The Fantasy About Another Woman I Never Gathered the Courage to Live Out

First of all, I want to thank you. I wasn’t expecting the reaction my first story got and, honestly, I was a little embarrassed reading so many messages. But it also made me want to keep going. So here I am again, writing at one in the morning, with the house silent and the lamp turned low.

I like to imagine that on the other side of the screen there’s someone getting turned on reading me. Someone who shifts in bed, who breathes a little differently, who unfastens something without even noticing. That’s why I ask you, almost like a whim, to tell me what you do while you read me. Knowing that excites me more than anything else.

Today I’m going to confess something I’ve never done. A fantasy I’ve had for years and that I’ve never brought to life: being with another woman. When I touch myself, I don’t think of a man. I think of that. And it turns me on in a way no real memory can match.

I’m not really sure why. Maybe because a woman knows exactly where to touch, how to take her time, when to press. Maybe because there’s something forbidden about looking at each other as equals, without anyone having to dominate anyone else. The thing is, I close my eyes, let my hand go down on its own, and there she is.

I picture her looking like me. Slim, but firm, with defined legs and the round ass of someone who works out without obsessing over it. A flat stomach, big heavy breasts, a wide mouth, a small nose. Soft skin, without a single flaw. Straight hair, neat, falling down her back. I call her Mara, even though I know she doesn’t exist. It’s as close as I get to daring myself.

In my head the two of us are lying in a huge bed, with white sheets and the window cracked open. It’s hot. Nothing has happened yet, and that’s the part I like most: the moment when we can still go back and neither of us wants to.

We start slowly. I stroke her face with the tips of my fingers, follow the line of her jaw, her neck, the hollow behind her ear. She laughs softly, as if I were tickling her, and returns the caress with the same calm. We look at each other closely, too closely, until the laughter dies away on its own.

—Are you sure? —she asks me, almost in a whisper.

—I’ve been sure for years —I answer, and kiss her.

The first kiss is soft, just a brush of lips. The second isn’t. I open my mouth, search for her tongue, and feel her breathing quicken against my cheek. Her lips are full, hot, and there’s a sweetness to her I can’t describe. I bite her lower lip slowly and she lets out a sigh that raises goosebumps all over my body.

Our hands start moving on their own. I pull her T-shirt up her back and she lifts her arms so I can take it off. Then it’s her turn to undress me. We’re left in our bras, looking at each other, and the truth is that just looking at her almost gives me more pleasure than touching her. But only almost.

I unfasten her bra with one hand, without stopping kissing her. When her breasts are freed, mine are already hard against the fabric. I take off my own bra impatiently, and we hold each other skin to skin. We rise and fall slowly, our nipples brushing together, and that tiny contact lights a fire in me in a way I don’t fully understand.

This is what I always wanted. Exactly this.

The kisses grow deeper. I grab the back of her neck, pull her to me, and she slides one leg between mine. I feel her thigh pressing exactly where I need it, and without meaning to I push against her. I’m soaked. She notices, because she smiles against my mouth and lowers her hand to check.

She touches me over my thong, a thin bit of lace that’s already useless. Her fingers draw slow circles, pressing just a little, and I do the same to her. She’s as wet as I am. We touch each other in sync, looking into each other’s eyes, gauging in the other’s face how much longer we can hold out.

—Not so fast —I ask, even though I don’t want her to stop—. I want it to last.

She does as I say. She takes her hand away, kisses my neck, goes down the middle of my chest, lingers on each nipple with her tongue until I arch my back. She keeps going lower. She kisses my stomach, my hip, the inner side of my thigh, and each kiss brings me closer to the edge without touching me where I’m begging for it most.

When she finally pulls off my thong, she does it slowly, sliding it down my legs as if she had all the time in the world. I’m no longer breathing properly. My legs are open, my heart pounding in my throat, and I watch her settle between them with a calm that drives me wild.

The first pass of her tongue is slow, bottom to top, and it shakes me through and through. I let out a moan I don’t even recognize. She repeats the motion, soft, patient, and then starts tracing circles right on the exact spot, the one no man ever finds on the first try. But she does. Because she knows.

While she licks me, she slides her hands up my stomach and grabs my breasts hard, squeezing them, playing with my nipples between her fingers. I bury my hand in her hair, hold her there, set the rhythm without saying a word. My eyes are closed and my whole body is tight as a wire.

Not yet. Please, not yet.

And I stop her. Because there’s something I want more than coming like this. Something I’ve dreamed about for so long that I’m almost ashamed to admit it. I make her come up, I kiss her so I can feel myself in her mouth, and I feel her on the bed in front of me.

We settle in slowly, tangling our legs, until the two of us are open and joined right in the center. The first brush steals my breath. She’s soaked, just like me, and when we press together the glide is perfect, warm, electric. We stay still for a second, taking in how it feels.

Then we start moving. Slowly at first, searching for the angle, until we both find the same spot and no more thinking is needed. I brace myself with my hands on the bed, leaning back, looking at her. She looks at me. And we move, faster and faster, harder and harder.

I feel her whole body all at once. The heat rising between us, sweat sliding, the smell of sex filling the room. I stretch out a hand and keep kissing her mouth even though I can barely reach, our tongues crossing between gasps. There’s no calm left. No patience left. Only friction, weight, urgency.

Our moans mingle until I can’t tell whose is whose. She digs her nails into my thigh, I grip her waist to pull her closer to me. The wet sound of our bodies colliding takes me to the edge faster than I’d want, but this time I don’t stop her. This time I let her come.

And she does. Both of us at the same time, or almost. I feel something break inside and spread everywhere, a wave that leaves me trembling, screaming against her mouth, breathless. She shudders just the same, clinging to me, and we keep moving until the very last tremor, wringing every second out of the orgasm.

Afterward we stay still, tangled together, breathing hard and skin stuck to skin. It was the best orgasm I’ve ever had in my life. And the craziest thing is that it never happened. I invented it myself, alone, with my hand between my legs and my eyes closed, in this very bed where I’m writing now.

Maybe someday I’ll really dare. Maybe not. For now, it’s enough for me to imagine it, to write it for you, to know that on the other side someone is reading it and maybe is as wet as I was a little while ago.

Tell me. Does it happen to you too? Have you ever thought about being with someone just like you? Tell me what you imagine. I promise the next story I write will be thinking about that.