Wet without string

It was Wednesday afternoon, the day after that bestial night. I was sitting next to you in the front of the car, on the way to Bruges. But the journey was tortuously slow. We’d been stuck in a traffic jam for hours. It was hot, and on top of that I was having my period. I took a long drink from the bottle of water we’d just bought at a filling station and stared uneasily between my sticky legs. The past night seeped into me like a wet dream. I could smell myself. A bittersweet scent of moisture, sweat and blood tingled under my slip. 

My god, what a night. Your arrival had torn me out of my clothes, pushed me onto my knees and forced me to surrender to you. My underbelly was still on fire. I squeezed my legs together, but I’d have liked nothing better than to pull off my slip. I wanted to spread my legs. I wanted to empty the bottle of water over my crotch. You looked at me, your hands loose on the wheel, and grinned. ‘Go ahead,’ you said, as if you could read my thoughts. You always let me do as I liked. 

With that cool bottle of water so terribly tempting in one hand I pulled my dress up a little with the other. I tilted my hips to free myself of my slip. When I gradually rotated the bottle between my knees I noticed you firming your grip on the wheel. Since last night I’d been obsessed with those knowing hands of yours. As my lips thirstily took in big, cold drops of water, I watched your thumbs restlessly stroking the wheel. Those jolting splashes were a consolation between my legs. And although the seat beneath me was soaking wet now, you didn’t stop me. ‘Want a mouthful too?’ I asked when the bottle was almost empty. You took the water from me and my fingers instinctively vanished between my thighs, back into that night when I opened myself for your hands with my legs spread. 

Twelve months I’d waited for you. Three hundred and sixty five days, an agonizing foreplay. And when the day finally dawned I got my period. As if the gods were playing games with me. Mildly frustrated, I’d bought a box of spongey tampons that promised to prevent embarrassing, bloody leaks. ‘Wet without string’, it said on the box. And the box didn’t lie. The tampons were wet and had no string. While inserting the sponge I hesitated for a moment, but, high with you, I quickly forgot it was there. Wild and obsessed, I breathed you in like a starving animal, subsumed and swallowed you, until my wet-without-string, soaked in blood and mushy from your greedy thrusts, nestled deep in my underbelly. I needed you... With a pounding heart I crept close to you in bed and quietly asked if you could give me a hand. 

Now, in the car, I suddenly felt your hand close round my neck. I leaned my head back and let you push your thumb into my mouth. I brazenly stroked my clit. The scent of your hand, the taste of your finger and the images of the previous night shot shudders through my body. Like a woman enslaved, I avidly licked your thumb as the night before played out in front of my closed eyes like a film: 

Naked, on top of the still clammy sheets, I waited with knees pulled up, governed by your hand. Absolutely everything in the room was a witness to this bloody affair: the bed, the sheets, the pillows, the clock, the lamp, the bedside table. Your fingers crept slowly up over my soft legs and across my inner thighs, inwards. Creeping past my velvet and increasingly wet interior walls you sparked delicious tremors. My flush dripped like syrup over your fingers in your search for my sponge. I couldn’t stop it. Fuck. This was such a terribly intimate entrance. My moisture, your seed. My blood, your fingers. The intensely animal smell of sex, and my inner cycle such a shameless presence. 

In the traffic jam my body reacted to your deeper and deeper panting. Groping between my legs, my fingers induced a thrilling release and once again I experienced, steaming and moaning, how your fingers had eventually hooked onto the sponge and pulled it slowly downwards. On the verge of total chaos, for a moment you held my world in your hand, and heaven in my underbelly. 

‘I’m going to Bruges tomorrow,’ you said later that night. ‘Coming with me?’ I smiled. ‘What do you think? I’m going to sit next to you, in the front.’ 

This story is written by Geraldine Lorijn for Het Rode Oor 2020. Het Rode Oor (The Red Ear) is the annual erotic writing contest in the Low Countries, curated by the Flemish-Dutch House deBuren in collaboration with Company New Heroes, Hard//hoofd, ILFU and the Writer’s Guide (to the Galaxy). This story is translated by Liz Waters.