The Foreigner at the Hotel Read Sappho to Me in a Low Voice

My name is Camila, and until that March afternoon, the closest I had ever come to another woman was an accidental brush on the university bus. I was walking down a narrow street in downtown Montevideo, my backpack over one shoulder and my head full of noise. Pending comparative-literature assignments, a video I had promised to upload, unanswered messages. And beneath all that, a question I had been unable to bring myself to voice for months.

During the summer I had gotten used to reading late into the night, sprawled across my bed with the fan aimed at my face. I started with Sappho, then moved on to Audre Lorde, then to anything that smelled of desire between women. Wattpad became my nighttime vice. And while I read, my hand wandered on its own beneath the sheet, two fingers buried in my pussy, trying to reproduce what the pages described. It didn’t always work. I came, yes, but it was a small, dry orgasm that left me wanting more than before I started.

I had tried videos of women fucking each other, fingers buried to the knuckles, the shower stream striking my clitoris, a massage candle a friend gave me that I ended up using as an improvised dildo. It was like touching through fogged glass. I wanted the real thing. I wanted a stranger’s tongue between my legs, tits pressed against mine, a mouth whispering filth in my ear. I wanted someone to teach me what real was.

The problem was that I didn’t have a boyfriend. I wasn’t looking for one, either. The idea of a man on top of me, his cock buried all the way inside and the risk of a pregnancy my student bank account couldn’t support, annoyed me more than it turned me on. I had been avoiding dates for a year, pretending I had exams I didn’t even have.

One night, after closing the book and turning out the light, I sat up in the darkness and said quietly the sentence that had been circling through my head for months.

I want to fuck a woman.

The next day I opened a private tab, typed things I had never searched for before, and found a page called The Garden of Lesbos. It had the sober look of a doctor’s office: discreet photos, an address in Cordón, clear rates. Thirty minutes, an hour, two hours. Women attending exclusively to women. Several names appeared, several ages, several backgrounds. No explicit photos; just a close-up of a mouth, a shoulder, a back.

I spent three days reading reviews and another four gathering my courage. On the seventh day I took a bus, got off three blocks from the place, and walked the rest with my heart pounding against my chest as if it knew what was going to happen before I did. Beneath my jeans, my panties were already wet, stuck to my pussy, and it seemed to me that anyone I passed on the sidewalk could smell that I was on my way to get fucked for the first time.

***

The building gave nothing away from the outside. A gray door, a buzzer, a discreet camera above the lintel. I rang twice. An older woman, around fifty, opened the door. She wore thin-framed glasses and had a smile that looked as though it had seen many women like me pass through.

—Reservation? —she asked.

—Yes. Under Camila.

She nodded, led me to a small room, and showed me a laminated folder containing photographs of women. They were serious pictures, almost like passport photos. None of them smiled with the forced pose of conventional websites.

—You have forty-five minutes —she said—. Choose.

I stopped on the second page. A blond woman with short hair, a piercing in her left eyebrow, and a look that said neither hello nor goodbye. Antonella, Colombian, twenty-nine years old.

—Her.

The woman took my money, handed me a numbered key, and pointed toward the stairs.

—Second floor, room four. Try not to scream too loudly; the walls are thin. Though almost nobody listens to me.

***

The room smelled of strawberries and something else, a mixture of incense and freshly washed sheets. A small lamp was lit on the nightstand, and a wide bed stood there with a pale blanket folded at the foot. In one corner, a chair. In the chair, her.

Antonella sat with one leg crossed over the other, wearing denim shorts ripped across the thighs, a cropped black blouse that left her navel exposed, and ankle boots planted as if she were waiting for a bus. Her hair was shorter than in the photograph, and on her lap lay a tiny book, no wider than a finger.

—Are you Camila? —she asked. She had that Colombian cadence that softened the consonants—. The fourth one today. You’d think it was Friday.

I didn’t know what to say. I stood there with my backpack over my shoulder and the key in my hand.

—Relax, niña. Close the door and sit down. Wine or water?

—Water —I said, almost inaudibly.

She poured me a glass from a pitcher on the table and watched me while I drank. She had green eyes that didn’t blink, or blinked so little that it felt as though she were assessing me thoroughly.

—First time with a woman —she said. It wasn’t a question.

—Yes.

—I can tell. Not for any bad reason. It just shows.

She smiled. It was the first time she had smiled, and the room seemed to drop two degrees.

—Before we start, let me show you something. —She raised the little book from her lap. The cover said Fragments, and beneath it, in smaller type, Sappho of Lesbos—. Do you know her?

My heart gave a leap I didn’t understand.

—I read her in a classical-literature course —I murmured—. And on my own.

—Well, look at you. Almost none of the women who come in here have read her. Most are looking for other things. Want me to read you something first? A client once told me it was like a drink to warm up with.

I nodded without thinking. She opened the book to a page marked with a small white slip of paper and cleared her throat.

—“Deathless Aphrodite of the ornamented throne, daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I beg you: do not subdue my soul with grief and anguish, O sovereign.”

I listened, and something loosened in my chest and between my legs as well. In class, when the professor read these verses, I used to squeeze my thighs beneath the desk without knowing why. Now I knew. The goddess Sappho invoked was not an abstract idea. She was this. A woman with a book in her hand, green eyes fixed on me, and the smell of my pussy beginning to seep out from beneath my jeans.

—“Come to me now as well, free me from bitter anxieties” —she continued reading, then suddenly closed the book and left it on the nightstand—. Do you want to keep going? Or would you prefer something else?

—I want to —I said, and my voice wasn’t mine.

—What do you want, niña?

—I don’t know. Everything.

—Everything is a lot —she said, almost laughing—. Let’s see how much you can take.

***

She stood and walked toward me. She smelled of a clean, citrusy perfume, without the cloying sweetness of things one associates with seduction. With a gentle gesture she removed my backpack from my shoulder and set it on a chair. Then she swept my hair to one side and kissed me.

The kiss wasn’t what I had imagined. It wasn’t ravenous or desperate. It was slow. It began closed, almost a question. Then her tongue slipped in just a little, and mine answered. And when I realized it, I was pressed against the wall, her hands on my waist, biting her lower lip as if I wanted to keep it. She slipped one knee between my legs and raised it right against my crotch, pressing calmly. I began moving on my own against her thigh, the seam of her jeans scraping my clitoris through our clothes, and I let out a hoarse moan I didn’t know the source of.

—Look at this niña —she murmured against my mouth—. I haven’t even undressed you and you’re already riding my leg.

—Sorry —I said, without knowing why I was apologizing.

—Don’t apologize, dummy. I love it. Keep going.

I kept going. I pressed myself against her thigh until I felt the denim soaked through on the other side, whether from me or from her, I didn’t know. She watched me from very close, with a crooked half-smile, letting me do it.

—Easy, chiquita —she said, pulling away for a moment and lowering the leg I had been riding—. We have time. Don’t rub yourself off against the seam like a little brat. Take off your shirt.

I obeyed. She took off her black blouse and tossed it onto the chair. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits were smaller than I had imagined, round, with small dark nipples already hard as pits. I had the absurd urge to ask permission to touch them. There was no need. She took my wrists and placed my hands on her.

—That’s it. Squeeze them. Don’t be afraid. I won’t break.

I squeezed her tits with both hands, felt her nipples pressing into my palms, and bent down without thinking to suck one. She held the back of my neck and guided me.

—That’s it, suck my tits. Hard. With your tongue, with your teeth too. Don’t treat me like I’m made of porcelain.

I bit her left nipple until I heard her let out a gasp, and suddenly I felt very powerful. I switched to the other one. I sucked her right nipple until it grew even harder, and she firmly tugged my hair to pull me away.

—All right, all right. You’re going to make me come first, and that’s not the idea. To bed.

***

We fell onto the bed in a way I don’t remember exactly. She was on top of me, our thighs tangled, her mouth searching out my neck, shoulder, and collarbone. She removed my bra with a skill that made me feel like an absolute novice. She kissed my tits unhurriedly, one first and then the other, sucking all over them, lingering on my nipples until I began arching without meaning to. She bit them, blew on them, ran her tongue in excruciatingly slow circles around the areola, and then sucked them hard again. My panties were a lake, and she still hadn’t touched them.

She pulled my jeans down to my ankles. She left my panties on for a while, playing over the fabric with her fingertips. She squeezed my clitoris through the cotton, drew circles, then moved lower and pressed right over the opening of my pussy, feeling the puddle I had made there.

—Oh, niña. Look at this. You’re ready to wring out. —She brought her wet fingers to her mouth and sucked them slowly, staring straight at me—. Delicious.

A moan escaped me. She chuckled softly and went back to work. She ran her tongue over my panties, right where the fabric was darkest with wetness, and made me breathe in my own scent mixed with her saliva. When she finally pulled my panties aside, I was already soaked all the way to the crease of my buttocks.

—Well, look at you —she whispered—. You’d think you did this every day.

She moved down my belly and opened my legs wide. I felt her breathing against the insides of my thighs, a warm breath that made me close my eyes. She blew first over my open pussy without touching me, and I lifted my hips, searching for her. Then came her tongue, and everything I thought I knew about my own body fell apart in an instant.

She licked me slowly, from bottom to top, along the entire length of my slit. She lingered at the opening, slipping the tip of her tongue inside me, pulling it out, sucking my lips one by one. Then she moved up to my clitoris and stayed there. She circled it first, then kissed it with closed lips, then sucked it as if it were a tiny candy. I began trembling before I realized it.

—Don’t come yet —she ordered, pulling her mouth away just as I was about to explode—. Hold it.

—I can’t —I moaned.

—Yes, you can. Breathe.

She pushed two fingers into my pussy while continuing to suck my clitoris, curling them inward, searching for something I had never found with my own fingers. When she touched it, I jerked. It was a dense, spongy spot, and every time she pressed it with her fingertips I felt as though I were going to pee, although it wasn’t pee; it was something else, something rising like a wave.

—There —I said, and I didn’t recognize my voice—. There, there.

—There? —she repeated, curling her fingers deeper, burying them to the knuckles without stopping her sucking on my clitoris.

It wasn’t like when I did it myself. It wasn’t even close. Antonella knew where everything was, knew when to press and when to ease off, when to linger and when to change rhythm. Within minutes I had her hair between my fingers without remembering when I had grabbed it, and I was pushing her face against my pussy as if my life depended on it. I came with a moan I didn’t recognize as mine, a deep sound, almost a whimper, that came from the pit of my stomach. I soaked her chin, nose, and cheeks. I felt the contractions squeezing the fingers she had inside me, one after another, and I lay still with my thighs trembling around her head.

She didn’t pull her tongue away immediately. She licked me slowly until I was clean, sucking out my last spasms and swallowing everything. Then she let me breathe for a few seconds and sat up. Her face was shining, and she smiled at me with her mouth still wet with me.

—That was beautiful —she said—. You taste good, niña. Do you want to stop here?

—No —I answered without thinking—. I want more.

—More what?

—More of everything. Fuck me.

She smiled. That smile again.

—Oh, you’ve already learned how to ask for it. Very good.

***

—Turn over —she ordered.

She said it in a different tone. Lower, firmer. I obeyed without a word. I ended up on all fours on the bed, my back arched, my ass raised, my face against the pillow. I felt her hands part my buttocks and her eyes fixed on me, looking at my swollen pussy and my asshole, and I died of embarrassment and arousal at the same time.

—Pretty. Very pretty. You have a delicious little ass, you know that? Do you know what curious girls like you do, back home?

—No —I said, my voice trembling.

I felt the first slap before I finished the sentence. Just a little smack on my left buttock, enough to make my skin prickle. Then another, a little harder. Then one on the right. Each smack shook my whole ass and made me clench my pussy around nothing.

—You feel that. Tell me if you want me to stop.

—Don’t stop.

—That’s my girl.

The smacks continued, growing harder, alternating with long caresses that left me suspended. Between slaps she ran two fingers along my slit, sank her fingertip into my pussy to the knuckle, and pulled it out again. When she stopped spanking me altogether, my buttocks were burning and red, and my pussy was dripping down my thighs again. I heard her open a drawer. I heard her unscrew something. Then I felt a cold liquid sliding down the cleft of my ass, running from my anus to the opening of my pussy.

—Which way are you brave enough to take it? —she asked, and as she spoke she ran the tip of something soft and firm over my wet lips, a thick dildo that I felt sliding across my entire vulva—. Here?

—Yes —I said.

—Or here?

The tip rose and rested against my anus. It pressed lightly without entering, and I was left breathless.

—Both —I murmured, barely recognizing my own voice.

—You’re very ambitious, chiquita. We’ll go slowly. The ass first. If you open it properly, then I’ll give you everything you want.

***

She started with my anus. Before the dildo, she inserted a finger coated in lubricant, turning it in circles inside me. She opened and closed me, getting me used to the feeling of having something go in there. When I stopped complaining, she added a second finger. Then a third. My face was buried in the pillow, and my breathing came in ragged gasps I couldn’t control.

—Good, my girl. You’re opening up nicely. Now we’re ready.

I felt the tip of the dildo pressed against my anus, and she pushed. Slowly, patiently, letting me adjust to each inch. The first pain passed quickly and became something else, a strange new pressure that made me bite the pillow. When she had it all the way inside me, I lay still for a moment, feeling it stretch me, while she stroked my back with her free hand.

—Everything all right?

—Yes.

—Here I go.

Antonella moved at a steady pace, without speeding up, whispering things in Colombian Spanish that I only half understood. Things like look at you, how you love being filled, or you’re a delicious little bitch, or open wider, my love, open that little ass for me. I pushed back against her, searching for her, my hands gripping the sheet and my clitoris throbbing like a second heart between my legs.

When I was beginning to believe I couldn’t take anything more, I felt her pull away for a moment. I heard her put something on, adjust straps, the click of a buckle. She repositioned me, slipped one hand beneath my belly, and lifted my hips slightly. Then came the weight of her body settling over my back again, and a second, thicker tip pressing against the opening of my pussy.

—Hold on —she said in my ear.

The second dildo entered me from the front, lubricated but just as demanding. For a second I thought it would split me in half. I felt my pussy stretching to a limit I had never known, and behind me, still, the other one inside my ass, pressing from the other side of the wall between them. I let out a muffled scream into the pillow.

—Shh. Breathe. It’s inside now. The worst is over.

She stayed still for a moment, letting me feel it. I was full, so full there wasn’t room even to think. Then she began to move. At first only the front one, pulling it out and thrusting it back in with short strokes. Then the one behind, alternating. Then both at once, moving in and out with a gentle rhythm unlike anything I had ever known. Every thrust tore a new moan from me.

—That’s it, that’s it, that’s it —I heard her murmur, and felt her speed up.

Her hands held my hips, setting the pace, making me take her. Then they moved up to my tits, squeezing them, pinching my nipples. Then one tangled in my hair and tugged me gently backward, forcing me to arch farther, to lift my chest from the bed. In that position I felt both dildos reach even deeper inside me.

—You’re mine for this hour, niña. Say it.

—I’m yours.

—Again.

—I’m yours —I moaned, and she drove both of them all the way in with one thrust.

—Again, louder.

—I’m yours! —I screamed into the pillow—. Fuck me, fuck me hard!

She began fucking me in earnest. A brutal rhythm, her hips striking my reddened ass, both dildos moving in and out in time. I couldn’t even think anymore. I gave her my body, opened myself, pushed back against her. She guided my own hand to my clitoris.

—Rub it. Come with all three things at once.

I obeyed. I began stroking my swollen clitoris in fast circles while she kept fucking both of my holes. The orgasm came from somewhere new, from some point between the two invasions and my own fingers, and shook me from head to toe. I screamed into the pillow, bit the pillowcase, felt my pussy and ass clench around both dildos at the same time in spasms that climbed up my spine. I gushed onto the sheet, soaking everything around me, and lay trembling with my forehead against the pillow while she carefully withdrew, first the front one, then the one behind, leaving me empty and throbbing.

***

Afterward there was a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. Antonella removed the harness, set the dildos on a towel, and lay down beside me. She passed a damp towel between my legs with a tenderness that contrasted with everything that had come before. She brushed my hair from my face and kissed my temple.

—You have ten minutes left. Want me to read to you again?

I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

She reached for the little book on the nightstand and opened it to another page. My cheek rested against her shoulder as I listened to her read in a low voice, with that cadence that softened the consonants. She spoke of a woman burning with no one able to put her out, of apples high on a branch, of tongues breaking in silence. As she read, her hand absently caressed me between the thighs, seeking nothing, merely brushing over my swollen, still-sensitive pussy.

I closed my eyes. I thought that no man had ever read me a poem before sex. I thought none had ever read me a poem afterward, either. I thought none had ever licked me until I gushed or fucked my ass with that kind of patience.

When I went downstairs, the woman with the glasses asked me nothing. She smiled at me the way one smiles at someone returning from a long journey. I went out into the street, walked to the bus stop, and sat on the bench with my backpack on my knees and my legs still weak.

I took out my phone. I opened the university library app. I reserved the two volumes of Sappho I still hadn’t read. Then I looked at the phone’s black screen and smiled at myself in the reflection, as if I had only just recognized myself at that moment.