The Schoolgirl and the Itchy Flea novel · Chapter 2 of 12

Chapter 2: The Skirt

I read Jairo's message twice.

Rolando, standing in front of me, gently took my phone.

"Who's Jairo?"

"My ex."

"The one with the gel in his hair?"

"That one."

"And what does he want?"

"For me to tell him I'm falling in love with my godfather."

Rolando raised an eyebrow.

He typed something with his thumb and handed me back the phone.

He'd replied, using my number: "I got myself into a mess. My godfather helped me out. It's none of your business anymore."

"Godfather, that's going to make things worse."

"Probably."

"And why did you do it?"

"Because I don't want you to wonder if I'm hiding you."

I smiled, pressing my mouth against my sleeve.

He lifted me off the counter with both hands.

My feet touched the floor, and my knees wobbled.

He held me by the waist.

"Walk with me."

He led me to the living room, a tall room with white sillar stone arches, a wooden ceiling, and a large brown leather sofa facing the window.

The dog followed us and lay down on the rug, pretending not to see anything.

Rolando sat on the sofa.

I stood in front of him.

"Take off your skirt," he said.

The word shot through my body like an electric shock.

I unbuttoned the side button.

I pulled down the zipper.

The skirt fell to the floor, and I stood there in my blouse and thong, my legs still wet.

He looked me up and down, unhurried.

His neck was tense, and his eyes were darker.

"Come here."

I sat down next to him.

"No. Here."

He pulled me by the waist and laid me on my back on the sofa, my head on the armrest, my legs open, the cold leather against my skin.

He knelt on the rug, between my knees.

"Godfather, you don't have to..."

"Yes, I do."

He took me by the ankles and spread my legs wider.

With two fingers, he pulled the lace of my thong down to my knees.

We both looked for a moment.

"So beautiful," he whispered.

"Don't look at me like that."

"I'll look at you however I want."

And he leaned in.

His mouth was slow.

First a kiss on the inside of my thigh, another higher up, the tip of his tongue tracing along my groin.

Then, finally, his flat tongue, warm, wet, sliding all the way up me from bottom to top.

I cried out.

I covered my mouth with my forearm.

"Not like that," he said, without lifting his lips from my skin. "I want to hear you."

I uncovered my mouth.

He licked my clit with an unbearable slowness, drawing circles, sucking softly, his stubble brushing against my thigh.

My hips moved on their own.

He held me with both hands under my ass and pressed me against his mouth.

"Godfather... godfather..."

"Tell me."

"Don't stop."

"I don't plan to."

He pushed his tongue inside me, and I arched my back and grabbed his gray hair with both hands.

It was short, rough, I could feel it crackling between my fingers.

Rolando let out a low growl that vibrated through my whole body.

He sucked harder, and slid two fingers inside me, again, all the way to the hilt.

I came with a long, ragged cry, the kind you can hear out on the street.

My thighs trembled against his shoulders.

He held them until I was done.

When he stood up, his beard was wet, his mouth was shining, and his eyes were like embers.

He wiped himself with the back of his hand, looking at me.

I was still trembling, my blouse wrinkled, my breath ragged.

"Your turn," I said.

"Not today."

"Why not?"

"Because you're shaking, good girl."

"That's not true."

"Look at your hands."

I looked at them.

My fingers were clenched against the leather.

I laughed, embarrassed.

But I wasn't going to leave it at that.

I sat up on the sofa, crawled until I was in front of him, and put a hand on his chest.

I felt his racing heart, the heat through his shirt.

I moved my hand down.

I touched his belt.

The hard bulge beneath his pants.

He closed his eyes.

"Ariadna."

"Tell me."

"If you touch me now, I won't be able to stop."

"I don't want you to stop."

I unbuckled his belt.

The button.

The zipper.

I reached inside.

It was hot, thick, long, more than I'd imagined in two months of imagining.

I pulled it out and held it with both hands, looking at it.

Rolando leaned his head back against the sofa and let out a breath in a stifled groan.

I stroked him up and down, slowly, with my palm open, testing his weight, his texture, the veins.

I ran my thumb over the tip, wet.

He grabbed my wrist.

"Wait."

"What's wrong?"

"If you keep going, I'll come, and I don't want it to be like this the first time."

"Then..."

"Then tonight."

I looked at him.

"Tonight?"

"Tonight I want you in my bed, all of you. Right now I'm just letting you touch me. And I'm doing it because I want you to know: this isn't a mess, Ariadna. This isn't a game."

"I know."

I kissed him.

He kissed me with his mouth still wet from me, and I shuddered at the taste of myself.

I kept stroking him while we kissed, faster, squeezing, and he groaned against my lips, his forehead pressed to mine.

"Good girl," he kept saying. "Like that. Like that."

He came with a long spasm, in my hand, my name on his lips.

We sat on the sofa, tangled together, panting.

My phone rang again.

This time it was my mom.

I answered in the most normal voice I could manage.

"Hey, Mom."

"Ariadna, where are you? I called you three times."

"At my godfather's house. I dropped a flea and he helped me."

"A flea?"

"Long story."

"Anyway. Tell Rolando I'm on my way over. I haven't seen him in months and I want to have dinner with him. I'm bringing the stuffed rocoto peppers."

Rolando, beside me, froze with his pants open.

"Tonight?" I asked.

"In half an hour."

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