Wet Return

I could feel him inside of me days before he landed in the Argentine city I’d begun to call home. 

We often lived like this―because of university, I spent months away from him at a time, our distance only cured by his willingness to visit me intermittently. Our moments of intimacy were connected with time and its flux, and we never moved against it, despite our yearning for it to stand still. We learned to measure time by collective ache―meaning that we know time through desire. 

It took months of realization before we acknowledged that there would be 5,000 miles between us when I made the decision to study abroad in Buenos Aires while he worked out of an apartment in a small neighborhood in Philadelphia. 

Vincent and I became veterans of late-night video calls where we’d ramble with hungry lips about how much we missed each other’s bodies. We’d slightly pan our cameras to show our throbbing parts and have to capture the saliva threatening to fall out of our mouths when we saw each other desperate. To increase our mutual heartbeat, I fantasized with him about fucking him in new places: He’d told me about how he enjoyed being outdoors, and I wanted to manifest that behind his eyelids with my body, ravenous and emptied for him, at the center of the landscape.

“I’d love it if you’d cover my mouth while we fuck in the woods,” I said to him over Skype. “I know I can be loud sometimes.” 

“One hand on your throat, one on your mouth,” he said with his hand in frame, slowly stroking himself to the same rhythm I rubbed my swollen clit with. 

Sending messages to each other was nothing close to the real thing, but we learned what made the other person crave a crescendoed release in no time. While he was inside his old employment office, I’d send him messages throughout the day ordering him to go to the bathroom and show me what had been growing under his desk like a tree with its limbs extended towards the sky as he thought about how much he missed me. When he’d return home to unleash the white creamy liquid he’d been saving for me, I’d exert some element of control by saying “don’t fucking cum yet, Vincent,” and he’d say “your wish is my command.” We’d interchange roles, each with moments in the place of subversion, both aching for a confession of how badly we needed each other. It felt like my otherwise brown flesh turned into the hue of ube as I awaited his touch, the blue hidden beneath his white skin rising to the surface as he was submerged in the want of me. 

During each semester I spent away from him, I ruined my own sheets by becoming undone in front of him through the camera lens, becoming familiar with what it felt like to be watched with such rawness. I soaked the bed in sweat and pockets of disappearing stains prompted by my vibrator and V’s display. I touched it, touched it, and touched it again for him, biting my lip as I waited for his return to me. 

When he finally arrived at my residence in Buenos Aires, I adorned a black, single-strapped dress that kissed my ankles and smelled of city air. My makeup was smeared from a night out with friends and a warmed body temperature grown out of need. His taxi was outside of my apartment at five in the morning―I had only been inside for two hours, curling my toes while awaiting his arrival. 

Unlike the beasts we wanted to be, we cuddled and slept for hours until it was time to check-in at his Airbnb. It felt nice to feel his body curve around mine as though it was meant to be there. Our proximity was enough to remind me that our silence and stillness now would soon be replaced with goosebump-inducing moans and fingers finding new places across the body to house themselves. I was wet where I needed to be, throbbing where I needed to be, and teasing myself just enough until he could show me that we were still primal. 

And, as expected, that didn’t take long. 

~~~

His eyes, a sugared blue, know when to begin undressing me. We plop our bags on the floor carelessly and let our tongues drip into each other, my dress already up a meaty thigh and my thigh against his thick cock and his cock pulsing as though we’d never fucked before. While taking in his spit, I note the subtle hints of his cologne wrestling with the concept of natural scent. We kiss and I think of the windows and balconies he’s learned to push me up against, how adventurous we’ve grown with time and knowing that we don’t have much of it to spare. 

I want it like that. I want it to feel as new as it always does, for him to give me something to cry about. 

“Did you miss me, Fleur?” Vincent says as a tease. Before I can respond, his teeth growl vampiric into my neck, and I bite my lip to suppress cursing. 

“You know… the answer… to that…” I say to him in between pants. Even though two months have passed, he remembers how to make me melt. It isn’t enough for him to soak me instantly―he slides his fingers underneath my dress to feel for himself the mess I’ve made while I pulsate beneath his touch. 

“I missed you so… fucking… much,” I say, biting him back and swallowing my voice. I need something tender to ground myself and love the way his salty flesh tastes on my tongue. I want every inch of him to be grappled by some part of my body, just as he is beginning to open a portal inside of mine with his fingers, now drenched in me. We need to compensate for what time has taken from us and threatens to do again. 

I’d only let myself indulge in pleasure a couple times since leaving the east coast for Buenos Aires. Once was the night I met a long-haired hippie from Utah who smelled woodsy and of cigarettes. He kissed me in a desolate park and put his erection against me, marking my neck with his spit and soft teeth marks. Another time was with a boy I’d met inside of an intimate club and kissed on a dark bench in front of a crowd where our friends gawked and laughed at our audacity. The open relationship between Vincent and I gave us space to not be bodily lonely, and to bring back something for each other. 

“I’ve learned so much for you,” he says in my twitching ear while thrusting slowly inside of me. I scream as he shows me what that means, placing his body weight on me from above while crushing into the spot that makes my legs shake. He grips at the roots of my turquoise box braids; I leave him with a reddened back and bite marks on his arms, rolling my eyes back with every grind. 

“Please, baby, keep fucking me like that,” I say, closing my eyes from overstimulation. My voice grows louder and louder, nearing guttural. I apologize in my head to the neighbors who’ll be dealing with us for ten days. 

“You love it, don’t you?” he asks, slowing down and placing my nipples between his fingers, spitting on my breasts and turning the skin slick with moisture. Knowing that he’s in control, he pulls out and pauses each time before putting it back in, forcing both of us to experience that ribbing feeling. I can feel the texture of his cock, his veins bulging so prominently. I need to grip his arms and dig my nails into them each time he slowly reintroduces himself into my begging hole. His breath on my neck creates humid pools and raises the hairs, showing me that he, too, can no longer handle the tease. He builds back up to the previous tempo that made me forget to use my inside voice and I keep clawing, giving in to the pressure. 

While we fuck, he makes a necklace around my throat with his thumb and middle finger and I stare into his eyes, daring him to hold me like that. I’m quiet then, our moans low and cacophonous like underground angels. He can never hold it in when we stare, and he growls, contorting his face inward as though he’s pleading with me. 

“Cum for me, Vincent,” I say, nearly whining. “I need you to, okay?”

He pants, his sweat falling onto my chest and dripping down to my belly button. He grabs the rolls of my stomach and pushes one hand onto the bed, gripping it, grunting, trying to catch his breath. He says fuck and god and I feel his milky liquid swish around inside of me, coming in long waves that prove just how much he missed me. 

When he comes, he knows we aren’t finished. My cunt, puffy and turned the color of raspberries, is dripping and hungry. He starts to motion around my sensitive clit, and I feel that neither gravity nor the bed in its physicality can contain me. His hands are almost too large to handle the small of my pussy, but he is always so gentle yet firm. Softly, I beg him to never stop, to keep going, to please, please, please make me cum. The adage of butterflies in the lower body reigns true and the blood rushes downward as though running from something. My back starts to arch and he places his other hand on my sticky back, caressing me in all the right places to lead me there. 

“Please, Fleur, let it out for me?” he says. 

The two months without him bubble out of me then, and I release enough to grow a garden from my lower body. Even though finishing always feels vulnerable, he places his head against mine in a vow of reassurance that he’ll always be there to catch me. 

We lay together for quite some time with intertwined hands while the sun kisses and warms our bodies. We smell as though we’ve just returned from a salty river, but there is something so comforting about sharing the aroma of our muskiness. With his liquid inside of me, I turn around as it leaks out and nestle my head into the crane of his neck. I know that when I stand up to walk, his cum will roll down my legs in beads, staining the floor and mingling with my own. 

Photo by RF Studio