My Sore Little Secret

Let me tell you, pana, about the kind of sore that feels like a goddamn trophy. It’s not the soreness from a crazy leg day at the gym, no. This is a different category altogether. This is the deep, throbbing, deliciously painful reminder that a man knew exactly how to handle all of this—touches her hips—and didn’t hold back one single bit.

His name is Alejandro. I met him at a salsa bar in El Rosal. He wasn’t the flashiest guy in the room, but he had this quiet confidence that just… called to me. He was tall, built like he actually used his body for more than just looking good in a suit, and he had these hands, marica… these hands that looked like they could build a house or dismantle a woman with equal precision. We danced. Oh, did we dance. He led with a firm grip, his hand on my lower back feeling less like an invitation and more like a claim. I was dripping in my little black dress before the first song even ended.

We went back to my apartment. The chemistry wasn’t just sparks; it was a full-blown electrical fire. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom the first time. It was against the wall in my hallway, my dress hiked up, his pants around his ankles, and him driving into me with a force that made my teeth rattle. I came so hard I saw stars, my nails digging into the wood of the doorframe.

But that was just the warm-up.

The main event happened later, in my bed, after we’d caught our breath and had a glass of whiskey. That’s when the animal in him truly broke free. He flipped me onto my stomach with a growl that went straight to my cuca. “I’m not going to be gentle, Cristina,” he whispered into my ear, his voice rough. “I don’t think you want me to be.”

“Please don’t be,” I managed to gasp, my face buried in the pillows.

And that’s when he really started to fuck me. I mean, really fuck me. His grip on my hips was iron-tight, his fingers pressing into my flesh with every powerful thrust. I could feel the pressure building, the sharp, sweet bite of it. He was pounding into me from behind, his body slapping against mine with a rhythm that was pure, unadulterated lust. My whole world narrowed to that one point of connection, to the incredible, stretching, burning friction of his guebote splitting me open. “Mi pepita,” I was moaning, “ay, mi pipe… me lo estás metiendo tan rico, papi.”

He was hitting a spot so deep inside me I felt possessed. My eyes were rolling back in my head, my body shaking with mini-orgasms that just kept rippling through me. I was a mess of sweat and saliva and pure, raw need. He leaned over, his chest plastered to my back, one hand tangling in my hair while the other continued to grip my hip, holding me in place for his relentless assault. “This cuca is mine tonight,” he grunted, and the possessiveness in his voice made me clench around him even tighter.

I lost count of how many times I came. It was a cascade of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He finally pulled out, turned me onto my back, and finished with a final, brutal pace, his eyes locked on mine as he emptied himself inside me with a long, guttural groan that sounded like it was torn from the very core of him.

We collapsed, a tangled, sweaty, breathless heap. The air was thick with the smell of sex and skin. We didn’t speak. We just lay there, panting, our hearts hammering against each other.

The next morning, I woke up alone. He’d left a note on the pillow: “Had to run to work. Last night was… chévere. Call you later.” I smiled, a slow, sore, satisfied smile. And then I tried to get out of bed.

Ay, marica.

The first thing I felt was the ache in my thighs. Not a subtle soreness, but a deep, muscular protest, the kind you get from holding a squat for too long. I limped to the bathroom, my legs feeling like jelly. And then I saw it in the mirror. The full, glorious evidence.

On the curve of my ass, on both sides, were the clear, dark purple imprints of his fingers. Four distinct bruises on each cheek, a perfect map of where he had held onto me for dear life. They were already turning a nasty shade of blue and violet. I traced them with my fingers, a shiver running down my spine as I remembered the exact moment he must have gripped me hardest.

My inner thighs were no better. A constellation of smaller, fainter bruises decorated the soft skin, souvenirs from the relentless friction and impact. But the real masterpiece was what I couldn’t see. Between my legs, my vagina wasn’t just “sore.” It was a throbbing, tender, exquisitely sensitive epicenter of memory. Every slight movement, every step I took, sent a little pulse of reminder through me. It felt swollen, well-used, and profoundly satisfied. It was the kind of ache that makes you walk a little slower, with a secret knowledge humming in your veins.

I made coffee, wincing with every step. Sitting down was an adventure in itself. Each time I lowered myself onto a chair, the pressure sent a fresh wave of sensation through my core, a direct line back to the feeling of him buried deep inside me. All day, through my client appointments at the salon, as I waxed eyebrows and gave manicures, I was acutely aware of my own body. The dull, persistent ache was my little secret. When a client asked if I was okay because I was walking a bit stiffly, I just smiled and said, “Yeah, pana, just a really intense workout last night.”

And that was the truth. It was the best workout of my life.

It’s been three days now. The fingerprints on my ass have faded to a yellowish-green, a dying sunset on my skin. The ache has subsided to a faint, pleasant tenderness, a ghost of the storm. But every time I see those fading marks in the mirror, or feel that little twinge when I move the wrong way, I smile. It’s the smile of a woman who was thoroughly, completely, and unforgettably taken. It’s the proof that for one night, I wasn’t just Cristina the esthetician.

I was a fucking earthquake, and Alejandro was the only one brave enough to stand in the center of it. And you better believe I’m waiting for his call. My poor, well-used pepita is already getting excited just thinking about a repeat performance.