Suite with the avenue below
The rain did not fall with force; it only stained the glass of the suite as if the avenue below breathed slowly. Elena had turned off almost all the lights. There was the lamp on the desk, twisted towards the wall, and the cold glow of the laptop opened on the torn bed. It was two and twelve. Congress had ended hours ago, toasts also, and she had returned to her hotel with the jacket still smelling of the press room and that perfume that Marcos left when passing too close.
The tone of the video call sounded twice. He accepted without smiling at all.
"I thought you weren't going to take off," she said.
Mark was in another room, another building, another floor with the city behind him. Loose tie, shirt open to the chest, table light on one side. Thirty-seven years and that low voice that in the halls of the pavilion had seemed only professional.
"I was waiting for the corridor to shut up," he replied. "I didn't want anyone to hear me name you.
Elena settled down against the headboard. “She was wearing only the hotel’s long shirt and the black panties she had put on just in case, in case the afternoon’s desire did not go away. I had told her almost without saying it, on the edge of the elevator, when he grazed her wrist and asked if they were still talking that night.
"We continued," she answered. "But I want to hear you ask.
Now, on the screen, Marcos bowed his head a little.
"I ask. I want to see you. I want you to let me look at you while you touch yourself and while I do the same. If at any time you say enough, cut it out. Do you agree?
"Yes," said Elena, of course. "I agree, and I want the same from you.
The silence that followed was not empty: it was the slight noise of the rain and the noise of the street filtered by two different crystals. She lowered the camera a little, enough to show the neck, the collarbone, the edge of the shirt.
"Tell me what you would do if there was no distance," he whispered.
Mark crossed his hand through his jaw.
"I would come in without calling. I would find you exactly like that, with that beautiful fucking light, and I would ask you to take off your shirt slowly. Not to look at you like someone who looks at any body. To memorize you. I would tell you to sit in bed with your legs open and let me smell before you touch. And then I would fuck you with your mouth until you forgot the name of the hotel.
Elena noticed the heat coming up her chest. She supported two fingers on her thigh, above the cloth, and breathed deep.
- Go on.
"I would make you tell me what you want to hear. If you prefer that I speak dirty to you or that I describe how it makes me hard just to think about your wet pussy against my tongue. You choose the rhythm. I only obey what you give me.
She bit her lower lip, not for flirty, but because the phrase had hit him right where he should.
"Speak dirty," he asked. "And take off your shirt. I want to see how you touch yourself when you say my name.
Marcos obeyed. The broad shoulders, the hair of the chest, the small scar under the rib that she did not know and that suddenly seemed a borrowed secret. He unbuttoned his pants without haste. His cock was already marked, thick, tense, and when he lowered her underwear she exhaled a low sound, almost a yes.
"Elena," he said, wrapped his hand around. "I've been hard since I saw you at the café at the fair. Ever since you laughed and looked at the door as if you were already calculating to escape with me. Do you let me see you too?"
She took off her T-shirt. The breasts weighed in the fresh air of the room; her nipples hardened immediately. She approached the laptop, adjusted the angle, and passed the yolks over the panties, where the fabric was already dark of moisture.
"Look at me," he asked. "Don't look elsewhere."
- I don't look anywhere else.
He slipped his panties to one side. His fingers shook him for a second when he really touched himself: he was hot, slippery, and the first touch ripped off a groan that he did not try to hide. Marcos squeezed his jaw and started pumping himself more decisively, his thumb passing through his bright head.
"Fuck, you look beautiful," he muttered. "Put your finger in. Slowly. I want to hear you sound.
Elena obeyed. The middle finger entered easily; the ringer sought the same path a moment later. The wet sound filled the microphone and she was embarrassed only for a moment, then pure pleasure. She moved her wrist with a short rhythm, the heel of her hand rubbing her clitoris.
"Thus," said Mark. "Better. Tell me what you feel."
"I feel you even if you are not," she replied, the broken voice. "I feel your mouth where I have my fingers. I feel like you would hold my hair and make me look at you while I run inside... or over you. I don't know. You tell me.
"I'd open my legs against that headboard and shove it all in, to the bottom, to hear you scream my name against the pillow. I'd fuck you slowly at first, very deep, and then I'd take it out almost completely just to nail you back. And I'd ask you to touch your clitoris while I give it to you. Exactly as you are doing now.
Elena arched her back. She added pressure with the palm, circular, faster. The rain kept drawing lines in the glass; the avenue was a distant rumor of taxis and wet neons. In the other room, Marcos groaned already without containment, his hand going up and down with a soft snap of skin and saliva that he had put on the tip.
"Show me more," she asked. "I want to see how you get when you're ready.
He approached the camera. The red, tense cock, marked veins, the damp glans. Each onslaught of his fist made the muscle jump a little bit in the abdomen.
"I'm close," he warned. "But I don't run until you say so. You're in charge tonight.
The phrase lit him somewhat deeper. Elena pulled out her fingers, took them to her mouth for a second—salted, her own—and returned to the clitoris with two firm, merciless buds.
"Then fuck me with the voice," he demanded. "Don't stop. Don't say nice things. Tell me how you would use me."
Mark river down, a dark sound.
"I would put you on all fours at the edge of the bed. I would open your ass with my hands to see you all: the swollen pussy, the tight hole, the trembling back. I would spit at you a little bit and I would punch you in. I would give you so hard that the headboard would hit the wall and you would have to bite the sheet so that you wouldn't wake up in half a hotel. And when you were about to cum, I would stop you, turn you around, ride you up my cock and make you ride me looking into my eyes until you ran down soaking my thighs. Then I would take it off and run into your breasts, slowly, to paint you and lick you later. Do you want that?
“Yes,” she said. “I want that. I want everything. I’m... fuck, Marcos, I’m there.
Now, I want to see you run for me.
The orgasm went up from her belly like a closed wave. Elena bent forward, trembling thighs, a long groan that broke in several. Her fingers did not stop; she stretched the wave until it hurt as good as it was, until her breathing became a brief and happy sob. On the screen, Marcos looked at her with his mouth ajar, his hand frantic.
"Tell me," she asked, still convulsing. "Shut up. I want to see him."
He did not need any more. Two, three hard attacks and the semen jumped on his belly and fingers, thick, in threads that shone under the lamp. He groaned her name as if it were a confession and stood still, chest up and down, his gaze nailed to the camera.
They spent a few seconds alone with the rain and the distant buzz of an elevator in one of the two buildings.
Elena wiped her fingers on the sheet, covered herself a little with a wrinkled T-shirt and smiled, tired, luminous.
"That... wasn't just to remove tension from Congress," he said.
“No,” said Mark. “I didn’t use it as an escape either. Tomorrow I’ll take the AVE at eleven. You said stay until noon.
She looked at the window, the wet avenue, the traffic lights in distant red.
"There's a coffee stuck to Atocha that opens early. If you want, we can have breakfast without screens. And if the body asks for something else... we talk. In person. With the same yes tonight.
Marcos nodded, serious and soft at the same time.
"With the same yes. And if at any time it is no, it is also worth it.
"It's fine too," she repeated.
They stayed a while longer without turning off the call: he cleaning himself with a cloth from the bathroom, she drinking water from the minibar, the two laughing at the ridiculous and beautiful of two suites lit up in the same city. When they finally said goodbye, Elena closed her laptop and leaned her forehead on her knees. The rain had subsided. Below, a taxi took a shot.
He showered himself with warm water, put on a clean shirt and left his cell phone face up on the bedside table, in case he wrote something silly and tender before sleeping. He did it: a short phrase, without emojis, only "thank you for asking out loud."* She replied "tomorrow the coffee; the rest, if we want"* and turned off the light.
In the dark, the city was still there, with its low secrets and imperfect lights. Elena fell asleep with the echo of a voice in her headphones and with the clear certainty of having touched, at a distance, something that still had its own name and entire consent. Tomorrow there would be trains, suitcases and perhaps a table next to the glass. Tonight the screen, rhythm and skin that is sought had sufficed even if the map says another room.
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