I Became His Woman So I Wouldn’t Lose Him

—Hello?

—Good morning, my love. Did you sleep well?

—Marcos, darling. Yes, yes. I was just about to make coffee. Is something wrong?

—Nothing bad. I just want you looking gorgeous for me when I get home at noon.

—I love it when you ask me that —I replied, feeling the smile spread across my face all by itself.

—I’ve booked you an appointment at ten at Carla’s salon. I’ve already explained what I want her to do to you. You’re going to be beautiful, just wait and see.

—Then I’d better hurry. It’s almost nine-thirty.

—Run, then. Carla’s waiting for you. You know I don’t like waiting. And put on those black lace panties that drive me crazy, because at noon I’m going to tear them off you with my teeth.

A nervous laugh escaped me and everything inside me tightened. Marcos knew exactly what he was doing every time he spoke to me like that, so suddenly and so directly, not leaving me room to answer.

He hung up without saying goodbye, as he always did. Marcos was a man of few words. I think it and I do it, he liked to repeat, and that was how his whole world worked: straight ahead, no detours, not a single minute to waste.

I didn’t eat breakfast. I drank my coffee standing up, by the window, and almost ran out into the street. I knew that last-minute warning would have thrown Carla’s schedule into chaos, and I didn’t want to make things harder for her.

I found her at the salon door, looking for her keys at the bottom of her handbag.

—Hi, Carla! —I said when I was still a few steps away.

—Oh, hi, sweetheart. I’m so happy to see you —she replied, turning around—. Come on in and sit in the back chair while I switch on the lights.

—Sorry about Marcos barging in like this. You know what he’s like.

—We’re used to it. And besides, we love seeing you come out of here smiling so much, on your way back to him.

I left my bag and jacket on the coat rack and sat in front of the mirror. I hadn’t even had time to put on makeup. I looked at my face, the dark circles from a whole night wrapped against his back, and I still thought I could smell his skin on mine. Carla was switching on lights and greeting the girls as they arrived: Eva, who would do my nails, and Rocío, who would put on a mask. Then, without quite knowing why, I remembered the first day I saw him.

***

I was barely a teenager when I discovered him playing football in the square, in front of my grandmother’s village church. It was midsummer and the boys had split into two teams; several had taken off their shirts to tell them apart. Luckily for me, Marcos was one of the ones playing bare-chested.

I stayed on a bench at the far end of the square, ignoring the rest of the world. I watched him jostle for the ball and hug his teammates every time they scored. I wished, if only for a second, that I were one of them and could feel his sweaty skin against mine.

—Adrián! Lunch! —my grandmother shouted from the balcony.

I picked up the bag of bread and crossed the square as fast as I could, not looking at anyone, so nobody would notice what was already obvious to me: I had just fallen in love. Years later, his friends would confess to me with laughter that, while I was crossing the square, Marcos was so dazed watching me that they conceded a goal that cost them the championship final.

When summer ended, we went back to the city. In the car, my father looked at me in the rearview mirror.

—Why are you crying? Boys don’t cry. Don’t let anyone see you like that.

I didn’t answer. I kept pressed to the window, looking for Marcos’s face in every car that passed us. My mother, from the front seat, turned around and put a hand on my knee.

—I know all this feels very hard right now, darling. But one day you’ll remember it fondly.

She knew how to read in me what my father was incapable of seeing. All she needed was to hear me breathe. And, as almost always, she was right.

***

The years went by and I grew up. When I went back to the village, now that I was of age, my mother called me into the room in an oddly calm tone.

—Adrián, son, I’ve forgotten all your underwear at home. And Don Tomás’s shop has closed, so there’s nowhere in the village to buy any. Your grandmother says that, for now, you can use your cousin Beatriz’s clothes. I’ve left some panties in the bathroom that I think will fit you well.

I was left speechless. It wasn’t an oversight; I understood that much later. My mother and my grandmother had planned everything, behind my father’s back, to quietly give me the permission I didn’t even dare ask for. That first night I put on Beatriz’s clothes and, at last, I felt inside my own skin.

From then on I never had to ask again. Every summer new panties and nightgowns appeared, as if by magic. My mother pretended not to notice that the sizes were changing with my body and that, sometimes, my cousin had “forgotten” to take the tag off them.

Marcos and I became inseparable. He left the square and the ball behind to spend afternoons with me, listening to records sprawled on my bed. I was still hopelessly in love, but I was terrified of telling him and losing him.

***

One of those afternoons we took shelter from the sun under a fig tree at the edge of the path. I leaned against the trunk and he came closer, took my waist, and kissed me. He pulled away for a moment to look at me, as if asking permission, and kissed me again, this time slowly, sliding his tongue all the way in. I started trembling against his mouth. It was exactly what I had imagined on so many sleepless nights.

I felt his hand slide down my hip, squeeze my ass over my pants, and pull me toward him. His bulge, hard as a rock, pressed straight between my cheeks and I let out a muffled moan. Marcos laughed softly, his mouth still pressed to mine, and pulled me even tighter against his dressed cock. I was hard too, mine straining inside my underwear, pushing the fabric with a thick drop that had already dampened my pants.

The kiss broke when a puppy climbed up my leg, intent on playing. Behind it came, shouting “Trufa, Trufa!”, two children and their mother. Marcos handed the dog back and kept looking at me with a half smile.

—I think my kiss was a little too much for you —he said, pointing at my pants—. You can tell, dummy.

The emotion had overwhelmed me in a way I didn’t know how to hide. I went home red-faced, with his T-shirt tied around my waist, and ran to lock myself in the bathroom. I pulled down my soaked pants and underwear, sat on the cold floor, and gave myself a quick, furious wank thinking about his tongue, about his cock pressed against my ass, about the hands I still hadn’t had time to get inside me. I came within seconds, biting my fist so I wouldn’t scream, and all my release ended up dripping between my fingers and down my belly. That night, without my knowing it, my mother and grandmother exchanged a conspiratorial look, like people confirming a long-suspected secret.

***

When my grandmother died, my parents sold the house and we stopped going to the village. For them it was a formality; for me, it was losing the love of my life. For years, the only thread I had left were the letters. I wrote to him every week, confessing how much I missed him and that one day I wanted to be a woman. Not just any woman: his woman. I sealed each letter with a kiss of lipstick and a few drops of my mother’s perfume.

He never replied. I thought he had a girlfriend, that he had been a coward, and I stopped writing to him. Only much later did I learn the truth: my father intercepted his letters and destroyed them before they reached my hands. He thought exactly the same of me that I thought of him.

We ran into each other by chance at university. Marcos was studying architecture and shared an apartment with two girls. We picked up where we’d left off as if the years hadn’t passed, and I ended up living there more than in my own home. One of his roommates, Nadia, became my accomplice: she lent me her clothes and did my makeup to leave me, as she said, “perfect for him.”

One afternoon, while she lined my eyes, she asked me something in a voice that sounded too carefully controlled.

—And Marcos… is everything good in bed? Does he fuck you well?

—Are you really asking me that? If you can hear us almost every night —I laughed—. He wrecks me, Nadia. He shoves it all the way in and doesn’t let me breathe.

—It’s just that sometimes he seems weird with you.

—He has two sides —I admitted—. Some days he makes love to me slowly, licking me all over, eating my ass with his tongue until he makes me cry with pleasure, and other days he’s cold, dominant, grabs my hair and uses me as if I weren’t there, as if I were just a hole for his cock. But I love him anyway.

—I don’t know what to tell you —murmured Nadia, looking away and biting her lip.

I didn’t want to understand then what that silence was hiding. There are truths you’d rather not look at head-on.

***

—What are you thinking about, staring into space? —Carla’s voice brought me back to the chair. She had set up a screen to separate us from the rest of the salon.

—And this?

—I like treating my best clients with some privacy. And the others won’t get annoyed if I slip you in ahead —she winked at me in the mirror.

Carla was the sister I never had. We met in the endocrinologist’s waiting room, both of us about to start hormone treatment, and from then on we walked the road of becoming who we were together. She had already had surgery.

—Hey —I blurted while she applied the dye—, I’m still thinking about the operation. I’ve got the money saved, but I’m terrified it’ll hurt or that I’ll lose sensitivity.

—Look, dummy. What’s hanging there now, does it give you any pleasure?

—None. It gets hard when he fucks me, but I don’t feel anything. It’s a nuisance. Marcos doesn’t even touch it.

—Then, worst case, you’ll stay the same. Anything you gain will be a gain —she held my gaze in the mirror—. And I’ll tell you something else. Do you know what it’s like to feel his chest against yours while he’s inside you? To wrap your legs around him and feel his cock trembling in your cunt? To arch your back and push your hips toward him, trying to feel him deeper, even if it’s only one more centimeter? To feel the tip hit right there, in that spot where you melt and cum without even touching yourself?

I swallowed. That “one more centimeter” lodged itself inside me like a promise.

—Women like us have to be there for them at all times —she went on, more softly—. You’re like the bottle of cold water in the fridge: when he’s thirsty, he opens the door and drinks. Your job is to never be missing, and to guess his thirst before he even notices it. He wakes up hard in the morning, you’re already under the sheets sucking him. He comes home tired from work, you’re already on all fours with your ass in the air waiting for his cock. That’s how it works.

I closed my eyes under her hands. And, unwillingly, I remembered the afternoon I let someone watch us.

***

It had been in Marcos’s apartment. Nadia’s boyfriend had been working far away for months, and she had confessed that she spent the nights killing time watching, over and over again, a homemade video they’d recorded on her phone before they were separated.

—If you want —I said, half joking, half serious—, sometime you could watch Marcos and me.

—How embarrassing, girl! —she laughed, red to her ears.

That same night I left the door half open. Marcos had undressed me slowly, laid me on my back, and spread my legs wide apart, burying his face between my thighs. I felt his hot tongue lick my perineum, travel up to the base of my cock, and slide back down again, soaking me through, until he pressed the tip of his tongue against my ass. I arched against his mouth, moaning like a bitch.

—Shut up —he whispered, pulling away for a moment—. Get on all fours. Now.

I obeyed. I climbed to the edge of the bed, dug my hands into the mattress and pushed my ass back, offering it to him. I heard him spit on my hole, felt a thick finger push in, then two, turning inside me, preparing me. When I felt him position himself behind me and press the head of his cock to my entrance, I bit my lip with pure desire.

He came in with one hard thrust. I felt his whole dick splitting me open from the inside and filling me top to bottom. He started fucking me without mercy, setting a brutal rhythm, gripping my hips with open hands to yank me against him with every plunge. Each thrust forced me to arch my back in an electric sway; my cock, hard and dripping, swayed between my legs untouched.

In the middle of a gasp, I turned my head and saw her: Nadia, in the doorway, eyes dilated with shock and desire, mouth half open. I gestured for her to come in. She shook her head, pointing to her chest. Marcos, far from stopping, noticed her too and drove his fingers into my hips so hard I let out a muffled cry. He started fucking me even harder, putting on a show, letting her hear the slap of his balls hitting my ass every time he buried himself to the hilt.

Nadia came in trembling and leaned her back against the wall, hypnotized by the clash of our bodies, by Marcos’s cock coming in and out of me, shiny with spit and me. When I tried to moan so she could feel my surrender, Marcos cut my breath off with his usual commanding “sssshhh” and covered my mouth with his hand. The only sound in the room was the wet smack of his pelvis against my ass and his heavy breathing at my nape.

—Look how she swallows it —he told Nadia, never stopping his thrusts—. Look how she begs me for more.

I saw her lower her hand, hike up her skirt and stroke herself over her underwear, until modesty gave way and she moved the fabric aside to touch herself for real. I saw her fingers sink between the glossy lips of her cunt, moving in quick circles over her clit. Seeing her like that, coming undone while he possessed me, took me to the edge. My cock dripped thick threads onto the sheets without anyone touching it even once.

—I’m going to cum —he panted in my ear—. I’m going to fill your whole ass, slut.

And then Marcos emptied himself into me with a long groan, pushing all the way in, releasing one hot spurt after another into my guts. I felt every pulse of his cock emptying out and came too, hands-free, shooting my own seed onto the bedspread in violent jolts. Nadia, frightened by the violence of that ending, pulled her hand away and fled to her room.

Marcos pulled out of me in one tug and a thick white trail fell down the inside of my thigh to the floor.

—Clean it up —he ordered, coldly, pointing to the trail dripping between my legs—. With your tongue.

I knelt and obediently licked every drop of his semen from the floorboards. As I passed Nadia’s door I called her, but she didn’t answer. I could only hear her enjoying herself, alone, on the other side: the wet splashing of her fingers going in and out, a muffled moan against the pillow, and finally a long, broken shiver when she came thinking about us.

***

Marcos wasn’t finished with me. He came toward me without a word, shoved my back against the wall and started kissing my neck, nibbling my ears, hiking up my skirt and caressing my thighs over my stockings. His hands traveled up until they found my bare ass beneath the fabric, felt the hole still open and dripping from his previous release, and shoved two fingers into me at once. I let out a whimper pressed to his mouth. I couldn’t take it anymore; I needed to feel him again.

—On your knees —he ordered.

I dropped to the floor obediently. With clumsy fingers I unfastened his belt, lowered his fly and pulled out his cock, still dirty with me, shiny and throbbing. I took it into my mouth without hesitation, swallowing it down to the throat, feeling its warm weight on my tongue and its swollen head touch my uvula. Marcos grabbed me by the nape with both hands and started fucking my mouth mercilessly, driving my face against his pelvis, forcing me to choke with every thrust. Saliva ran down my chin, my eyes filled with tears, and he kept going, not slowing down, growling under his breath every time he felt my throat clamp around him.

When I thought he was going to cum in my mouth, he pulled out abruptly. He lifted me by the hair and led me by the hand to the kitchen, sweeping everything off the table with his arm. He bent my torso over the wood, kicked my legs apart, and pulled my stockings down to my thighs. I heard the jingle of his belt hitting the floor and, before I could tense a muscle, he slammed into my ass in one single thrust.

—Aaah —I exhaled, caught between the pleasure and the pain of feeling his entire cock split me open again.

—Ssshhh —he cut me off, pressing my cheek down against the table—. Endure it, whore.

He fucked me with a ferocity I’d rarely known from him, dictating the rhythm of my submission. Every hit of his hips lifted my toes off the floor; every retreat left my hole open and hungry for a second before he filled it again with a brutal shove. He seized my hair and pulled me back as if it were the reins with which to command me; his other hand left marks on my hip that would take days to fade. I lost all sense of time. The pleasure that man could give me made me fly.

—Tell me you’re mine —he growled, never stopping—. Say it.

—I’m yours —I panted against the wood—. Only yours. Fuck me, please, fuck me harder.

When I felt him swelling inside me, I arched as much as I could to take him to the root. He emptied himself with a shudder that left me weak, and I felt hot spurts flooding me from within, marking me as his once again. He collapsed onto my back, his hips still moving slowly, squeezing every last drop out of me. In that silence I could hear his gasps at my nape and the beat of his heart against my skin.

He didn’t let me sit up. And, after a few minutes, I felt his pulse speed up again and grow inside me once more, still buried. He started again, harder, sliding in on his own release, dragging it out of me mixed with each thrust. My legs gave way and he had to reposition me roughly over the table, lifting one thigh onto the wood to open me wider. This time he shoved his fingers into my mouth, pulling me back, forcing me to suck them while he destroyed me from behind. I sucked them as if they were his cock, choking on saliva, eyes rolling back.

—Come with me —he ordered in my ear—. Now.

He lowered his free hand, grabbed my cock and jerked it two, three times, squeezing hard. I exploded at once, blasting thick streams over the table’s wood, and at the same moment felt him empty himself into me again with an animal roar. This time he did let me scream, to pour out all the pleasure I’d been forced to swallow, and I screamed until I was hoarse, while our releases mingled beneath my belly.

He came out of me with a wet pop and buttoned his pants as naturally as anything. A thick thread of his semen began sliding down my thigh.

—Shall we eat? I’m hungry —he said, as if nothing had happened.

***

I pulled myself together, pulled my stockings up over the still-sticky skin, and bent down to clean the floor. And while I did, that broad-shouldered boy playing football shirtless in my grandmother’s square came back to mind. The one I fell hopelessly in love with.

And, as always when I remember that afternoon, his twin brother came back too: the one who played on the other team, the one who kept his shirt on. The one I never really knew which of the two I crossed the square with, fleeing that afternoon. There are truths you’d rather not look at head-on.