Alone at Home, I Dared to Try My Biggest Fantasy

That Sunday in March dawned gray and it didn’t stop raining all day. I live alone in a small apartment on the outskirts of Rosario, and Sundays like that, with no one to ring the doorbell and nothing urgent to do, have something about them that unravels me inside. The rain against the glass, the silence of the house, the hours stretched out before me like an invitation. I’d stayed in bed since early morning, half asleep, listening to the water fall.

I woke up fully with an unbearable urge to pee. I got up, shuffled to the bathroom, did what I had to do, and climbed back under the sheets, still warm from my body heat. Outside, the sky was still leaden. I didn’t feel like doing anything, and at the same time my body was asking for something I took a while to recognize.

I grabbed my phone and started watching videos without any clear direction. One led to another, and before long I was looking at things that turned me on. I felt the first tingle in my groin, that familiar warning. But this time, instead of my usual routine, the idea that had been hovering in my head for months and that I had never dared to try came back.

Today I’m alone. I’ve got the whole afternoon. No one’s coming.

The fantasy was simple and at the same time it made me feel an odd kind of shame: I wanted to penetrate myself. To feel my own body from the inside, to be both things at once. I had imagined it so many times that I could almost anticipate the sensations, but thinking about it in the dark is one thing and actually daring to do it is something very different. That afternoon, for some reason, shame weighed less than desire.

I got up before I could change my mind. First I needed to get ready. I went to the bathroom and turned the shower on very hot, let the steam fill the room, and stepped under the stream. I soaped myself slowly, with a calm I don’t usually have, going over every part of my body. I lingered longer than usual between my legs, making sure I was perfectly clean. There was something almost ceremonial about it, as if I were preparing for an important date. And in a way I was: a date with myself.

I got out, dried myself unhurriedly, and went back to the bedroom with the towel still around my waist. The excitement hadn’t gone away during the shower; on the contrary, it had grown with the waiting. I rummaged in the bedside table drawer for an old sheet, one I no longer used, and spread it over the mattress. I didn’t want to stain the good sheets with lubricant or with whatever came after. That small practical gesture calmed my nerves a little and made me smile to myself.

***

I lay down on the old sheet, propped my back against a large cushion against the headboard, and lifted my feet onto the bed, knees bent and open. I picked up the lubricant bottle from the bedside table and poured a good amount onto the fingers of my right hand. It was cold and made my body tense for a second, but the warmth of my skin quickly took the chill off.

I brought my hand down and started stroking myself on the outside, unhurriedly, drawing circles with the pad of my finger. It was an area I almost never touched, and the sensation surprised me: a sensitivity I hadn’t expected, a fine nerve that responded to the slightest brush. My cock was at that point I was aiming for, neither fully hard nor fully soft, just right so I could handle it with my hand without losing control.

With the other hand I stroked my dick gently, slowly, to keep that semi-erection without going too far. And all the while I kept playing at the back. I pressed the tip of my finger against the entrance and pushed just a little. It gave way more easily than I’d thought. The first knuckle went in, then the whole finger, and I stayed still for a moment feeling the pressure, getting used to it.

It was strange and amazing at the same time. A fullness unlike anything I knew. I moved my finger slowly, in and out, and my breathing started to come in short gasps on its own. When I felt my body accepting it, I added a second finger. It stung a little at first, that stretching that demands patience, so I stopped, took a deep breath, and waited. I added more lubricant and kept going.

Two fingers, and after a while, three. I went at my own pace, giving myself time, listening to what my body asked for. With each movement the pressure turned into pleasure, and the pleasure made me want more. My left hand never stopped tending to my cock with light caresses, keeping it in that in-between state I needed. I could feel that I was ready now, dilated, lubricated, open.

Then came the part I had found hardest to imagine and that now, in the heat of the moment, seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

***

With my left hand I carefully held my scrotum, without squeezing, and moved it aside to get it out of the way. I had to be careful, go slowly, not hurt myself. With my right hand I took my cock and guided it downward, backward, in the opposite direction from where I had shifted the rest. The position was awkward; I had to arch my hips and lift them off the mattress, and for a moment I thought I wasn’t going to make it. But I kept lowering my dick little by little, millimeter by millimeter, until I felt the head brush the entrance.

That first contact caught my breath. My own tip, well lubricated, resting against my own equally slippery opening. I pushed just a little. And it started to go in.

I helped myself with the fingers of my other hand, guiding myself, and kept pushing slowly. The sensation was overwhelming, much more intense than I had anticipated in all those nights of imagining it. Being inside myself, feeling the heat from both sides at once, being the one penetrating and the one being penetrated in the same gesture. My hips arched on their own, searching for the angle, and I started moving my cock in short motions, in and out.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe how good it feels.

The pleasure grew with every thrust. It was a circle feeding itself: the more I moved, the harder I got, and the harder I got, the more intense everything became. I stopped thinking. My body took over. The moans came out of me without me looking for them, first low, then freer, filling the silence of the room that until a little while ago had held only the sound of rain.

I sped up my hand. My hips were trembling from the effort of holding the position, but I no longer cared about anything except going on. I felt that shiver rise from the base of my spine, that unmistakable warning that I was about to finish. I clenched my teeth, pushed one last time deep inside, and came with a force that shook me through and through.

I felt the heat run inside me, and right away I noticed how warm strands started to trickle down. The sensation took me right to the edge again before I’d even come down from the first one. I pulled my cock out slowly, my breath in tatters, and lay there for a moment on the cushion, eyes closed, chest rising and falling.

***

But I wasn’t done. I still had too much electricity in my body to stop there.

I brought my fingers to the entrance, soaked them in what was left, and out of curiosity brought them to my mouth. I tasted my own flavor, intense and salty, something I’d never dared to do before. Far from putting me off, it turned me on even more. I lowered my hand again, but this time instead of bringing it back up, I pushed my fingers inside. Everything was slippery, warm, and the sensation of keeping on touching myself there, with my body still vibrating, was almost too much.

I started moving them fast, fingering myself from the inside without stopping. The pressure, the heat, the sensitivity laid bare after the first orgasm: it all added up. In a matter of minutes I felt myself getting close again. My body tensed, the muscles clenched around my fingers, and that unexpected squeeze triggered a pleasure like nothing I’d ever felt while jacking off from the front alone. I came a second time, shorter but deeper, a jolt that left my mind blank.

I stayed still, wrecked, listening once more to the rain that hadn’t stopped. The room smelled of sex and lubricant. My body felt heavy and light at the same time, that strange calm that comes after daring yourself to do something.

After a while I got up, all wet, and gathered the old sheet into a ball. I went back to the bathroom and turned on the hot shower again to clean myself. But even under the water the arousal never quite went away. With the gel in my hand, still sensitive, I couldn’t resist: I gave myself one last long, slow wank against the tiles, letting the warm water run down my back, until I came once more, this time without fantasies or complicated positions, just for the sheer pleasure of ending the afternoon the way it should be.

I dried off, put on comfortable clothes, and went back to bed with clean sheets. Outside, it was still raining. I turned my phone on again, but not to look for anything, just to stare at the ceiling and think about what had just happened. I had turned a fantasy that had been hovering around me for months into something real, and it had turned out better than I had ever imagined.

Who would have thought a rainy Sunday would teach me so much about myself.

I fell asleep with that stupid smile of someone keeping a good secret. And I knew, before closing my eyes, that that Sunday would not be the last.