The Volcano

The beginning of 2004 felt heavy. I went on a ski trip to Andorra in January, but the cold air followed me home. Then came March 11th—the bombs in Madrid shook the world. And a few days later, a bomb went off in my living room.

Beatriz and I had a silly argument. It was small, stupid, and fatal. Beatriz wasn't like Clara. She didn't do "on-and-off." She had broken her own rule once by letting me come back after the Joana incident. She wasn't going to break it a second time. There was no third chance.

We were done.

I called my cousin, André, to help me move my boxes out of her apartment and back to my mother’s place. It was a walk of shame, backwards in life.

But the lowest point wasn't the heavy lifting; it was the cleanup. Before I left, Beatriz handed me a bag. Inside were the toys—the vibrators, the plugs, the tools of our education. "Throw these away," she said, her voice flat. "In the outside bin."

Walking to the dumpster and tossing that bag into the trash felt like burying a body. I watched the plastic bag hit the bottom of the bin, realizing that the "Professor" era was officially landfill.

After the move, André and I went for a drink. I needed to wash away the failure.

Then, my phone buzzed. An SMS from Vanessa.

Vanessa was a puzzle I had known for years. She used to work with some old colleagues of mine, Ricardo and Tiago. Back then, she seemed obsessed with Tiago. But lately, she had been orbiting me.

She was strange. She told stories that didn't quite add up—wild tales that seemed too dramatic to be true. She was provocative, dropping hints on MSN Messenger, telling me I had "good hands" for massages. We had almost met up a few times while I was living with Beatriz, but she always canceled at the last minute with some elaborate excuse.

But now, I was single. Me: I’m having a drink with my cousin. Vanessa: Bring him along.

We met her for coffee. Despite the boxes in my trunk and the breakup hanging over my head, the atmosphere was light. Vanessa was fun. She cheered me up. The next day, she invited me to dinner at her place. Just me.

The dynamic had shifted. I was free, and she knew it. After dinner, we moved to the couch. It was the classic move: sit close, watch TV, put the arm around the neck. She didn't complain. I kissed her cheeks, testing the waters. She smiled, that provocative smile.

"What do you want?" I didn't answer with words. I kissed her lips. She kissed back, but when I tried to touch her body, she stopped my hand. "Not yet."

I went home frustrated but intrigued. Beatriz was already fading from my mind.

The next day, I went back for coffee. She greeted me with two kisses on the cheeks, but we never made it to the coffee pot. The real kissing started immediately. This time, there were no red lights. We undressed quickly.

I finally got a good look at the mystery woman. She had a cute face with a seductive smile and a fit body—not too thin, just right. Her tits were small and firm. And down below? A perfectly trimmed pussy. In 2004, that was a rare and welcome sight.

I started licking her nipples, and she responded instantly. Her breathing got heavy. I moved down to her pussy. Vanessa wasn't just responsive; she was a volcano.

She melted under my tongue. Within minutes, she was moaning loud enough to wake the dead. I entered her, and she exploded. She didn't just cum once. She came a second time almost immediately, screaming in pleasure. We changed positions. She sat on top of me, riding me like she was possessed, screaming, dirty talking.

"Fuck me! Fuck me!"

She had four or five orgasms that night. I lost count. I finally let go, completely drained. I realized then that Beatriz was a great lover, but Vanessa? Vanessa was a sexual pearl.

We fell into a "Friendship with Benefits" routine. It was the only logical choice because, frankly, I didn't trust her. Her stories were still weird. She told tall tales that made me doubt everything she said. But the sex... the sex was the truth.

One night, early in our arrangement, we were at her place. She was sitting on top of me, grinding hard, her eyes rolled back in her head. Suddenly, I felt a warm flood.

She squirted.

Everywhere. I was soaked. The sheets were soaked. I had never made a woman squirt before, but there was no doubt about this one. It was a badge of honor.

Later, I rented a small apartment in an old building. The walls were thin. Vanessa came over one night, claiming she wasn't in the mood. Ten minutes later, she was screaming, "Fuck me with your big dick!" at the top of her lungs. I’m sure my new neighbors loved me.

But the "benefits" couldn't hide the weirdness forever. Towards the end of the summer, the conversation turned to swinging and group sex. I was interested—it was a fantasy of mine. But then she started spinning stories about a "friend" of hers who was a swinger, a person I had never met and wasn't sure existed.

The lies got too tangled, the behavior too erratic. The sex was amazing, but the drama was exhausting. By the end of the summer, we faded out.

I was single again, but I had unlocked a new achievement: The Squirter.