What I Did That Night in the Hotel, I Never Told Anyone

We had arranged to meet at nine, but I left home at eight-thirty. I wanted to walk slowly, to feel my throat drying out and my heartbeat settling into my neck. I hadn’t put on perfume; I wanted him to recognize me by my own skin, by my voice, by everything we had promised each other for weeks without being able to touch.

Tomás had come from the north to spend two nights with me. I had never left my city. We had chosen some random hotel downtown, one of those places where the receptionists know to look the other way when a woman comes in alone after nine, and nobody asks questions if you pay for the room by card and sign a name that looks like anyone’s.

I was wearing a white dress, short—far shorter than any friend would have advised me to wear. I had bought it that very afternoon, in a store I had never entered before, and kept it in the closet until night fell, almost as if it were something I might regret if I looked at it too soon. I was wearing almost nothing underneath. A tiny black thong, already wet before I left the entranceway. No bra. My nipples showed through the fabric whenever the air brushed against me, hard as two little stones, and they itched in a way that only went away when I squeezed them between my thumb and forefinger through the dress, on the corner of my street, pretending to straighten out a wrinkle.

I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to wonder whether it was appropriate, whether what I had imagined for weeks would resemble reality, whether Tomás would be exactly like his photographs or whether, in person, he would turn out to be a little less. For months, I hadn’t asked myself anything when it came to him. I had decided the first time he called me late, in a low voice, and told me he was thinking about me while he masturbated. That he was jerking off thinking about how my tongue would run over his cock, word for word, and that he wanted to hear me say I was going to suck him all the way the next time we saw each other. That night I hung up, stuck two fingers into my soaking-wet pussy, and came in under a minute, biting the pillow. I fell asleep with the metallic taste of my own breathing and my fingers still inside me.

I walked the six blocks between my home and the hotel with my legs crossing at every step, swaying my hips. I knew the dress was riding up with every stride. I knew people were looking. I didn’t care. Let them look, I thought. I’m here for something else. I’m here to have my mouth fucked.

When I entered the hotel, the employees looked up. The receptionist, an older woman with short hair and red-painted nails, followed me with her eyes all the way to the elevator without saying a word. The doorman held back a smile. For a second I wondered if they would mistake me for one of those girls who charged by the hour; the next second I realized I didn’t much care about the difference either. Let them think whatever they want, I told myself. I’m worse than they imagine. I’m going up to that room and I’m going to suck a cock until my jaw falls off, and none of these people will imagine it properly.

The elevator smelled of disinfectant and old carpet. I pressed the button for the fourth floor and looked at myself in the mirror. My pupils were dilated and my lips swollen. I had been biting my lower lip without realizing it throughout the whole walk. I licked it. I fixed my hair. I lowered my neckline a little farther and squeezed one nipple, just to make sure it was still as hard and sensitive as it had been out on the street. I had to bite my tongue to keep from moaning in the empty elevator.

Room 407. I knew it by heart from that morning, ever since he had written the number to me in capital letters with a period at the end, like an order.

The hallway was silent. The carpet swallowed the sound of my heels; I felt the rubbing beneath my feet but couldn’t hear my footsteps, which made me feel as though I were moving through a dream. I passed three doors, four, five. I counted under my breath, like a little girl sent to fetch something who needs an excuse not to run away.

407 was at the end of the hall, on the left. The door was ajar, just as we had arranged. A slit of yellow light cut across the carpet and opened onto the opposite wall like an invitation. It was a way of saying I don’t want to talk beforehand, we’ve talked too much already, come in and do what you came here to do.

I took a deep breath. I pushed it open slowly.

***

There he was.

Tomás, naked on the bed, thighs spread and back against the headboard. The bedside lamp cast its light diagonally across his body, leaving half his face in shadow. His eyes were fixed on the door, waiting for me for who knew how long. His cock was erect, hard, pointing toward the ceiling, with a thick vein rising along the right side to the swollen, purplish head. His heavy balls hung between his thighs, taut from all that waiting. A drop of pre-cum already shone at the tip, sliding slowly down his glans.

It was bigger than I had imagined. More of everything. His thighs were gym-built columns that could close around my head without effort. I hope they do, I thought. I hope they suffocate me. His stomach showed only partly, not like a magazine model’s but like a real man’s, someone who took just enough care of himself. The skin of his neck gleamed. He had been waiting for me too long, and it showed: his cock throbbed on its own against the air, as if it had a heart of its own down there.

I closed the door behind me with my elbow. I let my purse fall to the floor. I said nothing. I didn’t want to break the silence with a banal greeting when everything I wanted was three steps away.

I walked toward him, measuring each step. I stopped at the edge of the bed, gauged the distance, and dropped to my knees between his legs. I stared at his cock for a moment, like a child standing in front of the ice cream she had been asking for since morning. I felt it throb against the air without touching it yet. It was a slow, deep pulse that seemed to come from farther down, from somewhere I hadn’t explored yet. My mouth watered. Literally. I swallowed and felt it gather again, thick and viscous, preparing itself for what was coming.

I untied my hair, let it fall over my shoulders, and shook it out. Then I gathered it up again, this time pulling it tight, into a high ponytail that left my face clear and my nape exposed. I wanted him to see me properly. I wanted him to have a handle to grab when he couldn’t take any more. I wanted to see myself in the dresser mirror directly in front of me, that involuntary window onto myself: a woman on her knees, dress bunched up to her hips and ass bare, about to take a cock all the way down her throat.

“You made it,” he said hoarsely.

“I made it,” I replied, looking up at him. “And I’m hungry.”

I rested one hand on his thigh, that thick column that could have crushed my head if he wanted it to. I slid the other toward his cock, wrapped my fingers around the base, and moved it gently. It was heavy. I didn’t have enough fingers to hold all of it. The skin was soft over something that wasn’t. I felt the pulse beneath my fingertips, that stubborn rhythm cocks have when they’ve been waiting for a while. I lowered it a little, pulling the skin back, and squeezed the base with two fingers as though it were a vise. The head turned even purpler.

I brought it close to my lips without touching it. I stuck out my tongue and let it barely brush against it. A shining drop appeared on the tip. I saw myself reflected in it for a second, a tiny, distorted version of me, a kneeling woman with enormous eyes. I laughed inwardly. I stuck out my tongue and drew it back, dragging along the sticky thread and tasting it. Salty, slightly bitter, with that clean, hot man-taste that went straight between my legs. I felt the thong sticking to my pussy, completely soaked by then.

I licked it from the base to the head, slowly, with my tongue flat, like an ice cream melting in his hand. Up, down, up again. I circled the crown with the tip of my tongue, searching for that sensitive ridge beneath the glans, and felt him tremble beneath my hand. I kissed the tip once, twice, three times. Each kiss was an invitation to open my mouth a little wider, to swallow a little more, to lose a little more control. Each kiss was also a promise: this isn’t going to be gentle. I’m going to suck your cock until you beg me to stop, and even then I won’t.

The smell of the room hit me then. It smelled of enclosed skin, hot sheets, a man who had been thinking about me for hours, sweaty balls, and that sharp, living note that comes from the pubis of a hard-on guy. I breathed deeply and kept it inside me as though it were a swallow of something strong. I lowered my face until I buried it in the pubic hair, against the base of his cock, and inhaled. My pussy clenched just from the smell.

“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” I murmured against his head. “About sucking you like this. About having all of it inside me.”

“Me too,” he said. “Fuck, me too. Put it in.”

I lowered my head. I took the whole thing into my mouth without warning, without asking permission. I felt his thighs tense against my shoulders, felt the air leave him. I pushed it deeper, against my palate first, then searching for the back of my throat. The head struck the back of my throat and churned my guts, but I didn’t stop. I loosened my jaw, relaxed my tongue, and swallowed with his cock inside me. I felt it force its way through, stretching the muscle, until my chin hit his balls and my nose pressed into his pubic hair. I stayed there. Without breathing. Tasting him. Feeling the vein throb in my throat, feeling my eyes fill with tears.

I withdrew slowly, dragging my closed lips along its entire length. A strand of saliva hung between my mouth and his glans. I drew breath. I took it in again, this time faster, deeper. Out. Back in. Out. I found a rhythm, a constant, almost mechanical rocking that left my neck taut and my eyes streaming. Every time I reached the back I swallowed, and every time I swallowed a dull moan escaped from deep in his chest.

I didn’t like having my head pushed. I had never liked it. I didn’t need anyone to set the pace: I knew when to go up and when to go down, when to loosen and when to tighten my throat until my eyes filled with tears. I had learned through mistakes with other men who thought this was teamwork in which they were in charge.

Tomás understood quickly. He let his hands hang at his sides, fingers clenched in the sheets, not daring to touch my nape. Good. Let him learn to wait. Let him discover that he could lose control without needing to take it.

I made noises while swallowing him, noises that would have embarrassed me under other circumstances. Gagging, a dull gurgle from the back of my throat, a wet sloshing each time I pulled him out and put him back in, ragged breathing whenever I withdrew. My face flushed. Tears ran down my cheeks and mingled with the saliva dripping down my chin, fat drops falling onto my tits and the white dress, making it transparent. Any makeup I had been wearing was already ruined.

I didn’t care.

I slipped one hand beneath my dress, pushed the thong aside, and drove two fingers into my pussy. I was so wet they slid in without resistance, all the way to the knuckles. A muffled moan escaped me with his cock still inside my mouth, and he felt it: the vibration ran across his glans and pulled a curse from him.

“Fuck,” he said, almost voiceless. “Fuck, look at you. You’re touching yourself while you eat my cock.”

I pulled his cock out with a wet sound and held it up, gleaming with saliva, a thick strand hanging from the tip to my lower lip. I dragged it across my face. Over my cheeks, my forehead, my closed lips. I slapped it against my cheek once, twice, three times, and with every slap it seemed harder, as though it were angry. Hit me with that, I thought. Leave a mark that takes days to fade. I stuck out my tongue and let him slap it against it, flat against my tongue, loud and obscene.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Like that. Slap it there.”

I went down to his balls. I took them with my tongue, caressed them with my lips, and sucked them slowly one at a time. One first, entirely inside my mouth, pressing it with my tongue against my palate. Then the other, more carefully, almost reverently. I squeezed. I heard them throb against my mouth. I held them while licking upward along his perineum, that sensitive strip running from his ass to his balls, and his whole pelvis spasmed. I took both of them as far into my mouth as I could, then let them go with a dull, saliva-heavy sound. I went back to his cock, stroked it slowly, squeezing the head with every upward movement, looking at it as though admiring something I had earned through my own efforts.

“You’re going to kill me,” he murmured.

“That’s the idea,” I replied.

I pushed the fingers of my other hand deep into my pussy, pulled them out dripping, and ran them over his lips. He put them in his mouth without thinking, sucking them with his eyes closed, and I took the opportunity to put his cock back in my mouth.

I went back up. I drove it into my throat again, this time without stopping. Over and over, without pause, without thinking, breathing only enough not to pass out. My tongue wrapped around the underside of his shaft with every downward stroke, my lips tightening around him as I rose. I spat on his cock and balls; saliva ran over his entire pubis and soaked the sheets. I put both fingers back into my pussy and rubbed my clit with my thumb while sucking him, and felt my orgasm drawing closer, thick and heavy, almost painful. I stopped hearing my own sounds. I stopped hearing his. There was only his cock and my mouth and my fingers and the determination to get from him what I had come to find.

I felt it coming before he told me. His whole body tightened. His thighs turned to stone against my shoulders. His balls drew up against his body. His cock swelled inside my mouth, beating with a stronger pulse, and at that instant the absurd thought crossed my mind that I could choke and that I wouldn’t care. I went up to the tip, opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue, held him by the base with my right hand, and shook him against my open tongue. I looked him in the eyes.

“Give it to me,” I told him. “All of it in my mouth. Don’t leave me a single drop.”

And he gave it to me.

A thick, hot jet reached the back of my throat before I could prepare myself. I coughed. I swallowed. Another spurt, this one against my palate, salty and thick. Another, weaker, over my tongue. Some spilled over my lips, white and viscous, hanging from my chin. I took his cock again and masturbated it against my lips to get out everything he had left, squeezing it from base to tip like a tube of toothpaste. Another drop. Another. I gathered the last one with my tongue, slowly, like someone scraping the plate when no one is looking. I closed my mouth. I showed him my full, loaded tongue, his come dancing across it like mercury, and then swallowed slowly so he could watch me do it. At the same time I squeezed my clit with my thumb and came, silently, with his cock still in my hand and my throat burning. A tremor rose from my pussy to my scalp, and I felt my thighs grow even wetter.

I stayed like that for a while, cheeks pressed against his thigh, listening to him breathe. I ran my tongue over his pelvis, his lower belly, every inch where a drop might have fallen. I didn’t want to leave anything behind. I hadn’t come here to leave anything behind. I licked the base of his cock, soft now but still sensitive, and he flinched. I sucked his balls one more time, without urgency, almost tenderly. I could taste him on my palate, beneath my tongue, in a deep place in my throat where saliva couldn’t reach. I wanted to keep as much of him as possible.

***

I climbed onto the bed. I lay beside him without undressing. The dress had wrinkled and rested at hip level, with dark stains of saliva and come across the chest; I didn’t care. The thong was still pushed to one side, soaked, and I didn’t bother to put it back in place. I rested my head on his shoulder and ran my hand over his chest. I could feel his heart through his skin, still racing, still not recovered.

“Was it what you imagined?” I asked.

“It was worse,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “In the best way. Nobody’s ever sucked me like that in my life.”

I laughed softly. My throat was raw. I could taste him throughout my mouth, on my palate, beneath my tongue. I felt my body loosening, fatigue following pleasure like a dog following its owner.

“Rest for a while,” I murmured against his neck, nibbling it, “because the second time I want you to fuck my pussy until I can’t walk. And the third time, my ass.”

I felt him tremble beneath my hand. His cock, soft against my thigh, gave a small twitch, an early sign of life.

“Stay,” he said after a while.

I thought about it. I thought about my bed, the routine waiting for me the next day, everything I had left outside that room just to enter it. I thought about the receptionists, the woman with the red nails, and the faces they would make if they saw me leaving at seven in the morning with my hair disheveled, my dress stained and even more wrinkled, and the smell of an entire night of fucking clinging to my skin.

“I’ll stay,” I replied.

And before falling asleep I ran my tongue over him once more, slowly, across his chest, down to his navel, down to the hair on his pubis. Just in case. In case anything remained. I kissed his sleeping cock, a long kiss with my mouth open, marking my territory for when he woke up.

If I told anyone about this—my best friend, my therapist, my mother on the day she died—they wouldn’t believe me. Not even the part about not regretting it. And that is perhaps the part I most need people to know.