My Confession About the Night at the Airport

We had been apart for seven days, and my body had been counting every minute. Mateo had traveled to Lima for work, and while he was fighting his way through presentations and meetings, I was fighting the silence of the empty bed, the space he left on the left side, and a desire that grew thick, almost physical, every time I opened his drawer and smelled the old T-shirt he wore on Sundays.

I had masturbated every night thinking about him. With my fingers, with the blue vibrator he had given me for my thirtieth birthday, with the pillow squeezed between my thighs like a teenager. No orgasm was enough. I came by myself in less than five minutes, and ten minutes later I already had my hand between my legs again, my pussy wet, looking for something no fantasy quite managed to give me. I needed his cock. Period. I needed to feel it hard, pushing inside me; I needed to suck it until I gagged; I needed him to grab me by the hair and fill my mouth with cum.

The day he came back, I got my period.

Today of all days. Right now.

Any other time I would have complained, taken it as some joke my body was playing on me. But that afternoon something different happened: instead of cutting off my desire, the cramps turned it into something else. Every contraction reminded me that I was alive between my legs, and every hour that passed left me more tense, more impatient, more brazen.

At six in the evening, I decided not to tell him anything. I was going to pick him up at the airport, and he was going to discover it on his own—with his body, his tongue, whatever he felt like using.

I put on the red dress. The one he had given me for my last birthday, which I never wore out to dinner because it was too tight around my hips. That night it fit perfectly. I lined my eyes, painted my lips a red darker than the dress, and slipped on a pair of black heels that forced me to walk slowly, measuring every step. Under the dress I wore no bra. Just a tiny black lace thong that would be soaked with a mixture of blood and wetness in two hours. I looked at myself in the mirror. If he sees me like this, he won’t make it home.

***

Carrasco Airport was cold and full of tired people coming back from somewhere. I waited for him against a pillar, my legs crossed, my bag hanging from my shoulder, and a knot in the pit of my stomach. I had gone seven days without seeing him. Seven days without hearing his voice in my ear, without feeling the weight of his hand on the nape of my neck when he kissed me, without having him inside me.

When he came through the arrivals doors, I saw him before he saw me. He walked with the weary slowness of a long flight, his blue shirt slightly wrinkled, his suitcase in one hand and his sunglasses hooked onto his collar. It took him two seconds to find me. When he saw me, he stopped dead.

“Jesus,” he said softly, already pressed against me. “Did you dress like that to come pick me up?”

“What do you think?” I replied, leaning against him so he could feel everything I had been feeling for a week.

He kissed me right there, in front of the baggage carousel, his mouth slightly open and one firm hand at the base of my back, pressing me against him. I felt his cock hard against my hip, pushing through his pants as if it had a life of its own. I slipped my hand between our bodies and squeezed it through the fabric, not caring about the people around us. I felt how thick and tense it was, ready to burst. I smiled against his mouth.

“Let’s go now,” I murmured. “My pussy’s been wet since I left the house.”

A soft moan escaped against my ear.

“Don’t tell me that here.”

“I’ll tell you wherever the hell I want.”

***

The drive home seemed endless. We lived in Pocitos, half an hour from the airport if there was no traffic, and that night there was traffic. Mateo drove with one hand while the other held my right thigh, his fingers moving beneath my dress whenever we stopped at a traffic light. I let him. More than that, I provoked him, parting my knees slightly so he would understand that there were no limits that night.

At a long red light, I grabbed his hand and slipped it between my legs, over my panties. I placed it right there, on the soaked lace. I felt his fingers tense.

“You’re soaking wet,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I told you.”

“I’m going to crash.”

“So?”

He laughed and pressed his open palm against me, without putting his fingers inside, just applying pressure to my clitoris through the lace. I closed my eyes and bit my lip. The light turned green, and he had to pull his hand away to get moving. I remained with my legs open, my dress hiked halfway up my thigh, my mouth dry.

“Did you miss me a lot?” he asked on a long straightaway.

“A lot,” I said, taking his hand to lift it again. “I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“When we get there.”

He glanced at me. Let him wonder. I took out my phone and started texting my sister as if nothing were happening, while he drove with his jaw clenched and a bulge distorting his trousers.

When we parked in the building’s garage, I got out without waiting for him. I rode the elevator with him behind me, feeling his breath on the nape of my neck, without touching each other. That restraint was part of the game too. Opening the apartment door was the last civilized thing we did that night.

***

As soon as he closed the door, he pushed me against it. The suitcase was left lying in the middle of the living room. His mouth sought mine with an urgency that no longer concealed anything, and his hands traveled up my thighs, lifting my dress until he felt, beneath the lace of my panties, what I had been hiding throughout the entire trip. He slid two fingers beneath the fabric and pulled them out a second later, red, glistening, wet to the knuckles.

He looked at them. Then he looked at me.

He didn’t care either.

“You’ll explain later,” he murmured against my mouth, then brought his stained fingers to his lips and sucked them without taking his eyes off me. I nearly collapsed right there.

“Mateo, you pig,” I said, and it was the greatest compliment I could give him.

“All yours, all mine,” he replied. “I don’t care what color it is.”

He lifted me into the air. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my heels hitting his thighs. He carried me like that, with me clinging to him, all the way to the bedroom. He left me on the bed and stood there, watching me, taking off his shirt button by button without hurrying. The light coming in from the street outlined his body in lines and shadows. When he lowered his trousers and boxer briefs, his cock sprang out hard and thick, a transparent drop hanging from the tip. My mouth watered.

“You’re a real problem tonight,” he said.

“And you?” I answered, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking him in both hands. “What are you going to do about it?”

I wrapped my fingers around him and brought him to my mouth. I ran my tongue over the tip, savoring the salty drop, and watched his eyes as I took him all the way in. A gasp escaped him. I swallowed him little by little until I felt him against the back of my throat, and stayed there, arching my tongue against the frenulum, swallowing saliva around his cock without pulling away.

“Fuck,” he groaned, grabbing my head with both hands.

I started sucking him eagerly, noisily, without a shred of shame. I moved my head up and down to the rhythm he set with his hands in my hair, choking myself on him until my eyes filled with tears, pulling him out with a wet smack and running my tongue over his balls, one and then the other, taking them into my mouth to suck them too. Threads of saliva ran down his chin. His cock gleamed all over, wet and red, pulsing in his hand when he gripped the base and masturbated it against my tongue.

“Enough,” he said at last, pulling my hair back. “If you keep that up, I’ll come on your face, and I want to fuck you.”

“Come whenever you want.”

“Inside. Inside tonight.”

He pulled me close again and kissed me deeply, his mouth still full of the taste of himself. Then he moved down my neck, along my collarbone, over the fabric of the dress, until he found the side tie. He pulled. The dress gave way and slipped down to my waist, exposing my breasts. His mouth trembled when he saw them.

“A week thinking about this,” he murmured.

He leaned down and began kissing them unhurriedly, his lips closing over each nipple with a patience that made me die. I grabbed his hair and pushed him against me, asking for more with sounds I no longer controlled. My nipples reacted to every caress, hard, sensitive, sore from all the accumulated desire. He sucked one while pinching the other between two fingers, twisting it slowly, measuring how hard he could squeeze before drawing a cry from me.

“Harder,” I begged.

And he obeyed. He bit gently, right at the limit, and a shiver ran all the way down my back and between my legs, where something was already happening that I could no longer hide from him.

His hands kept moving downward. He removed my dress and panties, everything, while I surrendered as if it were the first time. The panties landed on the floor, a crumpled red-and-black ball. When he knelt between my legs and lowered his head, I hesitated for a second. What if he still doesn’t like it? But it was already too late to stop him.

He parted my lips with his thumbs. He stared at me there for a second, as if studying the landscape, then pressed his mouth to me with his tongue before looking up. He licked me in long, slow strokes from bottom to top, flattening his whole tongue against my pussy as if he had all the time in the world. I grabbed his hair and arched my back, letting him go as far as he wanted. He pushed his tongue inside me, withdrew it, brought it up to my clitoris, and stayed there, moving it in quick circles while he slid two fingers inside me and curled them against my G-spot. Ten seconds passed. Fifteen.

Then he stopped.

He lifted his face and looked at me. His mouth and chin were stained, his lips gleaming with a red different from my lipstick. His entire mustache had been dyed. A nervous laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

“Mateo, you look like a clown,” I said.

He glanced at himself in the wardrobe mirror, let out a low laugh, and lowered his head again, this time without stopping. He likes it. He licked me more eagerly than before, with no respect whatsoever for what he was doing. He sucked my clitoris between his lips, tugged it gently, released it, and took it back into his mouth. His fingers went in and out with a wet, obscene sound that filled the room. I closed my eyes. My hands clutched the sheets. I dug my heels into his back, then remembered I was still wearing them and tried to take them off, but he grabbed my ankles and left them on, crossing my legs over his shoulders.

“Like this,” he murmured against my pussy, his breath making me shiver. “Don’t move.”

He increased the pace. He pulled out his soaked fingers and ran them over my asshole, drawing circles there with the tip while he kept eating me. The wave began in my feet and reached my throat, and when I exploded, I did it with a scream that must have been heard throughout the whole floor. I shook all over against his mouth, squeezing his head between my thighs, squirting over him without being able to do anything to stop it.

***

It took me a long minute to come back to myself. When I opened my eyes, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at me with a tired, proud smile, his cock still hard between his legs, visibly throbbing. I sat up, pushed him onto his back, and straddled him.

“I want you to watch me,” I said.

“I’m watching you.”

I took his cock in one hand and positioned it against my entrance. I rubbed it there for a while, soaking it, sliding it between my lips without letting it in yet. He tried to thrust upward, and I lifted myself so he couldn’t.

“Stay still,” I told him. “When I say.”

“You’re a fucking bitch.”

“Uh-huh.”

I lowered myself slowly. I was so slippery that he slid in effortlessly, and we both made the same sound at the same time—that kind of restrained moan that escapes when something fits exactly the way it’s supposed to. I felt him fill me completely, pressing against the back, reaching places nothing else could reach. I stayed still for a second, sitting on him, feeling him pulse inside me.

I began to move. Slowly at first, then faster, my hands braced on his chest, my thighs burning, my head thrown back. My breasts bounced against his face, and he reached up to grab them, squeezing them while I rode him.

“More,” I begged. “Faster.”

He gripped my waist and set the rhythm, lifting his hips to meet me on every downward stroke. Each thrust made a loud sound, a wet smack between our bodies, skin striking skin. The bed creaked. The white sheet, the one I had put on that very afternoon after changing it while thinking of him, was no longer white. A broad, dark stain had formed beneath me, growing every time he pulled out and plunged back in, dripping. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. That was my last rational thought before my second orgasm caught me by surprise and left me breathless. I clenched all around him, felt everything inside me contract, squeezing his cock with my pussy as I fell forward.

I collapsed onto him, panting, his cock still inside me. I kissed his neck, his jaw, his stained lips. He returned my kisses with a calm that had nothing to do with the brutal rhythm of a minute earlier.

“Turn over,” he told me softly. “I want to fuck you from behind.”

***

I got on all fours, my forearms on the pillow and my face buried in the sheet, my ass raised high for him. I felt him position himself behind me, felt him move my hair away from my back. He ran his open hand over one cheek and squeezed it hard. Then he gave me a sharp slap that made me jump.

“Stay still,” he said.

His fingers prepared me slowly, without hurrying. First two in my pussy, all the way in, moving inside me. Then one, wet with my own juices, against the other hole, pushing little by little and loosening me. I knew exactly what was coming. I wanted it.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.

“You tell me,” I answered with my mouth against the sheet.

He pushed. I felt the burning first, then the weight, then that strange sensation of being opened and filled at the same time. I closed my eyes. Mateo moved slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until he was completely inside and we both stayed still, breathing. Don’t move. If I move, I’ll die.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Move,” I told him.

He moved. Gently at first, then harder, his hands planted on my hips, his thrusts making the bed creak in a way I would have to investigate tomorrow. He grabbed a lock of my hair and pulled my head back, arching me. With his other hand, he reached underneath me, found my clitoris, and began rubbing it in circles while thrusting all the way into me in one push. I buried my face in the pillow so I wouldn’t scream. I felt heat rising everywhere, as if he were burning me from the inside. Every time he withdrew his cock, I felt it dripping; every time he thrust back in, it made a new sound, more obscene and wetter than the last.

“You’re so red,” he panted behind me. “Your cunt is wrecked.”

“Wreck it,” I answered. “Fuck me harder.”

He sped up. He drove his whole hips into me, his balls striking my clitoris, his cock entering to the very last fraction of an inch. I felt his stomach hitting my buttocks. I felt his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks.

“I’m going to come,” he warned.

“Here,” I told him. “Inside me. Fill me completely.”

I heard him exhale sharply. He thrust twice more, each time deeper, then stayed hard inside me with a long moan that came from somewhere in his body I had never heard before. I felt the jolts of his orgasm, one after another, the hot release against the back, his cock pulsing inside me with every spurt. He held me like that for a few seconds, his hands trembling slightly, then slowly pulled out and collapsed beside me. A white strand mixed with red ran down my thighs and stained the sheet even more.

I collapsed too. My cheek rested on his chest. His hand lay in my hair. The room smelled of salt and bodies and a metallic scent that was unmistakably mine, and of semen, and of us.

***

“This got me way too turned on,” I murmured afterward, laughing softly. “We should do it more often.”

“With you bleeding?”

“Uh-huh.”

He looked at me. He laughed. He kissed me for a long time, not caring that my mouth still held traces of him and his still held traces of me. This is what we are, isn’t it?

“I missed you so much,” he told me. “A week is too long.”

“Me too.”

I curled up against him. I ran my hand over his chest, his stomach, until I found his cock again, soft now, wet with both of us. I stroked it gently, without any intention, just to touch him. But at some point, while following his breathing, I felt that the desire hadn’t gone away. It was there again, awake and insolent, as if my body wouldn’t let me rest that night. The cock in my hand began to respond too, slowly growing thicker between my fingers.

“Mateo.”

“Mmm?”

“I want it again. But differently.”

He raised his head to look at me.

“How differently?”

“On top of me. Looking at me. Slowly.”

He said nothing. He moved, settled between my legs, and propped himself on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush me. I took his face in both hands. His travel-stubbled beard had grown in a little, and his eyes were tired, yet at that moment his was the most beautiful face in the world to me.

I took his cock and guided it inside myself. It entered slowly, inch by inch, finding me so wet and so loosened from what had come before that barely any pushing was needed. This time there was no hurry. This time all that mattered was the weight of his body over mine, his mouth near my ear, the soft sound of the bed accompanying us, that faint sloshing of two bodies that knew each other by heart. I wrapped my arms around his neck and crossed my legs around his waist, and we moved together without hurrying, as if we had the whole night. He withdrew almost all the way and then came back in to the hilt, a slow, deep, deliberate rhythm that made me feel every inch of his cock brushing the inner walls of me.

“I love you,” I told him, my voice breaking.

“I love you too.”

The sheet was already a red map. I didn’t care. Neither did he. Each thrust deepened it, each movement left a new mark, and I looked at the stain we had made beneath our bodies and felt it as a shared secret. No one will ever know this. Just us.

Mateo leaned down and kissed me for a long time, deeply, without separating our bodies. When he lifted his face, his lips were stained again. I smiled at him through the tears beginning to fall without my knowing why. He licked one with the tip of his tongue and kept thrusting inside me, never breaking the rhythm, looking straight into my eyes.

“All red,” he murmured. “All mine.”

Those words pushed me to the edge. I clung to his back with my nails and dug them in hard, felt everything inside me tighten, felt my pussy close around his cock in uncontrollable spasms, and when I exploded this time it was different: deeper, sadder, more tender. I cried without understanding why while he kept moving slowly, looking into my eyes, never speeding up, letting me pass completely through the orgasm.

He came inside me with a long sigh, resting his forehead against mine, his cock pulsing for the second time that night, releasing inside me with a slowness the first time had not had. Then he remained still, carefully holding me beneath him, both of us breathing as if we had run for miles.

***

I stayed like that, beneath him, for a long while. Listening to his heart. Feeling the air move in and out. Feeling the mixture of him and me seep out of me and run down the cleft of my buttocks onto the sheet. The red sheets beneath us seemed, in that moment, the most honest thing we had shared in years.

“You’re incredible,” he told me when he finally moved to one side.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

He laughed. I rested against his chest, drew a circle on his skin with my finger, and for a moment I thought about never telling anyone this. Some things can only happen between two people.

But today, months later, I sat down to write it. Because some things hurt less when they are told, and because someone, somewhere, is living through the same thing and needs to know she isn’t the only one.