Seven Days Without Him and My Body Couldn’t Take It Anymore

The arrivals hall at El Dorado airport had that mix of coffee and disinfectant that always made me nervous. I’d been standing in front of the automatic doors for forty minutes, ignoring people’s glances, phone in hand even though I wasn’t looking at it. I didn’t need distractions. I just needed those doors to open.

Matías had been in Medellín for work for seven days. Seven days that felt like seven weeks. And my body — without asking my permission — had decided to celebrate his absence with the arrival of my period. What was normally a minor inconvenience had turned, over those days of waiting, into something else: a constant presence, a physical reminder of the desire that had nowhere to go. I’d masturbated three times in those seven days and none of it had helped. My fingers weren’t his cock. My phantom tongue wasn’t his mouth. My cunt throbbed with a hunger that no vibrator had been able to calm.

I’d put on the black dress. The one he always asked for. Short, tight, with a neckline that left little to the imagination. Underneath I was wearing lingerie that wasn’t for the airport, but for what came after: a lace thong soaked before I’d even left the apartment, and a bra that opened in front so he wouldn’t have to struggle with clasps. Every time I moved I felt the brush of fabric against already-hard nipples and thought about his hands, his mouth, about how he was going to fuck me as soon as we shut the door.

The doors opened and there he was.

I recognized him before I saw his face. The way he walked, the broad shoulders, the suitcase he was dragging along with that calm of his that sometimes drove me crazy and other times felt like the most reassuring thing in the world. When he finally saw me, he smiled in that way that makes me forget how language works.

—My God —was the first thing he said when he got close—. You look amazing.

I didn’t answer with words. I hugged him first and kissed him after, not caring that people were around us. I shoved my tongue into his mouth without shame, and felt his hands on my back, sliding slowly down to grab my ass under the dress, pulling me against him with a firmness that told me everything I needed to know about how his week had gone too. I felt his hard cock against my stomach, thick even through the fabric of his pants, and a small moan slipped out against his mouth.

—We’re leaving —I said against his mouth.

—Yeah —he answered, and that was all that was needed.

***

The ride to Chapinero was a silent negotiation of hands and looks. I was driving. He had his hand on my thigh since we left the parking lot, and somewhere between Calle 26 and Carrera Séptima he’d climbed high enough that I had to actively focus on not swerving the car. His fingers brushed the edge of my thong and stayed there, teasing, while I tried to breathe normally.

—Long week —he said.

—Very long —I confirmed.

—How are you feeling?

—On my period.

There was a two- or three-second pause.

—And? —he asked.

—And nothing. What you heard.

I felt his fingers squeeze my thigh gently and then slide up, parting the lace of my thong and running one finger over my clit. I choked back a moan and gripped the steering wheel.

—You’re soaked —he murmured.

—I’ve been soaked for seven days, asshole.

He laughed and shoved his finger all the way in, not pulling it out, moving it slowly while I tried not to hit a bus. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

When we got to the apartment I’d barely shut the door before his lips were on my neck and one hand was under my dress. I dropped everything — my bag, the keys, my composure — and turned to face him. I kissed him with that seven-day hunger, no breaks, no protocol, biting his lip, searching for his tongue with mine. I dragged his hand down to his fly and squeezed his cock over his pants. It was hard as stone.

—I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk —I whispered in his ear.

—That was my line —he replied, and he lifted me as if I weighed nothing, with my legs around his hips and his cock pressed against my cunt through our clothes, carrying me toward the bedroom with that ease that still surprises me after four years.

He set me down on the bed and stayed standing, looking at me. He unbuckled his belt without hurry, watching me as if he were undressing me with his eyes first.

—Can I? —he asked.

—Matías —I told him—. We’ve been together four years. Ask me that again and I swear I’ll throw you out.

He laughed and took off his shirt.

***

What followed was that mix of urgency and slowness that only happens when you’ve gone too long without seeing each other. His hands were impatient, but his lips were slow, and that contradiction had me completely undone. He took my dress off with almost exaggerated care, as if he didn’t want to break anything, though I would’ve preferred he tore it off me. He opened the bra in front, and a growl slipped out of him when he saw my tits. He went straight to one nipple and sucked hard, biting it just to the point where it hurt and was exactly what I needed.

—I’ve thought about you a lot —he said, with his mouth an inch from my chest.

—Prove it —I answered.

He did.

He stayed a long while with his mouth on my tits, alternating between one and the other, sucking, nibbling, licking around the nipple without touching it until I grabbed his head and shoved it into his mouth. With one hand he squeezed my other breast and with the other he started down my stomach, barely scratching me with his nails, leaving the exact trail of where his mouth would go next. I could feel the heat building between my legs, that specific tension the waiting had been building for days, my cunt wet and throbbing with need. When he finally went lower, kissing my abdomen, my sides, the edge of my thong, I didn’t have much vocabulary left. I just spread my legs and grabbed his hair.

He pulled the thong off with his teeth, tossing it aside on the bed. I know exactly when he understood, because he paused. Briefly. Just one second, to look at my soaked, bloody cunt.

I lifted my head to look at him.

—If you want, we can stop —I said.

—Who said that? —he answered, and buried his face between my thighs.

His tongue went in first, long and broad, licking me from my ass to my clit in one sweep that made my hips lift off the bed. He stayed there, playing with my clit with the tip of his tongue, sucking it, circling it, while two fingers slid into my cunt up to the knuckles. I was so wet they sank in without resistance, and the sound —that obscene splashing of fingers going in and out— had me on the edge in seconds. The combination of all that accumulated desire with the particular hypersensitivity that comes with my period pushed me to the limit sooner than I expected.

—Like that, like that, don’t stop, asshole, don’t stop —I moaned, my thighs trembling around his head.

He increased the pressure of his tongue on my clit and curved his fingers inside me, pressing that spot he knows by heart. I clung to his head with both hands and let go, screaming without caring about the neighbors, clenching around his fingers in waves that never seemed to end. He took my orgasm like the best compliment in the world, not taking his mouth away, licking me clean while I kept trembling.

When he lifted his gaze to me, the image was unmistakable. His mouth and chin were smeared with blood and discharge, and he looked at me with an expression that was part satisfied, part amused, his chin shining.

—You’ve got something on your face —I told him, still breathless.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked down at it. Then he looked at me.

—I look like an extra in a horror movie —he said.

—Or an extra in an erotic horror movie —I corrected.

He laughed harder. So did I. That’s what I love most about him: that he can be in the middle of something completely intense and still be himself, without poses or performance.

He got up to fetch a towel from the bathroom and came back with his cock out, hard, red, pointing at me. When he looked at me in that way I know so well, I was already opening my legs again.

—Shall we keep going? —he asked.

—That’s another unnecessary question —I said, and pulled him toward me.

***

I pushed him down onto his back on the bed and grabbed his cock with both hands before riding him. I licked it from the base to the tip, sucking the glans smeared with my own blood, and then took it all the way into my mouth, moaning around a mouthful of dick. He let out a long curse and grabbed my hair.

—If you keep doing that I’m going to come in your mouth —he warned me, voice rough.

—No —I told him, letting him go with a wet pop—. You’re going to come where I decide.

I rode him. I needed that control after a week without having it. I grabbed his cock and eased it into me slowly, centimeter by centimeter, feeling every vein, every millimeter, sinking down until I had him buried balls-deep. I stayed still for a moment with him inside me, just feeling my cunt throbbing around his dick, not moving, and I saw on his face the effort it took not to take the reins and start fucking me.

—Don’t —I told him—. Let me do it.

He closed his eyes and obeyed, his hands gripping my hips but not moving me.

I started slowly. I rose until only the tip was inside and then dropped hard, seating myself all the way, crushing his balls against my ass. The angle from above is different, fuller, and after seven days each sensation carried extra weight. His cock hit deep inside me, against the back wall, and with every drop he tore a moan out of me that I didn’t bother to hide. The white sheets already had traces of my period, red stains spreading with every movement, and far from bothering me there was something about it that felt honest. We had nothing to hide or disguise. Just two bodies fucking the way bodies work, no theater, no filters, blood and sweat and discharge mixed together on the bed.

I took one hand to my clit and started rubbing it while I rode him, gradually picking up speed, bouncing on him with my tits jiggling in front of my face. His hands squeezed my hips but didn’t direct me, just accompanied me. I heard his breathing change, turn shorter, faster, felt his cock swell a little more inside me, and I knew that if I didn’t slow down we’d get to the end too soon. I stopped, sitting on him with his cock buried to the hilt, deliberately squeezing him with my cunt.

—Not yet —I said.

He opened his eyes. He had that look of total concentration that’s unsettled me since the first day.

—You’re awful —he said.

—I know —I answered, and lowered myself slowly, leaving a trail of pink fluids down his stomach and thighs.

***

What came next was different. Rougher. More direct. I got on all fours on the bed, ass up and face pressed into the mattress, and let him take the control I’d been holding until then. I felt his hands spread my ass cheeks and his cock brush my cunt back and forth before he drove in with one whole thrust that tore a muffled scream out of me against the sheet.

—Holy fuck —he groaned.

His hands on my hips set the rhythm this time, tugging me back with each thrust to drive me in all the way, and it was exactly the rhythm I wanted. Hard. Deep. No mercy. The kind you can’t ask for in exact words but that he knows after four years of learning me by heart. He was fucking me with his cock sliding in and out wet, dripping down my thighs, and with every thrust his balls hit my clit. I could hear the wet sound of our bodies slamming together, the obscene splash of my bloody cunt swallowing his cock whole.

—Harder —I begged, my voice broken into the pillow—. Break me.

He grabbed my hair with one hand and my ass with the other and fucked me the way I’d asked, faster, harder, until the bed was hitting the wall. His fingers found their way to the other place, using as guidance what was already between us —his fingers were red and slick—, and he put one and then two into my ass while he kept pounding my cunt with his cock. The feeling of being full in both places at once made me bite my arm so I wouldn’t scream too loud. The neighbors had already sent us a message once. We didn’t want a repeat of that experience, though at that moment I didn’t give a fuck.

—I’m going to come —I warned him—. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

—Come all over my cock —he growled in my ear, leaning over my back—. Soak it completely.

I came again before he did, with a scream muffled by the sheet, clenching his cock in spasms that made him groan on the other side. I stayed trembling with my forehead on the mattress while he gave a few more thrusts, each one more erratic, and then came too, emptying himself inside me with a sound that wasn’t acted but completely genuine, a long, rough groan I felt at the nape of my neck. I felt his hot cum flooding me inside, mixing with everything else.

He stayed still for a moment, still buried to the hilt. So did I. When he pulled out slowly, a thick thread of semen and blood slid down my thigh to the sheet.

Silence.

The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled with anything.

***

I lay back against his chest. The sheets were a total mess — red, dark, shining stains, some already drying at the edges — and I didn’t give a single fuck. Outside, Bogotá kept up its constant noise of a city that doesn’t know how to shut up, but inside the room it was something else.

—How was Medellín? —I asked eventually.

—Boring —he said—. The meetings went on for two extra days. The hotel was cold. The food was good but I ate it alone.

—Did you miss me?

—What do you think?

I pinched his side. He laughed and pulled me tighter against his chest.

We stayed a while without talking, recovering. His fingers were interlaced with mine and every so often he squeezed my hand for no apparent reason. It’s a gesture he’s always had, a tick of affection he probably doesn’t even realize he does. I know it by heart and it still moves something in me when I feel it.

—We need to change the sheets —he said.

—Tomorrow —I replied.

—Yeah —he agreed—. Tomorrow.

***

I don’t know how much time passed. At some point I fell asleep on his chest, and at another I woke up wanting to touch him again. I found him awake, staring at the ceiling, one hand behind his head and the other on my waist.

—Are you okay? —I asked.

—I’m very okay —he said—. I was thinking.

—About what?

—About how there are weeks when I wonder what I’m traveling for if everything that matters to me is here.

I didn’t answer with words. I climbed on top of him and kissed him calmly, without the urgency from before. This kiss was different: slower, calmer, more like the ones you give when there’s nothing left to prove and no rush left to meet. I felt his cock waking up again beneath me, brushing my still-sensitive cunt.

He answered the same way, with his hands on my face this time, holding me while I lowered my hips and took him into me again, all the way in, moaning softly against his mouth.

We fucked a second time that night, but differently: he carefully turned me over and I ended up on my back with him on top, looking at each other. His weight on top of me gave me that feeling of being completely held. He thrust slowly, all the way in, not pulling out all the way, moving his hips in circles that had me moaning low. I wrapped my legs around his waist and drove my heels into his ass to keep him deeper. No rushing. With the lights off and the city noise in the background like music we no longer heard, and with our mouths pressed together most of the time, breathing the same air, moaning into each other.

I came again, softer, longer, clenching around him as he came too, still on top of me, his forehead resting against mine.

When we were done I stayed glued to him until I felt his breathing turn even and deep.

I thought about the trips ahead. About the next weeks of waiting. About how desire survives distance and how there’s something strange and precious in that: that after four years, that hunger still exists when he leaves and that enormous relief when he comes back.

The sheets were a disaster. Tomorrow I’d change them.

That night I wasn’t moving from there for anything in the world.