I Woke Up Soaked and Couldn’t Stop All Day

My name is Sofía, at least on these pages. Not my real name, because I already have enough exposure at work. What I’m about to tell you is real, or at least as real as something that happened in the privacy of a room with the blinds half closed and no one to answer to.

I’m on vacation this week. My first in almost a year. When they told me I had seven days off, I thought of a thousand plans: going out, seeing friends, making the most of the city, which gets especially good this time of year. I didn’t think about this. About spending the days shut up in my room, naked most of the time, with my cunt soaking wet as if someone had flipped a switch, my fingers shoved in to the knuckles every few hours like it was just another biological need.

But that’s how it was. And I regret nothing.

***

It all started the night before last. I stayed up reading late. I can’t quite remember what, some story I found somewhere that started out discreet and ended with a three-page scene of a woman sucking a guy off on her knees in a kitchen while he pulled her hair and said filthy things to her. I went to sleep around one in the morning with my head still spinning and my cunt throbbing beneath my panties.

I woke up at a quarter to six. It was still dark outside. The room had that particular temperature spring dawns get, neither cold nor hot, the kind that makes you want to stay under the sheets a little longer and think about nothing.

The sheets were damp.

Not from sweat. From something else. My panties were stuck to my cunt, soaked with the fluids I’d leaked in my sleep. From the dream I only kept fragments: an unfamiliar room, some large hands squeezing my tits from behind, a thick cock going in and out of my mouth, a deep voice saying dirty things in my ear that I couldn’t make out but that my body had registered perfectly clearly. That kind of dream that leaves no image but does leave a physical trace.

I lay still for a few seconds. On my back, staring at the ceiling as it started to separate from the dark. I could feel my pulse in all the wrong places: in my nipples, hard beneath my shirt, and between my legs, where my clit was swollen and demanding attention without having had even a single touch yet.

I slid my hand between my legs almost without thinking. No urgency, no rush, no weight of decision. The same way one stretches or changes position when they can’t sleep: something the body does because it needs it and has no reason not to.

I pulled my panties down to my thighs and touched myself directly. I was so wet my fingers slid in without effort. I drew circles over my clit, slowly, letting the sensation build. Then I slipped in two fingers. They went in all at once, with the slightest resistance, all the way to the knuckles. My cunt closed around them immediately, as if it had been waiting for something inside for hours. I pumped slowly while still massaging my clit with my thumb, spreading my legs wide beneath the sheet.

I didn’t take long. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t make a sound in the dawn silence and came with a long spasm that arched my back against the mattress. I felt my cunt tightening in waves around my fingers and a little spurt of fluid escape me, ending up on the sheet and adding to the stain already there. I pulled my shining fingers out and let them rest on my belly.

By the time I was done, light was already slipping in through the blinds in thin bands. I stayed in bed a while longer, my fingers still sticky, staring at that rectangle of brightness on the floor before getting up to make myself a coffee.

***

I thought that was it. That my body had released what it needed and the day could go on normally.

Midmorning I was in the kitchen washing the few breakfast dishes. The radio was on low. I was thinking about nothing in particular, in that autopilot state that’s the only way to function before the second coffee. I was wearing only an old T-shirt and the clean panties I’d put on when I got up.

The edge of the counter brushed the lower part of my belly, almost over my mound, through the thin fabric of my sleepwear. Just that. The edge of the counter, no intention, no meaning, an accidental half-second contact right over my clit.

I had to brace both hands on the sink for a moment.

It was a burst of heat that rose from my cunt to the nape of my neck almost without stopping anywhere in between. A completely disproportionate response to a touch that, in itself, had no erotic content at all. But my body wasn’t making that distinction. It was in that state where any brush becomes something else, where the skin seems to have more nerve endings than usual and nipples go hard from the fan’s airflow.

Before I thought twice, I leaned my hips back against the counter edge again. Slowly, not even fully convincing myself I was doing it. I moved a little back and forth, rubbing my clit through the fabric against that cold granite edge. I closed my eyes. I felt my panties soak through a second time in less than five hours.

I forced myself to step back before going any further. I breathed. I went on with the dishes, my hands trembling a little. I told myself it was hormonal, that it would pass, that I needed to keep some composure.

I put on more music. I made another coffee. I sat on the couch to read the book I’d been stuck on for weeks. I read the same page four times and retained nothing, feeling the wetness between my legs keep staining my panties even after I’d had two orgasms that morning.

My body wasn’t in the mood for books that morning. My body wanted something else.

***

I’ve had a fantasy for a long time. It’s not elaborate or particular in the sense that it doesn’t require special scenery or too many characters. It’s more of a fantasy about rules: about what the world would be like if desire didn’t need privacy in order to exist.

I imagine a place where sex is as normal as anything else. A walk, a shopping mall, whatever. Walking with Ramiro, the man I’ve been with for a few months even though we live in different cities, and in that hypothetical place he could come up behind me in the middle of an aisle and slide his hands under my shirt to grab my tits. And I could lean back and rub my ass against the cock he’d already have hard in his pants. And no one would stop to look because that’s simply what people do when they want each other.

In the more detailed version of that fantasy, he turns me around right there, pulls my pants down to my knees, makes me bend over against some surface and fucks me there, right in the middle of the aisle, people walking around us without batting an eye. I feel his cock entering me from behind, thick, opening up my cunt that’s already been soaked for a while, and he grabs my hips and pounds into me while whispering in my ear that I’m a slut, how much I like being fucked like this, anywhere, without warning. And I confirm it with every moan, I ask him to fuck me harder, to leave it all inside me, and no one looks at us because it’s the most normal thing in the world.

There’s no violence in that fantasy. It’s not exhibitionism in the sense of wanting an audience either. It’s more a fantasy about the honesty of desire, about a world where pleasure doesn’t have to justify itself or hide behind closed doors to be legitimate. Where being a woman who loves being fucked doesn’t have to be a secret.

Sometimes I imagine I call him on video from here, from the bed, and he sees me like that, with nothing on, hard nipples and my hand between my legs, and he pulls his pants down and takes his cock out of his underwear and shows it to me hard while I masturbate for him. That he’d jack off looking at me and I’d show him my cunt wide open with my fingers, and we’d both finish at the same time, him shooting his load into his hand and me soaking the sheets several kilometers away.

The fantasy, thought through coldly, has something ridiculous about it. But that day, with my body in the state it was in, there was nothing ridiculous about it. It was urgent, concrete, almost painful in how much I wanted it.

***

At noon I made the most sensible decision of the day: a cold shower.

No fuss. No lukewarm water as an intermediate step. Straight cold, as cold as the tap would go, for as long as it took. A kind of emergency protocol for situations where the mind just isn’t enough anymore.

It worked, while it lasted. Under that water the body went into survival mode and forgot everything it had been processing over the last few hours. I didn’t think about anything erotic. I didn’t think about Ramiro or his cock or the kitchen counter. I only thought about how very cold the water was and how I needed to breathe.

Three minutes, more or less. That’s all I lasted.

I turned off the faucet. Grabbed the towel. The bathroom air was warmer than the water, and that temperature difference has a particular texture on the skin: something between relief and sensitivity, like when you come out of the sea and the summer wind makes your whole body suddenly feel present. My nipples were so hard they hurt when they rubbed against the towel.

I dried myself slowly. Arms, shoulders, back. I lingered rubbing my tits with the towel longer than necessary, feeling the fabric friction cut my breathing off.

When I reached my thighs, I took an extra second.

I ran the towel along the inner side, going upward, and let the edge of the cloth barely brush my cunt, still swollen from the cold water. One second. But my body registered it and my cunt clenched around itself in a contraction that left me breathing through an open mouth.

The cold hadn’t helped at all.

***

I went to the room to get the body lotion. The plan was simple and concrete: lotion, put on some clothes, and keep going through the day like a functional person.

The lotion is one I was given a few months ago, one of those that smell good and have a dense texture you have to work a little to spread. You have to massage it in. You have to insist. It’s not a lotion you just apply and that’s it.

I started with my feet, which is what I always do. I went up my calves, my knees. By the time I got to my thighs, the original plan had completely dissolved.

I sat on the edge of the bed. The jar of lotion in one hand. The other resting on my thigh. Afternoon light came filtered through the blinds and gave the room a warm, almost golden glow. My legs were open and my cunt was completely exposed to the air, the lips still swollen, shining with my own wetness.

I took out more lotion and smeared it over my belly, my hips, up to my tits. I kneaded both of them with lotion-covered hands, playing with my nipples between my fingers, squeezing them the way I imagined Ramiro would if he were there. A moan slipped out of me without meaning to, the first one of the day out loud.

I decided not to fight anymore.

It wasn’t a dramatic decision or a moment of weakness. It was the recognition of something pretty obvious: I’d been resisting for hours something that was going to happen anyway, and the only concrete effect of keeping up the resistance was discomfort. So I set the lotion on the nightstand, lay back on the bed, and surrendered with complete calm.

No one was waiting for me. Nothing urgent was on my plate. It was the first real vacation day in almost a year. My body was entirely right.

***

I lay on my back, uncovered, legs open and feet planted on the mattress. I picked up my phone and looked for something to read.

There are stories that are fine but don’t do anything special, stories you read and finish and that’s that. Then there are stories that leave your cunt leaking from the first line, where something in the rhythm or the details connects with something already inside you, and then everything changes completely. That afternoon I found one of those: a married woman letting the gardener fuck her on Thursday mornings, told with such a precise account of how he fucked her and how he made her feel that I had to bite my lip on the first page.

I read slowly, following the rhythm of the words. I started touching myself with my other hand, unhurried, with no particular goal. First over the top, drawing circles on the outer lips, feeling them open on their own. Then one finger, sliding between the folds to my clit, playing with it, pinching it just slightly between my index and middle fingers. I was so wet my hand soaked through within seconds.

This is something people don’t say enough, and I think it’s worth saying: masturbating without rushing is completely different from masturbating in a hurry. When there’s time and no reason to hurry, the cunt works differently. The tension rises more slowly and goes farther. The details become important: the exact texture of the clit under the fingertip, the precise pressure that spot on the front wall three centimeters in needs, the exact moment before the point of no return that can be held for five, ten, fifteen seconds before letting go.

I slid in two fingers. I curled them, looking for that spot I know so well, that rough area that swells when I’m close. I moved them slowly while I kept reading on the phone with my other hand. The story’s protagonist was on her knees in the garden sucking the gardener’s cock, describing the taste of semen mixed with sweat, how saliva ran down her chin. I followed her rhythm down there, slipping my fingers in and out as she swallowed.

I was thinking about Ramiro while I read. About what it would be like if he were here right now. If he came into the room and found me like this, open on the bed, with three fingers inside me and the other hand holding the phone. If he undid his belt without saying anything and made me suck him, shoving his cock down my throat to the hilt while I kept fucking myself with my fingers below. About what it would feel like if he climbed onto the bed and shoved it into me in one hard thrust, thick, opening up my cunt that had already been asking for something bigger than my own fingers for hours.

The imagination was doing a pretty convincing job. Long-distance intimacy has its own rules. It’s not the same as having him here, that’s clear; it’s not the same as feeling the real weight of a man on top of you or the pressure of a real cock going into you. But fingers know how to do their part when your head is in the right place.

I came the first time without warning. The orgasm caught me in the middle of a sentence in the story, fingers buried to the hilt, thumb firm against my clit. I clamped my legs against my hand and arched, moaning out loud because there was no one who could hear me. I felt my cunt tightening in long contractions around my fingers and my fluids spilling all the way to my ass, to the sheet, leaving a warm stain beneath my buttocks.

I stayed there breathing with my mouth open for a few seconds. But I didn’t pull my hand away. I knew one wasn’t enough.

I kept reading. The protagonist was now against a tree, with the gardener fucking her from behind, and I kept touching myself more slowly, keeping my clit hot without finishing yet. I brought my fingers to my mouth, the ones soaked in me, and licked them calmly, tasting myself. I imagined it was Ramiro’s load I was swallowing.

I went back down there. This time I tried something else: with my left hand I spread my cunt lips wide open and with my right I worked my clit in quick circles, nonstop. It’s a technique that takes endurance because the sensation becomes almost unbearable after a few minutes, but if you force yourself not to stop, what comes after is brutal.

I forced myself not to stop. I clenched my teeth, felt the skin all over my thighs prickle, felt my clit get rock hard under my fingers, almost painful. I was thinking about Ramiro licking me, his tongue right there, relentless, holding my thighs apart so I couldn’t get away. I arched again and let out a scream that surprised even me.

The second orgasm was longer and deeper than the first. It left me vibrating from my navel to my knees, the sheet soaked under my ass and my nipples so sensitive that when I barely brushed them with the back of my hand another wave ran through my spine.

I came once. I kept reading. I came again.

And again. By the time I put the phone down, almost two hours had gone by and I’d lost the exact count. Three, maybe four. The sheet was a mess. My thighs were sticky up to my knees and my fingers were wrinkled like when you stay in water too long.

I lay there a while staring at the ceiling, still breathing a little hard and with my arms limp at my sides, thinking about nothing in particular. My cunt throbbed softly, still swollen but sated for the moment. That pleasant kind of emptiness that comes after and lasts exactly long enough before the noise in your head comes back.

***

Later, well into the night, I started writing this.

Because there’s something in telling it that has its own effect. It’s not just exhibitionism, though I’m not going to deny that either. It’s more the same logic as talking about what you feel: that naming it makes it more real, more acceptable, more your own. Less something to hide.

I spent the day with my body in an almost continuous state of arousal. I masturbated five times, counted. I didn’t go out, I didn’t talk to anyone, I didn’t do anything particularly productive from any external point of view. And it was one of the most honest days I can remember in a long time.

Why should it be strange to say that? Why should I write it with euphemisms? My cunt was dripping all day and I enjoyed it as many times as I fucking felt like. There’s no other way to tell it than that.

Desire is not an anomaly or a symptom of anything that needs explaining. It’s the body being honest about what it needs, the same as hunger or exhaustion. The difference is that hunger and exhaustion have a legitimate place in any conversation, while desire still needs to justify itself or present itself carefully so as not to make anyone uncomfortable.

I don’t know if I’m ovulating, if it’s the vacation, if it’s that Ramiro and I have gone too long without seeing each other or fucking. Probably all of that together. The body doesn’t distinguish causes, only results.

***

It’s half past eleven now. I’m still in bed. The lotion is still on the nightstand where I left it this afternoon. I changed the sheets a while ago because the old ones were beyond saving. Outside it’s quiet and the room has that perfect temperature spring nights get.

While I was writing these last lines, it occurred to me to send Ramiro a voice note telling him part of all this. A short one, without too much detail, just enough for him to imagine the rest. He replied with two words and an emoji that leave no room for doubt. We’re going to have a video call in a bit.

My cunt has already started waking back up just from thinking about it. I’ve got my phone on the bed beside me, ready. I’m not putting my panties back on.

I have another vacation day tomorrow. I don’t have many expectations about what it’s going to bring. But if my body decides to keep doing this tomorrow, I’m not going to resist at all. I’ve learned my lesson.

To anyone reading this and recognizing themselves in anything I’ve described: we are not alone. These days exist, they’re completely normal, and there’s nothing to explain to anyone.

Sometimes the body just knows what it wants.

And sometimes what it wants lasts all day.