Confession of the Woman Who Always Made Me Come Back

I never stopped going back to her.

Weeks could pass, months, even an entire season without seeing each other alone. We could swear to each other over the phone that it was over, that there was no point in continuing to roll around in that shit, that all we knew how to do was break things. But all it took was for her to brush my wrist as she passed or look at me for a second too long, and everything came crashing down.

I still desired men. That never changed. My body reacted as it always did to broad shoulders, two days' worth of stubble, a deep voice speaking in my ear. But she was something else. She didn't turn me into someone different; she showed me just how far I could go when desire mixed with guilt, anger, and habit.

Her name was Lucía in the story I'm telling, because her real name still burns on my tongue. She was a grown woman, a few years older than me, with the confidence of someone who had seen too many promises rot to believe in any of them. She didn't need to dress herself up. It was enough for her to look at me with half a smile to leave me stiff.

Our relationship was never clean. We sought each other out to argue and ended up fucking. We fucked and then argued again, as if sex dragged the truth out of us by force. There were nights when she scratched my back until she left marks, and others when I squeezed her hips so hard that the next day my fingers were imprinted on her skin. It wasn't gentle. I didn't want it to be.

“What we have is poison,” she told me once, sitting on the edge of the bed, while she gathered her hair with one hand and held my still-wet cock with the other.

“Then stop tasting it,” I replied.

She laughed, spat on the tip, and went back to jerking me off with cruel slowness.

“If you come back, I'll open the door.”

And that's how it went for years.

The first time I understood that we weren't really going to let each other go was one night at her new apartment. There was a summer storm, the windows were vibrating in the wind, and she was wearing a white shirt with nothing underneath. I'd gone to return some keys, nothing more. That's what I kept telling myself as I rode the elevator up, my heart racing like an idiot.

She opened the door barefoot, a glass in her hand and that insolently tired expression that always made her look freshly fucked.

“Come in,” she said. “Since you came all the way up, don't make me pretend you're here just for some keys.”

I went in. I left the keys on the table. She closed the door. We stood looking at each other in silence for a few seconds that felt like a threat.

“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Me too.”

“Perfect, then. We have nothing left to reproach each other for.”

She approached slowly. She smelled my neck as she always did, as if she wanted to tell from my cologne whether there had been another man before her. Then she grabbed my shirt and pulled.

“I'm not here to reproach you,” she murmured. “I'm here to use you for a while.”

She kissed me open-mouthed, without tenderness. Her tongue came in looking for a fight, and I answered in kind, biting her lip until she let out a short moan. My hands went straight to her ass, hard and firm, covered only by the thin fabric of her shirt. She unbuttoned my pants with an old, practiced urgency and slipped her hand inside my underwear.

“Look at you,” she whispered, squeezing me. “All it took was closing a door.”

I was truly hard. Hard from her scent, from the storm, from the habit of knowing exactly what was going to happen and wanting it anyway. I pushed her against the wall of the entryway and opened her shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her tits fell free, heavy and beautiful, and I lowered my mouth to one of them without wasting time. I sucked her nipple until I felt it grow taut between my lips.

“That's it, asshole,” she panted. “Don't go soft on me now.”

I pushed the fabric up to her waist and put my hand between her legs. She was wet. Wet in that obscene way she always got with me, as if her pussy reacted before her head did. I sank two fingers into her, and she threw her head back against the wall with a sharp thud.

“Fuck…”

“Still just as soaked.”

“And you're still just as smug. Get them in properly.”

I did. I moved in and out with my fingers curled, searching for the spot I knew by heart. Her breathing grew dirtier, more broken. She grabbed my forearm and began fucking herself on my hand, opening herself to my fingers with a need that made me even harder.

I knelt in front of her. I yanked down her underwear and found her pussy gleaming, open, barely throbbing. I looked at it for a second, and she buried her fingers in my hair.

“Don't make me wait.”

I ran my tongue from the bottom up to her clitoris, slowly the first time, just to feel her shudder. The second time I went more directly. By the third, I was eating her in earnest, my face pressed against her pussy, sucking, licking, fucking her with my tongue while she writhed against the wall and guided my head without the slightest delicacy.

She tasted of wine and pent-up need. Of that mixture of hers that made me stupid. When I pushed two fingers inside her again and started sucking her clitoris at the same time, she clamped my jaw between her thighs.

“Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop…”

Her orgasm came like everything about her: abruptly. She soaked my fingers, scratched my scalp, and trembled all over while I stayed there, eating her pussy until I drew out the last spasms. When her legs loosened, I stood with my face wet, and she looked at me as if she wanted to hit me or kiss me. She did both. First she bit my mouth. Then she licked it.

“Now it's your turn,” she said.

She turned me toward the sofa, pulled my pants and underwear down to my thighs, and made me sit. She knelt in front of me and took hold of my cock with the insolent confidence of someone who knew it by heart. She didn't start slowly. She put it in her mouth all at once, deep enough to make me let out a breath through my nose. Then she pulled back, spat on the tip, and went down again.

Lucía sucked as if she needed to punish me. She tightened her lips, fondled my balls with one hand, and held the base with the other, setting a strong, wet, dirty rhythm. Every time she pulled it from her mouth, she looked up at me with those dark eyes and swallowed it whole again.

“Shit…” I let slip.

“That's it, talk,” she said, pulling away slightly. “I want to hear you when you're about to come.”

She sucked me until she left me trembling. When she felt me going, she pulled away just in time, climbed onto me, and settled astride without letting me catch my breath. She took hold of my cock, rubbed it for a moment between her swollen lips, and lowered herself.

It went all the way in.

She sank onto it completely with a hoarse moan, closing her eyes, letting the head strike inside her with that delicious brutality that only she could take like that. I grabbed her hips and she immediately began riding me, without warming up, without mercy, rising and falling over my cock with her pussy sliding wetly, squeezing me every time she dropped all the way down.

“Fuck, you fill me so well,” she spat through her teeth.

“You're the one driving yourself all the way down.”

“Because I like feeling all of you, idiot.”

I watched her bounce on me, her tits moving with every drop, her mouth open, sweat sticking strands of hair to her neck, and I could hardly believe it might ever end. I leaned in to suck one of her nipples while she kept fucking me, and she grabbed the back of my neck.

“Harder.”

I lifted her by the hips and began thrusting up from below. The sound changed. Wetter. Harder. Each thrust tore a different moan from her. She dug her nails into my shoulders and began coming again on top of me, squeezing me so tightly she almost made me finish right there.

But she didn't let me.

She rose, pulled my cock out of her pussy, and ordered me, her breathing ragged:

“Stand up.”

I obeyed. I bent her over the back of the sofa and pulled her ass cheeks apart. Her pussy was open and gleaming, dripping down the insides of her thighs. I gave her ass a sharp smack and she shuddered.

“Another.”

I gave it to her harder. Her skin turned red immediately.

“Is that what you wanted?”

“I want your cock. Stop playing.”

I shoved it into her, and she let out a cry muffled by the thunder outside. I began fucking her from behind with pent-up rage, gripping her hips, driving all the way in and pulling almost completely out before entering again. Lucía pushed back to receive me, hungry, stubborn, pure need.

“That's it… that's it… don't stop, don't let me breathe,” she moaned.

I pulled her hair to lift her face and kept pounding her without softening anything. The wetness between her legs made every thrust echo through the living room. I slipped one hand around in front, found her clitoris, and began rubbing it in time with my strokes. She fell apart at once.

“I'm going to come… fuck, I'm going to come…”

“Then come.”

She came trembling, her legs giving way, her pussy squeezing me in disordered pulses. I held out for a few more seconds, just long enough to watch her come undone, and then I emptied myself inside her, hard to the end, buried in her while the storm continued battering the windows.

We stayed like that, panting. My forehead against her back. My cock still buried inside her. Her hand searching for mine over the sofa.

“This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me,” she said after a while.

“Me too.”

She slowly straightened, my come running down her thigh, and went to the bathroom without looking back. I dressed halfway and left before either of us said anything resembling a promise.

I should have known it wouldn't be the last time.

***

With time, life did what it always does: put distance, obligations, and other people between us. Lucía grew more cautious. I learned not to ask too many questions. We still saw each other at gatherings, dinners, and celebrations where there were more people around and we had to behave like two old accomplices hiding nothing because, precisely, we were hiding too much.

That only made the desire worse.

There was something unbearable about watching her move among other people, smile at anyone, pretend everything was normal while I remembered exactly how she spread her legs when she wanted me to fuck her. Sometimes she brushed against me under the table. Other times she whispered some triviality in my ear in a tone only I understood. It was a way of keeping me tied to her without quite touching me.

“You can still see it on your face when you imagine me naked,” she told me one night in someone else's kitchen while opening a bottle.

“And you can still see it on yours when you remember my cock.”

She didn't smile. She only handed me the glass and held my gaze for a second too long.

The last time we were alone was after a party at a rented house celebrating a mutual friend's birthday. We weren't kids anymore, and the fatigue showed on our bodies, but desire still came over us like a familiar illness. There was music downstairs, empty glasses everywhere, and the distant murmur of laughter. I went upstairs to the living room to sit for a moment and get away from the noise.

I loosened my collar and closed my eyes for a few seconds. I was carrying alcohol, memories, and that irritating arousal she left me with merely by passing close. I hadn't touched her in months, but all night she'd been giving me dirty looks over the rim of her glass, as if we were resuming an old conversation.

I heard her come in before I saw her. The sound of her heels stopped in front of the sofa.

“I knew you'd hide up here,” she said.

I opened my eyes. She was wearing a dark dress clinging to her body, her hair loose, her mouth red from wine. She looked tired, yes, but also dangerously determined.

“I'm not hiding from you,” I lied.

“No. You always end up underneath me.”

There was no more talking. She came closer, kissed me once, brief and rough, and pushed me against the backrest. She unbuttoned my pants with practiced movements, pulled out my cock, and held it for a second in her hand, weighing it, as if confirming that it was still hers from time to time.

“I've missed you,” she murmured.

“Tell me by sucking me off.”

Her eyes gleamed with spite.

“That, you know how to ask for.”

She knelt without taking her eyes off me. First she licked the tip slowly, barely a provocation. Then she opened her mouth and swallowed me with a depth that made me grip the edge of the sofa. Her tongue was hot, her saliva plentiful, and she had that obscene way of controlling the rhythm that always brought me to the edge too soon. She sucked me, moving her head up and down while holding me by the base, and every so often pulled away to spit on my cock and spread it around with her hand.

“Fuck, Lucía…”

“Shut up and let me work.”

I obeyed. What else could I do? I let myself fall back while she sucked me hungrily, moaning faintly around my cock and squeezing my thighs with her hands. When she felt me get too hard, too close, she pulled away with a crooked smile.

“Not so fast.”

She stood, pushed her dress up to her waist, and pulled down her underwear. She wasn't wearing stockings, only skin. This time she sat on me facing away, guided my cock with one hand, and lowered herself slowly, taking me inch by inch, looking at me over her shoulder.

“Fuck… you still go in like you're going to break me.”

“And you still sit down like an addict.”

“Because I am with you.”

She began to move. At first in short motions, using only her hips, savoring the friction. Then more broadly, sliding up and down until she took me all the way in with every drop. I opened her dress down the back and grabbed her tits, weighing them in my hands, tugging her nipples while she fucked my cock with obscene concentration.

Her pussy was soaked. Every time she rose, I could feel it cling to me, and when she dropped, she buried me to the hilt with a hoarse moan that escaped her helplessly. I kissed the nape of her neck. I bit her shoulder. I slid one hand between her legs and found her swollen, hard clitoris, begging for attention.

“Touch yourself for me,” I told her.

“You do it.”

I did. I rubbed her with two fingers while she kept bouncing on me, and she lost her rhythm for a moment, overcome by a shudder that ran through her entire body. She threw her head back onto my shoulder and offered me her throat.

“More… don't ease up now.”

I pressed my fingers more firmly against her clitoris, rubbing in tight, insistent circles, and she began coming without stopping her movements. I felt her tighten, tremble, soak me more, and still she kept dropping onto my cock as if she wanted to squeeze my come out of me with the force of her hips.

I grabbed her around the waist and lifted her. I stood with her still impaled and supported her bent over a low table beside the picture window. We nearly knocked over a lamp. Lucía let out a brief laugh, broken by arousal.

“Always so rough.”

“And you always come back for it.”

I spread her legs. I gave her ass a sharp smack that made her arch. Then another. Her skin turned red and beautiful beneath my hand.

“Do you like it?”

“I like it when you fuck me instead of asking questions.”

I obeyed, thrusting into her again, hard, until the impact of her body against the table set the rhythm. I began pounding her with hunger, gripping her by the front of her neck, not to choke her, but to make her feel my hand, my control, my presence. She moaned with her face turned toward the dark glass of the window, watching our reflections.

“Look at us,” I whispered in her ear. “We always end up the same way.”

“Because no one takes me like you do.”

I pulled her dress completely down from her back and fucked her harder. The wet sound filled the room, mixed with her moans and the distant murmur of the party downstairs. Every time I pulled almost all the way out, she reached back for me, desperate to feel me inside her again. I slipped a hand between her legs once more and felt her thighs trembling.

“You're going to come again.”

“Yes… yes, fuck… make me come…”

I rubbed her clitoris while drilling into her without reducing the intensity. She came with a long, filthy cry, squeezing the table with both hands, letting herself go completely. I kept going for a few seconds, watching her shake, enjoying the way her pussy squeezed me in the middle of her release.

Then she turned her head as best she could and said to me, panting:

“Don't come outside.”

That sentence, spoken in that tone of old familiarity, finished me. I grabbed her hips, buried myself to the hilt, and came inside her, jaw clenched, a growl rising from deep in my throat. I felt the release surge up and empty me completely while she took every pulse without pulling away.

We stayed still for a few moments. My hand was still on her belly. Her breath fogged the glass.

“We always promise it's the last time,” I said.

“Because we're idiots,” she replied.

I pulled out of her slowly. Some of my come ran down her thigh. Lucía straightened, adjusted her dress, and went to find her underwear as if we'd just rehearsed a scene we'd repeated a thousand times. Before opening the door, she turned toward me.

“Come downstairs in five minutes.”

“Is that all?”

She looked at me with a mixture of weariness and tenderness that was always suspicious coming from her.

“With you, that's never all. But it's what there is.”

She left. I stayed alone, my cock still sensitive, my shirt open, and that familiar ache in my chest that always came after fucking her. It wasn't exactly sadness. It was worse: it was habit.

I poured myself some water from a bottle on a sideboard. I zipped up. I tried to put my face back together. Downstairs, the music, laughter, and clinking glasses continued. Normal life waiting for me to come down as if nothing had happened.

As if nothing ever happened between us and, at the same time, everything did.

When I finally returned to the party, Lucía was already talking with other people, immaculate and composed, wearing the social mask I had always admired and hated in equal measure. There wasn't a single sign on her body that minutes earlier she'd been asking me for more, harder, until she came trembling with my hand between her legs.

She held my gaze from across the room and barely raised her glass, a tiny, almost mocking gesture. I understood the message. Nothing more was needed.

We didn't stop seeking each other out immediately. Nor did we promise each other a future. What we had was never about vows; it was about relapses. About knowing there was a door that opened only for the two of us and that, when it did, everything else went dark for a while.

If I'm telling this now, it's not to brag or romanticize the disaster. I'm telling it because some stories don't resemble love and yet cling to your body for years. Stories that teach you about your contradictions, your hunger, your most selfish side. Lucía was that for me: the woman I never quite finished leaving, the only one capable of dragging me back with a single look.

And if anyone ever asks me what my dirtiest confession was, I won't talk about how many times we came together or how much I liked watching her on all fours, begging me for more. I'll talk about something worse. About how every time I thought I'd gotten over her, all it took was remembering her swallowing my cock on her knees or opening herself to me on a sofa to understand that she was still inside me in a way no other body had ever managed to erase.

That was our sentence. And also our favorite way to start over.