The Boss’s Daughter Invited Me to Stay That Night

That morning did not seem kind at all. I was out of coffee, I had barely enough money left for two weeks of meals, I had no job, and the exam the next day promised to be a massacre. My only comfort was that I had already paid two months’ rent on the room in advance. I went out into the street dragging a sadness that hadn’t visited me in a long time and sat in the farthest corner of the public library.

—The existentialists are definitely going to be on it —Yamila had said the day before, with that fortune-teller face she put on whenever she made her predictions. Most of the girls didn’t believe her and some even laughed, but I always listened to her. I then remembered her slight figure, shorter than I was, her hair cut very short with one strand falling over her forehead, her huge dark eyes, her full lips. She wore pants almost every day, black or gray, almost never jeans.

And her habit of moving away fast from any group where someone lit a cigarette. That detail sometimes brought us closer. I kept studying, made notes on Heidegger, on Jaspers, on Marcel. I left Sartre for last. I had some old memory of him, from when my Literature teacher forced me to hand in a paper in order to pass my last year of high school.

The paper was well done, but I would always have the doubt of whether the high grade she gave me was for the work or for what happened one afternoon in June at her apartment, when Renata tore my clothes off on the rug, spread my legs, and licked my cunt until I screamed into her hand. That day I knew for sure that I liked women and only women, that my body lit up with a woman’s tongue between my thighs in a way nothing else could. Not long after, I set out for the capital, with my doubts and my dreams.

Renata, my teacher, had taught me that lesbians had to be doubly careful in our relationships, that my priority had to be my career. That’s what she told me the last afternoon we were together, with my come still drying on her lips, and in her farewell I felt all the pain breakups can hold. I understood it later, when I learned to survive in the city jungle.

I finished with Sartre around three. I decided to take a walk through the area of the new bars, not far from the old quarter. Maybe they needed a waitress or a kitchen helper. My stomach, used to the cyclical crises of my pockets, didn’t protest.

I walked through noisy, sunny, sad streets. In every storefront I saw myself looking thinner. In the five or six places where I dared go in, they sent me away very politely. I figured that if I made it to the waterfront, I could take just one ride back. As soon as I crossed the street, I saw a newly opened place. It wasn’t big; it had maybe fifteen tables.

A young woman was cleaning the glass front, a waiter was serving a couple seated in the back. Behind the register, a gray-haired man with green eyes and thick eyebrows was reading a folded newspaper. A shelf packed with bottles gleamed behind him. I greeted him and stammered out my request for work. His gaze was hard.

—Do you know how to make drinks?

I nodded.

—Come with me —he said.

I followed him to the back room. There was a long table full of bottles, a stack of shining glasses, a food processor, and several stainless-steel cocktail shakers.

—Make me a margarita —he ordered, and he cleared his throat the way cranky old men do.

I mixed the drinks in the shaker and looked for a glass.

—I need salt for the rims —I said.

—Don’t worry about that.

I watched him smell the mix, dip a finger into the glass, taste it. Then he shouted.

—Camila!

The girl who had been cleaning the window came in at once. She was my age, maybe a little younger. She had light hair pulled back in a ponytail and honey-colored eyes that held my gaze a second longer than necessary.

—Try this —the old man said to her, and he drove his eyes into mine again—. Now make me a Manhattan.

I found a good vermouth and performed my art. They tasted it again. He asked me for a Rob Roy. Then a dry Martini.

—Damn! Where did you learn to make drinks? Did you take a course? —he asked in his cavernous voice.

—I learned from a bartender.

—What’s your name?

—Carolina Méndez.

—I’m Esteban Aguirre, and Camila is my daughter. Can you stay and work? Tomorrow we’ll talk about the conditions.

I got back to my room at three in the morning, tired and happy. I had a job, I had studied, I felt ready for the exam. Within a week I had put together a folder with information about drinks downloaded from the internet. I had no contact with the customers and the pay was weekly. I tried to be as reserved as possible with everyone, especially with the old man, but the atmosphere was so calm that there were never any problems.

One night, when the waiters were already clearing away, two middle-aged couples came in. The men wore expensive suits and the women, party dresses. Don Esteban ordered them to be served and, when one of the men asked that the bartender prepare the drinks by the table, he explained that it wasn’t the house practice but that he would make an exception this time. He called me over. The women were surprised to see me. I explained that I would need to bring some things from the kitchen: the shaker, a container with ice, orange juice.

They ordered several screwdrivers, paid without complaining, left a good tip, and went off happy. I got back to the room around four in the morning, exhausted. I threw myself on the bed without taking off my clothes.

The noon sun woke me, along with the buzzing of my cellphone.

—Hello?

—Carolina? Is that you?

—Yes, who’s speaking?

—It’s me, Camila. I need to talk to you. I’m on the sidewalk across from you. Can I come up?

I was as surprised by that visit as I would have been by the very same Rafael’s, either of them, the one from the Renaissance or the Spanish singer…

Camila wore a white cotton skirt, a dark blue short-sleeved blouse, and thin sandals. She carried a small woven bag and on her wrist several steel bracelets jingled. I invited her to sit on the messy bed while I took a quick shower.

—Go ahead —I said when I came out, wrapped in shorts and a sleeveless blouse.

—Well, look, I… I don’t know where to start. We barely know each other, so maybe it seems rude of me to come to your place like this…

—Look, girl, get to the point. You’ve got problems with your father, don’t you?

—How do you know? —she said, blushing.

—I can’t imagine it’s easy having him as a father…

She sighed in annoyance.

—I have to go back to Barcelona and that terrifies me. On one hand I don’t want to leave him alone because I’m afraid he’ll screw up the bar; on the other, what’s waiting for me there is difficult…

I chose to stay quiet and let her vent.

—You know? I have to collect from the bank the things my mother left for me when she died, more than six months ago.

—Weren’t you with her when she died?

She fell silent, staring at the ceiling, as if looking among the cobwebs for some sign for the anguish that was weighing on her.

—She died in a psychiatric hospital. She had irreversible paranoid schizophrenia…

—Can’t you ask them to send everything by mail?

—I could, but I have university paperwork, forms to sign. I can’t not go.

—Tell me more.

It was almost three in the afternoon when Camila left. We ate white rice with fried eggs and then I went off to the university.

I didn’t see her that night at the bar and I made sure the old man didn’t find out about our conversation. In a week I had almost forgotten the matter. But Camila came back and helped me one night when the place got packed and everyone wanted drinks.

—We need to talk —she told me, as if I were mixed up in everything that happened to her. We left at two in the morning and Camila simply told her father she would take me home. The old man didn’t ask for explanations; he nodded. Camila made me get into her car and drove off. On the way she told me her story. The flat tone of her voice nearly put me to sleep a couple of times, but I held back the yawns. When we got to my room, which by some strange coincidence was clean that night, we decided to make coffee and keep talking.

Camila finished stripping her soul bare for me. When we stopped talking it was almost six. I now had a very different perspective on that girl. Only one question kept circling the dark corners of my mind: why had she chosen me as her confidante? Was she really that alone? Or was she a loner like me?

***

It was in the early hours of a Saturday morning. There were no more than two tables occupied. Don Esteban ordered the place closed and left as soon as he finished with the register. Camila, as always, took care of the rest. I helped her clean up and in fifteen minutes we were done. Mateo, the last waiter, rode off on his motorcycle and Camila signaled for me to wait for her. She wants to chat, I thought. We got into her little car and in a few minutes we were driving along the deserted Bolívar Avenue.

When we reached the entrance of a building called Brisa del Mar, Camila stopped to point out the last apartment on the fifth floor.

—I moved in two days ago. Now my dad can bring his darlings over without me hearing him —she said.

Sleep was beginning to take over my body, even though it was earlier than usual. Camila went into the building. I assumed she was going to get something and then take me home; there was always the option of getting a cab. The apartment had two bedrooms, a little living room, a barred balcony, and a very small kitchen. Boxes full of books, records, clothes, and curtains were everywhere. Camila suggested we take off our shoes and speak quietly so as not to disturb the neighbors.

The sofa was covered in bags. The only thing she had set up was the computer. Her bedroom was a little less chaotic than the rest; at least there was nothing on the bed. She turned on the air conditioning and within minutes the heat stopped being a problem. I sat on the bed while she went into the bathroom. I started looking for the taxi card in my purse and left it on the bedside table.

The cool air made me even sleepier. I decided to lie down for a moment, closed my eyes, breathed deeply. I felt so good that I thought of a green field, trees in the distance, maybe a tiled-roof house… The sounds of dawn woke me. Surprised, I looked at the time. It was almost six. Camila was sleeping beside me, curled up, turned away. She had placed a thick silk quilt over us both. I went to the bathroom, took a shower, and brushed my teeth with the little toothbrush I always carried in my purse.

Outside, the city was waking up with engines and horns. I went back to the bedroom to wait for her to wake up so I could leave. She half opened her eyes and smiled.

—Did you sleep well?

—Wonderfully. I didn’t even feel when you covered me.

—Let me get up —she said, and jumped out of bed. She was wearing a long white T-shirt with a Bugs Bunny drawing on it. I was moved to see her like that. I went home with the image of that slight figure moving through the messy apartment.

***

That night we closed late and again I stayed with her to finish. We left the bar under a light rain that quickly turned into a downpour.

—Let’s go home before the streets flood —she said, and headed for the building.

We had to run from the parking lot to the entrance and although it was only a few yards we arrived soaked. Now the apartment was much more orderly.

Camila’s voice sounded imperative.

—Take off those wet clothes! —she said, while she herself began to undress and dropped her clothes onto a plastic chair.

I copied her, trying to hide my agitation. Her very pale skin was goosefleshed from the cold water that ran in threads over the meeting of her round, full breasts, with pink hard nipples pointing forward as if they were indicating me. Camila had her cunt completely shaved, the inner lips barely visible, pink and shiny with water. Flustered, I finished undressing when she had already gotten under the shower and was lathering herself without the slightest modesty, running the sponge between her tits, over her flat stomach, between her open legs without a trace of restraint.

She signaled for me to join her. Under the warm spray, she started soaping me up. Her hands lingered on my breasts, squeezing them, pinching my nipples until they were hard as stones. They moved down over my stomach and one of them slipped without warning between my thighs, two fingers parting my lips, searching for my clit. This girl has no idea how much heat she’s stirring up in me, I thought, although from the smile she wore I knew exactly what she was doing. Before I could react, Camila hugged me from behind, pressed her wet tits against my back, and asked in my ear, her voice rough,

—Do you want me? Do you want me to eat your cunt until you scream?

I nodded in silence, swallowing hard. Then she turned me around and we kissed for a very long time, wet, tongue to tongue, biting each other’s lips. Her hand kept working between my legs, two fingers sliding in and out slowly of my soaked cunt, not from water but from my own desire. We laughed for a moment when a moan escaped me.

—Let’s go to bed —she murmured.

We got out of the shower without even drying off properly. Camila dragged me, dripping, to the bedroom and pushed me onto the mattress on my back. She climbed over me astride, and from below I could finally see that little body with its very pale skin, the tits hanging over my face, the shaved little cunt resting on my stomach, already wet with something that wasn’t water. I grabbed her tits with both hands, squeezed them, took one nipple into my mouth and sucked it hungrily. She threw her head back and moaned.

—Like that, suck them, go on…

I ran my tongue over the other nipple, bit it slowly, heard her panting. I could feel her cunt rubbing against my navel, leaving me a sticky trail. Camila lowered herself, kissed my neck, my collarbone, stopped at my breasts and spent a long time sucking them, alternating from one to the other, tugging on my nipples with her teeth until I started to arch without being able to control myself.

She kept going down. Her teeth tickled my lower back while her slender fingers traced the inner side of my thighs until they reached the tangle of my unshaved cunt. She spread my legs with a firmness I would never have guessed in that slight girl, drove those honey-colored eyes up at me from down there, and smiled.

—You’re so delicious all wet.

She blew softly over my pubic hair. Then she flattened her tongue and ran it from bottom to top, once, very slowly, and I let out a muffled scream. She did it again. And again. Each lick went through me and left me trembling. I grabbed her head with both hands, trying to press it against me, but she resisted and kept playing, barely sucking my lips, nibbling my clit with her lips without yet giving me the full pleasure.

—Please —I begged her—, eat me properly, don’t torture me.

She laughed against my cunt and that vibration made me jerk. Then she slid in two fingers and started moving her tongue over my clit with a perfect rhythm, sucking, licking, while her fingers went in and out with an obscene splashing that filled the room. At some point I rolled over, dragged her with me, and we started sixty-nine, which she abandoned almost immediately to focus on what my tongue was doing to her.

Now it was I who had her shaved little cunt in front of my mouth, shining, swollen, with the clit peeking out between the thin lips. I took it fully into my mouth, sucked hungrily, ran my tongue over the whole slit. I played with her reddened lips, stretched them with my teeth, worked over her cunt, which grew wetter and wetter, more and more open. I pushed my tongue inside as deep as I could and she started moving against my face, riding my mouth without the slightest shame.

—Ah, like that, keep going, don’t stop…

I took two fingers to her ass and started stroking the little hole, not pushing in, just circling it, while my tongue never left her clit. She panted harder and harder, I could feel her trembling over me, her thighs squeezing my head. I slipped one finger in as far as the first knuckle and she gave a long spasm, taut as a bow, and exploded over my face. Her cunt clenched, a hot stream wet my chin, and she tried to muffle her cry against the pillow, though I heard it all, hoarse, sustained.

She collapsed beside me, panting, eyes closed and wearing an idiot smile. I ran my tongue over her nipples, over her neck, all the way to her mouth, and she sucked her own taste from my lips with a pleasure that excited me again. At once she turned over, spread my legs with her hands, and settled herself once more between my thighs.

Her tongue traveled across the whole area below my navel and went inside me. She played with my clit like it was candy, sucking it whole, then barely brushing it with the tip of her tongue, leaving me on the edge and withdrawing, until I was asking her to make me come. She slid in three fingers and began to move them inward, searching for that spot very few had found. When she touched it, I arched completely. Her tongue on my clit, her fingers inside scraping that exact point, and she did not let up, did not change rhythm, pounding and sucking until she brought me to an orgasm I had never had before. I screamed without being able to keep quiet, my vision blurred, I felt myself pouring over her hand, over the sheets, over her face. She didn’t stop until I started trembling and begging her to stop, stop, I can’t take any more.

She lifted me up, held me close, and pressed against my chest, still shaken by the convulsions. I felt her smile against my skin.

—See, you idiot —she murmured—, I’ve wanted to do this to you for weeks.

We covered ourselves with the blanket and slept embraced, still sticky, until another thunderclap woke us and we found each other again, this time with the urgency of seeing which one of us would finish first. Camila climbed on top of me and started rubbing her cunt against mine, pure tribadism, pressing herself to me, moving back and forth with a fury that surprised me. Our clits brushed with each thrust, the two wet lips colliding, splashing, and I grabbed her ass with both hands to pull her harder against me. She braced herself with her hands on either side of my head and lowered a breast to my mouth; I sucked it while we kept moving like that, cunt against cunt, until I felt her speeding up and knew she was going to come before I did. Camila beat me. She came over me with a hoarse cry, trembling, and I followed a few seconds later, with an orgasm as incredible as the first.

I felt obliged to return the pleasure, something that didn’t cost me too much. I turned her face down, lifted her ass, spread her cheeks, and ran my tongue from her clit to her little hole, up and down, up and down, until she buried her face in the pillow and screamed again, coming over my tongue with tremors that lasted a long while. That week we made love every night, and every night we invented something new: she tied my hands with her silk scarf and sucked me for hours without letting me come; I fingered her while sucking her tits until I made her cry with pleasure; we masturbated in front of the mirror, looking at each other.

The following Monday, the day the bar was closed, Camila told her father I had an aunt in the countryside who had invited me to visit her. We spent the day at a seaside rest stop, caught some sun in the afternoon, and went to bed before seven. Camila said she wanted to watch a Humphrey Bogart movie and walked naked through the room looking for the remote control. Seeing her like that, with that upturned little ass moving from side to side, her tits swaying, the shaved little cunt peeking out between her thighs when she bent over, aroused me so much that I picked her up in my arms, threw her onto the bed, and opened her legs with a single motion. I buried my face in her cunt without saying a word, sucking it whole, biting her lips, pushing my tongue in as deep as I could. She gripped the sheet with both hands and began to moan, to say my name in broken pieces, to beg me not to stop. I slid in two fingers while still sucking her clit and felt her come within a minute, with a long spasm that jolted her hips against my face. I only let go when I felt her moan at her first orgasm of that afternoon.

After that we stayed playing. I sucked her tits for a long time, each nipple separately, while she fingered me and made me come without my almost noticing. We ate each other out in a very long sixty-nine, without urgency, enjoying every lick, every finger, every sigh. When we finished, wet with sweat and saliva and all kinds of juices, we lay there looking at the ceiling, our hands intertwined. In truth we didn’t watch a single movie all night; we fucked twice more before dawn, and the next day we slept through the whole morning, as if we had spent the entire night working at the bar.