The Night a Stranger Made Me Forget My Ex

I was twenty-three when Sebastián left to do his master’s in Berlin. We had been inseparable for almost two years, and what I found hardest to accept was not the distance or the end of us, but the absence of that constant pleasure we had both grown used to. We were the kind of couple who couldn’t sit still. We saw each other every day, and it was rare for an afternoon not to end with his cock inside me in some position, exhausted and with my pussy still throbbing. We could spend hours locked in his room, stringing one fuck after another together, with no rush at all to leave. He knew me by heart: he knew how many fingers I liked inside me while I sucked him off, he knew the exact point to yank my hair so I’d come, he knew when to turn me over and fuck me in the ass without asking permission because he already knew I was going to say yes.

When he left, the silence was physical.

The first few months I tried on my own. It was enough to close my eyes and let memory do the work while I rubbed my clit with two fingers and slid the others inside me up to the knuckles. But there’s a limit to that, and I found mine without warning one night in March when no thought, no movement of my own hands, could give me what I needed. I ended up staring at the ceiling, fingers wet, frustrated and wide awake at two in the morning, with a dissatisfaction that no longer had a name, and I made a decision.

The next morning I downloaded the app.

It took me less than a week to match with someone who caught my attention in a different way. His profile had only a few photos, all indoors, and his bio had just one short line: «No complications.» He was forty-two, nineteen years older than me. He wasn’t the kind of man I would have imagined crossing paths with under other circumstances, but something about the way he wrote from the very first message made me keep replying. He didn’t flirt clumsily like men my age. He asked questions and listened. That was enough.

His name was Marcos.

—What are you looking for? —he asked me directly, without beating around the bush.

—Nothing serious —I replied—. Occasional company. A good fuck, to be honest.

—Good. I’m not looking for complications either. And I fuck well.

He worked rotating shifts at an industrial plant on the outskirts of the city, which limited our schedules. We spent three weeks talking before we could meet, and during those weeks the conversation escalated without either of us putting on the brakes. At first it was text messages, then voice notes, then photos. I sent him one of my shaved pussy with two fingers parting my lips, and he sent me one of his hard cock pressed against his stomach, thick, with a transparent drop at the tip that made me clamp my thighs together right there on the subway. One night, while I was waiting for a series to load on the sofa, I sent him a short video. The lights were off, my panties were aside, and my free hand was going in and out of me, the wet sound clearly audible over the silence of the living room. When he replied with a one-line message —I don’t know how you’re going to wait until we see each other, when you’re so soaked— I felt the time until that date stretch unbearably, and I ended up sliding three fingers into myself thinking about him, coming on the sofa without even taking off my skirt.

***

The night we met, I walked to his apartment from the subway. He lived on the fourth floor without an elevator, in a quiet neighborhood in the north of the city. I was wearing a dark skirt and knee-high boots, with no panties —I had decided that before leaving home— and while I was going up the stairs I realized my thighs were already wet halfway up. The anticipation had been building for days, accumulating in small doses through every message, and my body wasn’t hiding it.

Marcos opened the door barefoot, wearing a dark T-shirt and his hair a little tousled, as if he had been reading on the sofa. He was taller than I expected, with broad shoulders and that calmness in his movements you recognize in people who don’t need to prove anything. He didn’t say much when he opened the door, just stepped aside to let me in and closed the door slowly.

The apartment was neat and small, with shelves full of technical books and a floor lamp that cast a dim light over the living room. There was a glass of wine on the coffee table by the sofa, just one, half finished.

—Do you want anything? —he asked.

—No —I said—. Just you.

And that was the end of the formalities.

He kissed me slowly at first, one hand on my hip and the other on my jaw, and I could tell he wasn’t in a hurry. That was different. Sebastián had always been urgent, impatient. Marcos kissed me as if he had all the time in the world, as if he were measuring the effect of each movement before making the next. He gently pushed me toward the armchair and climbed on top of me, and when he slid his knee between mine and pressed right against my pussy, I felt through the fabric of my skirt how it was slipping because I was so wet. He noticed too. He smiled faintly against my mouth.

—No panties —he murmured—. Good girl.

He hiked my skirt up to my waist and ran two fingers through my slit, from bottom to top, very slowly, gathering the wetness and bringing it to my clit. He began making small circles, not pressing too hard, while he kept kissing my neck. I opened my legs wider without even realizing it.

—Stay still —he said quietly when I moved my hands toward his back.

I obeyed him. I don’t know exactly why, but I did.

He kissed my neck, my collarbones, the edge of my T-shirt. When he finally took it off, he did it slowly, without hurry. He unclasped my bra with one hand and sucked my nipples one after the other, barely biting them, tugging with his teeth until a moan slipped out of me. His hands were firm but precise, with nothing clumsy or nervous in his movements. One difference was beginning to become obvious: he knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew exactly what effect it had on me even before I noticed it myself.

I unbuttoned his trousers while he kept working my nipples and pulled his boxers down to his thighs. His cock sprang out hard, thick, bigger than the photos had suggested, with veins standing out along the shaft. I licked my palm and took him by the base, squeezing firmly, and he let out a low groan that made me clamp my thighs together.

I knelt in front of him when he sat on the edge of the sofa. I ran my tongue from the base to the tip, calmly, paying attention to his reactions. I licked his balls first, one and then the other, taking them fully in my mouth, and moved up the shaft, gathering the thick vein running underneath with the tip of my tongue. When I reached the glans, already beaded with pre-cum, I kissed it like you kiss a mouth, with my lips parted, and took him all the way in until I felt the tip hit the roof of my mouth. He didn’t say anything at first. He only rested his hand on my hair.

Then he closed it.

He didn’t shove me or force me, but he didn’t let me go either. He guided me with steady pressure that set the rhythm, burying his cock down my throat and holding me there, and when I tried to pull back to breathe, he waited just long enough before letting me. Saliva dripped from my chin in strings, running down onto my tits, and he used it to slide his cock deeper each time. Tears escaped from my eyes, not from pain but from effort, from the intensity of that control I hadn’t asked for and that, unexpectedly, turned me on more than it made me uncomfortable. I could feel my pussy gushing between my legs, so much that there was a stain in the carpet beneath me.

—Look at me while you suck my cock —he said.

I lifted my eyes and kept them there. He pulled his cock out of my mouth, rubbed it across my face, my lips, my cheeks, and shoved it back in all the way.

When he stood up, he took the rest of my clothes off, leaving me completely naked. He led me to the bedroom by the hand, unhurried.

***

The bed was rumpled on one side. He laid me on it and tugged at my ankles until I was near the edge, then knelt on the floor in front of me. He opened my legs fully, lifted them up with my feet resting on his shoulders, and stared at my open pussy in front of his face. He ran the pads of his fingers over my lips, parting them, pressing only slightly, gauging my response.

—How long have you been waiting for this? —he asked without looking up—. You’re dripping, fuck.

I didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question that required one.

When he lowered his mouth and I felt his tongue directly on my clit, the sound that came out of my throat was anything but discreet. There was too much buildup, too much contrast with what I had been trying to get on my own for weeks. He sucked my lips one by one, slid his tongue inside as far as he could, took it out and went back to my clit making slow circles, then faster, and then closed his lips around it and sucked. His fingers went in slowly at first, testing, two and then three, curving upward and hitting that exact spot on the inner wall that made my back arch. He started fucking me with his fingers with a firm motion while his tongue kept working with a concentration that left no room for thought. He knew the exact rhythm to keep me on the edge without letting me go over, and every time I began to tense my thighs and lift my hips, he eased up just enough to make me fall back. He drew it out longer than I would have wanted.

—Please —I told him, and my own voice surprised me—. Please, let me come.

—Not yet.

I pulled his hair. I closed my legs around his head. I didn’t want him moving a single inch from where he was. When he finally decided to let me go, he pressed his lips to my clit, drove his three fingers all the way in, and didn’t stop until he felt me clenching around them.

When I came, it was like breaking something that had been building for months. I screamed, my whole body shaking, and felt extra wetness spilling over his face and chin. I stayed there with my hands on the sheet, unable to move a single muscle, trying to breathe. He wiped his face with the back of his hand without taking his eyes off me, smiling faintly.

He didn’t give me time to recover fully. He got up, opened the nightstand drawer, and placed three things on the bed: a bottle of lube and two vibrators. One of them was small and discreet, with a shape that left no doubt about its intended use. I didn’t ask anything. The answer was obvious to both of us.

He turned on the larger vibrator and pressed it directly to my clit, still hypersensitive from the previous orgasm. I shuddered immediately, tried to close my legs, but he kept them open with one knee. He used that second to place the tip of his cock at my entrance and shove forward with a firm motion, driving all the way in at once, making my back bow and my fingers claw at the sheet. My pussy swallowed him whole, squelching from how wet I was.

—Fuck —he growled—. You’re so tight.

—Take it —he said a second later, putting the vibrator in my hand and pressing it against my clit.

I obeyed. He started moving inside me, with long, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in completely, and every time he entered I felt the tip slam into something inside me that made me grit my teeth. His hands went up to my neck.

He didn’t squeeze hard at first, but he squeezed. The air wasn’t completely cut off, only reduced, and that combination of the continuous vibration on my clit, him fucking me faster and faster, his fingers wrapped around my throat, created something I had never experienced that way before. The moans came out muffled, almost without volume, and that intensified everything in a way I can’t explain. I could feel his cock pounding me from the inside, the vibrator buzzing on the outside, and a pressure building in my stomach that I couldn’t tell if it was another orgasm or something more.

—Come —he told me in my ear, tightening his grip on my neck a little more—. Come again on my cock.

I came with a choked cry, clenching around him in spasms that shook me whole. He didn’t stop. He kept thrusting while I was still trembling, stretching the orgasm until it became almost painful.

When he stopped, it was sudden. He pulled out, turned me over in one unmistakable motion, and set me on all fours in the middle of the bed, my face smashed into the pillow and my ass up high. He spread my cheeks with both hands, stared for a second, and then spat directly onto my asshole before grabbing his cock and shoving it back into my pussy in one single stroke. He gripped my hips and started fucking me from behind, hard, without any restraint. Two thrusts, three, and then I felt the cold lube dripping over me and the pressure of the small vibrator seeking my back entrance.

—Breathe —he said.

I breathed.

He entered slowly, with time and lube, without hurrying. The initial burn began to ease and transform into something completely different, into a feeling of fullness that made it hard to think clearly. He pushed it all the way in and turned it on, and I felt the buzzing radiating inside me, mixing with the cock still buried in my pussy. When he started moving again, with the vibrator activated inside my ass and him pounding me at that same steady rhythm, I couldn’t separate one sensation from another. It was all the same, all too much. I was doubly full, doubly stretched, and every thrust moved the vibrator a little inside me and made both holes tighten at once.

—Like that —I panted into the pillow—. Harder, please.

He obeyed me. His hands found my hair. He tugged, throwing my head back until my back arched. With the other hand he slapped my ass with his open palm, then again, and again, until I felt the sting spreading across my whole cheek. The burn from the blows added to everything else and became indistinguishable from pleasure, or maybe it was already the same thing. Every slap made me tighten around his cock, and he noticed, and he hit me again.

—Tell me what you are —he said, thrusting harder into me.

—Yours —I said—. I’m yours. Fuck me harder, please.

I don’t know how I’ve lived without this.

The orgasm that came was unlike any other I could remember. It started in my clit but spread through my pussy and ass at the same time, climbing up my back and down my legs to my feet. It wasn’t just intense, it was vast and messy, in waves that never ended, and when my body finally gave out I let myself collapse onto the bed, unable to hold myself up, with the vibrator still buzzing inside me. He pulled his cock out of my pussy, took it in one hand and came with two shakes over my back and my reddened ass cheeks, hot spurts that slid over my skin. He carefully removed the vibrator, turned it off, and the two of us stayed still for a long minute that neither of us broke with words.

***

In the shower he washed my hair. I hadn’t expected that. He worked the shampoo through with his hands without saying anything special, with the same calm he had shown through everything else that night, and I rested my back against the cold tiles and let the hot water fall over us, washing away the semen that was still drying on my skin. There was something unexpectedly peaceful about that moment, after everything that had happened.

—Are you okay? —he asked.

—Yes —I said.

It was the simplest truth I had spoken in weeks.

We saw each other four more times in total. Always at his apartment, always at night, always with the same dynamic I had learned to anticipate during the days between one date and the next. It wasn’t a relationship. We never pretended it was, and that made everything easier. It was exactly what I needed at that point: someone who knew what he was doing and who didn’t ask me for anything I couldn’t give.

The last time we saw each other was in October. Marcos told me they had transferred him to another city and that his new shifts left him no room at all. I took it without drama, without broken expectations. I told him it had been a good experience.

—For me too —he replied.

And it was as simple as that, as honest as that.

Sebastián came back in December, but that’s another story. What I learned with Marcos, however, I didn’t leave behind. I learned that some things are only acquired through practice, through years of paying attention to what works. I learned that desire doesn’t need justification or apology. And I learned that asking for what you want in bed —to have your throat squeezed, to be fucked in the ass, to be called a slut while you come— is not a weakness.

It’s one of the few things no one teaches you and that we all learn, sooner or later, on our own.