I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the noise of Bogotá fade like a distant echo. Christmas had passed, with its frantic shopping that left me exhausted, the traffic that choked the streets like a river of metal and horns, the incessant rain that beat against the roofs like eternal tears, and the stress of work at the airline that tied me to unpredictable schedules. I craved an escape, a place where the sun kissed my skin, where I could slip into a bikini that hugged my curves, dive into a crystal-clear pool and let the cold of a beer slide down my throat, erasing the tensions. But my airline ticket benefits tied me to seat availability, just like my husband. Everyone in the city seemed to have had the same idea: the flights were packed, and one after another the doors closed in front of us. In the end, only one of us could leave on the 3 p.m. flight when a registered passenger didn’t show up at the gate; the other had to wait for the 7 p.m. one, praying for a miracle.

I was the one who took that flight, because the hotel reservations were in my name and I had to present the card I had paid with. I said goodbye to my husband with a hurried kiss at the airport, the air heavy with the smell of burnt coffee and airplane fuel, while the loudspeaker announced departures with a metallic and impersonal voice. I boarded and was about to put on my headphones when a 21-year-old guy sat next to me. He had brown skin and curious eyes that seemed to absorb every detail. He had noticed my goodbye and how my shoulders tensed when we separated. He greeted me with a shy smile, his voice soft over the hum of the engines preparing for takeoff.

“Hi, how are you?” he said.

I looked at him in silence, wondering what it had to do with me. I took off my headphones to hear his nervous explanation: he was traveling with his mother, but she hadn’t made it on time. He asked if my husband could help her with the procedures, since both were in the same situation. I couldn’t help but think that thanks to her I was sitting in her seat. His anxiety floated in the air like a subtle perfume of fresh cologne mixed with light sweat.

“Sure, no problem,” I finally replied. I explained to him what he had to do with patience, and before takeoff, I gave him my husband’s number so his mother could contact him. At the same time, I warned my husband about the mess I had gotten him into.

“Nice to meet you. Manuel,” he introduced himself, gripping the armrests with hands white from the force, his knuckles pale against the dark fabric.

“Tatiana,” I replied. I noticed his nervousness with every sound of the plane, how his eyes jumped like trapped butterflies. I asked if it was his first time flying.

“Yes, is it that obvious?” he admitted with an embarrassed laugh. With my airline experience and multiple trips, I calmed him during the flight, talking about nothing in particular to distract him while the plane rose and the world below became a tapestry of soft clouds and distant lights.

Upon landing, the warm air of Cartagena enveloped me like a tropical hug, smelling of sea salt and lush flowers. Manuel’s father was waiting for me, a robust man with a wide smile, and offered to take me to the hotel in his car as thanks for the help my husband Andrés was giving his wife. The engine purred softly while the landscape passed: palm trees whispering in the wind, streets lit by the setting sun. Once at the hotel, the first thing I did was change. The bikini fit my body like a second skin, the fabric cool against my flesh. I went out to the pool, where the water shone like a blue mirror under the dim lights of dusk, and ordered cocktails that arrived cold and sweet, with a touch of lemon that stung my tongue. I lay face down on a beach chair, loosening the straps of my top so the residual sun could kiss my back, and let the drinks accumulate in my mind like cotton clouds, erasing the world. The music floated in the air, not danceable but suggestive, with deep bass that vibrated in my chest like a secret heartbeat. Songs like “The Thrill is Gone” by B.B. King and Tracy Chapman wrapped the atmosphere in a fog of erotic melancholy.

I got up, a little dizzy, and dove into the cool water that wrapped my body like liquid silk, refreshing the heat rising through my veins. I was floating in that bubble of watery sounds and smells of chlorine mixed with nearby garden jasmine when suddenly a voice called me.

“Tatiana?”

I turned around, surprised, water dripping from my hair like pearls, and saw Manuel, his silhouette outlined against the pool lights, with a backpack on his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, a thread of distrust in my voice, while the water licked my legs.

He took out a bottle of whiskey from his backpack, a gesture of thanks for helping his mother. I looked at the clock, realizing it was almost time for my husband’s flight. I called him, leaving Manuel waiting a few seconds. He was still there when he heard that Andrés wouldn’t be able to travel on that flight either and would have to wait until the next day.

“Hey, sorry about your husband’s trip,” said Manuel.

The little trust we had gained during the flight allowed us to chat a while longer, especially because I no longer had any rush to go up to the room. I preferred to stay at the pool, alone but not so alone. The music continued with its eroticism. I searched with Shazam for several songs to expand a playlist that my husband and I sometimes used to set the mood for sex. “Like U” by Rosenfeld should have been banned in a place where there were minors. Combined with the cocktails, my mind could only fly. I began to notice traits in Manuel that I had previously ignored: his toned, brown body, and every time he got out of the water, his wet swim trunks stuck to him, revealing the curves of his ass. I wondered if his cock would also show. I tried to see it discreetly, so I kept asking him to get out of the water for any excuse. I didn’t succeed, and that only turned me on more. I felt the heat rising between my legs. I tried to avoid giving free rein to my fantasies, especially because I was a married woman and about 9 years older than that boy, but Manuel didn’t help. Not only did he not leave, but he seemed to look for ways to get closer in the water. I brushed against him “accidentally,” and it seemed I would end up masturbating in the room.

“It’s time for me to go,” I said, trying to escape the temptation. I took one last sip of my drink and said goodbye with my hand.

“You know you’re very beautiful, right?” he said, and he hugged me from behind. I felt his hard cock pressed between my ass cheeks. The thin fabric allowed it to settle perfectly, warm and throbbing. I got scared and tried to pull away, but he held me firmly.

“You should invite me upstairs. Look what you caused.”

I turned as best as I could, face to face, with a look of displeasure.

“What I caused?” I asked, trying to look disgusted.

He smiled, knowing he had caught me.

“What did you think? That with the way you were provoking me, it was going to stay small?”

I apologized, embarrassed, but he shut me up with a kiss, his arm around my waist, pressing me against his hardness on my lower belly.

I couldn’t resist. The excitement exploded, not just because of him, the kiss or the dominant hug, but also because of “Cold Pizza” by Gregory David playing in the background. I lost control, returned the kiss and moved my pelvis to the rhythm. He noticed and placed his hand on my hip, knowing I wouldn’t run away anymore. Without words, I took him by the hand, got out of the water, picked up my things and took him to the elevator. There were two kids and their mother inside, so we looked at each other in silence. His eyes traveled over my lips, my eyes, and then down to my hips. I looked at him and he was biting his lip with his fangs, imagining everything he was going to do to me. That turned me on even more. The air was thick with anticipation, smelling of chlorine and desire.

We entered the room, and he pushed me against the wall, my back and ass cheeks still dripping cold water. He leaned on me, his hard cock between my ass cheeks again, his hands under my arms grabbing my tits.

“Take this off,” I told him, searching for the cord of his swim trunks. He obeyed, letting them fall. He loosened the strings of my bikini and ripped it off. I arched my back so his cock rubbed between my legs. It didn’t go in, but slid against my clit, slick with my juices, delighting me. One hand on my hip, the other on my tits, he kissed my ear and bit my neck like a vampire. I wished he would sink his fangs in too.

Minutes passed like this, delicious but not enough. I wanted him to fill me. Since he didn’t take the initiative, I did it. I guided his cock to my entrance, but he pulled back and took me to the bed.

“Wait, I feel like something,” I said, and I ordered the phone: “Ok Google, play ‘You Don’t Love Me’ by Dawn Penn” through the Bluetooth speaker.

Manuel put me on all fours on the towels still folded like butterflies on the bed, positioned himself behind me, and started rubbing against me again.

“Put it in,” I ordered.

He obeyed. He aimed and entered me with one single thrust, all the way in, opening his way between my lips. My wetness made it easy. I felt full. Even though he was considerably younger than me, he was well hung. I moved to the rhythm of the song, and he followed me, frantic, fast, and with force. I felt his balls hitting me hard. He grabbed my hips, and I increased the force. Oh fuck, that was what I wanted. I moaned for him, gripping the sheets, my face against them, then lifting it so he could grab my hair. I reached my first orgasm, heaven, while he continued, eyes closed, his cock swelling.

When I noticed this, I stopped, turned around, lay on my back, opened my legs and called him with my index finger. Manuel positioned himself between my legs, kissed my abdomen, ran his hands over my legs, and licked my nipples to relax me. I didn’t want him to cool down. This wasn’t an endless sex night; it was more like a quick craving to satisfy. I lowered my hand to his cock and kept jerking him off. He did the same with his hand in my pussy, filling his fingers with my juices. The shocks returned. I asked him to enter me again. He positioned himself and buried his cock with one thrust, let himself fall on me, and I grabbed his ass, pressing him against me, all while “What Love Can Be” by Kingdom Come played in a sensual missionary. Everything was amplified: every inch of him, his breath moaning in my ear. Nothing was more erotic than that. He put his arms around my head, which allowed me to bite his biceps and mark his shoulders with my nails.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered, moving my hips fast until his grunt synchronized with the spurts of cum he started to ejaculate. My orgasm was intense and long, and I clung to his body with nails and teeth as if I were falling into an abyss.

He collapsed on me, face on my chest, his agitated breathing on my nipples. We stayed still for a few minutes trying to catch our breath, his cock shrinking inside me, thick semen leaking onto the bed, while “Tennessee Whiskey” by Chris Stapleton played.

When I had the strength, I got up, got dressed, and asked him to leave. He wanted to stay and make the night fun for me, assuming he had the right. However, I opened the door and waited for him to leave.

I took a shower smiling, remembering how I had guided him. I checked my phone: missed calls from my husband and a voice note saying he had finally traveled. By the time I read it, his flight was halfway there, so I had time to organize everything, do my makeup, and dress in lace lingerie for our night. In the end, I had received a dose of energy that I would use with the one who actually knew how to fuck me well without me having to explain it to him.