What My French Cousin Taught Me That Night

Camila was twenty years old, with dark brown hair down to the middle of her back, skin tanned by the summers in Cachagua, and hazel eyes that narrowed when she laughed. She studied Journalism at a private university in Santiago, lived with her parents in Vitacura, and carried around a singledom that was already starting to weigh on her more than she was willing to admit in front of her friends.

Her second cousin Margaux had landed in January from Marseille under the official pretext of perfecting her Spanish. She was twenty-one, with platinum-blonde hair in waves that looked as if they had just come from a salon in central Paris, a meter seventy-seven of endless legs, and ice-blue eyes that looked at everyone as if they were calculating how long it would take to melt them. She studied Political Science in Aix-en-Provence and, according to what she had told her aunt at the first family meal, she had also come «to rest from a guy who didn’t know how to kiss.»

That night in mid-January the two cousins were sprawled on the king-size bed in the guest room. It was muggy, sticky heat, the kind that never goes away even with the ceiling fan spinning at full speed. The bottle of Provençal rosé Margaux had brought as a gift was almost empty on the nightstand, next to two glasses with different lipstick marks. They were both wearing short shorts and loose T-shirts that had stuck to their backs with sweat.

Camila let out a long sigh, staring at the fan blades.

—Margaux… I have to tell you something. And I can’t believe I’m going to say it out loud.

—Tell me, ma belle —the Frenchwoman replied, turning onto her side to look at her. She rested her cheek on her hand and waited, patient.

—I’ve never had a real boyfriend. A kiss here and there at some party, a couple of hands that went where they shouldn’t have when I wasn’t paying attention… but nothing more. I’m twenty years old and I’ve never had an orgasm. Really, you know? I’m serious. I touch myself sometimes, alone, in my room with the door locked, I put two fingers in my cunt and rub my clit until my wrist hurts, but I get to a point and then nothing. I freeze up. It’s like my body shuts off right before.

Margaux fell silent for a moment. Then she let out a low laugh, without the slightest trace of mockery, almost tender.

—But, Camila… you’re gorgeous. And the men in this country don’t know how to use their hands or their tongues? No, don’t answer me, I already know the answer. In France leaving a girl without making her come would be a crime against humanity.

Camila covered her face with the pillow.

—Don’t laugh, idiot. I’m embarrassed just saying it. I’m twenty and I still don’t know what that thing is that people like so much.

Margaux gently took the pillow from her and brushed the pads of her fingers over Camila’s cheek, very slowly, as if she were getting to know her for the first time.

—You know what? Tonight I’ll teach you. No boys, no pressure, no pretending absolutely anything. Just you and me. I’m going to make you come until you beg me to stop. Do you trust me?

Camila slowly lifted her face. Those blue eyes were closer than she had expected, and the rosé was lending her a courage she never would have had sober.

—...Yes. Teach me.

Margaux smiled like someone who had just won a prize she had been waiting weeks for.

—Perfect. But first I want to show you something I brought in my suitcase. I bought it in a boutique in the Marais before coming. I thought… well, I thought maybe we might use it. And look at that.

She got up barefoot, opened one of the suitcase drawers, and came back with a little black velvet box. She set it on the bed in front of Camila and opened it without theatrics.

Inside there was a soft leather harness and a flesh-colored dildo, neither gigantic nor intimidating, but very clear in its purpose: a thick, veiny cock with a round, well-defined head.

Camila’s eyes widened.

—And that… what is it for, exactly?

—For sliding it slowly into your cunt and making you feel, for the first time in your life, what it’s like to be fucked with patience. I wear it, you let me do it to you. No hurry. If at any point you want me to stop, I stop. I swear to you on my mother.

Camila bit her lower lip. Her heart was pounding in her throat and something hot started wetting her underwear without her being able to stop it.

—Okay… but gently, yeah? I’m not ready for anything weird.

Margaux moved closer until she was kneeling in front of her, took her face in both hands, and kissed her for the first time. It was not a cousin’s kiss. It was slow, deep, with just the right amount of tongue, searching for her tongue inside her mouth until they tangled. Camila felt something move in her belly, an electric current that went straight down to her cunt and she had never felt with any man, at any party, at any gathering.

—Soft, good, and only as far as you want —the Frenchwoman murmured against her lips, nibbling the lower one.

«This shouldn’t be happening. She’s my cousin. She’s a woman. And I don’t give a damn about any of that. I want her to touch me. I want her to do everything to me.»

***

Margaux undressed her little by little. First the T-shirt, slowly, holding her arms up for an extra second, looking at the white sports bra as if it were something she had long wanted. Then the bra, without urgency, without groping. Just looking and kissing her neck, right at the point where Camila had no idea she was sensitive. Camila’s nipples, brown and already hard, turned stiff as little pebbles as soon as the warm air of the room touched them.

—Margaux… —Camila whispered, already with her eyes closed.

—Shh. You don’t have to do anything. Just breathe and let me lick all over you.

The Frenchwoman’s mouth slid down her neck, her collarbone, the center of her chest. When she closed her lips around Camila’s right nipple and began sucking it with the flat of her tongue, lapping it in circles before carefully trapping it between her teeth, Camila let out a short sound that surprised her. It was a low, guttural moan she had never heard herself make. Margaux lifted her eyes without letting go and smiled against her skin, with the nipple still caught between her lips.

—Ah… you like having your tits sucked. Good. Tell me everything you like. Don’t stay quiet. I want to hear you moan like a bitch.

Margaux’s tongue worked each nipple with a patience that bordered on cruelty. She bit them lightly, let them go, blew on them cold, and went back to sucking them hot. She grabbed both breasts with her hands and squeezed them, sinking her fingers into the soft flesh, and kept running her tongue between them while Camila arched her back. Camila began moving beneath her, instinctively, squeezing her thighs together, looking for something she didn’t even know what was. The Frenchwoman’s hands pulled down her shorts and underwear in a single motion, without ceremony, and left them bunched around her ankles. The white panties were soaked through, with a dark stain in the middle that left no room for doubt.

—Open your legs. Slowly. However you want. Look at yourself, ma belle, you’re dripping.

Camila obeyed, dying of embarrassment and desire. Her cheeks were burning and she felt a new kind of modesty, as if this were truly the first time she had been seen completely. Margaux paused for a second to look at Camila’s open cunt, the swollen pink lips, the clit already peeking out like a little pearl among the trimmed brown hair. The blue eyes softened with something like tenderness, but also with a hunger she made no effort to hide.

—You’re beautiful. Really. You have a gorgeous cunt. For the men of Santiago to miss this is a scandal.

And then she went down.

Margaux’s mouth between her legs was a revelation. It was not eager, not rough, nothing like what Camila had imagined in her few midnight fantasies. It was a mouth that knew exactly where everything was. She began by licking the inside of her thighs, slowly moving upward, breathing hot over Camila’s cunt without touching it. Then she ran her tongue all the way from bottom to top in one long stroke that gathered all the wetness pooled there. Camila almost died right then.

—Oh, fuck… Margaux… what the hell is that…

The Frenchwoman kept going. She parted Camila’s cunt lips with two fingers and drove her tongue inside, probing, tasting her. She sucked her inner lips one by one, unhurried, and then wrapped her lips around the clit and began sucking it with a soft, steady suction, her tongue moving side to side over it. She lingered where Camila breathed harder and drifted away just as she began trembling too much, only to come back exactly when Camila thought she would die if she didn’t return.

—Oh… Margaux… that feels so good… don’t stop, please don’t stop…

She slid one finger in. Then two. She curled them upward, searching for something inside, and when she found it Camila jolted as if she’d been shocked with electricity. Margaux gave a low laugh against the clit, never stopping the sucking, and began moving her fingers in a slow, insistent rhythm, pressing that exact spot inside while her tongue never let go of the clit for even a second. Camila felt herself going, felt that this was it, that the wave she had waited for twenty years was finally coming.

But Margaux stopped. She pulled out the shining fingers, shoved them into her mouth one by one, sucking them clean, and lifted her face with her lips and chin gleaming, and said in a very low voice:

—Not yet. I want you to come with me inside you. The first time you come I want to be looking you in the eyes, with the cock buried deep in your cunt.

Camila lost her breath. She nodded in silence, trembling.

***

The Frenchwoman stood up, took off her T-shirt, her shorts, everything, with a naturalness that Camila instantly envied. Margaux’s body was exactly as Camila had imagined it in the days before without daring to admit it to herself: long, white, with small firm breasts topped by tiny pink nipples, and a blonde triangle trimmed between her legs that was barely visible. She put on the harness with the practiced ease of someone who had done it many times before, without apologizing for it. The silicone cock settled snugly against her pubis, pointing upward, obscene and perfect.

—I’m going to go in very slowly. If it hurts, tell me. If you like it, tell me that too. You guide me. But first… —she crawled closer across the bed, sat on Camila’s chest, and brought the tip of the dildo to her lips—. Suck on it a little. Wet it well so it goes in nice and smooth.

Camila opened her mouth without thinking. She took it in slowly, pulled it out, slid it back in. Her tongue circled the tip, curious, imitating what she had seen in some forbidden video. Margaux looked down at her with narrowed eyes, whispering «like that, ma belle, like that, you suck it so well for never having sucked it before.» When the cock was already shining with saliva, the Frenchwoman settled between Camila’s legs, spread a little more spit over her cunt, pulled a lubricant from a pocket in the harness, and dripped a few cold drops that made her jolt.

—Breathe. I’m going in.

She set the tip against the entrance. She made it glide over the lips, up and down, wetting everything, brushing Camila’s clit with the silicone head until Camila began moving her hips, trying to find it. And there, when she was already desperate, she penetrated her millimeter by millimeter. Camila held her breath. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt at all. It was a feeling of fullness she had never felt before, neither with her own fingers nor with the two or three clumsy attempts from boys at school. She felt herself open, widen, yield little by little until the cock slid all the way in and Margaux’s hips were pressed against hers.

«Fuck… is this what it feels like to have a cock inside you? Is this what people have been telling me about for years? It can’t be this good, that’s not fair, it’s not fair.»

Margaux started moving. Slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in to the hilt, looking her straight in the eyes as she had promised. She took one of Camila’s hands and laid it on her own waist. Camila grabbed on, and with her other hand she took hold of Margaux’s ass to pull her closer. The Frenchwoman’s hips began to set a perfect rhythm, steady, deep, driving all the way in each time, a rhythm Camila felt grow from her center to every part of her body. Every time Margaux drove in, the bone of her pubis hit Camila’s swollen clit and sent a shock all the way to the nape of her neck.

—That’s it. Like that. Breathe. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me while I fuck you.

Camila looked at her. Her forehead was shiny with sweat, her blonde hair stuck to her temples, her small breasts bouncing with each thrust, and her concentrated smile made her look older than twenty-one. It was the face of someone doing what she knew best in the world. Margaux lifted one of Camila’s legs, put it over her shoulder, and from that angle began to fuck her deeper, slower, searching for that spot inside her with every stroke.

—Margaux… something’s happening to me… something feels weird down there… I can’t take it…

—That’s it. Let go. Don’t hold it in. Release it. Come on my cock, ma belle, come so good for me.

She moistened her thumb in her mouth and began rubbing Camila’s clit in circles while continuing to drive into her to the hilt. Camila felt the bed disappear beneath her back. The ceiling fan stopped existing. The January heat, the guest room, the whole house stopped existing. Only one point remained, deep inside, where the cock kept pounding, and it was expanding in waves that climbed through her belly, her chest, her throat.

«I’m coming. I’m really coming. Finally. Finally.»

—Margaux… fuck… I’m coming, I’m coming all over, don’t stop, harder, harder…

And she came. With a cry she had to smother against the Frenchwoman’s shoulder so the entire family wouldn’t hear her on the other side of the hallway. She felt her cunt clench around the cock in spasms, one after another, while a warm gush escaped, soaking her thighs and soaking Margaux. Trembling, clinging to her, not knowing whether she was laughing or crying, with her nails dug into her cousin’s white ass. Margaux kept fucking her slowly, drawing out the orgasm as much as she could, never stopping rubbing her clit, until Camila took her face and whispered, «enough, enough, I can’t take it anymore, everything’s getting too sensitive.»

Margaux pulled out slowly, millimeter by millimeter, and Camila felt the strange emptiness of having her gone from inside. The silicone cock came out shining, dripping with slick. The Frenchwoman bent down and gave Camila’s throbbing clit one last slow lick, just to see her shiver one more time.

***

They stayed wrapped around each other, sweat with sweat, breathing in the same rhythm. Margaux removed the harness with one hand without fully separating from her, dropped it to the floor, and curled up against her, pressing one breast against Camila’s arm. She stroked her hair slowly, the way you stroke someone who has just crossed an important border.

—See? Now you know.

Camila had tears in her eyes. Strange tears, tears of something she didn’t know how to name. Relief. Awe. Something else, something much bigger, that she preferred not to examine yet.

—Margaux… thank you. Really, thank you. I don’t understand how no one had ever done this with me before.

—Because no one had taken the time. That’s all it takes. That, and wanting to do it well. And knowing how to eat a cunt the way it deserves.

Camila gave a soft laugh and rolled onto her elbow. She ran her hand over Margaux’s flat stomach, slid her fingers down to the blonde hair, and stayed there, uncertain, looking at her. Margaux took her wrist and pushed it herself farther down, until Camila’s hand was between her wet legs.

—Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to return the favor. With your mouth and your fingers. You’re going to learn how to eat pussy like a Frenchwoman. How does that sound?

Camila felt how soaked her cousin was and her stomach tightened all over again with pure desire.

—How long are you staying in Santiago?

—Until March. Almost two more months.

—Good. Because tomorrow I want lesson number two. And three. And four. And all the ones that come until the day you get on the plane. I want to taste you. I want you to teach me everything.

Margaux gave a low laugh against her neck and bit her earlobe.

—Ma belle, that was exactly what I was hoping you’d say.

Outside, the January crickets kept singing as if nothing had happened. Inside, Camila was already thinking, eyes closed and a new smile on her mouth, about everything she still had to learn before her French cousin got on the return flight to Marseille.