The Schoolgirl and the Itchy Flea novel · Chapter 3 of 12

Chapter 3: Dinner

My mom showed up with a pot of rocoto relleno and a container of papas a la huancaína, dressed in her best cardigan.

Maribel Quispe is forty-six, with black hair in a low braid and a way of entering a house that’s like opening a window.

She hugged Rolando tightly.

"Rolando! You’re getting skinnier every time I see you."

"And you’re getting older every time I see you, Maribel."

"That’s true."

They laughed.

I stood by the dining room table, my blouse buttoned up properly and my skirt freshly on, praying my face wouldn’t give anything away.

"And you?" my mom said, looking at me. "You’re all flushed."

"It’s hot."

"It’s sixty-eight degrees."

"It’s the flea."

"Still?"

"It’s gone now, Mom."

Rolando cleared his throat and pulled out the chairs.

We had dinner in the dining room of the sillar house, at a long wooden table beneath an iron lamp.

My mom sat across from us.

I sat beside my godfather.

My leg, beneath the tablecloth, brushed against his.

He didn’t move away.

My mom started talking.

About my dad.

About the old days, when the three of them used to bike out to the farms in Cayma, about the carnivals, about the trip to Mollendo when their car fell into the river.

Rolando nodded, ate, and answered.

His right hand handled his silverware.

His left was under the tablecloth.

I felt it settle on my knee.

My breath caught.

My mom kept talking.

"...and your dad climbed onto the roof of the car with a live chicken in his arms, remember?"

"I remember."

Rolando’s hand slid up my thigh.

Slowly.

With his fingertips.

I gripped my fork.

"Ariadna? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing, Mom."

"You’re sweating."

"It’s the rocoto. It’s spicy."

"It’s a little spicy, isn’t it?" Rolando said, his voice perfectly calm.

His fingers reached the edge of my skirt.

They stopped.

And then they slipped underneath.

God.

I coughed.

It was a long, fake cough, with my napkin over my mouth, while his fingers pushed my panties aside and found what they’d found that afternoon.

I was still wet from the living room.

He knew the moment he touched me.

Rolando’s hand went still for a second, and I could almost feel him smile.

"Do you want some water?" my mom asked.

"Yes, please."

My mom went to the kitchen for the pitcher.

In those thirty seconds, he slipped two fingers inside me in one smooth motion.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood.

Rolando lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Quiet, good girl."

He curled them inside me.

My mom came back with the pitcher and sat down.

"Want me to tell you about my comadre’s guinea pig?"

"Go ahead," I said, my voice barely a thread.

And she told it.

She talked for ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of my life.

Rolando’s fingers slid in and out beneath the tablecloth with a torturously slow rhythm, his thumb brushing my clit each time they rose.

I nodded.

I smiled.

I chewed rocoto without tasting it.

At the twelve-minute mark, I felt my orgasm coming like a train.

I squeezed my thighs around his hand.

I grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, my knuckles white.

"Sweetheart?" my mom said. "Are you okay?"

Rolando sped up for a second.

I came silently, eyes closed, my whole body rigid, and when I opened them, everything was blurry.

"Yeah, Mom," I said. "It’s just... I love rocoto so much."

My godfather wiped his fingers on the tablecloth.

He picked up his wineglass.

He clinked it against my mom’s.

When she left at ten, we walked her to the door.

"It was so nice seeing you both," she said, hugging us. "Ariadna, don’t stay out too late. You have class tomorrow."

"I’m leaving now, Mom."

"I’ll see you at home."

Her car pulled away.

Rolando shut the door and locked it.

He turned to me.

He didn’t say a word.

He scooped me up, his hands beneath my thighs, and carried me up the stone stairs to his room.

He dropped me onto the big bed.

A firm mattress, white sheets, a picture window overlooking the rooftop and the volcano’s blue shadow.

He pulled his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it.

He had a broad chest, graying hair, mining scars on his ribs, and a firm belly.

He looked down at me.

"I told you tonight."

"Yes."

"Get undressed."

I took off my blouse.

My skirt.

My bra and panties.

I lay naked on the bed, my legs pressed together and my heart pounding all the way up into my throat.

He pushed his pants down and stood there looking at me with an expression I’d never forget.

"Open your legs."

I opened them.

He climbed onto the bed and settled between them, braced on his forearms.

His cock, hard and hot, rested against my belly.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked at him.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you to fuck me, Godfather."

His face tightened.

"Again."

"Fuck me."

He lowered his hand, lined himself up, and pushed.

He entered slowly.

I felt him open me, stretch me, fill me, inch by inch, all the way to the bottom.

We both moaned.

I wrapped my arms around his back.

My nails dug into his shoulders.

"You’re so tight," he whispered. "So hot."

"Move."

"Not yet."

"Godfather..."

"I want to feel you."

He stayed still, buried to the hilt, looking at me as my body adjusted to him.

Then he started to move.

Slow.

Deep.

He pulled almost all the way out and thrust back in, and each time he drew a different moan from me.

The bed creaked.

His breath burned against my neck.

"Such a good girl," he murmured. "You’re such a good girl."

I answered with kisses, bites to his shoulder, my legs wrapped around his waist.

He picked up the pace.

He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head with one hand.

With the other, he spread one of my legs wider.

He thrust with a steady, sure rhythm, every stroke hitting exactly where I needed him.

"I’m going to come," I panted.

"Do it."

"With you inside me."

"That’s it."

I came with a cry, squeezing him tight, trembling beneath his weight.

He stopped for just a second, his teeth clenched.

Then he thrust into me three more times, deep, and came with a low growl against my neck, spilling inside me.

We stayed pressed together, sweaty and breathless.

A little while passed.

Rolando kissed my forehead, my temple, my mouth.

"I’m going to make love to you all night," he said.

"Do it."

Downstairs, at the front door, someone knocked.

Three sharp knocks.

We froze.

"Ariadna! Rolando!" my mom shouted. "I forgot my phone!"

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