My Confession: What Happened When He Came Back From the Trip
I’d been counting the days for seven days straight. The first two passed almost without my noticing, busy with work and that automatic routine that switches on by itself when I’m alone: microwave, a show in bed, phone face-up on the pillow. On the third, I started noticing the empty half of the mattress, that space where Nicolás’s legs go and which has a different temperature from the rest. By the fourth day I was already struggling to concentrate in any meeting that lasted more than ten minutes. The fifth and sixth I spent on autopilot, with my hand between my thighs at three in the morning trying to hold out without him and always ending the same way, biting my lip with two fingers inside me and knowing it wasn’t the same. And on the seventh, a Friday night, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror in the tight dark green dress he likes, putting on the final touch of lipstick, telling myself that in less than two hours I was going to see him.
I was on my period too. I found out that very morning, when I woke up and felt that familiar heaviness low in my belly. Instead of the usual frustration that comes with that moment, I felt something else: an intensity I recognized from other times, a desire that multiplied with the days of absence and with the heat that comes with that part of the cycle. It was as if my body had made its own decisions without asking me. My cunt was swollen and sensitive, throbbing under my underwear since noon, and I had that brutal certainty that I needed a cock inside me with an urgency that admitted no argument.
Ezeiza Airport at ten at night has that artificial light that flattens everything out. I stood near the international arrivals doors with my phone in hand and my eyes on the flight screen. Nicolás’s flight number had said “Landed” for twenty minutes. I figured it would be another twenty before he came out, between immigration and the baggage carousel. I leaned against the metal railing and waited for him.
In the green dress and the leather boots that came up to my knees, I felt put together and absurdly nervous, as if I were about to meet someone I didn’t know rather than the man I’ve shared an apartment with for three years. That always happens to me after we’ve been apart for more than four days: there’s a moment of reunion that feels almost like a first time, a strange overlap of the present and the memory of first times.
When Nicolás appeared among the crowd, I recognized him by his shoulders before his face. He was walking with his backpack slung diagonally across him and his jacket folded over his forearm. His hair was tousled and he had that twelve-hours-on-a-plane face, and even so I saw him from far away and felt that tug in my chest I don’t remember when it started but can’t imagine without him either.
“Hi,” was the only thing I could come up with when he reached me.
“Hi, you,” he said, and lifted me off the ground for a second.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face in his shoulder. He smelled like the plane and that cedar soap he uses, and having him close made me feel something that had been clenched all week starting to loosen. We kissed slowly, in the middle of the terminal with people passing around us. A woman with a suitcase accidentally bumped into us. Neither of us moved.
“How was the trip?” I asked when we pulled apart.
“Long. Everything was very long.”
“Worth it?”
He looked at me with that expression that mixes exhaustion with something else.
“This part is worth it.”
***
In the car, as we crossed the highway back into the city, my hand rested on his over the gearshift. Nicolás watched the road and every so often squeezed my fingers. We talked about his trip, about a meeting that had gone better than expected, about how he’d eaten badly all week and wanted something hot. We talked about normal things, about the usual things, but beneath that conversation there was another one that still hadn’t started and that we both knew would start soon.
“I missed you a lot,” he said at one point, out of nowhere.
“Me too,” I answered.
“A lot?”
“Too much, almost.”
He looked at me for a second, taking his eyes off the road, and in that look I saw the same thing I had in mine. I let go of the gearshift and moved my hand to my knee, and from there I slowly slid it up, under the dress, resting it directly against the inner part of my thigh. He squeezed, without looking at me, and dug his fingers into my flesh.
“If you keep that up I’m going to crash,” he said.
“I’m not keeping it up.”
But I did. I stroked the bulge over his pants a couple of times, feeling it harden beneath my palm, and then I lowered my hand again because I wanted to arrive intact too. I looked forward again and we didn’t say anything else until he parked in front of the building. In the elevator we kissed with our mouths open, tongues tangling, and he slid a hand down my neckline and squeezed one breast over my bra until I let out a short noise. Six floors are enough, if you’re in the mood.
***
Inside the apartment, with the door closed and Nicolás’s backpack still in the hallway, he pressed me up against the wall in the entryway. We ended up face to face, very close, with the corridor light on and the apartment silent behind us. He shoved his pelvis against my belly and I felt his hard cock pushing against the fabric of his pants, searching for me.
“I have to tell you something,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m on my period.”
Two seconds of silence. Then he shrugged.
“So?”
That was all. Those two letters said everything. Three years together have that advantage: there are things that don’t need any more explanation than that. I took his hand and led him to the bedroom.
I left the bedside lamp on. I didn’t want darkness that night: I wanted to see him, to remember every detail of what his body was like after having had him only in memory for a week. Nicolás sat on the edge of the bed and took off his boots with that calm that always drives me a little crazy. I watched him do it from where I stood, that utterly domestic gesture, and felt a mix of tenderness and desire whose proportions were completely new to me. Then he stood up, took off his shirt, unbuckled his belt, pulled down his pants and boxers in one motion, and his cock sprang out hard and red, the tip already shining. I stopped thinking about tenderness.
“Come here,” I said.
He lifted my dress to my waist and pulled it off over my head. I was left in my bra, panties, and high boots, and he paused for a second to look at me before throwing me onto the bed. He took off my boots one by one, with his mouth already on my ankle, my calf, the inside of my knee. He kept going up my thighs until he reached the edge of my underwear, and there he sank his teeth into the fabric and pulled downward.
“I brought the towel,” I said.
“Later.”
“Nico.”
“Later, I said.”
What followed was long and unhurried. We started in the only way that makes sense after a week apart: slowly, going over something we know by heart but still have to trace again so we don’t miss a single detail. His hands on my back, my hands on his. The exact way we fit when we’re lying on our sides. The weight of his body when he moves over mine. His cock resting against my hip, hard, marking my skin as he kissed my neck.
“I missed you,” he said against my neck.
“I know,” I answered.
“Do you know, or did you feel it too?”
“I felt it too. Every night.”
“Every night?”
“Every night. With my hand.”
He growled against my skin and bit my shoulder. I lowered my hand and took his cock, closing my fingers around it, and he let out his breath all at once. It was hot, hard as stone, with that vein running from top to bottom that I know by heart. I moved it slowly, up and down, pressing the tip with my thumb until he pulled my hand away.
“If you keep going I’m not going to last,” he said.
“Then let me.”
I slid downward. I ran my tongue from the base to the tip, collecting the drop already on the head, and then I took him all the way into my mouth. Nicolás threw his head back and let out a long moan. I gripped the base with my hand and started sucking his cock hard, with my mouth wide open, taking it out and pushing it back in to the very back of my throat, saliva dripping from the corner of my lips. He put a hand on the back of my neck, not to force me, just to feel the movement.
“Like that,” he said. “Like that, my love. I’ve spent the whole fucking week thinking about this mouth.”
I answered with a moan with his cock in my mouth, and that vibration made him squeeze the back of my neck harder. I pulled off for a second to breathe and licked his balls, one and then the other, while I kept moving his cock with my hand.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop, stop. My turn.”
He came down slowly. First lips on my neck, then on my collarbone, then on the edge of my bra. He unclasped it with one hand, something I still don’t fully understand how he does, and sucked my nipples one after the other until he left them hard and red. And he kept going down. When he reached my cunt there was no underwear to move aside: I wasn’t wearing any anymore.
There was a second of pause. I looked down at him. He lifted his gaze to me and instead of discomfort or hesitation I saw something completely different: a pinpoint, concentrated fire I know well and know exactly what it means.
“Hi,” I said, unable to stop smiling.
He laughed. A short, genuine laugh.
“Hi,” he replied, and lowered his head.
I’m not going to lie: it was something I’d thought about during those seven days. About how he’d react when that moment came, about whether he’d make some gesture that ruined the mood. Nicolás didn’t make any gesture. He opened my cunt lips with his fingers and ran his tongue over me in one long stroke, from bottom to top, not caring about the taste of iron, not hesitating. When he reached my clit he stayed there, sucking it with his lips, tracing circles with the tip of his tongue. Then he slid in two fingers and started moving them inside me, curled upward, looking for the spot he knows. I grabbed the headboard with one hand and his hair with the other, and pushed his face against my cunt.
“Don’t stop,” I told him. “Don’t stop, please.”
He took his time with the concentration he puts into the things that matter, and I stopped watching him and focused only on what I felt, which was intense and continuous and without pauses. His face was smeared with me, his beard shining, and he didn’t care.
I had to stop him before he got to the end. I wanted him inside me first; that was what I needed most in that moment.
“Fuck me,” I said. “Now. I can’t take it anymore.”
He readjusted, lay down over me, grabbed his cock with his hand and ran it up and down my slit, smearing the tip, until he set it at my entrance and pushed. When he entered in one go, all the way to the bottom, I let out the air I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and gave a short cry against his shoulder.
“Look,” I said.
He looked at me.
We stayed like that for a while, moving slowly and looking at each other, something that in other circumstances feels too intense for me to hold but that that night felt exactly the way it was supposed to feel. I felt every inch of cock going in and out, with that extra friction you get when the cunt is like that, loaded, swollen, wet inside and out. Nicolás slid out and back in with a slowness that was killing me, and every time he sank all the way in I tightened my legs around his waist and dug my heels into him.
“Harder,” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Harder, Nico, please.”
He lowered his mouth to my ear.
“Easy. We’ve got all night.”
But he sped up. He started fucking me harder, bracing his hands on either side of my head, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in in one thrust, making the bed slap against the wall. I grabbed his ass with both hands and pushed him against me on every stroke.
The orgasm hit without my actively looking for it, built up little by little over the seven days and that intensity that doesn’t have an exact name. Long and deep, with my hands clamped on his shoulders and my back arched against the mattress, and my cunt clenching around his cock in waves while I moaned against his neck without being able to stop.
When I could speak again, he still hadn’t finished.
“Turn over,” he said, his voice changed.
I turned over. I understood that he also had seven days built up that he wanted to get out somehow, and that now it was his turn to do it his way.
What came next was different in every way: the rhythm, the intensity, the way he moved. I was on my hands and knees, ass in the air, and he was behind me, kneeling, with his hands on my hips. He drove his cock back into me in one shove and this time he wasn’t slow. He fucked me hard, jerking me forward with every thrust, and I had to press my forehead into the pillow so I wouldn’t smash my head against the headboard. He put his left hand on the back of my neck and held me there against the mattress. The right one buried itself in my hip, fingers spread wide.
“This is how you wanted it all week, isn’t it?” he said behind me, his voice rough.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Like this, like this I wanted you. Fucking me like this.”
“Slut.”
“Yours.”
He gave me a sharp slap on the ass that rang through the whole room. Then another on the other side. I could feel his cock going all the way in every time, the wet sound of my cunt, the thick smell of sex and blood and the two of us together that had filled the room.
At one point I felt his fingers moving upward, toward the other hole, searching for a different point. I looked back over my shoulder.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He took two fingers to his mouth, coated them with saliva, and then slid them between my cheeks. He went slowly. It’s always slow in that case; we both know that well. First one finger, circling around, pressing just enough until it gave. Then the whole finger, moving it inside patiently, while his cock kept working my cunt with slower thrusts. Then two fingers.
“Breathe,” he said.
I breathed.
He pulled his cock out of my cunt, set it against my ass, and pushed just a little. It took us a while to find the right angle and pressure, with him advancing millimeter by millimeter, with me pushing back so it would go in, and when we reached the point where it worked I stayed still for a moment, breathing deeply, letting my body adjust to that dense sensation that mixes the initial pain with something that doesn’t have an easy name but that I recognize every time. Then he started moving and I moved with him, and the pain at the beginning turned into something else, into something full and constant that made it impossible to think about anything else.
I laid my forehead on my forearm and closed my eyes. I brought one hand to my cunt and started rubbing my clit while he fucked my ass, and that combination took me to the edge again in a matter of minutes.
“Seven days,” he said, almost to himself, his breathing completely changed now, thrusting faster and faster.
“Seven days,” I repeated.
By then it worked like a password between us. A shorthand way of saying everything we hadn’t been able to say to each other on the phone during the week because it would have sounded forced or weird or too explicit to be said like that, cold, through a screen.
“I’m about to come,” he warned.
“Inside.”
“Are you sure?”
“Inside, Nico. All the way inside.”
He sank all the way in, gripped my hips with both hands, and stayed there, trembling, while I felt his cock pulse and unload inside me in hot spurts. I let out a long moan and came a second time, pressing against his fingers, my whole body convulsing against the mattress.
When it was over, we stayed still for a while. He slipped out slowly, carefully, and collapsed onto his side. I settled beside him, my hair stuck to my forehead, and laid myself over his chest. Neither of us spoke for a while. All you could hear was the two of us breathing, still uneven, and the distant noise of traffic.
***
After a few minutes, with our breathing back to normal, Nicolás looked at the sheets. He looked at them in silence for a moment.
“Those are the Egyptian cotton ones,” he said.
“I know.”
“The ones your mom gave us.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“We’ll wash them tomorrow.”
“We’ll wash them tomorrow,” he agreed, and turned off the bedside light.
In the dark, with his arm under my neck and the heater making noise in the wall, I felt the apartment become the apartment again. Not the place where I’d slept alone for a week, but the place where the two of us live. That distinction, which I hadn’t known I was noticing until that moment, was enormous.
“What did you miss most?” I asked. “The long version you owe me.”
“Now you want the long version?”
“Now.”
It took him a moment to answer. When he did, his voice had that low texture it gets when he’s tired but not yet sleepy.
“This,” he said. “Exactly this. The bed, the darkness, you here.”
“That’s not the long version.”
“It’s the honest version.”
I held him tighter. He kissed my hair, and within a couple of minutes his breathing became smoother, more regular. He fell asleep before I did.
I stayed there for a while looking at the ceiling in the dark, listening to the sounds of the building, the muffled traffic coming from the avenue. I thought about the next few days, about how tomorrow was Saturday and we didn’t have any plans until Sunday afternoon. Enough time to recover the ground lost during the week, to have breakfast slowly, to do what needs doing when two people have spent several days not being in the same space.
I also thought that sometimes absence serves that purpose: to make the other person’s presence stop being air and become weighted reality again. To remind you that what you have is real and not just a habit that moves by itself.
I didn’t wake him to say that. I saved it for breakfast.
I curled up against his side, closed my eyes, and slept straight through until ten in the morning.