The Morning Yamila Finished Winning Me Over

I woke up alone, with the sheet tangled around my legs and my body still heavy from the night before. I groped for the other side of the bed and found it cold. I pulled on my boxers, ran a hand over my face, and left the bedroom before I’d quite finished waking up.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee guided me down the hallway. The kitchen was lit by the white light of morning, and there she was, with her back to me, humming something.

“Good moooorning…” she sang when she felt me arrive.

Yamila was wearing a tiny nightie, almost sheer, and a minuscule thong that barely contained what it concealed. Her hair was loose, that black, wavy hair that the night before had brushed against my face while she kissed me.

I hugged her from behind, kissed her neck, and sat down at the table. She’d made coffee, milk, orange juice. It made sense: after how we’d ended up in the early hours of the morning, we needed to get our energy back.

We had breakfast talking about anything and nothing important. About the weather, the noise in the street, whether I’d slept well. But every so often our eyes met a little too often and lingered there a second too long, and I felt something tightening in my chest. I’m falling in love, and hard.

She knew it. Every time she caught me looking at her, she’d smile slowly, say nothing, and lift the cup to her lips like it was nothing. That calm of hers disarmed me more than anything else she could have said.

She was a gorgeous woman, there was no other way to say it. Skin soft as velvet, eyes a blue that gleamed in the light, a body that seemed drawn with a ruler: firm stomach, hips, perfect ass. And between her legs, her sex, with a size that the night before had completely blown my mind.

When we were done, I cleared the table and took the dishes to the sink. Yamila put water on to heat for tea and stayed hovering beside me.

While I rinsed the silverware, she kissed my shoulder, ran a hand over my back, brushed my neck with the tips of her fingers. Loose, absentminded caresses, like she wasn’t doing anything in particular.

But something changed. Her hand slid down slowly and slipped inside my boxers. Her middle finger searched for my entrance, and found it still open and yielding from the night before. I could barely feel it go in.

That turned her on. She added a second finger without effort. I shut the tap and braced my hands on the counter, letting her do what she wanted.

Yamila pressed against my back. I heard her take off her nightie, and then I felt her breasts —firm, warm, hard— rubbing against me. She dragged them downward while hooking the waistband of my boxers with both hands.

She yanked them down. Her hands spread my buttocks and, without warning, her wet tongue traced my entrance. I let out a long, involuntary sigh.

“Don’t move,” she murmured against my skin.

I could feel her opening me wider and wider. At times she sank in three fingers; at others it was her tongue that went in, hot and slick. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to miss a single second of that morning.

One of her hands came around front and started stroking me slowly, without urgency, as if we had the whole morning ahead of us. And we did. There was no work, no one else, no clock that mattered. Just the two of us in that kitchen full of light.

Then she made me turn around.

I ended up facing her, standing up. She took my cock all the way into her mouth, pulled it out coated in saliva, played with the tip, ran her tongue along it, swallowed it whole again. I was gripping the edge of the counter to keep myself from falling.

“Slowly,” I asked her, “or this’ll be over before it even starts.”

She laughed without taking me out of her mouth.

***

She turned me again and I went back to bracing my hands on the counter. I could feel her saliva dripping down my legs. Behind me, she finished stripping completely, and when I glanced back for a moment I saw her sex peeking over the waistband of her thong before that too dropped to the floor.

She spat on her hand and stroked herself.

“Baby, you drive me crazy,” she said, her voice hoarse.

She opened me with her fingers and pushed. She didn’t get in. She was so hot, so worked up, that she couldn’t find the angle. She muttered a curse between her teeth, knelt down again, and buried her face between my buttocks, soaking me with saliva until I felt myself coming apart.

Then she put her fingers in again, this time deeper. She twisted them inside me, opening me all the way. My head was spinning, the counter was digging into my hips, my cock was rock hard and my balls ached from holding on so long.

Yamila stood up. She opened me with both hands and, this time, pushed all the way in at once.

“Ah!” escaped me.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…” she said, kissing my back between each word. “It’s just that I want to fuck you until I’m worn out.”

She started moving, slowly at first. I was so open that every time she pulled back I felt the air rushing in, a strange emptiness, and then I felt her filling me again. I leaned firmly against the counter and let her set the pace.

With every thrust, the rhythm grew deeper, surer. Yamila had completely let go: one hand on my hip, the other tracing my back, her mouth pressed to the nape of my neck saying things I could barely understand. And all I could do was push back, seeking her, wordlessly begging her not to stop.

I could feel her sex pulsing inside me, throbbing against my walls. Every thrust tore a sound from me I hadn’t even known I had in me.

At times she would stop and stay still, holding herself back.

“Wait, baby… not yet,” she panted.

And she’d start again.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Seconds, minutes, an eternity. At one point she clutched my shoulders, dug her fingers in, and drove into me to the very deepest point.

“Ahhh… take it,” she moaned against my nape.

I felt her finish inside me, over and over, each release accompanied by a tremor through her whole body. She gave a couple more thrusts, slow, spent, and then she wrapped herself around me from behind, pressing her whole torso to my back. Her breasts were two points burning my skin.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, her still inside me, breathing against my neck. Little by little she began to soften. When she came out, I felt a sudden chill, an emptiness that made me shiver.

She turned me around and kissed me with tongue, opening my mouth.

“I loooove you,” she said, laughing at her own boldness.

***

She lowered her gaze. And there I still was, rock hard, completely ignored in the middle of everything.

“Oh…” she smiled. “And what do we do with this?”

She knelt without waiting for an answer and took me all the way into her mouth. While she sucked me, she slid a hand between my legs and found my entrance again, still open and sensitive. She sank two fingers in and started pressing inside, with a precise rhythm, exactly on the right spot.

The massage was devastating. In a couple of minutes I felt heat climb up my legs, gather in my belly, and burst all at once in her mouth.

“Ahhh, yes…” I said, clutching her hair.

Yamila kept sucking while I emptied myself. Two, three bursts. She didn’t swallow them all; some of it spilled from the corner of her lips and dripped to the floor. When I was done, she slowly straightened up.

She gave me another long, deep kiss and passed everything she’d been holding in her mouth to me. We shared it between both mouths, mixed together, with no disgust, half-laughing at the loss of control.

“Baby,” she said then, resting her forehead against mine. “I love you. I know it’s soon. But you drive me crazy. I hardly slept last night thinking about you.”

I hadn’t slept either. And not because I was tired.

***

That was the true beginning of our story, the one that lasted almost two years. There were many mornings like that, and also slow afternoons, nights without a clock, stupid fights and long reconciliations. I learned to love her completely, with her body and her laugh and the way she said “good moooorning” stretching out the vowels.

What had started as a purely physical attraction, one of those that you think will fade in a single night, slowly turned into something else. Into habit. Into missing her when she wasn’t there. Into wanting to tell her even the most insignificant nonsense from the day. It had never happened to me before with anyone, man or woman, and I never felt anything like it again.

Then life did what life does. Yamila was transferred for work to another country, far away, and the distance cooled down what had seemed indestructible. Every time she came back we sought each other out, met in some hotel or at my apartment, but it was never the same. Something had worn away along the way, without blame, almost without our noticing.

Years passed. Today, when I smell freshly brewed coffee early in the morning, I still think of her. I think she was one of the great loves of my life.