The Moment of the Debut #2
“Like that… just like that, damn it,” I manage to stammer between muffled moans, digging my nails ruthlessly into her shoulders. “Hard, Clara. Don’t hold back with me.”
“I had no intention of holding back, Alicia…” she assures me in a hoarse voice that sends shivers down my spine, without taking her eyes off mine, as if she wanted to etch every expression of pleasure that crosses my face into her mind.
I sit up and switch positions so I’m on top.
My lips trace her abdomen, slowly moving down to the crease of her thighs.
The scent of her desire intoxicates my mind.
I taste her first with the tip of my tongue, savoring every one of her reactions: the way her hips rise on their own, seeking more; the broken moans that escape her throat, which she tries to muffle with her hand.
“Alicia, please… don’t make me suffer,” she begs, desperately tangling her fingers in my hair.
I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue dances unchecked over her clitoris, feeling her walls contract tightly around my hand. Clara guides my movements urgently, moving her hips to the wild rhythm I set for her from below.
“Like that, damn it… Right there…” she moans, losing all restraint. “Keep going—don’t even think about stopping now.”
Her living room fills with our uncensored moans, the wet sound of our bodies colliding, ragged breaths, and dirty words whispered with pure need.
“More,” “like that,” “give me more.” Shyness has been left behind in the club’s locker room.
We give ourselves over without limits, exploring every curve and every sensitive spot with our hands and mouths.
Suddenly, Clara kisses me desperately, savoring her own taste on my lips.
Our hands move in unison, touching each other with such perfect synchrony that it seems almost unreal.
Pleasure surges like a giant wave. I feel every muscle in my body tense all at once, the heat concentrating in my lower abdomen. Clara picks up the pace of her fingers, whispering dirty words in my ear that only drive me even crazier.
“Come for me, Alicia…” she murmurs, her breathing ragged.
And I explode. I let out a muffled scream against her shoulder, clenching violently around her hand as brutal waves of ecstasy course through my body over and over again.
But she gives me no respite; she keeps stimulating me to prolong the orgasm, leaving me trembling, sweaty, and completely vulnerable in her arms.
Right after that, it’s her turn. I watch her face, mesmerized, as she reaches her own climax with her eyes half-closed and her parted lips letting my name slip out in a whisper.
She comes with tremendous force, gripping my wrist tightly while keeping my fingers firmly inside her, arching her back against the couch and trembling from head to toe with the intensity of her release.
We lie sprawled on the sofa, drenched in sweat, our legs tangled together, our breathing slowly trying to return to normal.
Clara caresses my back with those lazy, possessive strokes that are so characteristic of her.
I trace invisible circles on her abdomen, savoring the deep peace that follows the storm of passion we’ve just unleashed.
The apartment, with all its display cases, trophies, and mementos, no longer feels like a foreign space to me.
Now it bears witness to something completely new: to us, to what we share.
“Hey… how long has it been since you last brought a woman home?” I ask her suddenly, resting my head on her chest and listening to her heartbeat, which is slowly returning to its normal resting rhythm.
“Too long…” she replies after a long silence, sighing.
“That means this is important to you… right?” I add, looking up into her eyes from where I’m lying to make sure.
“It always has been, Alicia,” she replies, planting a kiss on my forehead with a tenderness that stands in stark contrast to the fierce woman from a little while ago and to that drill-sergeant seriousness she carries with her at the club.
“And I don’t want it to be any other way.
I’m your physical therapist, yes, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been concerned only with the condition of your knee… ”
Clara’s hand continues to rub my back, and for the first time in months, I allow myself to imagine—while wide awake—what my life would be like if my knee injury took control of my body.
I, even better than she does, know my physical limitations; I know perfectly well how much it hurts at night and how much it prevents me from being happy on the field.
If I don’t really take care of myself—if I keep acting like a fool and ignore Clara’s recovery plans—not only will I stop playing for Ravenhill FC, but I’ll also have to give up what I love most in the world.
And my pride can’t afford such a failure.
However, in the back of my mind, the specter of rejection—the fear of being singled out, of having my contract terminated, or of being benched—keeps coming back to haunt me over and over again.
I wonder what will happen if Clara’s exercises don’t work.
What will happen if my knee doesn’t get better and I can’t play in the first game of the season?
For today, I’ve decided to send those fears packing.
I don’t want to think about soccer. I just want to stay holed up here, far away from that outside world that pushes me to always be the damn boss and demands more and more from my body every day than it can give.