The Fantasy That Left Him Wrecked on the Sofa

Yesterday I looked Andrés in the face and it took everything not to laugh. He had that expression of someone who thinks everything is already fixed, that two days of kisses and dinners were enough to put things back where they belong. He smiled at me from the sofa, the TV remote in his hand and his feet up on the coffee table, completely calm. That man has spent months not understanding what goes through my head when I look at him.

We had spent a week making up. He was doing his part. I was doing mine. Questions about work, dinners ready, kisses before bed. All that fragile architecture we build when we want to believe things work. I kept up appearances and, underneath, I kept piling it up.

That night I switched off the TV without saying a word. He stared at the black screen for a moment, then looked at me. I went over slowly and sat on top of him, astride him, my hips resting on his thighs. I felt him tense immediately, before I said anything, before I did anything. His body always betrays him. I rubbed my cunt over his pants, pressing myself against the bulge that was already starting to grow, moving my hips in slow circles until I felt his cock harden beneath the fabric.

—I have a new fantasy —I told him in a low voice, very close to his ear—. But this one is different. It’s not for you to imagine alone at night, when you think I’m already asleep. It’s for now. So you can hear it while you watch me.

I saw him swallow. I brushed a strand off his forehead with one finger and held his gaze. Then I moved away a little, enough to stand in front of him. I pulled down my tracksuit pants very slowly, never taking my eyes off his, until they were crumpled on the floor. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. I ran a finger over myself, over that line from top to bottom, prying my lips open with two fingers so he could see how everything glistened inside, how a thick thread was falling from my clit to my entrance. I slid my finger in to the knuckle, pulled it out dripping, and showed it to him, shiny, without saying anything else. There was no need. Then I brought it to his mouth and he opened it without thinking. I cleaned his tongue with my finger and let him suck on it for a few seconds, watching his eyes close.

—That’s how I am —I said at last—. That’s how I’ve been all day. Soaking wet. With my cunt swollen since this morning. Not able to think about anything else.

I turned around. I bent over slowly, feet apart, letting everything be visible from behind: the open cunt, the ass, every inch. I held it there for a few seconds, letting him look, listening to his breathing change rhythm. I slid two fingers in, very slowly, all the way to the bottom, and pulled them out with a wet sound that filled the living room. Then I started talking.

—This morning I got up late and went to the gym without showering after the night before. I put on the black leggings, the thin Lycra ones that show everything, without underwear. It was cold and I didn’t care. I spent two hours there: running, machines, free weights. The fabric started clinging to my body with the heat and sweat. With every squat it wedged itself between the lips of my cunt, rubbed my clit, opened me a little more. Before long the crotch of the leggings was soaked through, a dark, shiny stain anyone could have seen if they were paying attention. I could feel it the whole time and I liked knowing it.

I started walking back and forth across the room as I talked. Slowly. Looking at the floor, as if I were thinking out loud.

—There’s a man at the gym I hadn’t seen before. He wears a sleeveless gray T-shirt and has thick arms, broad shoulders, the neck of someone who uses his body for work. One of those guys who take up space without asking permission. Right away I noticed he was looking at me, and he wasn’t looking at my face. He was looking at my ass when I bent over, looking at my tits when I sat on the machine, looking at the wet stain between my legs every time I opened my thighs. He was leaning against the bar watching me do squats and I didn’t lower my eyes. I went all the way down, aware of what could be seen, opening my knees a little more than necessary, and when I glanced at him he was still in exactly the same place, his cock outlined under his shorts.

I turned toward Andrés. His hands were braced on his thighs, knuckles white. I looked at his groin: his cock was hard, pushing against the fabric, a thick bulge that made no effort to hide itself.

—I went to the locker room. Nobody was there. I let my hair down in front of the mirror and opened up my slit. I heard the door open behind me. I didn’t turn around. His footsteps crossed the space, slow, unhurried, and stopped less than a meter away. There was a long silence. I let it hang.

I knelt on the floor in front of the sofa, at eye level with him, and kept talking from there. I put a hand on his thigh, near the groin, and left it there.

—He puts a hand on my shoulder. Leaves it there for a moment, not pressing, as if he were giving me time to decide. Then he turns me until I’m facing him. He looks me up and down, no pretense at all, like he’s calculating something. In the end he says, “You’ve been moving around ever since you got here like you wanted somebody to pay attention to you. Your cunt is soaked, you can see it from the other side of the gym.” I don’t correct him, because it isn’t a lie.

—He pushes me against the lockers. One open hand on my back, not violently, but without asking either. He leans me forward. He yanks the leggings down to my ankles, without taking them off. He leaves me like that, with my feet trapped by the fabric, unable to spread any farther than the leggings allow. I stay still. The tiled floor is cold under my feet and the locker-room air hits the wet skin of my ass. He runs two fingers through my cunt from back to front, very slowly, gathering everything I have inside, and shows it to me on his shiny hand before putting it in his mouth. “You’re here to get fucked,” he says. And he drives those same fingers into me to the hilt, without warning, and moves them inside me in circles with his palm pressed to my clit, so hard my knees shake and I have to hold on to the locker so I don’t fall.

I stood up from the floor and moved behind the sofa, leaning over Andrés, my lips near his nape. I ran my tongue behind his ear, very slowly.

—He asks me: “Do you know what you came here for?” I don’t answer. He grabs my hair, not roughly, but firmly enough that there’s no doubt. He tilts my head back. With his free hand he lowers his shorts and pulls out his cock and puts it in front of my face. It’s big, wider than I expected, taut and dark at the tip, with a thick drop hanging from the glans. He looks at me. Waits. He runs his hand along the full length, up and down, and smears it over my lips, leaving them shiny. He says, “Open it. Stick out your tongue.”

—And I open it. And I stick out my tongue. And he lays it on top of it, flat, hot, heavy, and leaves it there for a few seconds so I can taste it before he puts it in.

I went around the sofa and stood in front of Andrés. I looked him in the eye and kept going. I rested one hand on his chest, feeling his heart pounding hard under my palm.

—He slides it into my mouth slowly, halfway. He fills my mouth. He takes his time. Then, all at once, to the back of my throat. When I hit the back of his cock, tears spring to my eyes against my will, a muffled sound escapes from my throat, saliva runs down my chin. He stops for a second, looks at me, wipes my lip clean with his thumb, and pushes it in again. He grabs my head with both hands and starts setting the pace. He doesn’t ask if I can take it. He doesn’t stop to see how I am. He fucks my mouth like it’s just another cunt, in and out to the hilt, touching my uvula with every thrust, forcing me to swallow the saliva building up in my mouth. He shoves his cock down my throat and leaves it there three, four seconds, watching the vein in my neck bulge. And me, Andrés, me, I’ve got my hand between my legs the whole time. I’m rubbing my cunt while he eats my mouth out completely. I don’t want him to stop.

I leaned toward him and lowered my voice almost to a whisper.

—He jerks out of my mouth. A string of saliva hangs from my lip to the tip of his cock. He wipes my chin with his thumb, slowly, watching me the whole time. He turns me around and puts me on all fours on the tiled floor. He lifts my ass with both hands, pries my cheeks apart with his thumbs, and stares at my open cunt. He pauses. A very long pause. He runs his whole tongue from my clit to the other hole, unhurried, sucking up everything he finds, and leaves it there for a while, mouth pressed against me, eating me without saying a word. And then he smacks my ass open-palmed, so hard the sound bounces off the locker-room walls. Silence. Another slap, on the other side. My skin is left burning. Then he says: “Ask for it. Use all the words.”

I lowered my voice even more. There was barely any sound.

—And I ask him for it, Andrés. Out loud. With clear words, no detours, no shame. I tell him: “Fuck me. Put it all in me. Break my cunt. Treat me like a whore.” I say it exactly like that, with those exact words, because in that room shame doesn’t exist. Only what I need and what he decides to give me.

I moved away to the other end of the room. I kept my back turned, my voice calmer than usual.

—He jams it into me all at once. Without giving me time. All at once, to the hilt. I scream. Not from pain, though it hurts a little at first too, because it’s thick and he hasn’t been gentle. I scream from something I don’t know how to name, from some place inside that opens and never had a name. I feel him stretching me from the inside, feel him reaching all the way in, feel him hitting something that makes my vision blur. He grabs my hips and starts moving. He slams into me with all his hips, pulling almost all the way out and then shoving it back in to the balls. The sound of his thighs against my ass fills the locker room, a wet, rhythmic slap that mixes with my moans. He calls me “bitch.” He calls me “dirty slut.” He says, “This cunt is mine now,” he says, “look how she’s sucking my cock.” Not angrily, calmly, as if he were describing something we both recognize as truth in that moment. And I come the first time without him touching me anywhere else, clenching his cock inside me in spasms, soaking everything down to the balls.

There was silence in the room. Andrés hadn’t said a word since I started talking. I looked at his groin: the stain was already spreading across his pants.

—It goes on for a long time. Longer than I expected. He changes my position whenever he wants, without warning. He lifts me up, turns me around, presses me back against the cold lockers, and puts one leg up on his shoulder. He fucks me like that again, looking at my face while he’s inside me, watching the stupid expression that comes over me every time he gets to the bottom. Then he throws me to the floor and sits on top of me. He rides me, all his weight on me, driving it in while he sucks on my tits, while he bites my nipples until I scream. He pulls it out of my cunt and drags it over my face, shiny with my orgasm, and shoves it back in. He comes inside me twice, the second time with his tongue in my mouth. At some point he starts whispering things in my ear. Things nobody had ever said to me before, things I didn’t know I wanted to hear. He describes what I am in that moment, in detail, with precision, without softening it. He tells me what my cunt is, what my mouth is, what I am since I walked through the door. And I want to be exactly that. There is nothing outside that room. There is nothing before or after. Only that.

I went back to the sofa. I knelt again, at his level, and looked at him closely. I brushed his cock over his pants with the back of my hand.

—When he’s about to finish the last time, he shoves me to the floor. He kneels over me, with his knees on either side of my head. He jerks himself off fast with both hands, over my face, and tells me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue. He grabs my chin so I’ll look at him. He comes over me with a long groan. Thick, hot spurts, into my open mouth, onto my tongue, my cheek, my neck, my cleavage. He takes his time, unhurried, squeezing out the last drops with the tip against my lip, forcing me to lick his clean glans. When he’s done, he gets to his feet, zips up his pants, and leaves. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t shut the locker-room door properly.

—And I stay there. On the cold tiled floor, my legs still trembling, the leggings tangled around my ankles, my face sticky and my cunt dripping another man’s load down the inside of my thigh. I slip my fingers between my legs and come by myself, rubbing my clit fast, two fingers all the way in, with his semen still leaking out of me, with his smell still on me, with the echo of his voice still ringing in my head. I bring my hand to my mouth and suck my fingers clean. And I smile alone in the silence of the empty locker room.

***

I stopped. I stood still in the middle of the room.

Andrés hadn’t moved for a while. His face was white, his mouth half open, the look of someone who has just come back from somewhere very far away. I saw the dark stain spreading over the thigh of his pants, wide, wet, still growing. He had come in his pants without touching himself, just from listening to me. His hands were shaking a little, resting on his thighs as if he needed to hold on to something.

I put my pants back on calmly. I tied the drawstring carefully, unhurried. I picked my phone up off the coffee table and slipped it into my tracksuit pocket. I sat down beside him on the sofa, slid an arm around his shoulders gently, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

—Poor thing —I told him, in the voice I use when I want him to feel safe—. It’s just stuff I make up, you know how I am. Weird fantasies I have sometimes. They don’t mean anything, you know? I just wanted to share them with you because you’re my favorite person in the world.

I squeezed his shoulder once and stood up without saying anything else.

I left him there, alone, on the sofa with the TV off and the silence of the house around him. With the taste of my words still in his head and the mistaken certainty that everything between us was fine. That it was just a fantasy and nothing more.

***

I got into bed. I switched off the lamp. In the dark, with my hand between my legs, with two fingers moving slowly inside a cunt that hadn’t rested for hours, I thought maybe one day it would stop being just a story I told myself. That maybe next Tuesday I’d wear those black leggings to the gym. That maybe, when someone looked at me too long from the other side of the mirror, I wouldn’t lower my eyes.

I fell asleep before Andrés came up the stairs, with my fingers still inside me and the smell of my cunt on my hand.