“Are you okay now?” she asked, lifting her head. Her lips still glistened, pupils dark with the wet of what she’d done. I nodded, and something dropped in my throat—not hot, but a cold pocket of air lodged beneath my chin.
It was an afternoon without a single kiss. She knelt; I sat on the sofa. We both tried to quiet our breathing. The first time had been curiosity; the second, confirmation. The slower and deeper she moved, the tighter my fingers twisted in her hair. My vision blurred—not from climax. Each time she nodded, eyes closed in concentration, I saw her upside down. It wasn’t power that staggered me; it was that I had asked for this posture.
Then she swallowed. Once, twice. The small sounds echoed through the room. I stared at nothing. My stomach was empty—no, deeper than that, the marrow of my bones rang hollow. Tears rose. Why? No tidy emotion to pin it to. Only strangeness. Not an ending, but a doorless corridor.
I drew her head to my cheek. The tears seeped into her hair: soap, saliva, the faint scorch of a light bulb. She either didn’t notice or chose not to. I slid my fingers behind her ear and stayed there, tremor running from fingertips to toes. The tears kept falling—neither hot nor cold, only weight.
Na-young did it for Jung-woo a second time. The first had been after drinks; he thanked her, put her in a taxi. A week later he messaged: Na-young, free this afternoon? They went to a motel. The door clicked shut; she knelt. Jung-woo stroked her hair. This time the response was different. When Na-young looked up, his eyes were red. A single tear slid down his cheek.
“Sorry, suddenly—” He pulled her close. They lay side by side on the bed, wordless. Na-young pressed her ear to his chest: vertigo. The pulse was fast. His tear rolled over his pectoral, forming a round droplet. Before it reached his chin, Na-young tapped it gently with a fingertip.
“Me too,” she whispered. The tear was transparent yet glittered when it touched her skin. They held each other tightly. Without warning, seeing his tear, Na-young felt her own rise. The tears mingled on their shoulders. Still no words. None were needed.
Have you ever felt it—the moment you are swallowed, a deeper cavity carves itself inside you?
When she opens her mouth again, what will you place there? Only flesh? Or will you try to fill the empty space of yourself inside her?