The Woman on the Bench Wanted Me to Watch Her

I went out to the park three blocks from the office with the idea of smoking a cigarette and forgetting about the report I’d been rewriting since the morning for half an hour. It was sunny, with a warm wind that smelled of wet earth and almost nobody in sight. On the bench facing the fountain, a woman was leafing through a magazine with her legs crossed, and I sat down on the one opposite as if someone had pointed the spot out to me.

Brunette, slim, with a very straight back. She wore a charcoal pencil skirt that rode up a little when she crossed her leg, dark stockings the kind hardly anyone wears anymore, an ivory blouse opened two buttons too many, and a short wine-colored coat thrown beside her bag. Her lips were painted a deep red, almost wine-dark. I couldn’t see her eyes because she wore oversized sunglasses, and that bothered me more than I wanted to admit. I couldn’t tell when she was looking at me.

I took out the newspaper I’d already read on the subway and pretended to skim it. I turned pages without taking in a thing. Every so often I lifted my eyes over the edge of the paper and found her in the same pose, like a postcard. Act natural, act natural, I told myself, but acting natural, when you don’t know what face the other person has behind the lenses, isn’t acting natural: it’s a one-man performance.

And then she switched legs, slowly, without lifting her eyes from the magazine. She did it with that deliberate slowness that is never accidental, and her skirt rode up another finger’s width on her thigh. She turned her head toward the fountain, as if looking at something that didn’t exist, and ran her tongue over her lower lip. I felt the first warning down there, the first insolent tug against the fabric of my pants, my cock beginning to swell against the seam, and I had to shift on the bench so the bulge wouldn’t show. When I looked at her again, she was barely smiling, lips closed, and I understood she’d been catching me for quite a while.

I lowered the newspaper. If we were going to play this game, I wasn’t about to keep pretending I was reading the sports section.

She went back to her magazine, but without conviction. She began scratching her thigh over the stocking with the tips of her fingers, slowly, and her hand kept climbing without her seeming to notice. I noticed for both of us. The stocking ended where stockings end, and I saw a strip of white skin and the black strap of a garter belt. I almost laughed nervously. Who wears a garter belt on a Tuesday at eleven in the morning to sit alone in a park?

A woman waiting for someone to look at her, obviously. A woman who had left home with her panties already wet, knowing she was going to put herself on display for some stranger.

She looked at me. I knew it even though the sunglasses gave me nothing but my own reflection back. I hid behind the newspaper for half a second, out of reflex, like a teenager, and immediately felt ashamed. I left it on the bench for good and lit a cigarette to have something to do with my hands, because one of those hands wanted me to reach into my trouser pocket and squeeze my dick through the fabric.

She uncrossed her legs, opened them a little, just enough for me to see a pale triangle of fabric against the absolute black of the stockings and skirt. The fabric was pulled tight over her cunt, with a darker little spot in the center that was no accident. She was soaked, the fucking bitch, and she was showing me. She crossed them again the other way, unhurriedly. It was a movement she had practiced; I knew it right then. This was not the first time she had done this.

***

The park at that hour was almost empty. A woman with a poodle in the distance, an old man dozing with his hat over his eyes, two birds fighting over a crumb. Nobody else. The woman on the bench looked me straight in the eye, stuck out the tip of her tongue, and slowly ran it over her upper lip, as if I were a dessert she was about to order. Then she lowered the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth and held it there for a second, mimicking the exact gesture of a blowjob. I had forgotten to breathe. My cock was thudding inside my underwear with the insistence of a drum.

Then she leaned toward her bag, opened it as if looking for something, and in doing so uncrossed her legs with a new generosity. I saw the pale fabric again. I saw the edge of the garter belt lace. I saw the pink strip where the fabric of her panties had sunk between the lips of her cunt. I was sweating, and it wasn’t from the sun. I told myself I had to get up and walk over to her, say anything, whatever, before she evaporated like a noon hallucination. But I didn’t move. I was nailed to the bench, hypnotized, with a dick hard as a rock and my heart in my throat.

And she, who seemed to read my paralysis perfectly, did something I still don’t entirely believe. She stood up. She smoothed her skirt with a quick gesture. And, in a swift movement, almost like a magician, she pulled her underwear down to mid-thigh, sat back down on the bench, and finished taking it off by dodging her heels with practiced dexterity. She folded it twice and left it on the bench, next to the magazine.

Then she took off her sunglasses.

Her eyes were green. Green green, not those fake greens they invent in novels. She looked at me without blinking, opened her legs for two seconds so I’d burn the image into my memory forever. There I saw it: her naked cunt, almost completely shaved, with a thin line of brown hair at the top, the lips full, glossy with moisture, and in the center the pink opening just slightly parting under the weight of her own separated legs. One second. Two. Then she closed them, blew me a kiss with the tip of her fingers, picked up her bag, her coat, and the magazine, and left. She walked the way a woman walks who knows perfectly well what’s happening behind her, without hurrying and without looking back.

I stayed on the bench a second longer, just long enough to understand that it had really happened. Then I stood up as if a rocket had gone off under my pants and went straight for the forgotten garment. It wasn’t ordinary underwear. It was a tiny strip of black lace, one of those pieces that could hardly even be called a garment. I smelled it without meaning to, and after smelling it, I smelled it on purpose. The smell of wet cunt hit me in the face like a blow. I shoved it into my jacket pocket and left the park almost running, my cock still swollen and pressing against my fly.

***

I spotted her half a block ahead, walking toward the avenue. I quickened my pace so I wouldn’t lose her and followed at a decent distance, as if I were there by chance too. She crossed two corners, turned right, and went into the Café Aragón, the one with the big windows facing the square. I waited thirty seconds on the sidewalk and went in.

She was at a table for two by the window. I sat at the one next to it, with my back to the glass, in such a way that I could look at her almost without turning my head. I ordered a coffee I had no intention of drinking. She ordered tea, said something funny to the waiter, and when he left, she looked at me and smiled. Not just any smile. The smile of someone who had been waiting for me all morning.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t dare,” she said, and it was the first time I heard her voice. It was low, husky, with an accent I never quite placed.

“I took a little while,” I replied. “I was busy with the matter you left me with on the bench.”

She snorted a laugh through her nose. She unbuttoned another button on her blouse, almost absentmindedly, and I saw the lace of her bra appear. The pressure it put on her tits formed a cleft in the center that was a vulgar invitation and, nonetheless, perfectly elegant. I put my hand in my pocket, took out just one finger, and showed her the tip of the black fabric between my index finger and thumb. Her green eyes darkened for an instant, as if I had touched a live wire.

“You kept it?” she asked, leaning on the table, letting the bra spill forward.

“And I smelled it,” I answered, without lowering my voice.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, slowly.

“And what did you think?”

“That I want to smell it straight from the source.”

Her hand disappeared under the tablecloth. I didn’t need any explanation of what she was doing. I lifted my head a little and, in the reflection of the window, saw her wrist moving in a slow, restrained rhythm, two fingers sinking under the skirt that no longer covered anything. She closed her eyes for two seconds and let the air out through her mouth, very softly, just enough for me to notice and nobody else. When she opened them again, she brought the two fingers to her lips and sucked them slowly, staring straight at me, until they were clean.

“I’m soaking wet,” she said, so low I almost read her lips instead of hearing her. “Since the park. It’s running down my thigh.”

The coffee I hadn’t even drunk caught in my throat. My cock gave another tug, so hard I had to sit farther forward so the bulge wouldn’t show beneath the tablecloth.

The waiter came back with the tea. She took almost no time to compose herself, thanked him with a perfectly proper smile, and when the man left, she looked toward the back of the place and made a tiny gesture with her head. Toward the hallway to the bathrooms.

***

I waited a long thirty seconds before standing up. Thirty seconds in which I convinced myself this was madness and, at the same time, that I wasn’t going to miss this madness for anything in the world. I crossed the café, went down three steps, and pushed open the women’s restroom door with the feeling that I was entering a new country.

No one was there. Three stalls. Only one closed.

“Here,” she said from inside, and her voice made the hair rise on the back of my neck.

I pushed the door with the tip of my finger. And there she was.

With her back to the door, bent forward, hands against the tile and her forehead almost touching the wall. Her blouse and skirt were folded with strange neatness over the toilet lid, as if she had folded them thinking ahead. She had nothing left on but the lace bra, the garter belt, the stockings, and the heels. The skin of her ass, unmarked, untouched, white, waiting for me. Between her thighs, a telltale shine that ran two centimeters down the inner side of one leg. She hadn’t lied: she was dripping.

I closed the door behind me and slid the bolt. I dropped to my knees almost without meaning to, my mouth already full of saliva. She spread her feet a little more, without saying anything, without needing to say anything.

I put both hands on her ass and squeezed. The skin was exactly as I had imagined it on the bench: warm, firm, alive. I opened her ass with my thumbs and saw the pink little hole, tight, and below it the swollen cunt, glossy, with the lips parted as if they were showing me their tongue. I bit the lower part of her ass, first softly and then not so softly, leaving my teeth marks there, and I heard her breathing harder. I ran my tongue over the inner side of her thigh, moving up slowly, deliberately skirting the place I knew she wanted me to go. When I got level with her cunt, I turned my face and licked the other leg instead, moving downward. I felt her impatience in the way her fingers moved against the tile, in the murmur escaping through her teeth.

“Please,” she said, and it was the first time she had said please to anyone in years, you could tell.

When I finally buried my tongue all the way between the lips of her cunt, she let out a sound that wasn’t a word. I went over everything, without method, letting myself be guided by the way she pressed herself against my mouth. The taste was thick, warm, exactly the smell I had breathed from the lace ten minutes before multiplied by ten. I drove my tongue into the opening, pushed it as deep as I could, and pulled it out dripping. I licked from the little hole of her ass to her clit in one long stroke and felt her knees go weak. I bit her thighs again. I ran my tongue through every corner with a slowness that made her arch her back as if she’d been touched with a live wire. Meanwhile, with the other hand, I had opened my pants, pulled out my cock, and was stroking myself slowly, without urgency, because I didn’t want to finish too soon, but I was so hard I was already leaking at the tip.

Suddenly she turned around. She grabbed my hair with both hands, not violently but with an authority that left no room for argument, and shoved my face against her cunt. I kissed her pubis like it was a mouth, ran my whole tongue from below up to her clit, found the little button with the tip of my tongue and stayed there, sucking, teasing, drawing circles, alternating with broad, flat licks, until I felt her shaking from the knees up. I slid two fingers into her while I kept sucking her clit, and I searched inside for that rough ridge I knew had to be there, and found it. I started hammering at it, curling my fingers, without leaving her mouth, and I felt her open around my fingers as if she were coming apart. She bit the palm of her hand so she wouldn’t scream. I heard her anyway, a tight moan between her fingers, long, sustained, and I felt her cunt contract around my fingers in waves. She came while I kept sucking her, and she left my face soaked with saliva and with her.

“Turn around,” I asked, my voice barely a thread, and that was the first thing I said to her inside the stall.

She turned again and put her hands back on the wall. I got to my feet. I took my cock, ran it a couple of times between the lips of her cunt to moisten it completely, rubbed the head against her clit until she moaned, and then set it at her entrance. I adjusted her hips with my other hand and went in at once, all the way to the hilt. She bit her forearm. I stayed still for two seconds, feeling her tight around my cock, feeling how she settled around me inside as if her cunt were breathing, hearing her breath bounce off the tile.

Then I moved. Slowly at first, with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in until my balls struck her clit. Then not so slowly. Then I grabbed her hair, wrapped it around my fist and yanked her back until she arched, and I started fucking her at a different pace, more brutal, knocking the air out of her with every hit. I gripped her waist with my other hand, pinned her against the wall, bit her shoulder over the bra strap. I heard her saying things through her teeth that weren’t quite words. Like that, like that, harder, give it to me all the way. She slid one hand between her legs and started rubbing her clit while I kept burying myself in her, and I felt her clench around me, hard, twice, three times, and heard her bite down again so she wouldn’t make noise, a tight howl trapped behind her closed mouth. She came a second time, her cunt convulsing around my cock so hard it almost dragged me with it.

“Wait,” I told her, squeezing her hip, holding still so I wouldn’t finish yet.

I ran my hand over her ass, moistened my thumb with the wetness running between my fingers, and pressed it to the little hole of her ass, just barely pushing, not all the way in. She tightened herself against my hand and my cock at the same time, and let out that moan again that was already driving me insane. I drove my thumb in up to the first knuckle and she opened up, breathing through her mouth, and I started moving again, this time with both parts occupied: my cock inside her cunt, my thumb inside her ass, feeling them separated only by a thin wall of hot flesh.

When I was about to finish, I pulled out. I turned her around, put my hand under her chin, and she knelt without me asking. She took my cock with both hands, shoved it all the way into her mouth, pulled it out, sucked me from the tip to the base with a tongue that knew exactly what to do, took it back down her throat, pulled it out again, licked my balls one by one without letting go of my cock with her hand. I looked down at her, green eyes fixed on mine, mouth full, saliva dripping from her chin down to her bra. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I took her face in both hands and came over her collarbone, over the lace of her bra, over the face that two hours earlier had been a stranger behind sunglasses. Thick spurts, one after another, cum that splashed onto her cheek, onto her red-painted lips, onto the base of her breasts. She closed her eyes, not from modesty but from concentration, and at the end opened her mouth to receive the last of it, and swallowed it slowly, showing me her clean tongue afterward, like a diligent student.

We stayed silent for a long minute. She wiped herself with a handkerchief from her bag, unhurriedly, with a calm that surprised me more than anything before. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

She got dressed. She fixed her hair. Before leaving the stall she kissed me at the corner of the mouth, opened the door, checked the hallway to make sure no one was there, and went out. I waited three long minutes before following her. When I got back to the table, I found my bill paid and, under it, a folded napkin. I opened it.

There was a phone number. And, below it, written in the same firm hand with which she had taken off her sunglasses in the park, a single word: tomorrow.