Night line

Night line

In the living room of her attic in Malasaña, Clara Ruiz left her mobile phone on the table again as if she burned. The three conversations she had started in the last half hour had withered before the voice of the other person revealed something that was not a prefabricated business card. She opened the window; Madrid was a dome of orange lights and traffic whistles. She looked for the app that a friend had recommended to her with sorna: “If you want to be spoken to, it’s night and without filters.” She pressed the “Listen” button and left the phone on the speaker.

The voice that broke in two minutes later was severe, contained, with a slight accent from the south of the peninsula.

"No one sleeps here, I suppose," he said without saying hello.

Clara smiled to the ceiling. She decided to answer without naming her name.

• I guess nobody here asks why we're awake.

There was a short laugh, almost professional, and then a sigh. The man was on the street; the brush of the coat was heard against the microphone and the echo of steps on damp tile.

• I'm going into a hotel.

• I'm here.

The elevator made its metal ding. A few seconds of short breathing and then, already in the room, the card click and the door closing.

"Low light, open blinds. The Great Way shines right across the street. I wonder if you could see me from somewhere.

Clara crossed her legs on the couch.

"It could be two blocks away. Or two hundred meters away. How does it feel to know that someone might be looking at your window?

“Hot,” he replied, bluntly. “And a little dangerous. My name is Damian. I don’t need your name if you don’t want to give it to me either.

• Clara.

He uttered his name quietly, testing it. There was another silence that was filled with the sound of Damian taking off his jacket and loosening the tie knot.

"Clara," he replied. "Tell me what you are wearing.

She looked at her own clothes: a unbuttoned silk shirt and black cotton panties. She decided not to lie.

• Navy blue shirt and nothing underneath that covers a lot.

"Undo it all," he said, softly, but without asking permission. Clara felt a heartbeat between her legs. She took her hand to the first button.

"And you?" he asked.

“Grey suit, white shirt. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. The window reflects my silhouette. I can see myself unbuttoning my fists.

The sound of the fabric was crisp, almost obscene. Clara imagined long fingers releasing silver twins.

"Keep going," she asked.

"I'm thinking about the last time someone really looked at me," said Damian. "Not at a meeting. Really. You?

Clara lay sideways on the sofa, the shirt open at all. The fresh air in the window raised her skin.

"The last time someone made me run without touching me," he replied. "It was on the phone, too.

Damian released air slowly.

"Make you run now, then. But describe everything to me. Step by step. I want to hear how you breathe.

Clara lowered her hand to the inside of the panties. Two fingers on the clitoris, slow circular movement. The first gasping was soft, almost shy.

"I'm touching myself," he said. "Two fingers. I'm going slowly because I want it to last.

"Well," he approved. "Now take off your panties. I want to hear you drop them on the ground.

She obeyed. The sound of cotton slipping down her thighs came to the microphone like a whisper.

"Ready," he said.

"Open up. I want to know how your pussy is. If it's swollen, if it shines, if you want to get something in.

Clara separated her legs, the air grazed her wet skin.

"It's swollen, and very wet. If I put a finger in right now, I'd come in without a problem.

Just one, and tell me how you feel.

He pushed his middle finger all the way down.

“Hot,” he whispered. “And tight. My own wall tightens me.

Damian swallowed saliva.

"Now two fingers. Go in and out. Slowly. I want you to count every time your knuckles touch your clitoris.

Clara obeyed. The rhythm was hypnotic: inside, outside, touch. Her breathing became heavier.

"One... two... three... "I was counting the pushes. Four... God, I'm soaking the couch.

“Well,” he said, and the sound of a zipper was clearly heard. “I’ve pulled out my cock. I’ve been hard since I heard you groan. I’m caressing it with the same cadence you use. I want us to feel the same pulse.

Clara closed her eyes. The image of an unknown man masturbating in a hotel in front of the Gran Vía ignited it more than any caress of his own.

"Tell me what he looks like," he asked. "I want to imagine it."

"He's thick, he's venous, his head is shiny with precum, and if he were there, he'd pass it through your lips before he shoved it in.

She groaned higher.

"Keep going," he begged.

"Now three fingers," he said. "I want to hear you open.

Clara obeyed. The stretching was delicious, almost painful. The wet sound filled the living room.

"Fuck," he groaned. "I'm very open. If I put something bigger in, I'd break.

"Then put in something bigger," said Damian, a snoring voice. "You have a bottle of water on your table, right? The thin one.

Clara looked at the glass bottle she had bought that afternoon. “The neck was soft, rounded. She hesitated half a second.”

"Say it," he asked, noticing the pause. "I want to hear you choose."

"I want it," said Clara, a firm voice. "I want to put it in.

"Then do it. Slowly, and tell me every inch.

He took the bottle with his free hand. He leaned it between his thighs. The glass was cold. He pushed. The first inch entered easily; the second made him arch his back.

"Two...three...," she sighed, "it's cold, and it's hard. I like it.

"More," Damian asked. "I want half of that bottle to be inside you when you run."

Clara pushed more. She groaned long. “The neck of the bottle filled her, stretched her. The contrast between the cold of the glass and the heat inside her made her dizzy.”

"I'm... almost to the bottom," he said. "If I move it a little bit, I'm already at it."

“Move it,” he said. “But don’t run yet. I want to hear how you are contained.

Clara began to fuck slowly with the bottle. Each attack brought out a wet and obscene sound. Her other hand returned to the clitoris, rubbing with despair.

"I can't," he groaned. "I'm going to run."

"Then run," said Damian. "But describe everything to me. I want to run with you."

Clara squeezed her teeth. Orgasm hit her like a wave: contractions around the glass, tremors in the thighs, a long groan that broke in three syllables. She heard Damian gasping on the other side, her hand moving faster over her own cock, and then a grunt content when ejaculating.

The silence that followed was dense, almost sacred. You could only hear the short breath of the two and, far away, the traffic of the Gran Vía.

"Clara," he said after a minute, soft voice again. "Are you still there?"

"Here," she replied, still with the bottle inside, too sensitive to move it.

"I want to see you next time," said Damian. "Video call. Same time. Same window. Do you dare?"

Clara smiled to the ceiling, exhausted and satisfied.

"Bring another bottle," he replied. "This time I want to see you run while I look at my eyes.

Damien rio bajito.

• Deal.

The call ended. Clara lay down, the bottle still inside, the orange glow of the city entering through the window. She thought of the window opposite, in the silhouette that she could distinguish tomorrow against the light. She thought of the serious voice telling her what to do. And for the first time in a long time, Madrid seemed less large and more intimate.

She got up, left the bottle on the table and went to the bathroom. The mirror returned to her a woman with her open shirt and shiny thighs. She looked into her eyes and wondered what would happen if Damian were really on the other side of the street. The idea made her smile.

Tomorrow, he decided, he'd buy another bottle and leave the window completely open.