The Night I Discovered What a Sleeping Man Tastes Like

Damián and I had been loving each other for almost a year like two people who no longer know how to live apart. I felt like his woman from the very first day, and he treated me as such: with that mix of clumsiness and tenderness that only boys who still don’t fully understand what’s happening inside them have. I dreamed of a home of our own, of waking up together every morning and not having to invent excuses to see each other.

The usual excuse was video games. I’d tell my mother that Damián was staying the night because it got late with the console, and nobody asked any more questions. The truth was something else. The truth began when the hallway light went out and he slipped under my sheets with his cock already hard, bumping against my thigh.

That afternoon we fucked like so many other times, unhurried, finding each other slowly. I had ridden him, with his cock buried deep inside me, feeling him fill me up while he bit my nipples and whispered dirty things in my ear. He made me come twice before he emptied himself inside me, with that rough, guttural shudder I already knew by heart. But something was different. For weeks now I’d had an idea circling in my head, a curiosity I was ashamed to admit even to myself. I had never sucked his cock. I had never dared put it in my mouth, never sucked it the way the girls in the videos I watched in secret did. And that night, at last, I decided I was going to do it.

***

When we finished, he fell asleep almost at once, like a child after playing. It always happened the same way: he’d come, he’d huff, he’d kiss me on the forehead, and five minutes later he was already snoring with his cock still wet with me. I, on the other hand, stayed awake, listening to his slow breathing, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warm semen slip between my thighs and the desire still alive in me even when it had already died in him.

We’d come home so exhausted from school that he didn’t even change after the second round. He fell asleep in his uniform: the wrinkled shirt, the school sweater still over his chest, the gray trousers I’d so many times unbuttoned by feel under the kitchen table. There was something about that image that set me on fire without my being able to explain why. The boy I adored, spent, dressed, completely surrendered to sleep and, without knowing it, completely at my mercy.

I turned toward him very slowly. The bed creaked a little and I held my breath, but Damián didn’t even stir. He was sleeping deeply. Then it happened.

I pulled down the zipper of his trousers with a slowness that bordered on torture, millimeter by millimeter, careful with every tooth of the metal so it wouldn’t make a sound. I unbuttoned the waistband. I eased the fabric down, carefully, until he was left only in boxer briefs. He moved barely at all, sighed, and went still again, with the soft bulge marked beneath the white cotton.

Until that night I didn’t know I had this weakness for smells.

***

I moved closer to him like someone approaching a secret. The boxer briefs still held the warmth and sweat of the whole day, and that scent hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. The smell of cock, of balls, of groin sweat, of old semen mixed with mine. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was intimate, animal, deeply his. I stayed there a moment, breathing it in, my nose almost pressed to the fabric, feeling my cunt flood without my having even touched myself.

I thought about all the times I’d wanted him without daring to act on it. About the nights when he’d fall asleep and I’d lie there watching him, wondering what it would be like to have it in my mouth, to feel it grow between my lips, to taste on my tongue that taste of man the other girls talked about. Fear had always held me back: fear that he’d wake up, fear that he’d look at me funny, fear that I’d choke, fear that I wouldn’t know how to do it. That night, for the first time, fear stayed silent and only desire remained.

Little by little I pulled his cock out through the opening of the boxer briefs. I pulled it all the way out, balls and all, resting loose against his thigh. I held it in front of me, sleeping and soft, and I was surprised by the tenderness with which I looked at it. We’d been fucking for months, I’d felt it inside me many times, it had filled my cunt with countless loads, but I had never tasted it. I had never had it like that, alone, to look at it without hurry, to study it as if it were a sacred object.

At first I felt something like disgust. It was a boundary I had never crossed, and my body hesitated. But curiosity won out. I leaned in and started to smell it, slowly, tracing its full length with my nose, from the base between the balls to the wrinkled head. It smelled like a man. It smelled like him. And while I was smelling it, without my doing almost anything, his cock began to wake up before its owner did.

I watched it harden little by little, slow and firm, swelling against my face as if it had a life of its own. First it straightened, then it thickened, the veins standing out beneath the taut skin, the glans emerging purple and glossy from the foreskin. A clear drop appeared on the tip, trembling in the slit like a pearl. It was exactly then, seeing that drop quiver under the light coming in through the window, that I decided there was no turning back.

***

I smelled his glans for a long time, hypnotized, my nose pressed to the wet little hole. I lingered over every vein, every ridge, stroking his testicles with my fingertips, feeling them heavy, warm, weighing them in my palm like two fruits. I ran my index finger over the frenulum, over that thin skin beneath the glans, and felt his cock give a little jerk in the air. Damián was still lost in sleep, completely unaware, and that idea—that I was groping his cock without him knowing, that I had him hard and at my mercy—made me drip between the legs in a way that scared me a little.

First came kisses. Small, timid, almost like a goodbye. I barely brushed my lips against his hot skin. I kissed the glans, I kissed the shaft, I kissed the balls one by one, noticing how they tightened beneath my mouth. Then I stuck out my tongue and started licking it, first along the shaft, from bottom to top, following the thick vein that ran down the underside, and then carefully at the tip, circling the swollen glans.

I was surprised by his taste. It was salty, intense, with that lean, masculine undertone I’d imagined a thousand times without knowing if I’d like it. I liked it. I liked it too much. I caught the clear drop hanging from the tip with my tongue and savored it slowly, closing my eyes. It was instinctive, one of those things no words prepare you to feel until you feel them.

I stripped completely naked. I took off my pajamas, my panties, everything. I needed to be skin against sheet, with nothing on top, my nipples stiff against the mattress and one free hand to slip my fingers into my cunt while I sucked him. And I kept going. I kissed it, licked it, took him into my mouth a little more each time, swallowing him as far as I could, trying to imitate what I’d seen in the movies I watched in secret beneath the sheets. At first just the glans, wrapping it with my lips, sucking softly. Then half the shaft, feeling it fill my mouth, scraping my palate with that thick vein. When I tried to take him all the way to the back of my throat, I almost gagged, and had to pull off and breathe deeply. I learned quickly: if I breathed through my nose and relaxed my throat, he went in farther.

I started sucking him with a rhythm, bobbing my head up and down, helping with my hand at the base, giving it gentle squeezes. I filled my mouth with saliva on purpose, until it ran down his shaft, over his balls, and from there dripped onto the sheets. I made him all shiny, soaked, until he slipped between my lips with a wet little sound every time I took him in and out. The sensation was contradictory, dizzying: deeply erotic and at the same time forbidden, as if I were stealing something no one had offered me.

***

Half the night passed like that. Me naked, kneeling on the bed, with two fingers buried in my own soaking cunt, fucking myself at the same pace I was sucking his cock. Damián asleep with his stiff cock pointing at the ceiling and his breathing getting more and more agitated, with no idea what his body was going through. Sometimes he frowned, other times a barely perceptible smile flickered over his face, other times a soft moan escaped him that made me stop dead in fear of waking him. His face said it all. He was hard in the middle of sleep, coming in the middle of sleep, and I was the owner of that dream.

I did it slowly, stopping every so often to look at him, to listen to him, to make sure he was still asleep. When I felt him tense too much, when I noticed his balls rising and his cock getting even harder between my lips, I stopped and went back to kisses, to the slow tongue over the tip, letting him come down. I wanted it to last. I wanted to stay there, in that dawn that seemed to have no end, with his cock in my mouth and my cunt wetting itself on its own, discovering myself through him.

I even dared to suck his balls, one first, then the other, taking them whole into my mouth, playing with them with my tongue while I gave him a slow handjob. I licked the base, I licked the crease of his groin where the sweat tasted strongest, went back up, swallowed him again. I was learning. I was understanding why women talked about this, why I had friends who said they liked sucking cock more than fucking.

But his body had its own clock. I felt it harden in a different way, get even thicker, pulse against my tongue in short, quick beats, and I knew it was almost time.

Until, at last, he came.

***

The first spurt hit my mouth, warm, thick, and sudden, and it startled me so much I pulled back without meaning to. The second hit my cheek, hot, and ran down to my chin. The rest spilled over himself in long shudders that burst from his cock while he kept sleeping: it fell on his abdomen, on the uniform, on the half-lowered trousers, on the school sweater, forming white, glossy threads that tangled in the pubic hair. Everything was stained, and he still didn’t open his eyes. He only let out a long sigh, a rough moan slipped from somewhere in the dream, and he sank a little deeper into the pillow.

I stayed motionless for a moment, heart racing, seed sliding from the corner of my mouth and a new, thick taste on my tongue. I swallowed. I swallowed what was in my mouth, slowly, feeling it go down my throat, salty and warm. Then I ran a finger over my cheek, gathered up the strand hanging there, and sucked that too. I didn’t want to lose a single drop. Moonlight came through the window and lit up the whole scene: the boy I loved, spent and satisfied without knowing it, soaked in his own come, and me naked beside him, my mouth marked, having made him happy even inside a dream he wouldn’t remember.

I felt strangely full. Fulfilled. As if at last I had understood something about myself that had been waiting for years to come out. It wasn’t only desire. It was the certainty that caring for him, pleasing him, being his woman in every possible sense — also with my mouth, also on my knees, also swallowing his semen while he slept — was exactly who I wanted to be.

I stayed a while longer like that, sitting on my heels, legs open and cunt still throbbing, watching him sleep with his breathing already calm. Outside, a dog barked in the distance and a car crossed the street, but inside the room the whole world had been reduced to the two of us. To his chest rising and falling, to my own heart taking its time to settle, to that newborn secret I could never give back.

***

I got up carefully and went to the bathroom. I took some tissue, wiped my face, my chin, the chest where a drop had slid down to my nipple, and went back to the bed to clean him as best I could. I ran the tissue over his abdomen, gathered the thick puddles stuck in his body hair, cleaned the fabric of his trousers, his sweater, trying to erase the traces of what had happened. His cock gradually softened between my hands, still slick with saliva and semen, and I cleaned it lovingly, stroking it, saying goodbye to it for that night. My breath still carried his smell, with the taste of his load on my palate, as if I’d kept him inside me forever.

I gave the tip one last kiss, tender, almost grateful. I tucked his now-soft cock back into the boxer briefs, pulled up his trousers, adjusted his sweater as best I could. Then I put my pajamas back on over my still-sweaty skin, lay down pressed against his back, and with his heat wrapping around me and the taste of his semen still on my tongue, I finally managed to fall asleep.

From that night on, I adored the smell and taste of a man. That penetrating, salty, masculine smell, that hardness that yields to the tongue, that way a sleeping cock grows inside your mouth until it fills it completely. Something had opened in me, and it was never going to close again.

***

The next morning I stayed silent. I watched him eat breakfast in his wrinkled uniform, talking to me about the console, about the previous day’s game, about anything at all, with the slightest suspicion. I knew. I was the only one who knew what had happened between us in the middle of the night, the only one who knew what his load tasted like, the only one who had had his whole cock down my throat.

The stains had dried on the clothes, leaving those pale, stiff marks that betray where a man came. But only his body and I knew the truth. We had loved each other in the most absolute intimacy, an intimacy he didn’t even share with me.

I walked him to the door and kissed him like every morning, knowing those same lips had sucked his cock until he came in his sleep. He smiled at me, unaware, perfect, and left. I stayed leaning in the doorway, watching him walk away down the street, keeping my secret the way one keeps a treasure.

That night he would come back. And I already knew exactly what I wanted to do when he fell asleep.