The Night in Medellín That Changed Everything
I was never the girl the boys went after in class. While my classmates were piling up first times and adventures they whispered about during recess, I spent those afternoons at home with no one texting me or inviting me anywhere. It wasn’t that I thought I was ugly or weird: I simply didn’t inspire that kind of attention, and for a long time I wondered what the others had that I didn’t. I made it to twenty-one without going beyond a kiss, which in that context was like arriving late to a party that had already been going on for hours.
My closest friends had started much earlier. Some with steady boyfriends, others with encounters that didn’t need a name. I listened to them, asked just enough not to seem detached, and inside I mixed curiosity with something like impatience. I wasn’t ashamed of my situation, only aware of having something unfinished, a debt to myself that sooner or later would have to be paid.
Since I paid it, I have to admit I didn’t waste any time. If I was behind for years, in less than two I more than caught up. But this isn’t about that catch-up. This is about the night that lit everything up, the night that changed the way I moved around men and what I was capable of when I stopped overthinking.
***
It was spring when we planned the trip. A group of college classmates, about twelve in all and mostly girls, decided to take a getaway to Medellín before final exams arrived and everything became impossible. One of the girls in the group, Camila, had friends there from when she had lived in the city two years earlier. Thanks to her, on the last night we got into one of the best-known clubs downtown.
We had talked about that last night all week as if it were the high point of the trip. The tourist stuff, the cultural stuff, the walks: all of it was fine. But the club was the main event, the real excuse for having made the trip on those dates and not others.
The club had several floors with different vibes: electronic music upstairs, reggaeton downstairs, and on the middle floor a reserved area that Camila’s friends took us straight to. There were bottles of champagne on the table, beers on ice, and a perfect view of the main dance floor through the windows. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but between the champagne, the music, the atmosphere, and the buildup of a whole week nonstop, I relaxed more than I normally would. My body let go. My head went a little blank. And that, that night in particular, was exactly what needed to happen.
Camila’s friends were four or five guys, all around our age, all with that attitude of people who know the place and want the group to have a good time. It didn’t take me long to notice that some of them were making moves on some of us: it was obvious in the way they positioned themselves, in how they offered drinks, in the direction of their looks. One of them, tall, with short dark hair and a way of looking that made no attempt to be subtle, started talking to me sometime during the second hour.
I don’t remember about what. The music was too loud for conversations longer than four words, and neither of us seemed to have any desire to put in much effort. What I do remember is that we started dancing without either of us formally suggesting it. It just happened, the way those things happen when the atmosphere does the work.
Little by little I closed the distance between us. At first the music justified it: the VIP area was packed, the space was tight, we had to move close. Then I stopped needing a justification. I started grinding against him deliberately, hips to hips, his hand finding my waist without me moving it away. When I turned so I was with my back against his chest and felt his breath on my neck, I knew exactly where the night was headed. And I had no intention of changing course.
His cock was already hard, outlined against the fabric of his pants, pressing into my ass every time I moved my hips. Far from pulling away, I started rubbing against him openly, arching my back to feel it better between my cheeks. I had been wanting something like this for months, years if I’m honest, and the champagne plus the atmosphere plus the music had finished off whatever scraps of self-control I still had left. He slid one hand down my stomach until he brushed me between the legs over the dress, and I opened my stance a little more so he’d understand he could keep going.
He turned me around and kissed me. Directly, without preamble, opening his mouth against mine before I had time to close it. I pressed against him and put my hands on his chest while his tongue found mine. It wasn’t a timid or exploratory kiss: it was the kind of kiss that already has a clear direction and isn’t waiting for permission. I bit his lower lip without thinking, and he responded by grabbing my ass with both hands, squeezing the flesh over the dress, pulling me up toward him until I felt his hard cock pressing again against my cunt.
When we pulled apart, he led me by the hand to the back of the VIP area, where there was a couch slightly apart from the others and the light was dimmer. I sat on top of him astride him and kissed him again while the music kept going and the conversations around us kept going and everything else stopped existing.
I started grinding my hips against his erection, rubbing my wet cunt against the bulge in his pants. His hands were on my waist, pressing down while I rose up, adjusting the pressure so the edge of the fabric would pass just over my clit. Through our clothes I could feel every inch of him, and every time he touched me at the right angle, something inside me tightened a little more. He brought his mouth to my ear and whispered, with no embellishment:
—You’re soaking wet, I can tell even from here.
I didn’t answer. I took his hand and slid it under my dress, up my thigh until it reached my thong. I let him feel what he already knew. His fingers moved the fabric aside and slid twice through my open slit, slipping in all the way. I lost track of time. Only his mouth, his hands, those soaked fingers and that friction growing nonstop existed. When he suggested looking for a bathroom, I already had my answer before he finished the sentence.
***
We found a single-occupancy restroom on the floor above, with a lock. It was a small space: the sink, the toilet, a light that was far too white, which he dimmed as best he could by turning something down in the extractor fan. As soon as the door closed behind us, he gently pushed me against the wall and kissed me again, this time with his hand already between my legs, two fingers opening me without the thong as a barrier because he had already moved it aside.
His hands found the dress straps and slid them off my shoulders until the neckline fell down. He stared at my bare tits for a moment, without rushing, before lowering his head. I felt his mouth close over a nipple, his tongue moving in small, hot circles, then his teeth with just the right pressure, making me close my eyes and rest the back of my head against the wall. He switched between one and the other, sucking hard, spitting on them and then licking the swollen nipple again, unhurried, while I didn’t know what to do with my hands or my breathing or the heat building between my thighs. The first moan of the night slipped out of me when he bit my right nipple and at the same time pushed three fingers all the way into my cunt, pulling them out glistening and sinking them back in again.
When he lifted his head and looked at me, I understood what he wanted. And I wanted it too, maybe more than he did at that moment.
I knelt on the floor without anyone asking me to. I unbuttoned his pants more calmly than I felt inside, pulled down his boxer briefs, and his hard cock sprang out at once, bouncing at face level. I took a second to look at it before putting it in my mouth. It was big, thicker than any I’d had before, with the head swollen and a clear drop beading at the tip. I stuck out my tongue and ran it over my lower lip first, then over the frenulum, catching that drop, and I heard him swallow above me.
I started slowly, finding the rhythm, letting my throat get used to it. I licked his entire length from base to tip, tracing the thick vein underneath, and when I reached the head I closed my lips and started sucking just the crown, pressing my tongue against the little opening. Then I went lower. First halfway, then more. I helped with my hand at the base, twisting it as I moved up and down with my mouth, and with my other hand I held his heavy, hot balls, squeezing them carefully. I could feel him tensing every time I got to the limit, his hand settling on my head without pressing yet. When I brought my nose to his pubis for the first time and stayed there for a second holding my breath, swallowing him all the way to the back of my throat, I heard the sound someone makes when they stop controlling what they feel.
—Fuck, like that, don’t stop —he gasped.
I started moving with rhythm: head forward and back, tongue pressed against the shaft on each pass, my free hand holding him at the base and twisting opposite the direction of my mouth. Every two or three strokes I pulled him all the way out and gave him a long, filthy lick underneath, all the way to his balls, sucking them one by one while I jerked his cock slick with saliva. He was breathing hard, mouth parted, looking down at me. At some point his fingers closed in my hair and he took over the pace: slow at first, then faster, then without any real pause between one thrust and the next. He was fucking my mouth, and I let him, opening my throat and relaxing my jaw so he could go deeper.
My eyes filled with tears from the reflex, saliva escaped down my chin in thick strands that fell over my chest and soaked my tits. My makeup ran; I could feel the mascara tracking down my cheeks. The sound of me gagging whenever he reached the back mixed with the music from downstairs. None of that made me want to stop. Quite the opposite: every time I noticed it affected him, I went harder. I left his cock covered in spit and drool and swallowed it whole again, holding there with my nose buried in his pubic hair, feeling his thighs tense.
He warned me when he was close, more with a change in his breathing than with words.
—I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come in your mouth.
I didn’t move away. On the contrary: I grabbed his ass with both hands and pushed him harder against my face. He pressed one last time against me and came in my mouth: abundant, hot, in wave after wave that hit my palate and the back of my throat. I held it in until he was done, swallowing each spurt as it came, feeling the thick salty taste slide down inside me. When he pulled out, a thread of cum and spit hung between his balls and my lower lip. With my fingers I gathered what had escaped the corners of my mouth and put it back in. I cleaned his whole cock with my tongue, leaving it shiny, sucking it until the last drop was gone. He looked down at me with an expression I couldn’t make out at the time.
I stood up and he wasted no time. He took my dress off completely, folded it over the edge of the sink, and I was left against the wall wearing only my black thong and the cold tiles against my back. He turned my face and put two fingers in my mouth, the same ones that had been inside me before, and made me suck them clean.
He slid my thong aside with two fingers and brushed my clit with his thumb. My legs trembled at once: I was so turned on that any contact hit me amplified, with no margin for preparation. He started slowly, drawing tight circles over the hood, testing the exact pressure, and I bit my lip to keep quiet. He lowered his head without warning, crouched down in front of me, lifted one leg onto his shoulder, and buried his face between my thighs.
The first lick tore a moan from me that I couldn’t hold back. His tongue swept all the way through me, bottom to top, parting my lips, and then closed over my clit with a suction that made my knees buckle. He held my ass with both hands to keep me open against his mouth, and he started eating me without rushing, alternating his flat tongue over the whole slit with quick little points right on the spot. I could hear my own wetness, the filthy sounds of his mouth against my cunt, and I took one hand to his hair to keep him there and the other to my mouth to muffle my moans.
When he slid two fingers inside me without stopping sucking my clit, I pressed my hand harder to my mouth and bit his own knuckles. He moved them in and out at a steady rhythm, curling them upward at one point that made my knees fail me. My back was against the cold tiles, one leg resting on his shoulder, the other shaking, and my lips were pressed against my own hand to muffle what I couldn’t contain. His fingers didn’t stop. He added a third, stretching me, and his tongue kept playing with my clit until I couldn’t take it anymore. That point hit again, and something gave. I came standing up, legs shaking, pressing his head between my thighs, my cunt clenching around his fingers in long waves that left me breathless. When he stood up, his chin was wet and shining all the way down to his neck. He cleaned it on my mouth and kissed me, and I swallowed my own taste.
That was when voices were heard on the other side of the door. A group of girls coming into the bathroom. And among their conversations, a sentence that made me tense up at once:
—Where could Valentina have gone? She’s been gone for a while.
He smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.
He put one finger to my lips for silence and with his other hand slowly pushed me back down to my knees. He had gone half hard again just from eating me, and in a matter of seconds, while I grabbed him and jerked him off in front of my face, he got fully hard. He shoved it into my mouth with no further introduction, pushing it all the way down on the first thrust. This time it was different from the start: he held my hair with both hands, wrapping it around his fists, and set the pace without giving me room for anything else.
He was fucking my throat deep, driving his hips against my face, while the voices on the other side kept going. I could hear my friends talking about me two meters away, wondering where I’d gone, and I was on my knees in a club bathroom with a stranger’s cock all the way down my throat. Every time he sank in fully, a little gag sound escaped me, and he covered my mouth with his own cock so it wouldn’t come out. Far from wanting it to stop, I put more effort into every stroke. I grabbed his balls with one hand and squeezed them lightly, while with the other I stroked my clit, still swollen from the previous orgasm. The situation, the risk of someone knocking, the discomfort of the floor under my knees, the sound of his pelvis slamming against my chin: everything added up instead of taking away.
One of the girls on the other side of the door tried to turn the handle. It was locked. A laugh sounded and a “it’s occupied.” Meanwhile I had his cock buried in my throat all the way to the pubis, and he stayed still there for a few seconds, looking down at me with a smile while I silently choked.
—Hold on, hold on a little longer —he murmured, and started moving again.
It didn’t take long. He grabbed my hair harder, stayed still for a second, pulled his cock out of my mouth and started shaking it two inches from my face. I stuck out my tongue, closed my eyes, and he came a second time over me, in my open mouth, on my lips, a stream that hit my cheek and another that stained my tits. He left everything shining. I gathered the cum with my fingers, wiped my face by smearing it toward my mouth, and swallowed it while looking up at him. I licked his now-soft cock with my tongue until it was clean. When he let me go, I stayed on the floor for a moment before getting up.
We got dressed in silence. I washed my face in the sink, ran a finger under my eyes to fix the worst of the makeup, settled my tits back into the dress, and pulled the straps up. I could still taste him in my mouth and feel my cunt throbbing inside. We waited until the bathroom was empty, unlocked the door, and went back down separately a couple of minutes apart. I found my friends near the bar and didn’t say a word about anything. One of them asked where I’d been; I told her I’d gone for a walk on the other floors. He went back to his group. For the rest of the night we exchanged no more than two words.
***
I never saw him again after that trip. I never kept his full name, I had no way to contact him, and I never looked for him. That night in Medellín made something clear to me that had taken years to understand: that when I stopped worrying about what I was supposed to do or feel, I knew exactly what I wanted. Without hesitation and without asking anyone’s permission.
The very same week, back home, I went out with two different guys. Just to make sure it hadn’t been a coincidence.