The Stranger Who Writes to Me on Sundays

The bed had swallowed me whole. Sundays after a storm are like that: the body weighs twice as much, the sheets smell of a long night, and all you want is to stay there, listening to the water still dripping from the gutters. I had a slight headache, just a pulse behind my eyebrows, that warm hangover that doesn’t quite bother you but reminds you that you exist. I stretched my arm toward the nightstand, groped for the phone, and before I even thought about it, I already had the inbox open in front of my face.

And there it was, your name. In bold. A single new message.

I didn’t need anything else. The headache retreated to some unimportant corner, and my body — lying there, naked, with my cock already waking up against my thigh, half lit by the gray light filtering through the half-drawn blind — jolted awake at once, as if someone had walked into the room without knocking.

I hadn’t even had coffee yet. My neurons still hadn’t fully switched on, my eyelids were heavy, and even so I focused on the screen with teenage urgency. The subject line was blank. The body of the message had a single line.

“What would you do to me?”

I grunted into the pillow. Three words. Three words and a question mark, and you on the other side of the screen knowing perfectly well what you do to me. My cock went hard the instant I finished reading, throbbing beneath the sheets, demanding what only your words knew how to give it.

***

We’ve been writing to each other for months. I don’t know your face, I don’t know your city, I don’t know whether the name you sign with is your real one. You call me Mariela in your letters, but you could be anyone, anywhere, and that unknown is exactly the fuel. It started with a comment you made on a story I published. An intelligent, biting remark, with a comma placed exactly where I would have put it. I answered you. You answered back. And suddenly we had this thing, this back-and-forth of words that every so often catches fire.

We both know the two things that make this work. The first: that it’s never going to happen. We live different lives, tied to obligations that don’t touch, separated by kilometers and by circumstances neither of us is going to move. The second: that precisely because of that, we can say anything to each other. There’s no risk. No after. Just the screen, the imagination, and the calm certainty that you’re never going to be truly kneeling between my legs, with my cock slapping against your lips, with my hand tangled in your hair.

But that morning, with your question pulsing on the screen, I allowed myself the luxury of imagining that you would.

***

I imagined the doorbell ringing. Me, still with the pillow crease on my cheek, going downstairs to open the door in my underwear, hair mussed, the bulge of my half-hard cock outlined under the fabric, not quite believing it. And on the other side, there you were. Not with the face my mind can’t draw, but with a presence: a perfume I don’t know, a smile I’ve already seen in your words, the way you lean against the doorframe as if to say, “Well, here I am, now what?” Your eyes go straight down to my underwear and a slow smile spreads across your face, like someone finding exactly what they came looking for.

We don’t talk much. There’s no need. We’ve been talking for months. I let you in, close the door, and the apartment is left in that thick Sunday silence, with the light coming in from the side and the distant noise of the city washed clean by the rain.

We go upstairs. You sit on the edge of my bed, that same bed that still holds the warmth of my body, and you look at me the way you look at something that’s going to come apart slowly, piece by piece. I stand in front of you, and you rest one hand on my hip, without urgency, measuring the moment. The other hand slides up the elastic of my briefs, hooks two fingers into them, and yanks them down to my knees. My cock springs free, hard as stone, pointing right at your face. You don’t even blink.

—I came to collect everything you’ve written to me —you say, and take me in your hand, weighing me, squeezing me lightly to feel how I’m throbbing—. Everything, do you hear me? Word for word.

And I can’t answer coherently.

***

What you asked me for in that email, what we’d been circling around for months with metaphors, was this: that I let you do whatever you wanted. That I not lift a finger. That I surrender myself to your hands and your mouth and endure. One of those slow, patient sessions meant to last, the kind that changes the story of an entire morning.

I lay back the way you wanted, on my back, arms at my sides, obedient for the first time in my life, with my cock pointing at the ceiling, swollen, a thick bead of fluid glistening at the tip. You rolled up your sleeves with a calm that was almost frightening. Your fingers started on my chest, slid down my sternum, traced my navel, lingered over every centimeter as if you had all the time in the world and no intention of hurrying. They passed right over my cock on purpose, and stroked my thighs, the fold of my groin, my tight, hot balls already begging for mercy.

When your hand finally wrapped around my cock, I was already hard from waiting so long, taut against my own belly, the veins raised from base to tip. And you didn’t squeeze, not yet. You just held me, weighing me, feeling my pulse against your palm. Your eyes stayed locked on mine. You wanted to watch. You wanted to see every expression that slipped out of me.

The first movement was almost nothing. A glide upward, your thumb brushing away the drop of fluid at the tip, then a slow stroke back down to the base. My breath still caught all the same. You squeezed just a little, let go, squeezed again, finding the rhythm of my pulse only to break it on purpose, right when I thought I had it. You jerked me off twice quickly and stopped dead, your hand still at the base, while I rocked my hips, searching for friction like an animal. You brought me to the edge with a precision only possible when someone has studied their victim for months through words.

Then I remembered all the letters. The one where you described, in obscene detail, what you’d do with your tongue if you ever had me still — the path from my balls to the tip, the return trip with your mouth open, the thread of spit dangling from your lower lip. The other one, the one you sent me on a Tuesday at three in the afternoon and that forced me to lock myself in the office bathroom for ten minutes, pants around my ankles, your written voice echoing in my head while I worked myself against the door. Every one of your words had branded itself somewhere in my body, and now they all came back together, layered over one another, as if your hands had spent months rehearsing this exact morning.

In my head you stop using just your hand. You lean down, and I feel your hair falling over my stomach before I feel your mouth. A long, deliberate pause, your warm breath traveling the length of my cock without touching it, you enjoying my impatience. And when you finally brush me with your lips, you do it slowly, one almost-kiss on the head, your tongue coming out to taste the drop that has surfaced again, a deep purr against hot flesh that makes me clench my fists against the sheet.

Then you open your mouth. You take me all the way in, to the back, until I feel the tip against the back of your throat, and you stay there for a long second, your eyes locked on mine, swallowing around my cock while I fall apart. You come back up slowly, sucking all the way, leaving me shining with spit. You go down again. And up. A slow, obscene rhythm, your hand tight at the base setting the tempo, the other kneading my balls with tender cruelty. You pull back every time my whole body goes taut, punishing me with the wait for every shameless thing I’ve ever written you, leaving my cock slapping against my stomach, red, swollen, wet with you.

—Stay still —you tell me every time my back arches—. Not yet. You made me wait months, now you’re going to take it.

And I obey. I grit my teeth, dig my heels into the mattress, let out a low sound I don’t recognize as my own. You smile with your lips shining, spit on the tip of my cock to watch the thread run down the shaft to your fingers, and start all over again. You like having me like that, suspended, at your mercy, milking pleasure out slowly so it lasts, so it becomes unbearable.

***

I went back to the screen. Reread your three words. “What would you do to me?” And I realized the question was backwards, that what truly burned wasn’t what I would do to you, but what I would let you do to me. That surrender. That letting go of the reins with someone whose voice I don’t even know.

My own hand had already gone down without permission, settled between my legs, wrapped around my cock, repeating the rhythm my head was inventing for you. I spit into my palm to lube it, slid it from base to tip, pinched the head between thumb and forefinger the way I had imagined you pinching me. I closed my eyes. It was easier that way. With my eyes closed I could make you real: the weight of the mattress dipping where you sat, the brush of your hair when you leaned in, your breath on my cock every time you came close to look at what you were provoking.

In my head you drove me to the edge and left me there. Once, with your mouth. Twice, with your hand. The third time you ripped off your clothes and climbed on top of me, your dripping cunt rubbing against my cock without letting me in. You ground the lips of your pussy up and down my shaft, soaking me completely, making me feel the heat and the edge of your clit sliding over the head without giving in. Always closer, always stopping a second before, until I was begging you — me, who never begs — in a cracked voice I didn’t recognize. You liked hearing it. You delayed on purpose just to hear me ask again.

—Say it —you ask, the tip barely inside, squeezing me with your cunt only the first centimeter, torturing me—. Tell me what you want.

And I say it. I say it all, without shame, my mouth dry. That you take me all the way in. That you fuck me slowly first and then like a slut. That you let me come inside you, in your mouth, on your tits, wherever you want, but that you let me come, for fuck’s sake, once and for all.

***

When you finally loosen control, when you drop down and swallow my cock whole in one go with your cunt, the entire apartment seems to hold its breath. I feel you wrapped around me like a burning glove, impossibly tight, soaked through, throbbing all around me. You start moving slowly, rising almost all the way off me and then dropping down hard, your hands braced on my chest, your breasts swaying over my face. I lean in to suck them, biting your hard nipples, and you moan over me, speeding up, riding me harder and harder.

Then you turn me over. Face down, you on top, ass up, knees apart, showing me everything. I drive into you from behind and grab your hips, and there’s no mercy now. I fuck you hard, thrusting to the hilt, listening to the wet slap of flesh against flesh, your ass hitting my thighs with every push. You scream into the pillow, one hand dropping to rub your clit while I split you open. I grab your hair, yank your head back, bite the back of your neck. And I bury myself in you again and again until I feel your whole body beginning to clamp down around my cock.

I can feel it all building, rising from deep inside, turning inevitable. You turn me over again, pull me out and take my cock in your hand, jerking me fast, aiming me at your chest, at your face, at the open mouth you make me open. And you watch. You don’t look away for a second. You want the exact moment, the instant I stop belonging to myself.

It came. It came with a jolt that folded me against the mattress, emptied me in one burst over my own stomach, over your hand, over the sheets we’d have to change immediately. The first rope splattered across my chest, the second landed on your fingers, still moving without stopping, milking every last drop from me, and the ones after that ran down my cock and balls onto the mattress. Your mouth opened in a perfect O with each spasm, between bites at your lip and a low sound escaping you. Your eyes huge, open as if you’d never seen anything like it, taking in the mess you’d just made with a watchmaker’s patience. You brought two fingers to your mouth, sucked them while looking at me, swallowed my cum without taking your eyes off me.

And then, silence. That long, good silence, with my chest rising and falling, with Sunday light coming in from the side, with your fingers still dressed in what I had given you, with my cock softening slowly against my thigh and the smell of heavy sex hanging in the air.

***

I opened my eyes.

I was alone, of course. Alone, naked, with my cock still hard in my hand, my stomach soaked with my own cum, my phone lying on its side on the pillow and the screen dimming from inactivity. Reality came back slowly: the peeling ceiling in one corner, the sound of a car driving through the water in the street, the headache reappearing timidly now that I no longer had anyone to distract me.

I had come three times reading you and imagining you. Three. Once, ten minutes after opening the email, with my hand barely resting there, with your written voice still echoing between my ears; the second time fifteen minutes later, slower, drawing it out, imagining you licking me to the very last drop; the third just now, brutal, dry, with my emptied balls still twisting for the sake of giving you a little more. The sheets were a mess, so was my stomach, and I had a thin thread of still-warm semen running down my side to my hip. And you were still just a name in bold, a perfect unknown on the other side of the world, capable of throwing my whole morning into disarray with three words and a question mark.

I picked up the phone again. The screen lit up. Your message was still there, untouched, waiting for the answer we both knew would come. I smiled into the pillow and started typing, slowly, choosing each word the way you choose your commas.

I’m going to tell you everything, I wrote. How I started, how many times I came, how I imagined your mouth. But first I need coffee. You just ruined my sheets and you’re not even here.

I hit send. And I stayed a little longer in the rumpled bed, with my cock already starting to stir again against my thigh just from thinking about your reply, with the calm certainty that next Sunday, after the next storm, you would show up in bold again. And that I, once more, would open it without thinking.