Insomnia Brings Me Back to Her Body Every Night

Tuesday night. The worst day of the week, the one that drags along all of Monday's exhaustion without the hope of the weekend even in sight. The routine has barely begun, worries pile up, and all of it leaves my body exhausted and my mind wide awake. When the two things come together, there's no way to sleep.

I've been watching videos on my phone for half an hour. Something relaxes me a little, just enough to let my shoulders drop, but sleep doesn't come. It's after midnight and I have to get up early tomorrow. What the hell is going to make me sleep this time?

I've counted sheep, read thirty pages of a book I don't even remember, taken a lukewarm shower, and eaten something light. Nothing worked. I'm a single man. My name is Mateo, I'm thirty-one years old, and I signed the divorce papers eight months ago.

Back when I still had her and insomnia came over me, there was only one cure: I'd wake her with kisses, slip my hand between her legs until I found her pussy wet, and we wouldn't stop until we'd both been drained, stuck together with sweat and come. On nights like this, I miss her with a fury that embarrasses me. I miss those broad hips, those firm tits that fit perfectly in my hands, that round, hard ass that moved on its own when she walked, and above all that tight pussy that closed around my cock as if it never wanted to let go.

It's a contradiction I still can't understand. I hate her for what she did, for the way she left me, for the way she broke everything we'd built. And yet, when the room falls silent and the bed feels too big, it's her I search for in my head. Not just any woman, not some stranger from the internet. Her. Always her.

I can't believe thinking about her still gets me hard. If she hadn't turned out to be the woman she was, I'd have her here right now, on her knees, my dick down her throat, finishing what she started. She sucked like nobody else, her eyes locked on mine and her tongue wrapping around my glans before swallowing me whole. She fucked like she'd studied it for years, moving her hips in circles that drove me out of my mind.

I lower my pants without thinking much about it. I've been hard for a while, outlined against the fabric. I grip myself with my right hand, squeeze at the base, and start stroking slowly at first, while the image of her on top of me grows clearer in the darkness of the room. How good you were at moving that, baby. I'm going to jerk off thinking about you.

***

I remember the first time I had you. We were a couple of horny kids, and your parents wouldn't let you go even as far as the corner. The only thing they allowed was for you to stand in front of your house, on that narrow porch, beside the gas cylinder and the gas tank they'd left shoved against the wall.

We'd been dating for months, and everything had stayed at kisses and hands over our clothes. But something broke that night. You slipped your hand inside my pants while you kissed my neck, and when your fingers wrapped around my cock and you started jerking me off right there against the wall, I knew you weren't the shy girl your parents thought they were protecting anymore. You squeezed it hard, shook it with a skill that left me stunned, and never stopped watching my face to see how I was getting. You were wearing a loose dress down to your knees, easy to lift. They knew you were out there, but they didn't come outside.

I put my hand inside your panties too. You were soaked. I slid two fingers all the way inside your pussy, and you opened your mouth against mine, swallowing your moan. I started pumping my fingers in and out while my thumb pressed against your clit, and I felt your knees buckle. You bit my lip so you wouldn't scream, and inside you everything was so hot that my hand stayed sticky all the way to the wrist.

After touching each other for so long, I couldn't hold back anymore. I pushed your head down, opened my fly, and put it in your mouth. Right there, standing on your parents' porch, with the gas cylinder three feet away. You took the whole thing, without complaining, gagging a little when I pushed it against the back of your throat. You sucked my balls, licked me from base to tip, spat on me and took me back into your mouth. I grabbed you by the hair and drove myself in until your eyes filled with tears.

I lifted you onto an old washing machine they kept outside, rusty, creaking beneath your weight. I pushed your panties to one side without even pulling them down and spread your legs wide. I saw your pink pussy, swollen, shining with saliva and your own juices. I grabbed my cock, rubbed it against your lips, against your clit, and when I had you begging, I thrust in all at once, to the hilt. You bit my shoulder so you wouldn't scream, and I felt your pussy swallow me whole.

I fucked you slowly, very slowly, because any noise would give us away. I pulled almost all the way out and sank back in inch by inch, feeling how tightly you squeezed me inside, how your hot flesh molded itself around my cock. If someone walked past on the sidewalk, it looked as if I had you in my arms, comforting you about something. No one could have imagined what was happening between us, how slowly and deeply I was fucking you against that wall.

I felt every part of you. The trembling of your legs squeezing my waist, the wetness running down the inside of your thigh, your nails digging into my back each time I went all the way in. I sucked your tits through your dress, bit your hard nipples through the fabric, and you arched your back to give them to me better. Your eyes were closed and your mouth half open, and I watched you knowing that face was mine alone, that no one else in the world saw you like that, with my cock buried deep inside you, trembling with pleasure.

The cold metal of the washing machine against your thighs, the heat of your body, the smell of gas from the cylinder and your cheap perfume mixing with the smell of sex in the night air. I can still smell that combination when I close my eyes. It still drives me crazy.

I open my eyes for a second. The ceiling, the darkness, the fan turning slowly. My hand doesn't stop. I squeeze harder, sliding from base to tip with a drop of saliva I sucked from my finger. How hot it makes me to remember, you bitch. How much I liked you.

***

That night, against the washing machine, your breathing grew heavier, your pussy began squeezing me in spasms you could no longer control, and I sped up. I didn't care about anything. I came inside you, pressing my hand over your mouth so no one would hear, unloading stream after stream deep into your womb, feeling my semen fill you and start running down your thighs, but you still let out a cry just as I finished, your pussy contracting around my cock and draining me of every last drop.

I was already far away, walking quickly down the sidewalk, my cock still wet with you and my pants unbuttoned, before your parents came outside. It sounded like a cry of pain, that's what they thought. I heard them ask what had happened, and I heard you lie with a naturalness that seemed funny to me back then: you said you'd hit yourself on a corner.

A liar from the very first day. Just like the last time, when I walked into my own house and found you where I never should have found you.

I stop for a moment, breathing heavily, my cock throbbing in my hand. Anger and lust mix in my chest until I don't know which of them is moving my hand. You make me so fucking angry and I still want you. I still love how you look, damn you. It would feel so good to have you here now, face down, ass raised, and fuck you hard and deep the way you liked.

***

That day I was at work and started feeling sick around noon. I asked for permission and left early. I stopped at the flower shop on the corner and bought a bouquet, one of the big ones, because I wanted to surprise you. My beautiful, horny wife would come home to find flowers waiting for her.

I climbed the building's stairs thinking about how I was going to fuck you that afternoon. I was going to grab you in the kitchen, pull your pants down right there, and put my tongue in your pussy until you begged me to fuck you. Then I was going to put you on all fours on the table and split you in two. But before I reached the door, I could already hear something. Your moans. I knew them by heart, the same ones you gave me, ringing all the way into the hall. That high-pitched "aaah" of yours when someone fucked you deep. The wet slapping of your pussy. The bed banging against the wall.

And a man panting, repeating your name like a filthy prayer.

—That's it, Renata... that's it, keep going, don't stop... move that ass, you slut...

I kicked the door open and saw you riding him, your tits bouncing against his face, your hair disheveled, his cock disappearing completely inside your pussy every time you lowered your hips. Your friend. The one you always brought home, the one you said was harmless, the one who laughed with me while the three of us drank beer. You were on top of him, moving the way you moved for me, with the same open mouth, the same trembling thighs, the same pussy I thought was mine swallowing another cock.

I couldn't believe it. I dropped the flowers in the doorway and felt everything go cloudy. I grabbed him by one arm, hauled him up with his cock still shining with your juices, and shoved him into the hall. I dragged you out naked, my seed from that morning still inside you, mixed with his, and threw you onto the hallway floor without letting you speak. I never thought I'd miss you after that. I never thought pain could be felt so deeply in the body.

That same bed that's empty now was where I found you with him. It took me weeks to sleep there again. And when I finally managed it, it was while thinking about you, jerking off like an idiot, hating you and wanting you in the same breath, coming onto the sheets where another man had fucked you. That's how I began this habit I still can't break.

***

I return to the room, to the present, to the empty bed that still smells of me and no one else. My hand moves quickly now, without rhythm, my cock swollen and dripping, wetting my fingers with the fluid leaking from the tip. With my other hand I grab my balls, squeeze them, and caress myself underneath, at that spot only you knew how to touch with your tongue. The mixture of fury and desire that only you know how to provoke in me, even though you're gone.

For everything you did to me and everything you make me miss, tonight is dedicated to you. To your lying honor. To those hips, that mouth, that whore's pussy, to everything I threw out onto the street that afternoon.

I clench my teeth. I start stroking myself harder, faster, feeling the blood gather at the tip, my balls draw up, my whole body tense. I think of the first time against the washing machine, your still-tight young pussy swallowing my cock, and the last time, that stranger's cock sinking into what had been mine, and somehow, in some sick way, the two images become one. I imagine your open mouth taking my load, your tongue sticking out, your eyes fixed on mine. Take it, baby... swallow it all... it's yours... it's still yours...

I finish with a muffled moan into the pillow, just as she used to muffle hers so no one would hear. I feel my cock pulsing in my hand, feel my semen shoot in hot streams across my stomach and fingers, warm and thick, while I keep squeezing and stroking it to wring out every last drop. For a second the room falls into total silence: just the fan, just my breathing settling back into place, just the smell of me filling the air.

I reach toward the nightstand and grab a couple of tissues. I clean myself without ceremony—my stomach, my fingers, my soft, wet cock. Into the trash, like the paper I just used to wipe you from my body once again.

I throw the crumpled tissues into the bin beside the bed. I pull up my pants, turn toward the wall, and close my eyes. The anger is gone now, the lust too, and at last only exhaustion remains—the exhaustion I had been searching for.

Tomorrow I'll have to get up early, exhausted and in a bad mood, like almost every day. But at least tonight, thanks to her memory and my own hand, I'll be able to sleep. It's the only thing she still gives me. And, though it pains me to admit it, I still accept it.