The Night My Father Made Me a Woman

There were four of us in the living room of the summer house that night: the desk lamp turned low, wineglasses on the table, and the heat pressing down on the fields beyond the windows. I was forty-eight years old and wearing the strappy dress I always put on when I wanted to feel that way, sitting on the large sofa with my legs crossed and wearing the smile my children knew perfectly well.

Laura, my eldest, twenty-three, was flushed. She watched me from the armchair opposite with her knees pressed together and her eyes shining, her left hand resting on her thigh with a tension that was anything but innocent. Diego, my middle child, twenty-one, had his elbows on his knees and his eyes fixed on the floor, although I knew he was listening to every syllable. Vera, the youngest, nineteen, sat on the rug with her back against the sofa, biting her lip and hugging her knees.

Laura had started it, as always. With that voice of hers that turned hoarse whenever she got nervous:

—Mom… tell us one of your old stories.

Diego lifted his eyes from the floor:

—The first time. Tell us what your first time was really like. How they took your virginity.

Vera nodded slowly, her eyes wide:

—With details —she added softly—. We want to imagine everything. Every cock, every moan.

I looked at them one by one. All three looked back at me with that mixture of embarrassment and desire I recognized perfectly, because I had felt it too at their age.

I took a long sip of wine, set the glass on the table, and looked at them with my most unhurried smile.

—All right —I said—. I’ll tell you how I was fucked for the first time. It was the summer of nineteen ninety-six. I had just turned nineteen, and my pussy had been burning for months.

***

The story begins in a farmhouse in the mountains, the kind of place that no longer appears on tourist maps: thick stone walls, wells of cold water, and nights without electricity whenever the generator failed. That was where I grew up, amid the smell of thyme and dry dust, with no neighbors within a kilometer and the silence of the fields as my only company.

I was beautiful. I say it without vanity, with the distance that comes with age. I was dark-haired, with black hair down to my shoulders, hips that had finished taking shape that very summer, and large, firm tits that caused me more trouble than they solved. I had a way of walking that made the men in the village stop whatever they were doing, my nipples showing beneath the thin fabric and my tight ass moving with every step.

My father, Bernardo, was sixty-six that summer. He had had me at forty-seven, late for those times, after two older children who already lived away from home. He was a big man, with broad shoulders the years had not quite managed to bend, hands rough from decades in the fields, and hair that had been completely white for as long as I could remember. There was something imposing about him that required no raised voice: a physical presence that filled the rooms.

From childhood, there had been a closeness between us that my mother, Amparo, watched without ever commenting on. I sat on his lap longer than was normal for my age, lay against him while he watched television, and his big hands took hold of my thighs and waist with a familiarity I never questioned because it was all I had ever known.

That summer, everything changed.

Partly, it changed because of Marcos, my older brother, who that spring had taught me certain things I’m not going to get into now. What matters is that I arrived that August different from the girl who had left home in June. My body was asking for something that still had no clear name for me, but I knew I would find it inside those stone walls. My pussy grew wet for no reason, grew wet watching him shave in the mornings with his torso bare, grew wet when I saw him carry firewood and the muscles in his back tighten beneath his sweat-soaked shirt.

***

It was an August night, one of those nights when the heat refuses to give way even in darkness and the sheets burn. My mother had been in bed since ten with a severe migraine. My father was in the living room, wearing only his underwear, with the standing fan aimed at his armchair and a beer in his hand. Beneath the white fabric, I could make out the large, heavy bulge I had been imagining for weeks.

I went downstairs in my nightgown. With nothing underneath. No panties, no bra. Only the thin fabric brushing my already erect nipples and the hair on my pubis.

I stopped in the doorway and looked at him. He looked me up and down, once, then again. The fan moved the nightgown gently against my bare thighs, lifting it just enough for everything to be suggested.

—Can’t you sleep? —he asked in an ordinary voice, although the beer stopped halfway to his mouth.

—No. —I walked slowly toward him until I was standing directly in front of him, between the fan and his armchair—. Dad, I’ve been wanting to ask you for something for weeks.

He looked at me without saying anything.

—I want you to be the first. The real first. I want you to fuck me. I want your cock inside me.

There was a silence lasting as long as a long, held breath.

—Elena —he said, in the voice he used when he wanted things to be taken seriously—. I’m your father.

—I know.

—I’m sixty-six years old.

—I know that too. And I know you’re hard right now, Dad. I can see it.

He rubbed his face with his large hand. That gesture he made when he was thinking. I watched him without looking away. The nightgown reached halfway down my thighs, and without moving I noticed how his gaze traveled down my body without the will to stop, how it lingered on the tips of my nipples outlined beneath the fabric and then descended to the dark triangle showing through it.

—Your mother’s upstairs —he said.

—With a migraine. She’s not coming down.

I straddled his thighs before he could say anything else. I felt the thin fabric of his underwear against my legs, and beneath that fabric something that was anything but indifferent: a thick, hard, hot cock pressed against the seam, looking for a way out. I took his hands and placed them on my hips. He did not pull them away. I lowered my pubis against the fabric and rubbed myself against him once, slowly, feeling his cock pressing along my wet pussy through the cotton.

—I’m not going to hurt you —I told him.

—I’m the one who could hurt you —he replied in a deeper voice—. Some things are larger than anything you’ve known yet.

—That’s exactly what I want to know. Take it out, Dad. Let me see it.

His hands slowly tightened around my hips. A wordless surrender from a man accustomed to being reasonable. With his right hand, he pulled his underwear down below his testicles, and it sprang free: thick, veined, longer than I had expected, the skin pulled back from the glans and a clear drop trembling at the tip. My mouth went dry. Without thinking, I lowered my head and took it all the way in, closing my lips around it and sucking, startled to feel that hot weight against my tongue for the first time. It tasted of sweat, a man’s skin, salt. My father threw his head back and let out a low moan I had never heard from him before.

—Fuck, daughter. Fuck.

I sucked his cock for several minutes, moving my head up and down, letting my mouth fill with saliva and letting it run down my chin to my breasts. I ran my tongue along the underside, from his balls to the tip, and took it into my mouth again. He kept one hand on the back of my neck, not pushing, only guiding. When I lifted my face, I looked at him with my mouth still open and a strand of drool hanging from my lip.

It was my mother who appeared in the kitchen doorway. She had gotten up without making a sound and stood motionless in the frame, still wearing her apron, her expression not exactly one of surprise. She looked at both of us for a moment, her husband with his cock out and his daughter kneeling between his legs, licking her lips. Then she went to sit in the wooden chair by the window and folded her arms over her lap.

My father exhaled slowly. He carefully lifted my nightgown, as though removing something fragile, and pulled it over my head until I was naked on top of him. He placed his large palms on my back, slid them down my spine to my buttocks, and squeezed them, one in each hand, pulling them apart. I felt the heat of his hands against my skin, the rough touch of his callused fingers.

—Very slowly —he said, almost to himself—. Very slowly, daughter.

He sucked one nipple, then the other, with that large mouth that swallowed them whole. He bit them slowly, tugging at them, until I began to tremble, straddling him. He lowered his right hand between us and pushed two fingers into my pussy at once. I was so wet they slid in without resistance to the knuckles. He moved them inside me, searching, curling them forward, and I let out a whimper I couldn’t silence.

—You’re soaked —he said with his mouth against my neck—. You’ve been like this a long time, haven’t you?

—Months, Dad. Months thinking about this.

He pulled out his glistening fingers and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them slowly, watching me. Then he took me by the hips, lifted me just enough, and with his other hand positioned his cock beneath me. I felt the hot tip pushing against my pussy, seeking the entrance, sliding over my wet lips until it fit where it belonged.

—Lower yourself —he told me—. At whatever pace you can take.

I lowered myself a fraction. Then another. The thick head began to open me, and I understood what he had meant about its size: it was a pressure that expanded from inside, stretching me, hurting in a way that did not resemble harm but rather a boundary shifting outward. I stopped with only the tip inside, breathing with my mouth open.

—Breathe —he told me—. Don’t clench. That’s it. Good girl.

I lowered myself a little farther. I felt the crown pass the tight ring of my hymen, and something inside me broke with a hot sting. I let out a short cry against his shoulder. He did not move. He waited. He let me sink a little farther, and a little more, until I felt his balls against my buttocks and knew he was fully inside me.

It took time. What I had imagined would be a moment became something completely different: slower, filled with pauses and adjustments, more intimate than I had anticipated. The only sounds were the hum of the fan, my own ragged breathing, and the wet sound of my stretched pussy around his cock whenever I moved a millimeter.

When I finally had him fully inside me, I stayed still with my eyes closed, feeling that strange fullness, that inner weight I had never known before. I felt every beat of his pulse from inside, as if he had his own heartbeat within me. His cock throbbed inside my pussy with every beat of his heart.

—Are you all right? —he asked in a very low voice.

—Yes —I said. And I meant it—. Move, Dad. Fuck me now.

He began with short movements, measuring, calibrating, drawing almost two inches of himself out and pushing back in. Once my body had adjusted, I no longer wanted him to stop. I clung to his broad shoulders, dug my fingers into the flesh that had carried cement sacks for decades, and began moving too, rising and lowering myself on him, letting his cock slide in and out with a wet noise that filled the entire living room.

—That’s it, daughter. That’s it. Ride my cock.

—Dad… Dad, you’re so big… you fill me so completely…

He grasped me by the waist and drove me down against him harder, setting the pace, fucking me from below with short, deep thrusts that made my tits bounce in front of his face. He sucked them again, bit them, sank his teeth into my neck while he drove himself all the way inside me.

My mother, in the chair by the window, no longer had her arms folded over her lap. She had hiked her skirt up to her waist, pushed her panties to one side, and was masturbating her pussy with two fingers, watching us with her eyes half closed and her mouth open.

I came in a way that had nothing to do with what I had experienced before: a tremor that began in the center of my pussy and spread outward, toward my thighs, toward the nape of my neck, a long lash that made me squeeze his cock inside me with spasms I could not control. I bit his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream, and even so a hoarse howl escaped against his skin.

He managed a few more thrusts, faster and more brutal each time, until he released that deep, restrained sound of a man who had been holding something back for a long time. I felt him empty himself inside me, jet after jet, warm and thick, filling my pussy until it began to overflow around the sides and run down my thighs. His hands squeezed me with enough force to leave marks for days.

When I lifted my head from his shoulder, my mother was watching us with wet eyes, her fingers still between her legs, and an expression I think I finally understood thirty years later.

***

My father rested for less than twenty minutes.

During those minutes I stayed seated on top of him with his cock still inside me, slowly softening, while he stroked my back and slipped his tongue into my mouth. My mother rose from the chair, went to the kitchen, came back with a damp cloth, and wiped the semen running down my thighs without saying a word. Then she sat down again.

When my father asked me to get on my knees on the sofa, with my ass raised and my face against the cushions, I already knew what he wanted. Throughout everything that had come before, his hands had repeatedly returned to the low curve of my hips, to my buttocks, with an intention that was not hard to read.

—I want to open your ass too —he said directly, without dressing it up—. I want to put it in you from behind. If you want.

I wanted it.

—Be careful, Bernardo —my mother said from the chair. It wasn’t a prohibition; it was the tone of someone warning about the edge of a staircase—. She’s still a virgin there.

My father was careful. Much more careful than I would have expected from a man of that build and age. He knelt behind me on the sofa and spread my buttocks with both hands. Then he lowered his face and ran his tongue over my asshole, slowly, up and down, wetting me, loosening me. I buried my face in the cushion and let out a long moan. No one had ever done that to me; I had never imagined it could feel like that. He drove his tongue into me there, the whole length of it, pushing, while two fingers of his other hand continued working my dripping pussy from underneath.

Then he inserted one finger. Then two. With his saliva and the semen still leaking from my pussy, he had enough lubricant to open me slowly, turning his fingers and stretching me wider. I pressed my face into the cushion and breathed heavily.

—I’m going to go very slowly —he said—. Tell me if it’s too much.

I felt the thick tip resting against the ring. He pushed. The pain was real. A sharp, burning pain that made me clench my teeth and dig my fingers into the sofa cushion. His head entered all at once with a wet snap, and I let out a short shriek against the fabric. But it was a pain that never made me want him to stop. Some pain you don’t want to end because something worth waiting for lies on the other side.

—Hold on there, daughter. Hold on; it’ll pass.

He stayed still with only the tip inside, giving me time. Then he pushed another centimeter. And another. And another. With a farmer’s patience, until I felt his balls against my pussy and knew he was fully inside my ass. The sensation was different: tighter, deeper, darker. I felt every beat of his cock as a dull blow inside me.

He began to move. He withdrew half his cock and sank it back in slowly, listening to me. I began moving my ass against him, seeking him, asking for more. On the other side of the pain was that: a deep, dark pressure that transformed every movement of his into a sensation reaching places I had not known I possessed. I pushed two fingers into my pussy while he fucked me from behind and felt his cock moving inside through the flesh, thick, hard, sliding.

—Dad, harder. Harder, fuck.

He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and began to thrust into me for real, with hard blows that made my body collide with the back of the sofa. The sound of his hips against my buttocks filled the room. My mother breathed heavily from her chair, her hand moving quickly between her spread legs.

—She’s coming again, Bernardo —my mother said in a broken voice—. Look how she’s clenching.

I came a second time with my face buried in the cushion, biting it to silence the sound trying to escape, my ass closing around my father’s cock in spasms he felt, drawing a growl from him.

—I’m coming, daughter. I’m coming inside you.

—Yes, Dad. Inside. Fill my ass.

My father finished with a long, low growl, his hands digging into my hips, and I felt the hot stream shooting deep inside me, again and again. He remained still for a moment, breathing heavily against my back, before slowly pulling away. When he came out with a wet sound, I felt semen seep from my open asshole and run down my perineum, mixing with what was still leaking from my pussy.

My mother had risen from the chair and approached him. She placed one hand briefly on his shoulder, the way one touches someone after something that has no words. With her other hand, she passed the damp cloth between my buttocks, cleaning me without hurry.

I lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, with the strange feeling that something inside me had shifted forever and would never return.

From that night on, I knew what I was. What my body needed. What those stone walls, that farmhouse, and those August hours with the fan humming had taught me about myself.

***

In the living room of the summer house, thirty years later, my three children watch me in silence.

Laura’s cheek is flushed and her hand is buried between her thighs, moving beneath her skirt without the slightest attempt at concealment. Diego still has his elbows on his knees, but his breathing rises and falls in a very deliberate way, and the bulge in his trousers is obvious. Vera has not moved, but her shoulders rise and fall with a rhythm that is not one of rest, and she has one hand tucked between her tightly pressed thighs.

I pick up my wineglass and look at them one by one.

—Do you want me to tell you what happened when Marcos came home the next day and found me with Dad’s cock still inside my pussy?

All three lift their eyes at the same time.