The Night He Came Back and I Didn’t Care That I Was on My Period

Seven days can feel like seven months when the only thing you want is to have him close. That afternoon, while I watched the arrivals board in the terminal, my skin was prickling and I was certain of one thing: I wasn’t going to wait a minute longer than necessary.

I had put on a red dress, tight, short to the knee. I didn’t care that I’d been on my period for two days. I didn’t care about anything. Desire had been building up in me for a week like water behind a dam, and the blood, far from stopping me, had made me more sensitive, more urgent, more mine. My cunt was swollen, throbbing under the fabric of the dress, and my panties were soaked with a mix of discharge and blood that reminded me with every step how turned on I was.

When Martín came through the departures door with the briefcase in his hand and that way he had of walking, looking at the floor before lifting his head, I felt a pull in my lower belly. He saw me. The smile slipped out before he had time to hide it.

—Hi —I said, as if it were just any word.

—Hi —he answered, and kissed me right there in the terminal without asking.

It was a longer kiss than it should have been. I grabbed the back of his neck and didn’t let him pull away. I shoved my tongue into his mouth without a trace of shame, tangled it with his, and bit his lower lip when I let him go. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at me with a mix of laughter and surprise.

—What got into you? —he asked.

—I missed you.

—Yeah, I can see that.

In the taxi back I put my hand on his thigh and didn’t move it. He was looking out the window as if he could focus on the street, but I felt his pulse under my palm and knew he wasn’t looking at anything. I slid my hand up a few centimeters until I brushed the bulge already showing in his pants. He was hard. I squeezed him through the fabric, felt his breath catch, and squeezed again more slowly, tracing the length of him with my fingers.

—We’ve got half an hour —he told me in a low voice—. You gonna hold out?

—No.

He laughed. He gently moved my hand away, like someone saving something for later.

—Then wait.

Wait. I’d been waiting for seven days. Seven days putting my fingers inside myself at night thinking about his mouth, his dick, how he’d open me with his hands and fuck me looking me in the eye. Seven days coming by myself and still starving.

***

We went up to the apartment almost without speaking. He left the briefcase on the floor and I shut the door with my foot while I was already unbuttoning his shirt. We kissed against the hallway wall, then against the entry table, then against the bedroom doorframe. I shoved my hand inside his pants without ceremony, grabbed his cock over his boxer briefs and squeezed hard. The tip was already wet, the boxer shorts marked with a small circle. I yanked them down, took his bare cock in my hand and started jerking him off right there against the doorframe, while he bit my neck and hiked my dress up to my waist.

By the time we finally fell onto the bed, we were both missing half our clothes.

—Wait —he said, pulling back for a second to look at me.

He had torn the dress off me. My bra was half off one shoulder. He was back in his briefs, pulled up halfway, hair messed up, mouth smeared with my lipstick, his hard cock pushing against the fabric.

—What?

—I need to tell you first —I said, propping myself on my elbows—. I’m on my period.

Martín looked at me. He didn’t say anything for two long seconds. I braced for whatever: for him to pull away, for him to say “better later,” for whatever it took. But he came closer, ran a hand through my hair, and kissed me very slowly on the mouth.

—So?

—I thought you should know.

—I know already. Anything else?

I didn’t know what to answer. He pushed me back again with his open hand on my chest, and I let myself fall against the pillow without arguing.

He took my panties off slowly. They were soaked, dark between my legs. He tossed them aside without looking at them. He settled between my legs with a naturalness that disarmed me, as if this were just part of the normal ritual, as if nothing was strange. He kissed the inside of my thigh, then the hip bone, then my stomach. He kept going down with a patience that didn’t match the urgency with which we’d entered the room. He opened my cunt lips with both thumbs, very slowly, and looked at me for a second before lowering his mouth.

When his tongue touched me for the first time, I closed my eyes.

He licked from bottom to top, all of me, unhurriedly, gathering up everything he found along the way. I felt his hot tongue sink into me, dig at me, come out and climb back up to my clit. There he stopped. He started licking in circles, first gently, then faster, sucking me between his lips as if I were a ripe piece of fruit. I grabbed his hair and squeezed without thinking. He didn’t pull away. On the contrary: he slid his hands under my hips and lifted me a little, as if he wanted to keep me pressed entirely to his mouth. He shoved two fingers into me at once and curled them forward against the inner wall without stopping sucking on my clit. With every pass of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers, he left me more open, more ready, more prepared for anything. I could hear the wet noise of his mouth against my cunt, an obscene slapping sound that made me even wetter.

At some point he lifted his head. I looked down.

His mouth and part of his chin were stained. Dark red, almost burgundy in the soft lamplight. It glistened on his fingers too, on his knuckles. He looked at me with a crooked smile, and a nervous laugh burst out of my stomach.

—What? —he said.

—You look like a vampire.

—Relax, beautiful.

He lowered his head again before I could say anything else. This time he did it with even more hunger, as if I’d given him permission not to be afraid. He drove his fingers deeper, pulled them out, shoved them back in harder, and sucked my clit with his whole mouth, swallowing it, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. I grabbed his hair again and let go. The orgasm rose from my legs, tightened my back, clenched my thighs against his face, and tore a cry out of me I didn’t recognize. I felt myself contract around his fingers, felt my own cunt squeeze him, felt him keep licking without stopping while I trembled.

I stayed trembling for a while, eyes closed, feeling him kiss my stomach, my waist, my breasts. He left red marks wherever his mouth passed, tiny traces of myself on my own skin. He sucked one nipple and then the other, biting them just a little, and I could feel his hard cock pressing against my thigh every time he moved. When I opened my eyes, I saw him climb back over me, supported on his forearms.

—I’m a mess —I murmured.

—You’re gorgeous —he answered, and kissed me before I could argue.

He kissed me with his mouth still stained, and I tasted my own metallic, salty flavor mixed with his saliva. I kissed him back deeper, sucking his tongue, cleaning it with mine.

***

I rolled him onto his back and climbed on top. It was instinctive: I needed to control the rhythm myself, mark every inch, choose when and how. He let me do it with that calm that drives me crazy, his hands on my hips, his eyes locked on mine, his cock pointing upward between us, swollen, with a vein marked from top to bottom.

I grabbed it with my hand. I felt it throb against my palm. I lowered myself a little, rubbed it against my cunt lips, slid it back and forth to soak it with what I had. He let out a growl when I ran the head over my clit.

—Put it in already —he said, teeth clenched—. Don’t tease.

—Hold on.

I set it at my entrance, lowered myself a centimeter, and stopped. I lifted up. Lowered again, a little more. He tried to push from below and I pinned his hip with my knee so he’d stay still. When I finally buried it all the way in, all at once, the sound that came out of my throat was almost a moan of relief. I felt him reach the bottom, tight, hot, filling me after seven days of emptiness.

—That’s it —he said, squeezing my hips—. Just like that.

I started moving. First slowly, rising almost all the way off him and sinking back down, getting used to him again after seven days of nothing. I could feel him come out shiny, wet, and then I took him back in to the root. Then faster. I put my hands on his chest, straightened up, and started riding him with my legs open, letting him see everything: my tits bouncing, my cunt swallowing his cock over and over, the blood running down the base and staining his balls.

—Look at yourself —he murmured—. Look at how you take me.

—Shut up.

—You’re beautiful like this.

I leaned forward again, changed the angle, and started searching for myself in every movement. His teeth were clenched, his jaw hard. I could feel the effort of holding back. He caught one nipple in his mouth and sucked hard, biting it just a little, and I began to move faster, rocking on him, rubbing my clit against his pubic bone every time I came down.

—Don’t hold back —I told him.

—You first.

I changed the angle a little more, leaned in, and found it. That spot that, once it shows up, there’s no turning back. I clutched his chest and stopped thinking. I started riding harder, faster, feeling his cock hit the bottom of me every time, hearing the wet slapping of our bodies, the sound of my ass against his thighs. The second orgasm came with less warning than the first: it shook me from head to toe, folded me over him, made me bite his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream too loud. I felt my cunt clench in spasms around his cock, squeezing it, milking it.

He grabbed my waist, dug his fingers into my skin, and thrust up into me three, four times with all his strength. He came almost immediately, with a rough moan that vibrated in his throat, and I felt him spill inside me in hot, long spurts while I kept trembling on top of him.

I collapsed on top of him, my face against his neck, listening to his heartbeat. His cock was still inside, softer now but still filling me, and every now and then a late contraction of my cunt pulled a sigh out of him.

—You’re shaking —he said.

—You too.

—A little.

***

The sheets were a map. There were red stains everywhere, stains that would be a problem the next day and that night struck me as almost funny. There was also a small puddle where his semen had mixed with my blood as it left me. He didn’t pay attention to it. He dragged me to his side of the bed, against his chest, and slipped his arm around my waist with that habit he has of holding me as if he were afraid I’d slip away.

—I thought it might bother you —I told him.

—Why?

—I don’t know. It’s awkward, it’s weird, who knows.

—It’s your body —he said, shrugging against my back—. Why would that bother me?

I was quiet for a while. Right there, I realized I’d been half expecting a reaction that never came. It had been years of hearing a friend complain that her husband acted weird on those days, of reading nasty jokes online, of assuming it was something you had to hide. And Martín had pulled my panties off as if nothing, had licked my cunt until his face was covered in blood, had come inside me without thinking twice, and now he was holding me as if we were two normal people after an ordinary afternoon.

—Thank you —I said, not really knowing why.

—For what?

—For not making it into a problem.

He kissed my shoulder.

—It’s not a problem.

***

I don’t know how much time passed. Half an hour, maybe more. I had my head on his chest, half asleep, when I felt desire come back again. Without warning, without any apparent reason. Maybe because no single orgasm is ever enough for me after a week without seeing him. Maybe because the tenderness after sex turns me on as much as sex itself.

I put my hand on his thigh. Slid it down to his cock. It was soft, heavy, warm. I took it fully in my hand and started stroking it slowly, with my whole palm, feeling it grow little by little against my fingers.

—Seriously? —he murmured, without opening his eyes.

—Seriously.

—You’re impossible.

—You knew that already.

I slid down the bed without stopping touching him. I settled between his legs and took him into my mouth before he was fully awake. I sucked him from tip to base, took him out, took him back in, licked underneath, at the balls, while I worked him with my hand. I felt him harden in my mouth, push against my palate, go hard again. He tasted like him, like me, like everything that had happened before. I looked up at him from down there, with his cock in my mouth to the hilt, and saw him looking at me with half-lidded eyes and a slack jaw.

—Come here —he said, voice broken.

He turned to look at me when I climbed back up. I stroked his face, the line of his jaw, the small scar on his eyebrow I’d always liked. He answered by stroking my hair, my collarbones, my breasts. This time we weren’t in a hurry. This time the urgency was gone and what remained was something else.

—I want you on top —I told him.

He nodded. He settled between my legs and stayed still for a moment, propped on his forearms, looking at me from close up.

—How are you? —he asked.

—Good.

—Sure?

—Sure.

He grabbed his cock with his hand and slowly, millimeter by millimeter, started pushing it into me. I felt it enter, open me again, push all the way in with a slowness that almost hurt because it felt so good. I tangled my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and felt the whole weight of him against me. I’ve always liked this position because it leaves nowhere to hide. He has to look at you, you have to look at him. There’s nowhere to go.

He started moving very slowly. He came almost all the way out and then sank back in to the end, unhurried, with a long rhythm that made me feel every centimeter. Nothing like the first time, with the hunger, with the urgency. This was something else. This was a real reunion. He drove in deep, stayed there a second, circled his hips pressed against me, and pulled out again. I bit his shoulder so I wouldn’t moan too loud, scratched his back, squeezed his ass with my heels to ask for more.

—I missed you —I whispered in his ear.

—I know.

—A lot.

—Me too.

The orgasm came like a river. It didn’t shake me, didn’t split me open, didn’t tear a scream out of me. It went through me completely, from the nape of my neck to my feet, and left me crying without a sound. I felt tears slide down my temples and I didn’t care. I also felt my cunt squeeze his cock in long, soft waves, and he kept pushing into those waves, stretching the pleasure out. He bent down to kiss my face, my nose, my eyes.

—Are you okay? —he asked.

—Yes.

—Sure?

—It’s something else.

He thrust a few more times, deep, and finished by holding me tight against him. I felt the second load of the night fill me inside, slower, longer. He stayed on top of me for a while without moving, his cock still inside, throbbing. I stroked his back without thinking about anything. The room smelled like us. Of sweat, old perfume, blood, semen, of an intimacy it took me years to learn how to let in.

***

When we finally got up to change the sheets, I burst out laughing when I saw the mess. He laughed too. We tossed them on the floor any old way and put clean old ones on the bed. I took a long shower. He showered after me. We came back to bed like any two people, hair wet and hungry for nothing.

—Another week without seeing you? —I asked, with my eyes already closed.

—Never again.

—Liar.

—At least for a while, let me have this.

I laughed against his shoulder. Outside, it was night, the city kept running, cars passed by and people lived their lives. Inside it was only us, a half-made bed, a story that would stay between the two of us, and the certainty that after that night we were going to have many more.