I Went Back to His Room for What I Couldn't Forget

Days went by, and I couldn't get him out of my head. At night it was worse. I would turn off the light and, in the darkness, everything came back: I saw him sitting on the edge of the mattress, legs spread, and remembered the weight of his cock in my hand, the salty taste of the tip on my tongue, the ragged breathing that escaped him while I sucked him on my knees.

It turned me on more than I wanted to admit.

And without meaning to, I ended up touching myself almost every night. I would slide my hand under my panties, find my pussy already soaking wet, and spread my lips with two fingers. I closed my eyes and was back in his room. Except in my imagination things went further: I was no longer kneeling on the floor sucking him off, but on the bed with him, legs spread wide, feeling his weight on top of me, his hands squeezing my tits, his thick cock forcing its way into my pussy. I imagined what it would be like for him to fuck me, how that cock I already knew would push its way inside me in a single thrust, all the way in, until it made me scream.

I would put in one finger first, then two, imagining they were his. I moved them inside me with the same rhythm I fantasized he would use to penetrate me. With my other hand I rubbed my clitoris in quick circles, pressing harder and harder, until my hips lifted off the mattress on their own. I came quickly, moans muffled against the pillow, biting it so I wouldn't wake anyone, thinking only of that: his hot cum filling me inside, whether there would be a next time, whether he would want more, whether I would let him come inside me. That possibility was what had me lost. The heat of orgasm was followed by guilt, cold and immediate, as I pulled out my soaked fingers and brought them to my mouth without meaning to. But the next day, without fail, I was thinking about it again.

***

I didn't go that Thursday. I let the date pass. A week went by, then another. I carried on with my life, with classes and my thesis, but the memory was still there, like a background buzz that wouldn't go away.

On the Tuesday before the following Thursday, I received a message. A number I didn't have saved. When I opened it, there was a photo of him. He was in his room, his white robe hanging open, revealing his torso and, lower down, the bulge outlined beneath the fabric of his pajama pants. Beneath it were just three words: “I missed you, Mariana.”

The air caught in my throat. I looked around the library, but no one was looking at my screen. Those words struck me in the chest. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. He was saying that he had missed me, as if what we had was something real, something belonging to both of us.

I felt a quick heat rise to my face and another, different heat settle lower down. I grew wet instantly, my panties soaking through beneath my skirt right there in the library. I squeezed my thighs together under the table. I turned off the screen and sat still, but the image was already stuck in my mind. I missed you. And that bulge outlined beneath his clothes, something I had glimpsed but that had remained engraved in my memory. I knew perfectly well what was underneath. I had already had it in my mouth. I had already felt it grow against my tongue.

***

I couldn't concentrate on anything else. I gathered my things and went home. It was sticky-hot that afternoon.

I showered with warm water and didn't put on pajamas. Just panties and an old, long T-shirt, the kind that fit me like a dress and covered me halfway down my ass. I lay down like that, with the sheet tangled around my feet. The night air came in hot through the window.

In the darkness, my phone vibrated again.

I picked it up. The screen's brightness blinded me for a second. It said: “You must be in bed already. Tell me what you're wearing.”

I froze. If I answered him, I would be confessing that I was in bed, almost naked, thinking about his message. If I didn't, maybe he would take it as a no. Or maybe he would try again.

I lowered my eyes to my body. The T-shirt had ridden up to my waist, my legs were bare, and the cotton of my panties already had a dark stain in the center. I could tell him the truth. I could tell him exactly what I was wearing. The idea brought that heat back, that low pressure in my belly, the heavy throbbing in my clitoris.

After a while, I replied: “It's very hot. Just a long T-shirt. And nothing else.”

I pressed send. My heart was pounding. I had told him I wasn't wearing pants, that there was only one layer of fabric between his gaze and my pussy. Now he knew everything.

***

The reply came almost immediately. “I want to see.”

Two words. Another harder beat in my chest. It wasn't a question. It was an order, gentle but an order all the same.

I looked toward my bedroom door, as if someone might be watching me. There was no one. Just me, the heat of the night, and his message on the screen.

I sat up in bed. Without thinking too much, I got up and walked to the closet mirror. In one pull, I took off the long T-shirt. I was left wearing only panties. The air brushed my nipples, and they hardened instantly, so much that they hurt.

Then I took the necklace from the nightstand, the one he had given me. I put it on. The gold fell cold between my breasts, right in the center. It covered nothing. It barely gleamed against my skin.

I hesitated for a second, then pulled down my panties too. I let them fall to the floor and pushed them aside with my foot. I stood naked before the mirror, wearing only the necklace between my tits. I saw my reflection: my trimmed pubic hair, my thighs shining with the wetness running down them, my taut nipples pointing forward.

I took a picture of myself in the mirror. Without my face, from the neck down. My breasts, the necklace hanging between them, my belly, my pubic area, everything beneath the lamp's dim light. I sent it without writing anything else. The photo said it all: me, in my room, completely naked, wearing his necklace because he had asked me to.

A few minutes went by without a reply. Nerves began eating away at me. Was it too much? Did I scare him? I sat back down on the bed, hugging my legs. I could feel my own sticky wetness against my thighs.

Then the phone vibrated one last time. “I'll see you Thursday. I have something for you.”

That was all. No compliment about the photo, no “how pretty.” Just a plan and a promise. I have something for you.

I turned off the phone and stayed in the darkness. The necklace was still cold between my breasts. Unable to stop myself, I slid my hand between my legs. I was soaking wet, my lips swollen, my clitoris throbbing. I rubbed myself slowly, thinking of him, of what he had saved for me, of his cock, of his mouth. I came silently, biting my lip, with two fingers buried in my pussy and my eyes closed, imagining they were his. Thursday was no longer an ordinary day. It was a date with something he had kept for me. And from the way he said it, I knew it wasn't another piece of jewelry.

***

Thursday arrived. I dressed carefully. I chose a light, fresh dress that clung slightly to my body. Underneath, a lace thong, just to feel it, although I knew no one would see it. Or perhaps someone would. I put on low heels. They weren't practical at all for walking through the halls, but they made me feel different. More confident. Or more willing—I couldn't say which.

I knew something was going to happen. This wasn't just another work visit. He had something for me.

I arrived at the residence earlier than usual. I greeted Dora at reception with a smile I hoped looked normal. I signed the register. “I'm here to finish some measurements in the west wing,” I said, showing her my notebook. She nodded, distracted by a crossword puzzle.

I walked through the halls, greeting some residents I already knew. I pretended to check my notes and measured a doorframe with a tape measure I didn't need. It was all an act so no one would suspect that I had only one destination.

At last I reached room fourteen. The door was closed. I took a deep breath and smoothed down my dress. I knocked softly with my knuckles.

“Who is it?” his voice asked from inside.

“It's me,” I said, almost in a whisper. “Mariana.”

“Come in.”

I opened the door and entered. He was standing in the middle of the room. He was wearing only cotton pajama pants, nothing else. His torso was bare, broad, covered in that graying hair. He had the air of a man waiting for something. On the nightstand beside him were a bottle of wine and two glasses. And a small box.

I closed the door behind me. The click of the latch sounded far too loud in the silence.

He didn't move. He only watched me, his eyes traveling over the dress, the heels.

“It looks good on you,” he said at last, in that deep voice. He didn't clarify what he meant.

I didn't know what to say. I stayed beside the door, my heart in my throat.

He took a step toward the nightstand and picked up the box. He opened it. Inside, on the velvet, a pair of earrings gleamed. Gold, like the necklace, but more delicate, with a small pearl hanging from each one.

“They were hers too,” he said, without looking at the jewelry, looking at me instead. “But I'm not giving them to you as part of a deal. It's not payment.”

He paused. The air in the room seemed to grow denser.

“I know you want more,” he continued, his words clear and direct. “You want me to fuck you. I've known it since you sent me that naked picture wearing my necklace. And I want it too. So this is only because they look good on you. Because I want to see you wearing them while I fuck you.”

He came closer, the open box resting in his palm. He was close enough for me to feel the heat of his body and something else: the hard bulge outlined beneath the thin cotton of his pants, barely brushing against me.

“Put them on,” he said. It wasn't a suggestion.

I took the earrings with fingers that trembled slightly. The gold was cold. I removed my own small earrings and put his on, one in each ear. I felt the light weight of the pearls swinging against my neck.

He watched without taking his eyes off me. When I finished, he nodded slowly.

“That's it,” he murmured. “Now that's right.”

Then his gaze dropped from the earrings to my mouth, and from there lower.

“Well?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer. “Are you going to tell me why you really came?”

***

“I came for what I've been dreaming about all these days,” I said, my voice low but firm. “I came so you could fuck me.”

He looked at me for a second. Then, without saying anything, he turned around. He approached the bed and sat on the edge, legs spread. His pajama pants hung loosely, but the bulge was still there, swollen and waiting.

“Well?” he asked from there, looking at me. His tone was dry, practical. “Show me. Get naked. All of you.”

Without taking my eyes off him, I brought my hands to the straps of my dress. I slid it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. I stood before him wearing only the lace thong and heels. The necklace hung cold between my breasts, the pearls of the earrings swaying against my neck, and the fabric of my panties was already dark and clinging to my pussy in the center.

He said nothing. His eyes traveled over me from head to toe without hurry, stopping at my nipples and then, for much longer, at the wet stain in the lace. I saw him swallow. Then he extended one hand and gestured for me to come closer.

I took a couple of steps until I stood between his legs.

His hands, large and marked with veins, settled on my hips. His palms were rough and hot. Slowly he slid them backward until they almost completely covered my ass. He closed his fingers over the flesh, squeezing firmly, not harshly, but making it clear that he could handle me however he pleased. A moan escaped me. He pulled me toward him, and his face came level with my tits.

“This is how you dreamed it,” he said. Not as a question, but as a fact.

In one movement, his mouth closed over my breast. It wasn't a soft kiss. He caught my nipple through the necklace chain, sucking hard, his tongue circling it, biting the tip until I gasped. He switched to the other breast, sucking it all over and covering it with saliva while his teeth grazed my skin. A hoarse moan came out of me. At the same time, the hand on my ass moved. His thick fingers grabbed the thong's lace and pulled it to one side, tearing the seam with a dry sound. The fabric gave way and left my pussy exposed.

The cool air struck me there, immediately followed by the heat of his hand. His fingers traced my swollen lips, parting them, checking how soaked I was.

“You're dripping,” he murmured against my breast. “You're such a slut.”

His thick, rough middle finger found my already-soaked entrance and sank in with one thrust. He filled me completely, an intense, precise stretch I had been imagining for weeks. I screamed, the sound choking off into a gasp. His finger moved in and out with a wet, obscene noise that filled the room. Soon he inserted a second finger, opening me wider and curling them inside to touch the spot that made my legs tremble.

“You like it,” he growled, confirming what he already knew. “You've wanted it since the first day. You've wanted my cock since you saw me.”

He pulled his fingers out, shining with my juices, and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them slowly without taking his eyes off me, savoring me. Then he lowered one hand and pulled his cock out over the waistband of his pants. I saw it there, hard and thick, the tip purple, a thick drop gleaming in the slit. With his other hand he pushed me down by the shoulder.

“Suck it first. Like last time. Get it nice and wet.”

I knelt between his legs without thinking. I took it in one hand, feeling its weight, its hot pulse. I ran my tongue along its entire length, from the heavy balls to the tip, collecting that salty drop. I put it in my mouth. I closed my lips around it and began to lower myself as far as I could, feeling it fill my mouth to the back of my throat. He let out a groan and grabbed my hair, not to force me, but to guide me.

“That's it, that's it… all the way down.”

I moved up and down, sucking hard as I pulled off, leaving it glistening with saliva. Drool ran from the corner of my mouth. I took his balls in my other hand and squeezed them gently, rolling them. He was breathing faster, his hips beginning to move against my face.

He yanked me away before he came. A strand of saliva hung from my chin to the tip of his cock.

“Enough. Now it's your turn.”

His mouth and fingers had brought me quickly to the edge, but part of my mind remained alert. The rush. The suspicion. We couldn't take too long.

Between moans I tried to hold back, I gasped out the words.

“No… we don't have much time. Do it. Put it in me. Now.”

He nodded without speaking. With his strong hands on my hips, he lifted me from the floor and turned me around. He pushed me gently but firmly toward the bed. I understood. I bent over, bracing my hands on the mattress, ass toward him, legs spread. The torn fabric of the thong hung to one side. I felt the cool air between my buttocks; I knew I was showing him everything, my open, dripping pussy, my ass exposed too.

I heard the elastic of his pajama pants slide down. A second later I felt the thick, hot pressure against me. The head of his cock first slid along my slit, getting wet, searching for the entrance. He held it with his hand, positioned it right there, and pushed. It entered in a single thrust, all the way in, until it struck against my cervix. A muffled cry escaped me against the bedspread. It was too much, a pressure and stretch I wasn't ready for, but my soaked body accepted it instantly. I felt every inch, every pronounced vein inside me.

He didn't wait for me to adjust. He took me by the hips and began to move. Each thrust was hard and direct, going all the way in and pulling almost completely out before returning. The sound of his skin against mine, of his balls hitting my clitoris, filled the room, mixed with his hoarse grunts and my broken moans. The sloshing of my soaked pussy swallowing his cock was obscene, echoing through the room.

The pace was fast, urgent. He knew the time was short too. One of his hands tangled in my hair and pulled my head back, arching my spine farther. The other never let go of my hip, his fingers branding it. He slapped my ass, making me clench my pussy around him.

“That's it… that's how you wanted it,” he panted without stopping. “Hard and fast. Tell me you wanted it.”

“Yes… yes, like that… harder,” I managed to moan against the bedspread.

I could barely speak. I only felt. The thickness opening me inside, the friction that made me see white, every thrust striking that deep spot and tearing waves of pleasure from me. My legs were trembling, but his grip kept me in place, and the necklace swung uncontrollably between my hanging tits, the earrings' pearls striking my cheeks. I felt my first orgasm rising, squeezing me completely around his cock, and I came, smothering a cry, soaking him even more. There was no time for anything else, and I let him do it, knowing I had wanted this from the beginning.

Suddenly he pulled his cock out, gleaming with me, and turned me over. He laid me on my back across the rumpled bedspread. He spread my legs with his hands, opening them wide and folding them toward my chest. I was completely exposed before him, the earrings swinging, the necklace on my chest, the ruined thong to one side, and my pussy red, swollen, and open before his eyes.

“Look at you,” he murmured, running two fingers over my open lips. “All mine.”

“I want to see you,” he said then, louder. “Your face. When I put it in you.”

He positioned himself between my legs again. He gripped his cock, ran it over my wet lips, rubbing it against my clitoris until I moaned, then placed it at my entrance. He stared into my eyes as he pushed, entering again, inch by inch this time, so we could both feel it sinking in. This time I moaned without muffling it, watching his body merge with mine, watching his cock disappear inside my pussy. He didn't take his eyes from my face or from the pearls gleaming with every movement. He bent down and sucked one of my nipples, biting it, while his hips began moving again.

His rhythm grew faster, more uncontrolled. His grunts came more frequently. He took both my hands and held them against the mattress above my head, immobilizing me completely. His thrusts were deeper now, savage; the bed creaked beneath us, the headboard struck the wall. I knew what it meant. I felt it in the way he grew harder, in the way his thrusts lost their rhythm and became deeper.

“I'm going to come,” he panted, as a warning. “Inside. I'm going to fill you completely.”

“Yes… do it… come inside,” I begged, not recognizing myself, wrapping my legs around his waist so he couldn't pull out.

His hand squeezed my hip harder, his fingers digging in. His movements became short and fast, thrusting all the way in again and again. I closed my eyes, feeling the heat building in me too, about to follow him. My second orgasm exploded then, stronger than the first, my pussy convulsing around his cock, squeezing it, milking it.

With a deep, hoarse groan that rose from his chest, I felt it. Heat spilled inside me, pulsing again and again as he trembled above me. I felt every spurt, thick and hot, shooting against my depths, filling me. His body tensed and then sagged slightly, without letting go of me, his cock still inside, throbbing out the last remnants. He kissed my neck, my jaw, continuing to move gently, squeezing himself empty inside me.

It was a strange sensation, hot and intimate. I felt his semen beginning to escape around the cock still buried inside me, running down my buttocks onto the bedspread. It wasn't like in my dreams. It was more real, cruder, something I couldn't control that filled a space that had belonged only to me until minutes ago.

He slowly pulled away. His cock slid out with a wet sound, and behind it a thick stream of his cum mixed with my juices spilled between my legs. He looked at me, his eyes still dark, watching the trail he himself had left.

“Mine,” he said at last, quietly, as if that word explained everything. He ran two fingers over my open pussy, gathering some of what was coming out, and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them without thinking, tasting both of us.

I lay still, feeling the heat cool on my skin, feeling his semen continue to run from my pussy. Those words hung in the charged air of the room. I didn't know what to answer. I only nodded, almost without realizing it.

“Thank you,” he added then, suddenly. His voice was softer. He didn't say why, but I understood. Thank you for coming. For not backing out. For letting me come inside you. For giving me something perhaps no one had given him in a long time.

The urgency returned all at once. The time. The suspicion. He saw it in my face and nodded toward the room's small bathroom.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, practical again.

I got up on trembling legs. I felt the hot stream run down my thigh as soon as I stood. I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up as best I could with paper and water, wiping between my legs and removing what he had left inside me. In the mirror I saw myself: hair tousled, earrings crooked, eyes too bright, nipples still hard and red from his bites, finger marks on my hips. I tidied myself a little, but there was no way to disguise what had just happened.

When I came out, he had already put on the top of his pajamas. The earring box was on the nightstand. He picked it up and handed it to me.

“Keep them,” he said. “For next time.”

I didn't ask when next time would be. I simply put the box in my bag. I picked up the dress from the floor and pulled it over my still-sticky body, then put my heels back on. No panties, because I had left them destroyed on the room's floor. I was almost a different person now.

“Leave through the back corridor,” he instructed. “The service door. No one will be there at this hour.”

I nodded. I paused for a second in the doorway. We looked at each other. There was no kiss or embrace. Just that charged silence, and his “thank you” still suspended in the air.

I left. I walked quickly down the dark corridor toward the service door and reached the street, then the bus stop. With every step I felt his hot fluid sliding down my thigh beneath my dress.

While I waited, my thoughts wouldn't stop. What I had done, at the residence, with a resident. I had crossed a line. I could lose my thesis, my entire career. I knew it wasn't right.

But I also thought about the other part. How it had felt. His hands on my skin. His cock inside mine. His cum filling me. His voice saying “thank you.” That didn't feel wrong. It felt real.

I boarded the nearly empty bus and sat by the window, squeezing my thighs together, feeling how soaked I still was with him. It no longer mattered whether it was right or wrong. It was done. I couldn't undo it.

***

I went back to the residence a couple more times before finishing my thesis, using the excuse of measuring the final details. The first time I ended up kneeling before him again, his cock deep in my throat, swallowing every last drop of his cum because there wasn't time for anything more. The second was on the bed, with him on top of me, slower but just as silent, watching him come over my tits and the necklace before cleaning me up quickly. After neither encounter were there any goodbyes: I would get dressed and leave, he would stay, and that seemed to be enough for both of us.

The last time I went, to leave him a copy of my completed thesis, I knew beforehand that I wouldn't see him. I passed in front of his closed door. I didn't knock. I only stopped for a moment and kept walking.

I never knew whether what we did was right or wrong. But I discovered something about myself: that I was also capable of setting everything aside for the simple pleasure of feeling that, a hard cock inside me and hot cum filling me. And that, for better or worse, was now part of me.