Fiction: Brausepulver

By Ana Ornelas

Content warnings: explicit sex, mentions of alcohol

I saw my reflection passing by on the train window, as the steady gritting of the tracks melodically invaded the music playing through my earphones. I could feel the excitement bubbling in my stomach, a familiar lingering sensation I hadn’t felt in a while. Having an Eat, Pray, Love season is a lot easier said than done; I could still feel the sticky grip of my Berlin self all over my body.

The suspended tracks zipped through the core of the city: orange smog framing the hustle and bustle of downtown Candelaria, the exposed brick of the buildings contrasting against the deep emerald green of the hills surrounding the valley. As the train cruised south of the city, the pleasantly-climatized wagon rocking gently, my every nerve grew impatient and uneasy.

I had decided on my third night in Medellín, as huge, noisy drops of rain seemed to be drilling to the zinc roof above my room, that I was going to throw myself into the new. Just like I had come to Colombia to do.

That was how I had ended up in a bookshop on a sunny Saturday afternoon, having a light yet sober conversation with a kind German philosopher whose contained charm was as intriguing as it was new. Being kind of impulsive had always been my personal brand, so going on two dates with someone without so much as a kiss was unheard of in my thirty-plus years of existence. 

The tension left me confused and wanting more. I could feel nervousness taking over as I cut through the afternoon of Medellín so I could see him again.  So funny. Him, a German stranded in South America, living in Medellín for a while. Me, a Brazilian who had left for Germany years before, now back on her home continent for some months. Different places that united and separated us at the same time. A piece of my home away from home while I discovered a new land—which looked and felt a lot like my own.

I remembered the second time we saw each other, sitting at a bar outside the football stadium, downing Águila Lights. Everything was chaos around us after the match, hundreds of people pulling our gazes in hundreds of different directions, and still we ended up with our eyes locked. He kept coming so close his breath would tickle my lips, only for him to retreat with a mischievous smile that left me confused…and burning.

Was he shy? Was he traditional? Was he scared of me? Was he just enjoying the torture for the hell of it?

Whatever it was, I was hoping this time something would finally appen. I was curious, drawn to him, and at the same time skeptical that he would be able to match my hunger.

There was a fire in his sage-colored eyes, a glint of something, alluring and surprising. It could be just wishful thinking. After all, he seemed so poised. But if disappointment was what awaited me, it was fine—I just needed to know. 

The anxiety was nearly boiling within me as I reached the stop at Envigado.

“Third time's the charm,” I thought to myself as I left the station.

***

I hopped on his motorcycle as we made our way up the hills surrounding Medellín, the brisk air cutting through my cheeks and filling my lungs with the crisp of Sandero trees. The thick dusk fog descended onto the city to sweep it in its enchantment like every end of every day. I used to say that fog was like a portal: one would never be the same after being embraced by it.

Ask and you shall receive, I thought as he zigzagged along the empty winding road. I had said I wanted more magic in my life and there I was, soaked in it. I’m not the most superstitious of people, but there is something about Colombia that feels eerie, outworldly. Something that makes you feel like strange things could happen. A kind of supernatural energy that followed on my tail ever since I’d landed—and that, honestly, I had chased long before.

Eventually we reached his little cabin atop a hill, the rumble of a small waterfall nearby filling in the silence. He excitedly gave me a tour around his tasteful and serene home, I took everything in with curiosity. I remember glancing over to a corner filled with books, a vintage record player, the mountains peering out from the widow, framed by the coral eventide, and for a moment it was like I had a glimpse into a wrinkle in time, another dimension—one in which I would have this life on the outskirts of Medellín, spending my days quietly reading and talking about the mysteries of the universe—or whatever it is that introvert intellectuals dI shook my head immediately afterwards, reminding myself of who I was. I’m not some rural hermit. I’m a self-destructive city girl who will probably never settle down to a placid life.

Or am I?

He pulled me onto the sofa and we sipped on his homemade água de panela: a local drink made with brown sugar, lemon, and his very German twist—sparkling water. He hid his face in my shoulder, the contact sending light goosebumps all over my body. There was something hermetic about his demeanor, polite but just a little out of reach, that inevitably made me want to pull him closer, stare into his soul, know his darkest secrets.

His breath tickled my skin and I was completely alert. All the teasing and anticipation leading up to our date had been driving me mad, I could feel my lower body pulsing and longing, desperately desiring that he would just do something, put me out of my misery. What he did was to rub his nose swiftly against the crease of my neck.

“Brausepulver,” he mumbled out of the blue.

“Huh?”

“You know what Brausepulver is?”

“No,” I answered, puzzled.

“It’s this powdered juice I used to just eat as a kid. You smell like that. And raspberries too, that’s my favorite.”

I squinted at him in disbelief. Was he fucking serious?

I snapped suddenly, getting up to refill my cup, overwhelmed and exasperated with his comment. What the fuck? The landscape, the night, the atmosphere, the kindness, it was all too much. It was scary, it made me uneasy, and I was washed over with insecurity, a suspicion he wanted to win me over only to have the pleasure of hurting me afterwards.

In my life, I’ve learned that no happiness goes unpunished.

I started to blab about something, agitated, and he sat there seemingly amused and completely oblivious to my turmoil. I wanted to flick his sweetness away like you’d do to an annoying fly. I wanted sex, I didn’t want lies.

Suddenly I remembered I had seen a couple of beers in his fridge when he opened it and thought whether I should ask him for one. He probably wouldn’t oppose, and it was definitely going to make things easier for me. Everything would snap into place. I would feel much more confident with a little liquid courage. It was the magic potion I needed to be able to reach inside myself and fish out the seductive vixen who could dominate the situation.

I just didn’t like not being in control.

I breathed for one second, forcing my panic away. No. You’re going to try new things, remember? This is the perfect time to do it. Just let fucking go.

And then and there I decided I was determined to go through it—whatever was going to happen—on his terms. As I made my way back to the couch, I felt brave.

It’s so silly, how hard can it be to sleep with someone sober?

I wondered why I was always so much better at living my life outside of it.

His hands cinched my waist as he sheepishly rested his head on my shoulder, looking at me with round, needy eyes.

“I’m so cuddly today,” he offered as an explanation.

Oh, yeah? And what else are you? I wanted to ask, conflicted by the desire to put an end to this ridiculous teasing and wanting to see what he was going to do. 

He ran his long fingers along my spine and my skin prickled, the muscles in my pelvis contracting so fast it hurt a little. I wondered if I looked as desperate and thirsty as I felt.

My breathing halted for a split second as he came closer. His mouth was so close, so close, his breath grazing my skin. Please, tell me this is it, my brain screamed, and then finally, finally, his lips touched mine.

It was a soft kiss, autumnal and contained like everything else about him. He cradled the sides of my face gently, his lips rubbing against mine. There’s always something in a first kiss, isn’t there, something in the taste, something that either fits or doesn’t.

I moved onto his lap, pinning his hands behind his head. To his credit, he enjoyed it, and threw his head back, granting me full access. His hips moved just a little in place, like he wasn’t aware, like he wasn’t sure it was okay, and in response I grinded down on him, feeling impatient, overwhelmed, and a little euphoric.

I had thought about it in the days leading up, wondered what he would taste like, what he would look like out of his elegant clothes, curious to see if he was able to stop being a gentleman long enough to actually enjoy sex. And as I had his face between my hands, feeling his sugary lips on mine, something swirled inside—a spark, a fire—that I hadn’t felt in a minute.

Soon enough I was on my knees between his legs, looking up at him with big slutty eyes, excited to see if he could handle it if I gave him my best.

I loved going down on people in general, but I especially loved going down on people I was really attracted to.

Our intense eye contact resumed as I pulled his dark gray slacks down, pressing my hand against the front of his underwear. He was so fucking hard. Shit. I felt a little dizzy at how much that turned me on, teasing the hem of his briefs with my tongue before pulling them down too.

It was difficult to take everything in, and, to be honest, I was nervous, so it was a little sloppy—messy, even. But he seemed to love every minute of it, even if he was still very contained, head thrown back as he panted loudly, hands pinned at the sides of his body.

I hollowed my mouth, sucking hard on his cock, and he seemed to enjoy that, his hips coming off the couch slightly like he was unaware he was doing it. I arched an eyebrow, suddenly feeling entirely in control, bobbing my head up and down.

“S-shall we take this to the bedroom?”

I looked up and he was flustered, eyes squinting dangerously as he fixed the position of his glasses on his face. He did that a lot; it was a tic, but somehow it was charming.

I grinned in response, giving him one last slurp for good measure before getting up, stripping down, and strutting through the hallway in nothing but my panties. He followed me to his bedroom, the clean, crisp white sheets begging to be messed. 

“Do you have condoms?” I asked without looking back, hearing the click of the doorknob.

“Yes.” His tone of voice was two octaves lower. 

Suddenly, there was a shift in the air. Something changed.

He grabbed me from behind with his strong arms, as I realized I was wearing nothing but panties while he was basically all dressed. Spinning me around, he glued my naked body to his as he kissed me in such a demanding fashion that I was left breathless and confused.

Then, he pulled me by my hips, lifting me off the floor and making me straddle him briefly as he threw me onto his bed. I was still trying to process everything when he took his shirt off hastily, revealing an amazingly toned and strong body that was not what I had expected to see.

Soon he was on the bed on top of me, grabbing both sides of my face as he kissed me again. A real kiss. One of those that you feel all the way to your knees. 

His hands traveled all over my body, squeezing and rubbing, giving my ass a good grab before his fingers slid to the front of my underwear. His mouth was nibbling my neck and his finger trailed along my clit over the fabric, and I let out a breathless whimper, my legs falling open. He pulled back from my neck, looking deep into my eyes with a look that read like you like that don’t you. I was shocked, bewildered, and ridiculously turned on.

The man on the sofa who had his hands by his sides while I was sucking him off? Yeah, he was gone. 

He continued torturing me over the fabric of my panties before pulling them to the side, running his fingers along my labia. My nails dug down his back as my breath picked up speed. I had been wet since I’d gotten on my knees. No, scratch that - I had been wet since his hands went up the back of my thigh as he stopped the moto at a red light earlier that evening.

My underwear was gone, and he changed the position of my legs, setting them apart with a precision that would have been comical had I not been so fucking turned on. Dipping his fingers inside his mouth for a brief second, he slid two of them inside me, the stretch just the right amount of rough.

I was vaguely aware of the fact that I was glued to the bed, unable to do anything other than gasp, moan, and spread my legs for him, which was not at all my MO. Not only did I not enjoy being a pillow princess, I liked taking the reins in bed most of the time. He had overpowered me with his quiet confidence.

He moved to finger me without an ounce of mercy, hitting deep inside, the sound becoming increasingly obscene. I arched my back and thrust my pelvis against his hand, feeling something mounting up, an acicular sensation somewhere inside where his fingertips were hitting. Ugh, it felt so good, so good, the kind of touch it usually took months to get right.

I whimpered when his fingers were gone, but moaned as I felt him cover his body with mine, going for another round of his magnetic kiss. I launched myself forward, rubbing against him, my lips traveling to kiss his every piece. 

Hmmm, he smelled so good, his skin was so fresh, so smooth, I felt like I could get lost in that body forever and never have to come up for air. 

When I sucked his fingers inside my mouth to taste myself, he moaned loudly, his hips grinding down on me. He tilted his head to the side, savoring the sight, before he knelt on the bed and pawed for some condoms on the nightstand.

Ugh, I was so wet I could feel it between my legs as he positioned himself before me, looking transfixed. I started to touch myself, impatient, pressing my index finger against my swollen clit and in tiny circles.

“Uh, fuck…” I mumbled breathlessly, feeling my insides contract as he rolled the condom on, his eyes dark. My legs fell even further apart.

“Yeah? You want me to fuck you?”

My pussy contracted, as if inviting him in.

“Yes, please.”

He grinned slightly, holding my hips to angle them a bit upwards. I gasped as he entered me just as mercilessly as he had fingered me. My back arched. He bit his lip, letting himself adjust to the feeling, his face melted with delight, before he opened his eyes and flashed me the naughtiest of smiles.

“Oh, we’re gonna have so much fun.”

His first thrust was poignant and delicious, and I just threw my head back, allowing myself to relax and be handled by someone who actually knew what to do with me.

It was so hot to see him like that. His moans were loud, desperate, and filthy. The contrast between the elevated way he carried himself outside the bedroom and the vulgar way he could be inside it was so sexy.

And he liked sex. He really, really liked sex, I could tell. Not just the chase, not the ego boost that came with it. He enjoyed the sensations, the act, to surrender himself to his most primal needs.

I felt right then that it was a game for real adults to enjoy. 

“Mmm, fuck, you feel good,” he gasped into my ear before swiftly lifting me up and changing our positions so I was lying on my stomach. Grabbing my hips, he made sure to bring my ass up in the air before thrusting inside one again, making me collapse onto the pillow.

“Shit.” I felt like I was losing my mind. My body buzzed all over, his dominance confusing in the best way possible. I snuck a hand down to find my clit again, my pussy clamping down on him.

It felt delightful. He was diving so deep, losing himself inside me, surrendering to the sensations—and so was I. I was quivering, rubbing myself, feeling my clit impossibly swollen around his diamond-hard dick. We were pulsing together, throbbing together, moving together.

I always said it would be hard to meet my match. But he wasn’t my match. I was clearly outmatched, overpowered. Hell, I was subjugated. 

He slapped my ass again, so hard, the sound flying around the room, that I wondered—hoped?—if it would leave a mark. Something was growing, a sharp feeling shooting up from between my legs and setting off fireworks in all my nerves. Fuck, I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to keep going for hours, for days, I wanted him to burst me open and eat me…

“Do it harder,” I begged. He scoffed, amused by my eagerness. Little did he know I was holding the fuck back. Usually I was such a tease, coaxing out the worst and wildest versions of people, nonchalant and in control…and all I could do now was plead.

His fingers were splayed against the small of my back, reveling in the texture of sweaty, ultra-sensitive skin. That was all it took.

“C-can I cum?” I spluttered. “Please?”

“Yes, cum for me, babe.” His voice, his fucking voice oh my god—so raspy, so lustful, so commanding. How I could I fucking not? My body obeyed before I could process it. By the time he had uttered the last syllable, I was already gone.

I screamed, I heard myself urge him to go harder, but it was like the voice belonged to somebody else. All I could feel was the crashing wave of violent sweetness that swept my entire system. My body was shaking, spasming, and I moved my hips against him, feeling my pussy contract deliciously around his cock.

I was faintly aware that he was gasping, his thrusts growing erratic as he screamed somewhere above me. 

It took us a good few minutes to recover our breaths. I was overly sensitive and overly exposed, and moving cost a lot.

“Holy shit,” he muttered in awe. “You cumming made me cum.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I answered, so spent I didn’t even have it in me to be flattered. It wasn’t until we were cuddling, nearly drifting to sleep in his delightfully cloudy bed, that I began to process what had happened.

My body still hummed with the electricity and pleasure I had just experienced, a powerful cocktail of hormones pulsating into my bloodstream, making me woozy, euphoric, relaxed. Outside, the water from the quebrada was still running steadily.

It felt like the world was so far away, so far from that bubble, that little cabin atop the hill, so distant from real life, from everything I had been up to that point, from the all the heartache that had be chased out of the Berlin winter, from the ideas I had of who I was and who I was meant to be.

All of it could wait until tomorrow.

I imagined how the house looked from the outside, the tip of its roof coated in thick fog, protecting it from reality. 

“You okay?” he whispered sweetly, caressing my hair.

“Yeah,” I croaked. Sex had always been one of my favorite things, favorite ways to feel like myself, favorite ways to connect to others, favorite ways to have fun. But somehow this had been a different rendition of it. A different side of myself.

I breathed in deeply, feeling like slumber was about to take me away. You did good, I told myself. I felt excited. What other things I would find out about myself in Colombia? What other “other” versions of myself would I find?

I wanted to keep thinking but drifted away. Later that night, in the dark room, in his arms, I dreamed of thick ribbons of fog that smelled like raspberry.

***

Ana Ornelas, aka @pimentacitrica, is a Berlin-based author, screenwriter, and sex activist from Brazil. In her work, she focuses on a feminist and inclusive perspective. She writes for a multitude of platforms including PORNCEPTUAL Mag, Audiodesires, Lustery, and many more. She's also one of the voices behind @iamtheclitoris, a sex education project set out to spread cliteracy.