I Called Marcos Three Days After That Night

It had been three days since the New Year’s Eve party on the seventh floor, and I still couldn’t sleep properly. I wake up at four in the morning with my nightgown stuck to my body, my pussy wet from dreaming about him, my heart racing, my fingers searching for the phone on the bedside table before I’m fully awake. I read the number saved under a name that isn’t his. I turn off the screen. I close my eyes. I slip my hand between my thighs and find myself soaked again, the folds swollen, my clit throbbing as if it’s been begging for hours. And then it starts all over again.

During the day I manage to function: I make breakfast, answer emails, go shopping. My husband calls from Monterrey every night with his updates, and I answer with the proper intonation and ask the expected questions: the hotel, the flight, whether he’s eaten well. Rodrigo is a good man. He always has been. The fact that he’s spent the last four years traveling more than half the time doesn’t make him a bad husband, just distant. I understand that. But understanding it doesn’t change what I feel every time the silence of this house hands me back, with an accuracy that irritates me, the exact sensation of Marcos’s fingers opening my pussy in that back room, his cock stretching my mouth, his load sliding down my chin.

I spent the first day after the party convincing myself it had been a one-off: the alcohol, the New Year’s euphoria, too many months of married routine looking for an escape valve. Things that happen. On the second day I caught myself making excuses to go out into the hallway around the time I’d seen him come in before. I stood for a moment by the door, listening to the elevator, with my soaked panties stuck to my crotch, and went back upstairs with that ridiculous teenage feeling. On the third day, that cold morning of January second, I woke with the certainty that if I didn’t call him I’d end up stuffing three fingers all the way in while thinking about him, and I’d already done that for two nights straight without it being enough.

I met him at the Figueroa party. Marcos had that way of standing still in a room full of people and, despite everything, occupying it completely. Not because he was tall or because he was the loudest. It was the way he looked: direct, unhurried, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking and found it reasonably interesting to know. He offered me a drink without asking whether I wanted one, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he just gave that half-smile of his that, in retrospect, I should have taken as a warning.

I’m not going to go into all the details of that night, though I could: at two in the morning we ended up in a room at the back of the hall, with the music from the main room filtering through the door, my dress hiked up to my waist and my panties hanging off one ankle. Marcos sat me on the edge of a dresser, spread my legs with both hands, and knelt without saying a word. He ate my pussy like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, licking me slowly from bottom to top, opening me with his fingers to get his tongue all the way in, sucking my clit until I came in his mouth, biting my hand so I wouldn’t scream. Then he stood up, unbuttoned his pants without losing his composure, made me get on all fours on the dresser, and shoved his cock into me in one thrust. He fucked me against the mirror for a very long time, looking me in the eyes in the reflection every time I tried to lower my head, until he came inside me with a tight growl and then made me kneel and clean him off with my mouth. Not because these are extraordinary things. But because they require paying real attention to the person in front of you. And Marcos, unlike my husband, paid a lot of attention.

Rodrigo had called the night before with his usual updates: the flight delayed another week, the endless meetings, the difficult client. I hung up with no noticeable guilt, which told me something I preferred not to examine too closely at the time. I showered slowly, thinking. Under the hot water I ran my hand over my tits, pinched my nipples until they hardened, slid my fingers down my belly and sank them into my pussy imagining they were his. I came braced against the tiles, biting my lip, and still it wasn’t enough. I looked in the mirror more carefully than usual: my wet hair on my shoulders, my nipples still peaked, the thirty-four years I’d learned to accept and that Marcos, quite a bit younger, had held in both hands as if they were the most precious thing in the room.

I picked up the phone at ten in the morning. I dialed slowly, still telling myself I could hang up at any moment.

It rang twice.

—Yeah? —His voice, rough and calm, made me close my eyes and press my thighs together.

—Marcos. It’s Valentina. From the Figueroa party.

There was a brief silence.

—I know who you are.

I breathed in.

—I thought maybe I could... —I began, not entirely sure how to finish the sentence.

—Are you alone? —he cut in.

—Yes.

—Do you want me to fuck you again?

The question hit me in the stomach. It wasn’t really a question, actually. It was a check on something he was already taking for granted. And the worst part, what made me tighten my fingers around the phone without being able to stop myself, was that he was right.

—Yes —I said.

The word came out smaller than I meant it to.

—Say it properly.

I swallowed. I felt the wetness running down the inside of my thigh.

—I want you to come and fuck me.

—That’s my girl. In twenty minutes. Leave the door slightly open. And no underwear.

He hung up before I could add anything else.

I stood for a moment leaning on the kitchen counter, the phone still in my hand and my heart doing things that don’t belong to a thirty-four-year-old married woman with a mortgage. Then I ran upstairs. I changed out of my pajamas into a dark, fitted dress, just enough to make the intention clear without looking like I’d thought about it too much. No underwear, as he’d ordered. I brushed my hair. I went downstairs, left the door ajar like he’d said, and sat on the sofa to wait, feeling the cool air creep up beneath the dress and brush my naked pussy.

The twenty minutes turned into thirty. I got up. I walked from one end of the living room to the other. I sat back down. I turned the TV on and off a second later. I thought about texting him to ask if he was still coming and it seemed too obvious. I thought about closing the door, going upstairs, getting into bed and pretending none of this had happened.

But I didn’t move. I just crossed my legs and uncrossed them, feeling the dampness already sticking to the inside of my thighs.

I heard him before I saw him: slow footsteps in the hall, in no hurry at all. The door opened. Marcos walked in without knocking, closed it with that gesture of his from someone who has nothing to prove, and stood there for a moment in the entryway looking at me.

He wore a dark T-shirt and jeans. His hands were in his pockets. Twenty-six years old and that calm of someone who’s used to things going the way he expects. His eyes went over me from head to toe, paused briefly on my bare thighs, and then he walked toward me slowly without saying anything.

He stopped in front of me. He brushed my hair off my face with a single finger.

—You took three days —he said.

—I resisted as long as I could.

A smile crossed his face. Brief, satisfied. Then he kissed me slowly, with that way of his that has nothing to do with the kisses of someone trying to impress you. It was the kiss of someone who knows what he has and doesn’t need to prove it. His mouth pressed mine with cruel patience, barely parting, tasting me, and I felt the hot current run down my belly at once and soak between my legs as if someone had turned on a tap inside me.

He sat down next to me on the sofa. He looked at me.

—Show me —he said.

—How?

—Three days thinking about my cock —he said, with the same calm that was starting to get on my nerves—. Show me how you’ve been carrying that pussy.

I understood exactly what he was asking. And although part of me wanted to protest on principle, another part —the one that had been waking me at four in the morning for seventy-two hours with my fingers in my crotch — had no objections at all. I hiked my dress up to my waist. My legs trembled a little as I spread them. Marcos said nothing. He only looked at my naked pussy, shining with wetness, waiting, with that silence of his that weighed more than any order.

—Open yourself with your fingers —he added—. I want to see it properly.

I brought both hands to my crotch and spread my lips with my fingers, exposing myself completely. I saw his gaze darken. My thighs opened a little wider from sheer need, and the cool air in the house raised goosebumps on my skin while a thread of wetness slid down to my ass.

—Put two fingers in —he ordered—. Slowly. Look at me while you do it.

I did. I slid my middle and index fingers through my soaked folds and sank them into myself up to the knuckles, letting out a shaky breath. I looked at him. It was harder than I expected and, at the same time, exactly what I needed. There was something about Marcos’s attention, that way he had of not looking away from my open pussy, that made everything more real. Not calculated to look good. Just present and concrete. I started to move them, in and out, the palm of my hand brushing my clit with every thrust.

—Faster —he said—. Don’t stop until I tell you to.

I sped up. The wet sound of my fingers sloshing inside me filled the living room, and the shame of hearing it made me feel even worse. Marcos kept sitting there, not touching himself, not touching me, just watching me wreck myself on his sofa. When I was about to come, my hips driving against my own hand and my throat closing up, he spoke.

—Stop.

I moaned in frustration. I pulled my fingers out slowly, glossy and sticky.

—Suck them.

I put them in my mouth and sucked them one by one, tasting my own wetness while he watched without blinking.

When he leaned toward me and moved my hand away to replace it with his, he did it as if he had all the time in the world. He slid two fingers between my folds and began moving them slowly, working me, soaking himself in me, finding the exact spot almost immediately that made me release my breath in a tremor. Then he brushed my clit with his fingertip, without rushing, drawing small, firm circles that wrung a wet, shamefully loud moan from me.

—That’s it —he murmured—. Just like that. Look at how you’re dripping, Valentina.

His thumb sank in a little deeper, opening me, giving me the rhythm he wanted to impose on me. He curved his fingers against that inner wall few men find and began pressing with methodical insistence, while the palm of his hand kept torturing my clit. When he sped up it was because he wanted to, not because I asked him to. I sank back against the sofa, my hands searching for the cushion, fingers gripping the fabric while I felt myself filling with heat between my legs, how the wetness slid and made me lose control in the dirtiest possible way. Marcos’s arm moved with controlled violence, and my pussy made an obscene slapping sound every time his fingers drove all the way in.

—Marcos... —I began.

—Not yet —he said, without stopping what he was doing—. Hold it for me.

I obeyed. Not because I had to. But because I wanted to. There was a difference between the two, and we both knew it. He held me open with one hand while the other kept working me with indecent precision, in and out, pushing against me, forcing me to feel every pulse in the center of my pussy. My hips lifted on their own, searching for his hand, fucking myself with his fingers.

—Ask me —he said.

—Let me come, please.

—Again.

—Let me come, Marcos, I’m asking you, please, I can’t take it anymore.

—Come.

When he finally let me go, it was with an intensity that wiped out any coherent thought for a very pleasant while. My legs shook. I arched over the sofa with a broken cry, feeling the shudder run up from my belly to my throat, my hips convulsing against his hand as I came in a hot, deep lash. I felt myself soaking his hand and the sofa, a warm stream sliding down over my ass, and the shame of having gotten so wet made me bite my lip. Marcos didn’t look away for a single second. He held me through it until the trembling dissolved into ragged, wet breathing, and then he slowly pulled his fingers out, shining all the way to the wrist, and ran them over his lips before sucking them himself.

—Better than I remembered —he said.

***

He gave me a moment to collect myself. He went to the bathroom, came back, sat beside me without saying anything. I needed a couple of minutes before I could speak without my voice shaking a little.

—That wasn’t all I called you for —I said.

—I know —he answered, and stood up.

He took my hand and led me to the bedroom. There it was different: more direct, less measured, with brief instructions that I followed without thinking too much about why it was so easy to do. There are people who have that ability: they make what they want and what you need line up in a way that feels natural, as if it had always been like that.

I lay down on the bed and let him come closer. He took off my dress calmly, without hurrying, running his hands over what he was looking at. He had that way of touching that doesn’t ask permission but doesn’t crush either: he knows where he is and where he’s going, and that alone is extraordinarily strange when you’ve spent years getting used to something else. His mouth moved down my neck, then over the center of my chest, biting the skin just enough to leave a sharp tingle in my nipples. He took them between his fingers, one and then the other, pinching until they hardened even more under his touch. He twisted one hard enough to make me cry out, and he laughed softly against my belly.

—You’re still just as filthy as you were on New Year’s Eve.

—More —I answered, without thinking.

—We’ll see about that.

He went lower, leaving a wet trail of kisses over my navel, biting my hip, licking the inside of my thigh inches from my pussy without touching it, until my hips lifted on their own, searching for his mouth. When he knelt between my legs, he spread them firmly and rested his face between my thighs. The first lick was a hot blow, direct, on my still throbbing sex. He licked slowly, from top to bottom, gathering the wetness I kept losing, and then buried his tongue in me with obscene attention, as if he wanted to learn me from the inside. I clutched the sheets with both hands, my whole body tensing when he returned to my clit and sucked it with a hungry mouth that made me let out a rough moan.

—That’s how I want you —he said, his voice muffled against my skin—. Soaked and begging.

The comment shot through me like a jolt. I felt the pleasure building again, thick, inevitable. Marcos kept licking, alternating pressure and breath, sliding two fingers into my pussy while his tongue kept working over my center. When he moved them inside me, opening me, the wet sound of my own body made me feel ashamed and hungrier at the same time. I pulled his hair without meaning to, unable not to seek more, grinding my face against his pussy with a need I didn’t recognize in myself. He lifted one wet finger and started pressing my ass with his thumb in time with the movement of his tongue, and I came again against his mouth with a rough cry that echoed all the way to the kitchen, my thighs closing around his ears while he kept licking me until I had to push him away with both hands because I couldn’t take it anymore.

He raised himself just enough to look at me, his mouth and chin shining with me.

—Tell me.

—Fuck me.

—How?

—Put it all the way in. Fuck my pussy until I can’t walk.

He smiled, and that smile was almost worse than the rest.

He tore off his shirt, then his jeans and his boxers, and let me look at him without any hurry. His cock, hard and heavy, was fully awake for me now, thick, veined, pointing toward my stomach before he guided it with his hand. He squeezed it at the base and ran it over my lips a couple of times, coating it with saliva.

—Suck me first. I want to see that mouth work it.

I sat on the edge of the bed and took him all the way in, as much as I could, feeling him tighten my throat and forcing me to breathe through my nose. I pulled him out shining, licked from base to tip, barely bit the frenulum, took him back in until I was gagging. Marcos held the back of my neck with one hand and started moving my head at the rhythm he wanted, slowly at first, then faster, fucking my mouth with short, deep thrusts while I looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. When he knew he was going to come if he kept going, he pulled his cock out with an obscene sound and a thread of saliva hanging from my chin.

—Lie down. On your back. Open.

I lay down on the bed. Marcos got on top of me, propping himself on one elbow, and entered me slowly, centimeter by centimeter, feeling me open for him with an indecent mix of resistance and need. He was big, bigger than I remembered, and when he went all the way in I let out a long, dirty moan that came from my stomach. We both stayed still for a second, breathing at the same pace, as if the body recognized something the mind still refused to accept.

Then he started moving.

At first he did it calmly, pulling out only a little and thrusting back in, setting a deep rhythm that tore short gasps from me. His hips struck mine with a firm cadence, each thrust clearer than the last, and I felt him fill me completely, the friction tightening my belly and making me lose track of everything that wasn’t him. He grabbed both my wrists and pinned them to the mattress above my head, fucking me harder, my tits bouncing with every thrust, the sound of wet skin slapping together filling the room. He changed the angle, lifted one of my legs over his shoulder, and drove in deeper, hitting something inside me that made me scream his name with a broken voice.

—That’s it —he said, squeezing my hip—. Don’t stay quiet. I want to hear you.

He fucked me like that, without embellishment and without mercy, for a stretch I couldn’t measure. At times he held my gaze; at others he lowered his forehead to my neck to bite me, lick me, or speak in my ear with a filthiness that turned me on even more. He called me hot, said I was a tight little cunt, that I smelled like a mix of me and him, that my husband had a woman too hot not to fuck properly, that he liked watching me lose control. I answered as best I could, telling him not to stop, to give me more, to put it in again and again until there was nothing left in my mouth but his name, to use me, to split my pussy open, things I wouldn’t have believed myself capable of saying out loud three days earlier.

He pulled out abruptly just enough to turn me over. He positioned me on all fours and, without wasting time, entered me from behind again. The new angle made me cry out brutally; that position made him go deeper, harder, and every thrust pushed my whole body forward on the mattress. One hand on my nape, the other on my hip, Marcos drove my face into the mattress, arched my back, and started fucking me with an increasingly violent rhythm, the sound of skin on skin filling the room, dry and obscene. He gave my ass a hard smack, then another, until my cheek burned and his handprint left a red mark on my skin.

—Again —I begged, not recognizing myself.

He gave it to me. And again. And he kept fucking me harder still, with both hands dug into my hips, pulling me back so he could spear me completely with each thrust. Then he took one hand away for a moment, licked his thumb, and started rubbing my ass with it in time with his cock.

—Here too? —he asked, pressing.

—Yes —I said, without thinking—. Whatever you want.

He sank his thumb in slowly, to the knuckle, and the double sensation made me moan like a madwoman. He kept fucking my pussy while he pushed his thumb into my ass, and I felt the orgasm build from two places at once, unstoppable.

—Look at you —he murmured—. You’re so pretty when both your holes open for me.

The phrase stripped away the rest of my dignity. I came again with a spasm that folded me over the bed, trembling and gasping, my pussy clenching around his cock with so many pulses that he had to stop for a second so he wouldn’t come with me. He held me open until the wave passed and left a hot hum in my legs.

What came after was long and meticulous and quite a bit better than I’d remembered in three sleepless days, which is saying something. He made me roll over and ride him with his cock buried to the hilt and his hands on my hips marking the rhythm. I rode him while looking him in the eyes, my tits bouncing, both of us panting, until he sat up and wrapped his arms around me from behind, fucking me from below while he sucked on one nipple and pinched my clit with two fingers. I came again like that, clinging to his neck, biting his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream. When I couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled me onto my back again, took my ankles, set them on his shoulders, sank into me all the way, and started thrusting with that broken, deep cadence that warns you there isn’t much left.

—Where? —he panted.

—Inside —I said—. Fill me. Inside, please.

When he finished, his load filled me with a thick heat that made me close my eyes and squeeze my thighs, feeling it come out in pulses while he stayed buried in me for one second longer, growling against my neck, his hips still pushing in short spasms to empty himself completely. When he withdrew slowly, I felt his semen dripping from my pussy onto the sheets, warm, thick, his. He lowered his hand and gathered some of it with two fingers, brought them to my mouth, and I sucked them without thinking twice, tasting both of us. I lay there looking at the ceiling, my heart still banging against my ribs, listening to the silence of the house while Marcos sat on the edge of the bed to get dressed.

He picked up his T-shirt from the floor. Put it on. Tied his shoes without hurrying. I watched him in silence and thought it was pretty absurd that something so ordinary should seem interesting to me with his semen still sliding between my thighs.

—When does your husband get back? —he asked, not looking up.

—A week, more or less.

He nodded. He didn’t add anything else. He finished getting dressed and stood up.

At the door, before leaving, he turned around.

—Next time don’t take so long. And shower after, not before. I want to find you the way I left you today.

—I might not take any time at all —I said.

—That’s what I hope.

And he left.

***

I leaned against the closed door and took a minute before moving again. I could still feel his load running down the inside of my thigh, my legs weak, my nipples sore from all the pinching. The house was exactly as always: the sofa in place with a damp stain I’d have to clean, the midday light coming through the blinds, the phone on the table with Marcos’s number saved under a name that wasn’t his. Everything exactly the same and, at the same time, completely different.

Rodrigo called at seven in the evening. I answered normally, sitting on the sofa with clean panties stuck to a pussy that was still swollen, asked him about the meetings, whether it would be long before he came back. I hung up affectionately and left the phone on the table.

I don’t know exactly what to call what I’m living through. I don’t know whether it has a precise name, or whether I care if it does. What I do know is that that afternoon, after Marcos left, I closed my eyes on the bed —in sheets that smelled like him, like sex, like us— and slept for four straight hours. The first since the Figueroa party. The first in a long time, to be honest.

Before turning off the light I sent him a short message:

“Next week I’m alone too. And I still have you inside me.”

He replied ten minutes later. Not with words. Just with an hour and an apartment number.

I saved the phone, turned off the light, slipped my hand between my legs one last time to touch what he’d left there, and for the first time in three days, let myself stop thinking about anything.