Everything I Imagined That Night Thinking of You

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours. The room is silent, the fan turns slowly above my head, and streetlight slips through the blinds in thin yellow stripes. It’s almost two in the morning and I’m not sleepy. I’ve got something else.

The heat moving through me isn’t summer heat. It’s a different kind of heat: the kind that starts in some vague place deep in the belly and rises slowly to the throat, the kind that tightens you from the inside without anyone touching you. It’s been living there for days, making itself known at the most inconvenient moments: on the subway, feeling my nipples harden under my blouse when the car brakes; in the supermarket line, squeezing my thighs together because my cunt is soaking for no apparent reason; in the middle of a meeting that had nothing erotic about it and in which all I could think about was spreading my legs under the table.

I think about you.

I shouldn’t. I know perfectly well I shouldn’t, but the mind does whatever it wants when the body starts demanding. And mine has been demanding for days. Whole days carrying this weight between my hips, this constant tingling at my clit that nothing can make go away: not work, not going out for a run in the morning, not talking on the phone until midnight pretending I’m fine.

I’m not fine. I’m so horny it makes me ashamed, with my cunt swollen and throbbing for days, and I have nowhere to direct it except here, in this bed, in this silent room where no one is watching me and I don’t have to give anyone any explanations.

I think about the last time we were together. It was a Wednesday, or maybe a Thursday, at your place with the blinds half lowered and that strange late-afternoon light that made everything seem more intimate than it was. I remember your open hand on my back, the exact pressure of your fingers, the way you looked at me before saying my name. Just that: my name. And something in me let go. I also remember how that afternoon ended: with your cock all the way down my throat, your fingers tangled in my hair setting the pace, and then on all fours on your bed while you fucked me hard from behind and whispered filthy things in my ear until I came screaming into the pillow.

I don’t know when we’ll see each other again.

***

I get up because lying still any longer has become unbearable. I walk barefoot to the window and open it just a crack. Warm air slips in, carrying the dull noise of a city half asleep. A car goes by with music on and the bass reaches, muffled, the wooden floor under my feet.

I lean on the frame. I’m only wearing a long T-shirt and nothing else, and the fabric is thin enough for the breeze to pass through it, for my nipples to press hard as stones against the cotton. I close my eyes.

I imagine you behind me. Your hands on my hips, your chin resting on my shoulder, the familiar weight of your body against my back. And your hard cock against my ass, pushing slowly through the fabric while one of your hands slides down my belly and slips between my legs and finds how wet I am and murmurs in my ear, “look at you, fuck, look how you get me going.” That way you have of breathing near my ear when you still haven’t said anything but you’ve already decided everything. I know that silence of yours. I know exactly what comes next: you’d lift my shirt up to my waist, press my cheek against the cold glass, and fuck me right there, against the window, with the city in the background not noticing a thing.

I open my eyes and you still aren’t there.

The window. The breeze. Me alone.

I step away from the frame and go back to bed. There’s a moment when you could have called me this afternoon and you didn’t. There’s a moment when I could have called you and I didn’t either. We’ve both been trapped in that same snare for days and I don’t know who’s going to give in first. Tonight, for sure, it won’t be me.

But the body has other opinions on the matter.

***

I open the nightstand drawer without thinking too much about it, because if I think about it I’ll change my mind and then spend another hour staring at the ceiling. What I’m looking for is at the bottom, wrapped in soft black fabric. I take it out and set it on the sheet.

It’s silicone, long and thicker than I remembered. It imitates the texture of a real cock quite faithfully, with veins running along the shaft and a thick head that I know, from experience, will stretch my cunt exactly the way I need. When you’ve held it in your hands for a while, it warms up almost like real skin. I look at it for a moment before doing anything.

How honest desire is, I think. How impossible it is to ignore once it’s reached this point.

I lie back on the sheets. The T-shirt rides up without me lifting it, almost on its own, to my waist. The air in the room brushes my open thighs and the contact makes my fingers tighten around the toy. I’m not wearing panties anymore: I took them off at some point without noticing, and now my cunt is bare to the air, my lips swollen, and I can clearly feel my arousal slowly dripping down to the crease of my ass.

Not yet. I want to wait a little longer.

I place one hand on my belly and let my fingers slide down slowly. I’m in no hurry. Hurry is for when there’s someone else, when you have to coordinate, when two bodies don’t always match in timing. Tonight it’s just me, and I can go at my own pace, take all the time in the world, build it exactly how I want.

The fingers reach my mound, slip lower, and I’m surprised: I’m so soaked that two fingers go in without resistance up to the knuckles. The body never lies. It’s been telling me for hours that it wants to fuck and I’ve spent all that time pretending not to notice. I pull the shiny fingers out and bring them to my mouth, sucking them slowly, tasting myself. You taste like me. I know exactly what you taste like when you kiss me after eating my pussy for half an hour, and tonight I’m going to have to settle for my own taste.

***

I start slowly. Eyes closed, your face behind my eyelids. There’s a specific kind of silence that exists only in rooms in the early hours of the morning: it isn’t stillness exactly, because silence has its own sounds. My breathing changing rhythm. The soft rustle of the sheets when I move. The mattress creaking faintly. And the wet, obscene splashing of my fingers going in and out of my soaking cunt.

I move.

My fingers trace slow, deliberate circles over my clit, and the heat I’d been postponing for hours starts to gather in one exact point. I bite my lower lip. I let the air out through my nose, slowly, controlled, because if I let myself go now I’ll come sooner than I want to.

I want to last.

I want to build it brick by brick, climb it step by step until there’s no going back. So that when I come, I come for real and not like a flash that dies out in thirty seconds. So I wait. I touch myself and wait. I slide two fingers in to the hilt, curl them upward looking for that spongey spot only I can find with any accuracy, and let myself approach the edge and then stop. Three times. Four. Every time I’m about to fall, I pull my hand away, breathe, and wait for the wave to recede. My own fingers know me perfectly, know exactly where and how much, and that, in a way, is the most intimate thing there is: knowing yourself better than anyone else in the world.

I pick up the toy.

***

The silicone is already warm from being in my hand. I apply a little lubricant, just enough, because it doesn’t take much when your cunt has been preparing itself for hours. I slide the tip up and down over my slit, let it glide between my wet lips, rub it against my clit until a moan escapes me, and then I press it to my entrance and hold still for a second.

Here.

I press slowly. The head goes in first and my cunt receives it by opening, without resistance, with that kind of relief that comes from surrendering to something you’ve denied yourself for too long. A sound escapes my throat, low and formless. I don’t scream. It’s more intimate than that: it’s the sound you make when something finally fits exactly where it was meant to go, when a cock — even if it isn’t real — makes its way inside you and you feel every centimeter filling you.

I take more in. Centimeter by centimeter, feeling how it fills me from the inside, how the heat multiplies and spreads to my hips, to my belly, to the thighs I instinctively squeeze around my own hand. When I have it all the way in, when the base touches my outer lips and there’s nowhere left to take it, I let out a long, trembling moan. I’ve speared myself all the way. I’m impaled to the womb, alone in my bed, and for a second I think about how filthy the image is, how good it would be if you were watching me right now, and that idea makes me clamp my cunt even tighter around the silicone.

I stay still for a moment. I just feel it: its weight, its thickness, the way the body adapts and accepts it and asks for more.

Then I start to move it.

***

The rhythm I find is slow at first. In and out, pulling it almost all the way out until I can see the silicone shining with my own slick, and driving it back in all at once. The hand moving it works methodically, fucking me slowly, while the other hand goes to my breast, pinches a nipple, twists it just enough for the sensation to travel downward like an unannounced current and join the throb of my clit.

I think about you.

I think about your mouth, the exact way you press when you kiss. I think about your tongue forcing its way between my lower lips, circling my clit until it makes me beg. About the weight of your hand when you put it on the back of my neck and push me down toward your cock, without asking permission, and how I take it all the way in without protesting because it drives me insane when you shove it to the hilt. I think about that afternoon on the sofa when both of us knew what was going to happen an hour before it did and neither of us said a word, deliberately building tension, seeing how long we could hold out. In the end I knelt between your legs and pulled your pants down without saying a thing and sucked you off until you fucked my mouth while holding me by the hair. You won. As always.

The rhythm rises on its own.

My hips start moving to meet my own hand, searching for the right angle, adjusting. I’m fucking myself hard, thrusting the silicone cock in and out faster and faster, and the splashing of my soaked cunt sounds obscene in the silent room. The toy reaches the point that makes my toes curl and my back tighten, and when it finds it I let out a sound I hadn’t planned, a rough “fuck” that comes from somewhere nameless.

I don’t worry about whether it can be heard.

***

My breathing is no longer controlled. I stopped controlling it long ago. I pant in the darkness of my room, alone and completely present in what I’m doing to myself, in what you’re doing to me in my head even though you aren’t here. I murmur your name, and filthy things, things I’d never say to your face but that here, between these walls, come out on their own: “fuck me,” “like that,” “harder,” “take that cock all the way in.”

My hand speeds up.

I’m pounding my cunt without mercy, giving quick, deep thrusts, the toy going all the way in each time, hitting bottom, wringing a moan from me with every stroke. The arch of my back deepens. The sheets are rumpled and sticky beneath me, soaked by how much I’m dripping, and I’m at the center of them, legs spread wide, tense, hair stuck to my forehead and eyes squeezed shut.

The free hand drops, my fingers settle on my swollen clit and start rubbing it in fast circles, and the combination of the two sensations at once — the cock filling me completely, the fingers pounding my clit — is too much. It’s too much and it’s exactly what I’ve needed for days.

The orgasm hits. Not all at once, but building up: everything I’d been postponing and holding back gathers into one point and from there bursts outward like water crashing against something solid. My cunt clamps tight around the silicone, contracting in waves I can’t stop, milking the toy as if I wanted to coax out a load that will never come. My body tightens, arches, trembles. I make that long, broken sound that is the most honest thing I produce all day, that guttural moan with none of the pose or theater in it: it’s just my body telling me I came, that’s it, that it can rest. I scream your name, or something like it, and I feel a hot stream escaping down my thighs.

My hips keep moving on their own for a few more seconds, fucking the toy to the rhythm of the last contractions, wringing each wave out to the very last drop of pleasure.

Then I go still.

***

Silence comes back. It’s the same silence as before I started, but now it feels different. Fuller. Or I feel fuller. Both things, probably.

I pull the toy out slowly — I can feel it coming out coated in slick, shining all the way to the base — and set it aside on the black fabric it was wrapped in. I keep my eyes closed for a few minutes, legs still open and cunt throbbing in small aftershocks, not thinking about anything in particular, letting my body cool down on its own. My heart settles into a reasonable rhythm. Breathing becomes something I don’t need to manage.

I sit up. I look for my panties among the sheets and find them tangled at the foot of the bed. I put them on. I lower the T-shirt that had ridden up to my chest.

In the bathroom, the cold water from the tap brings me fully back to the room, to the apartment, to the early morning hours. I look at myself in the mirror for a second. My hair is tousled, my lips are dry, my neck and chest are still flushed. I look like someone who just had exactly what she needed: a woman freshly fucked, even if it was by her own hand.

I drink water. I go back to bed.

***

Now I’m sleepy.

I lie on my side, hug the pillow, and my body weighs in that pleasant way it has when it’s truly relaxed. The heat no longer tightens. It no longer demands anything or rises up my throat in urgency. It’s just there, still, satisfied at last.

I think of you again, but this time it’s different. Softer, calmer. I imagine you here, in this silence, with the weight of your body beside mine. Not doing anything in particular. Just here, breathing, your hand resting lazily on my bare belly, in the quiet darkness of this room where there is no longer any urgency or demand.

If only, I think as sleep finally begins to come.

If only it had been you.