I Crossed the City to Get on My Knees

We’d been talking online for three months when R announced he was coming to Madrid for work. He mentioned it in passing, almost as if it were nothing, but I read it twice. And a third time. Then I locked my phone, set it on the table, and stared at the ceiling for five minutes.

We weren’t a couple. We weren’t anything with a name. We were two people who’d started talking on a series forum and who, without either of us planning it, had ended up sharing things you don’t say out loud. He had a way of writing that completely disarmed me. Direct, no frills. When he asked me what I wanted, he didn’t ask what I wanted for dinner. He asked whether I liked swallowing cum or spitting it out, whether I preferred being fucked from the front or from behind, whether I was touching my cunt while I told him.

And I told him. Everything.

The week before he arrived I barely slept. Not exactly because I was nervous, but because every time I closed my eyes a different image came and none of them was easy to ignore. I spent the whole week shoving two fingers into my cunt until I came and a half each night, thinking about his cock, about his mouth, about how it would sound when I sucked his dick for the first time.

The day he landed, he sent me the hotel name and the room number. Nothing else. I replied: “I’ll be there at nine.”

By eight-thirty I was already dressed.

***

I chose the white dress. The short one, the one I never quite know if it’s too much for the street or just on the edge. I knew it as soon as I put it on: it was exactly what I wanted to wear that night. I put my hair up, let it down, tied it up again, and ended up leaving it loose. I took the smallest bag I had, just enough for my keys and phone, and went out at 8:52.

Under the dress I wasn’t wearing anything. No panties, no bra. I’d decided that in the shower, standing in front of the mirror, and I hadn’t changed my mind. I wanted to arrive like that. I wanted there to be no obstacle when he lifted my dress.

It was one of those early-autumn nights when the heat still hasn’t quite given up, and I walked along the sidewalk with that heat on me and another one inside me that had nothing to do with the temperature. I was walking fast. Not because I was late, but because I didn’t know how to walk slowly with everything I was carrying inside me. I could feel my cunt wet with every step, the dampness running down the inside of my thigh, and every time the dress brushed my nipples they got harder.

I thought about what was going to happen and didn’t push it away. I let it stay. I looked at it without shame.

Deep down I knew it might be different from what I’d imagined. Three months of conversation build an image, and images lie. I could get there and something might not fit, the air between us might feel strange or forced, the desire I’d built up over weeks might suddenly deflate the moment I saw his face up close. That could happen.

But it also might not.

And I had crossed the city on foot to find out.

***

The hotel was one of those discreet four-star places, with carpet in the lobby and a reception desk lit up like a display window. I went through the automatic doors without slowing down and felt the people behind the desk look at me. I didn’t turn my head to check. There was no need. I knew exactly what I looked like: a woman in a short dress, no bra, going up alone to a room at nine at night. And I didn’t care in the slightest.

I went straight to the elevator.

Fourth floor. Room 407. I’d memorized it without meaning to from the moment R sent it to me, at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday that felt endless.

The elevator took longer than usual, or it seemed that way to me. I looked at myself in the wall mirror: the white dress, my hair down, my shoulders tight, my nipples showing through the fabric. I told myself that if I wanted to, I could get off on the fourth floor, call the elevator again, and leave. No one was forcing me.

I cared exactly as much as I do when I know perfectly well what I want.

The doors opened.

***

The hallway smelled of air conditioning and clean carpet. The lights were those warm, low ones that make everything seem calmer than it is. I walked counting the doors. 401, 403, 405.

407 was ajar.

Just a centimeter, maybe two. Enough to show a strip of yellow light inside. Enough to know he was waiting awake and hadn’t locked the door.

I pushed the door open slowly.

He was in the bed, on top of the sheets, exactly as we’d agreed in our last conversation, four days earlier, when we’d both stopped pretending we were talking about something else. Naked. With his cock already hard, resting against his belly, thick and veined, the tip glistening with a drop of pre-cum that caught the light from the bedside table. The room had the blinds pulled down and the only light came from the nightstand, amber and low. I gave him two seconds to see me come in before saying or doing anything.

It was him. It was his face, his shoulders, his hands I knew only from photos. It was real and solid and there, with his dick hard and waiting for me.

And I wanted what I’d come for.

***

I let the bag fall beside the door. I closed it behind me with my heel, never turning my back to R. I took hold of the hem of my dress and pulled it over my head in one motion, without ceremony, and threw it onto the armchair. I was left naked in the middle of the room. I saw his cock jerk against his belly just from looking at me, an involuntary twitch that tore a snort from him.

I walked toward the bed unhurriedly because I didn’t need to hurry anymore; I was already inside, it was already real, and the strange calm that came over me at that moment was completely mine.

I climbed onto the bed on all fours and settled between his legs.

I pushed my hair out of my face with a flick of the wrist, found the elastic I wore on my wrist, and tied it up high, away from my face. I wanted to see it. I wanted him to see me. I wanted him not to miss a single second of what I was going to do to his cock.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did I. We’d talked enough over three months.

I took him by the base with one hand and held him there for a moment, looking at him. Thick, hard, hot, throbbing against my palm. Real in a way no conversation can fully anticipate. I squeezed him softly and watched the drop at the tip swell and spill, sliding down the head. I brought him slowly to my lips without touching him yet, just feeling the heat coming off him millimeters from my open mouth. I blew on him. His hips jerked.

I stuck out my tongue and caught the drop of pre-cum straight from the head, spread it over the whole crown, tasted it. Salty, thick, his. Then I ran my tongue from bottom to top along one side, slowly, following the central vein, reaching the tip. He let the air out through his nose. Just that. It was enough for me to know I was doing it right.

I did it again. And again. No rush, tongue flat, covering ground, wetting his whole cock with saliva until it all shone. Then I wrapped my lips around the tip and sucked just a little, only enough to taste him clean and warm, to let him feel the wet heat of my mouth for the first time. I held him there, pressing his head with my lips, working my tongue underneath, finding that exact spot where the skin is thinner and more sensitive.

“Fuck,” he said, the first word of the night.

R had his thighs tense on either side of my face. I could feel that tension without touching him; it radiated off him, a contained force that I liked more than I’d expected.

I went down to his balls and kissed them, took them into my mouth one by one, held them with my tongue, sucked them slowly. He moved just a little, a tiny shiver running through his hips. I noticed it and stored it away. It was information. It was what I needed to know how to go on. They were full, tight against his body, and I took my time with them, sucking them with my mouth open while my hand kept jerking his cock slowly, up and down, spreading saliva all along the length.

I ran my tongue over his perineum. He shuddered all over. There too, I took note.

***

I went back to the tip. This time I took it seriously.

I opened my mouth and took him in slowly, letting my tongue wrap around him while I moved forward centimeter by centimeter, as far as I could without forcing it. Then I pulled almost all the way off with a wet pop. Then I went back in. I found the rhythm I liked, not the fastest or deepest yet, but the one that let me feel him properly, the one that made him tighten in a controlled, slow way.

I’d always preferred this to being guided. I didn’t want a hand pushing my head down; I didn’t need one. I liked doing things my way, at my own pace, making my own decisions about when to tighten, when to ease off, when to go deeper and when not to. Control from below is the kind of control I’ve always liked most. Sucking a cock your own way, knowing the guy attached to it is completely at your mercy, is one of the most powerful things there is.

I went deeper little by little. I felt it in my throat, that characteristic pressure that isn’t exactly comfortable, but that I don’t want to be. I breathed through my nose and kept going. Pulled back. Went in again. Deeper this time. I held the rhythm until I felt my nose brush the skin of his pelvis and stayed there for a second before pulling out, my throat tightening around the whole length of his cock.

I coughed just a little. A thread of saliva hung from my lip to the head. I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.

I did it again.

And again.

Each time I took him all the way in and held him there for a moment longer, feeling my throat open to receive him, the tip pressing against my soft palate. Saliva dripped down my chin, onto my breasts, onto his balls. I didn’t care. I was doing exactly what I’d come to do.

R had his fists clenched in the sheets. I saw it out of the corner of my eye and it made me want more. Made me want him to squeeze harder. I slipped one hand between my own legs without stopping sucking and found my cunt soaked, dripping, the wetness running down my thighs. I slid two fingers inside myself and moaned around his cock. The vibration made his hips jerk upward and took me to the back of my throat without warning.

I held on. I swallowed around him. Came back up.

The rhythm picked up on its own, not as a decision but as a consequence of hearing his breathing get shorter, feeling him stiffen with every pass. There’s a moment in this kind of thing when you stop thinking about what you’re doing and just do it, and that moment came quickly, and I stayed inside him, completely focused.

The noises I made were not delicate. Wet slurps, muffled, my throat against the head, the saliva churning against the base each time I squeezed his balls with my free hand. I didn’t care if they were delicate. The more obscene it sounded, the more I liked it, the tighter his cock got inside my mouth.

I slicked everything with saliva, my eyes wet from the strain at the back of my throat, mascara streaking down my cheeks, still not stopping, one hand gripping the base and the other braced on his thigh for balance, and every so often dropping down again to my cunt to finger myself once more, to rub my clit with my palm. At some point I was surprised to realize I could have kept going like that much longer. It was exhausting in the best possible way, and I didn’t want to stop.

I pulled him out completely and squeezed him hard, stroking him slowly while I caught my breath, then tapped him softly against my lower lip, again and again, watching him. I brushed the head over my nipples. I dragged him along my cheek, leaving a shining trail. He was watching me too. It was the only moment that night when we looked directly into each other’s eyes, and it lasted exactly as long as it needed to.

“Keep going,” he murmured.

“I was going to,” I said, my voice rough from having him in my throat.

I took him back into my mouth without looking away. This time no brakes. Head up and down, my hand matching the motion at the base, my tongue working the frenulum every time I rose. I closed my eyes and focused only on the rhythm, on the weight of his cock against my tongue, on the increasingly intense taste he was giving off as he got closer.

***

I felt it before it happened. There are signs a man’s body gives when he’s close, and when you’ve been paying attention long enough, you learn to recognize them. The way the tension in his thighs changes. The way his breathing stops being regular and turns short and held. His balls drawing up, tight against his body. The instant before, which always seems longer than it is.

“I’m coming,” he warned, teeth clenched.

I didn’t move away.

I kept the rhythm, kept him in, and when it came I took it all. The first spurt hit the back of my throat, hot, thick, so much I nearly choked. The second filled my mouth. The third leaked out at the corner. A hot, heavy wave filled my throat and made me swallow twice and cough once, and still I didn’t let him go. I stayed there until he was done completely, until I felt the tension in his hips ease and his breathing return to human, feeling his cock throb in my mouth with every beat.

Only then did I let him go.

I opened my mouth to show him what was left inside, the white cum on my tongue, and then I swallowed while looking at him. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I licked what remained on his skin, on the base, on his balls, all of it. Not for any particular reason, just because I wanted to and that was reason enough. I sucked the head one last time, very softly, and he jerked at the sensitivity.

I smiled with my mouth still shining.

***

I stayed leaning against his leg for a while, not speaking. He didn’t speak either. The room sounded only with our recovering breaths and the almost inaudible murmur of the air conditioning. Outside, somewhere on the floor, someone shut a door.

“You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he said at last. It wasn’t a question.

“Quite a while,” I answered.

He laughed. So did I.

It was the first time we’d laughed together in person, and it was exactly as I’d imagined: easy, effortless, as if we’d been doing it forever.

I got up, went to the bathroom, turned on the cold tap, and splashed my face. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was half undone from the tie-up, my lips swollen and red, a thread of saliva and semen still on my chin that I wiped away with a towel, my eyes with makeup smeared and still a little wet. I looked exactly how I felt.

Good. Completely good. Fucked in the mouth and wanting more.

When I went back into the room, R had made space for me on the bed. I lay down beside him without thinking too hard about whether it was a good idea or a bad one. Sometimes things happen on their own and there’s no need to justify them with anything.

We stayed quiet for a while. His hand was near mine on the sheets, not quite touching, a centimeter away. I noticed. I let it be.

“Will you stay a while?” he asked.

“A while,” I said.

And I stayed much longer than a while. And that was exactly what I wanted too.