out slowly, then faster—I knew I was going to come in less than a minute. Her fingers made a wet sound every time they came out, an obscene squelch mingling with the moans I was no longer holding back.

“That's it, that's it, don't stop, fuck me with your fingers,” I begged, and she sped up.

I didn't care about anything. Not the cameras, not the owner, not the noise, not the fact that we were two strangers in the storeroom of a minimarket at ten o'clock at night.

I came hard, biting my left hand, my other hand tangled in her braids. I felt every contraction, every pulse, and soaked her face and hand as I came. Camila didn't slow down: she kept licking me slowly as I came down, sucking my clitoris more and more gently, her whole mouth pressed against my pussy, until the contractions grew slower and left me with that soft, sweet emptiness, like when a fire goes out.

Camila rested her head on my hip and stayed like that for a while, her mouth still wet with me, while I stroked her hair and tried to return to my body. I lifted her face with two fingers under her chin and kissed her deeply, tasting myself in her mouth, and she kissed me back with the same ease, as if we'd been doing this for years.

***

We dressed in silence, but with silly smiles, glancing at each other every time one of us put on a piece of clothing. Her panties were still in my pocket. Mine were still in her shoe. Without saying it, we agreed that the exchange was official.

Before leaving, I ran a hand through my hair and adjusted my purse, and she rang up my total as if nothing had happened.

“Plastic bag, three pesos,” she said, her professional smile back in place, this time with a different glint in her eyes.

“I'll pay cash,” I replied. “Whatever I have.”

I gave her everything I had. She entered the difference as a discount and printed my receipt. The front-door lock was still engaged. She removed it, opened the door, and as she handed me the bags, slipped a folded piece of paper between my fingers.

“My number,” she said. “If you want to have coffee sometime. Or do it again somewhere more comfortable.”

I took it without looking at it and tucked it beside my heart, where you keep those kinds of things. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, whispered thank you against her skin, and stepped out into the avenue at night with two heavy bags and a feeling that had no name.

I walked home with Camila's panties brushing my leg from inside my pants pocket, still damp.

That night I sent her a message. She replied ten minutes later. We made plans to see each other on Saturday, at a bar far from the minimarket, far from her boss and his cameras, somewhere I wouldn't have to ask for discounts to make something happen between us.

I still have her panties. Sometimes I wear them alone when I remember how she breathed against my neck, how her clitoris swelled between my lips, how she dug her heel into my back when she came. I push two fingers deep inside myself and imagine it's her tongue again, and I come thinking about the way she tasted. I hope she's wearing mine. I hope she touches herself too, thinking about how I made her scream into her arm. The next time I see her, I'm going to ask.

And I'm going to bring her the change I owe her.