The Doubt That Led Me to the Sex Shop

For a long time I thought my problem was exhaustion, routine, or simply a bad patch with my partner. I kept telling myself that so I wouldn’t have to face what was really happening to me. The truth was simpler and more uncomfortable: I was hungry for sex, raw, attentive, dirty, generous sex, and at home I had been feeling half-switched-off for far too long.

I work in an office, dress well, talk to clients, smile, keep my hours, and give the impression that my life is perfectly in order. No one would have imagined that many afternoons I locked myself in the bathroom with my pulse racing, not to cry or rest, but to open a chat and get wet reading messages from a man I still hadn’t met in person. A man who, without touching me, had managed to make me touch myself more and better than I had in months.

It all began one autumn night, when I created a profile on a dating site. I wasn’t looking for romance or promises. I was looking for air. Looking for a crack through which to release the desire I had kept folded inside me for far too long, like a crumpled garment at the back of a drawer.

Among clumsy messages, absurd photos, and overly confident guys, one appeared who was different. He said that he and his wife had an open relationship, that they enjoyed games, shared fantasies, and honesty. He wasn’t asking for anything urgent. Just kink, conversation, and, if it happened, an encounter without lies. He caught my attention because he didn’t sound desperate. He sounded confident.

I answered almost on impulse. Within a few days we were already talking through a separate app. He introduced himself as Mauro. He sent me a simple photo, fully dressed, smiling, without some ridiculous pose. Then trust came, and with trust came the messages that made me burn inside.

—I want to watch you spread your legs for me—he wrote one afternoon while I pretended to review a report.

I read it, felt a dry heat at the nape of my neck, and had to cross my legs beneath the desk. I replied slowly, trying not to give away how much my fingers were trembling.

—And I want you to do with your tongue everything you’re promising me.

From there, everything intensified. We sent each other photos. First of my neck, my mouth, my legs. Then of my tits squeezed inside my black bra. Then of my hard nipples, my belly, my fingers spreading my wet lips in front of the bathroom mirror. He sent me voice messages in a deep, unhurried voice, telling me exactly how he would make me kneel, how he would spread my legs, how he would lick me until I lost control.

I came reading that. Sometimes at home, with the bathroom door locked and the shower running to cover my moans. Sometimes at the office, pulling my panties down to mid-thigh, sitting on the edge of the toilet, and pushing two fingers inside me while imagining his mouth between my thighs. I came biting my fist to keep quiet, my clit throbbing and my legs trembling, then returned to my desk with my face burning and the wetness clinging to my crotch.

There were days when I disappeared because how quickly everything was moving inside me scared me. Then I would start writing to him again because my body won out. He never pressured me. He would simply leave a precise phrase, an image, a promise. And I would get soaked all over again.

One Thursday he suggested we meet. He said we could have coffee and, if I wanted, go somewhere discreet afterward where no one would bother us. He clarified something that finally won me over: there would be nothing I didn’t want. We could stop at kissing, touching, masturbating me, and leave it there. That apparent calm was the most dangerous thing, because it made me trust him.

On the day of the date I got dressed as if I were preparing for a version of myself that had been asking to come out for a long time. I put on black lingerie, dark stockings, and a dress that emphasized my curves without trying to hide them. In front of the mirror I looked at my full, high breasts inside the low neckline and silently told myself that I was done waiting for anyone’s validation. If I was going to do it, I was going to enjoy it.

I drove downtown with a knot in my stomach. At the traffic lights I remembered his phrases, my photos, the voice messages in which he told me he wanted to watch me come on his face. Each memory made me squeeze my thighs together. When I arrived, I saw him waiting on the corner, wearing a dark jacket with his hands in his pockets. He had that air of a calm man who knew perfectly well why he was there.

We greeted each other with two kisses on the cheek, though the closeness lasted a second longer than usual. He smelled clean and warm, and I instantly felt the rush in my belly. We went into a small café, ordered something almost out of obligation, and began to talk.

I was surprised by how easy it was. We laughed. We talked about silly things, work, the absurdity of being there after so many weeks of getting each other hot over our phones. Beneath the table, however, the tension was something else. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, aware of his gaze. He did nothing vulgar. He simply held my eyes a little longer than necessary and smiled as if he already knew how the night would end.

—You’re even better than I imagined—he told me.

—That’s what you say now because you’re still dressed—I replied, and we both laughed.

But it wasn’t entirely a joke. I wanted to see him naked. I wanted to see his cock in my hand; I wanted to know whether he really would drive me this crazy in person.

We left the place after night had fallen. It was cold, and the parking lot was nearly empty. We kept walking slowly, talking about anything and everything, until in a poorly lit corner the conversation ended and something else began. He took me by the waist, pulled me close, and kissed me without asking.

I kissed him back hungrily. It wasn’t a timid brush of the lips. It was one mouth entering another with weeks of pent-up desire behind it. I grabbed the back of his neck, felt his hand slide down to my ass and squeeze me hard over my dress. I opened my lips to his tongue and let out a short, wet moan that embarrassed and aroused me at the same time. He noticed my reaction and kissed me deeper, pressing me against the car door.

—Fuck, you really were horny—he murmured against my mouth.

—You have no idea.

We kissed again, dirtier this time, his fingers marking my waist and ass, my breasts brushing his torso. I was already wet. Not a little. A lot. I felt it between my legs, hot, insistent, almost obscene.

When he opened the car door and asked if I wanted to go home, I said yes reflexively. Out of fear. Because of that last idiotic resistance of a woman raised to doubt herself. He nodded, gave me a brief kiss, and walked away without making a scene.

I watched him walk a few yards and knew that if I left, I would hate myself all night. I started the car, drove forward, turned around in the same parking lot, and stopped beside him. I rolled down the window.

—Where did you say we were going to make those fantasies come true?

His smile was slow, restrained. He got into the car and gave me the address.

***

The place was discreet from the outside, almost nondescript. Inside, it had that strange combination of dim lighting, dark carpet, and citrus air freshener. Nothing glamorous, but comfortable. At the back were private booths with a sofa, a screen, and an interior latch. My hands were drying out from sheer nerves, while at the same time my pussy was so wet I felt embarrassed walking.

As soon as he closed the booth door, he kissed me again. This time without holding back. His hands slipped beneath my coat, moved up my back, and lowered to my waist. I grabbed his face and pressed myself against him desperately. I felt his erection against my thigh and exhaled through my nose as if I’d been punched.

—Show it to me—I said.

He moved away just far enough to open his trousers and pull out his cock. Thick, hard, its tip glistening. Seeing it in real life shook me. I lowered my gaze, licked my lips without thinking, and felt the immediate tug in my clitoris.

—Touch it—I ordered, sitting down on the sofa.

He obeyed. He began to masturbate slowly without taking his eyes off me. I hitched my dress up to mid-thigh, pulled my panties to one side, and slipped two fingers between my lips. I was soaked. I made them faintly squelch as I moved them, and saw him clench his jaw.

A random movie began playing on the screen, two women licking each other’s pussies, but by then I didn’t care what was in front of us. My real porn was that man’s cock moving in his hand and his face watching me as I spread myself open for him.

—That’s it—he said softly. —Put your fingers inside and show me how wet you are.

I pushed two fingers all the way inside and rubbed my clitoris with the other hand. Pleasure rose quickly, sharp and direct. I opened my legs wider, letting him see all of me, my lips swollen and shining. Mauro stepped closer without stopping his masturbation. I moved against the sofa, seeking friction, already panting without shame.

—Fuck, what a pussy you have—he murmured. —Look at you dripping.

Hearing that sent me even further over the edge. I came for the first time with my fingers inside and my thumb pressing my clitoris. The orgasm seized me from my belly and doubled me over. I closed my eyes, squeezed my legs shut for a second, then flung them open again to continue. He had stopped so he wouldn’t come, breathing hard, his cock stiff and red.

—Don’t stop—I said, still trembling. —Come here. Get on your knees.

He knelt between my legs and pulled my panties all the way off. He spread my lips with his fingers and paused for a second to look at me, as if savoring the image before touching me. Then he licked me from bottom to top, slowly, using the full length of his tongue. The moan came out of me whole, without a filter.

His mouth was better than I had imagined in all those voice messages. Better because he wasn’t in a hurry. He licked my clitoris, sank between my lips, came back up, then pushed his tongue inside me as if he wanted to drink me. I grabbed his hair, opened my legs wider, and began moving my hips against his face.

—Yes, like that, don’t slow down... fuck...—I said between moans.

He held one of my thighs from underneath and kept licking me with a hunger that undid me. He inserted two fingers, one first and then the other, and curled them inside while his mouth feasted on my clitoris. The combined sensation was too much. I arched my back, searched blindly for one of his hands, and brought it to my breast.

—Pinch my nipple—I asked him. —Hard. I like it.

He did it without stopping eating my pussy. I felt the precise tug on my hardened nipple, and that little pain exploded between my legs like gasoline. I pinched the other one with my own fingers, imitating the pressure, and began moaning louder. He immediately understood the rhythm that brought me to the edge: two fingers fucking me inside, his tongue firm on my clitoris, one hand kneading a breast and punishing the nipple from time to time.

I came again over his mouth. This time harder. I pressed his head against my pussy and let go, trembling, my abdomen tight and my legs shaking. I felt him keep licking throughout the orgasm, gathering everything up, not pulling away until my body began to relax. When he finally lifted his face, his chin was wet and his expression lit me up again.

—I could stay like this all night—he said.

—You still haven’t seen anything.

There was a small shelf in the booth with toys for sale. I already knew what I had come for, and I took one of the simple dildos, nothing exaggerated. I sat on top of him with my back to him, settling between his legs. His cock brushed my ass over my bunched-up dress, hard and hot. He kissed my neck while I ran the toy between my soaked lips.

—Put it in for me—I asked, handing it backward.

He lubricated it with my own wetness and saliva. I felt the tip pressing, then slowly entering. I threw my head back onto his shoulder, moaning. Mauro fondled my tits from the front, lifting them, squeezing them, tugging my nipples with that exact mixture of care and roughness that drove me crazy. Meanwhile, with his other hand, he moved the dildo inside my pussy.

I began riding it by myself, rocking back and forth over the toy, controlling the depth. Every time I pulled it almost all the way out, he brought his mouth close and sucked the wet tip before putting it back in. That obscene gesture, seeing my lubrication in his mouth, sent a hoarse moan out of me that I didn’t even recognize.

—Look how you swallow it—I said, half-dizzy with pleasure.

—I swallow everything that belongs to you—he replied, and gently bit the base of my neck.

I kept fucking myself with the dildo while his hand moved down to rub my clitoris. That was where I lost the little control I had left. I began moving faster, digging my heels into the floor, my legs spread and my body suspended between his torso and the toy. The orgasm rose through me again like a brutal wave. I came in a long spasm, clenching everything around the dildo, almost sobbing, while he held my belly and whispered in my ear to let go, to come as much as I wanted.

I stayed there for a few seconds, panting against him. I could feel his cock against my buttocks, throbbing with sheer urgency. I turned to look at him and saw on his face that he was at the limit.

—Now you—I said.

I squatted in front of him. I spread his legs and started at the bottom, just as I had fantasized so many times while reading our conversations. I kissed his thighs, ran my tongue over his balls, and took them into my mouth one by one, sucking them slowly while stroking his cock with my hand. He let out a short growl and grabbed my hair without forcing me, simply holding it back so he could see me better.

—Holy shit... don’t stop.

I ran my tongue up the underside of his shaft to the tip and slowly circled the glans. It was hard, hot, sensitive. I sucked it slowly at first, letting it enter my mouth inch by inch, tasting it, feeling his whole body tense. My hand kept pumping the base while I played with the tip with my tongue, wet and insistent, looking up at him.

I love that moment when a man stops pretending he is in control. I saw it in his breathing, in the way he spread his legs, in the way he hurled obscenities at me without measuring them anymore.

—What a mouth... fuck... I’d fuck it all the way down your throat.

I pushed it farther in myself. I went down as far as I could, feeling it brush my throat, then came back up very slowly, coating it well. While I sucked him, I slipped one hand between my legs and touched myself again. I was still swollen, sensitive, slippery. I slid a finger over my entrance and then backward, to the edge of my ass. That new sensation, barely a pressure, mixed with his cock filling my mouth, made me shudder again.

Mauro rubbed my tits through my bra, then slipped his hand into my cleavage and caught one nipple between his fingers. He squeezed it firmly. I moaned with his cock still in my mouth, vibrating around it. That was almost the end for him.

He began thrusting in short strokes, losing his rhythm, warning me with his broken breathing.

—I’m going to come... if you keep doing that, I’m going to come right now.

I looked at him, took him out of my mouth for a second, and said:

—Come. I want to swallow it all.

I sank my mouth back onto him. This time faster, dirtier, without tenderness. I stroked him at the same time, squeezing on the upstroke, sucking his glans hard on the downstroke, until he grew hard as stone and emptied himself. He came with a long moan, grabbing my hair and tensing his whole body. I felt the hot spurts on my tongue and at the back of my mouth. I didn’t pull away. I kept sucking him throughout his ejaculation, swallowing, licking the tip, drawing out every last twitch.

Watching him come like that finished me off. With my fingers still between my legs, rubbing my clitoris desperately, I came almost at the same time. The orgasm doubled me over him. I kept swallowing while my body contracted and relaxed in pulses, a brutal heat making me even wetter between my legs. I finished panting on my knees, my forehead resting against his thigh and my hand trembling between my thighs.

We stayed there for a few seconds without speaking, just breathing. Then I stood up, wiped the corner of my lips with the back of my hand, and burst out laughing. Not a nervous laugh. A full, satisfied, incredulous laugh.

He lifted me from the floor and we kissed again, more slowly now, tasting of recent sex. We adjusted our clothes without hurrying. I looked at myself in the little booth mirror: swollen lips, flushed cheeks, tousled hair, a face I couldn’t remember seeing on myself in a very long time.

—You were right about one thing—he told me as he fastened his trousers. —If you’d gone home, you wouldn’t have slept.

—Not a chance.

I moved closer and spoke very near him, almost brushing his mouth.

—Blessed be the doubt that made me turn around.

We left the place hungry, exhausted, and smiling like two conspirators. At the time I didn’t know what would happen with us afterward, or whether we would do it again. But as I walked beside him toward the car, my pussy still sensitive and my body limp from coming so many times, I knew one thing with absolute clarity: that night I hadn’t lost myself—I had found myself.