Fantasies About My Boyfriend’s Hospital Colleague

My phone alarm dragged me out of a heavy nap just as evening was beginning to fall. On the screen was a simple reminder: “Dinner with Mauro.” I smiled as soon as I read it, because spending the weekend with him still stirred up that strange mixture of need, anxiety, and a hunger for sex that made me dress up more than necessary even after months of seeing him.

Mauro was one of those men who seemed perfectly at ease inside his body. Athletic, broad-shouldered, with big hands, a neatly trimmed beard, and an almost insolent confidence in his gaze. He worked at a private clinic, lived alone, and had the kind of calm voice that became dangerous when he spoke close to your ear.

I was still at university and, although I was no innocent, I still felt shy about many of the things that turned me on. Fantasizing was one thing. Saying them out loud was another. He, on the other hand, enjoyed provoking me, asking questions, drawing out what I kept hidden.

When he opened the door, he kissed me unhurriedly, one hand on my waist and the other sliding up my back.

“I’ve been dying for you,” he murmured.

“You only saw me five days ago.”

“Five days is a long time if you leave me this fucking hard.”

I walked in laughing, but my body reacted instantly. He looked me up and down shamelessly, as if undressing me with his eyes, and squeezed my hips.

“Every time you come over in that dress, I can barely think straight.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“No. I’m being polite.”

We went to the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine, and talked about silly things for a while. I told him about my classes; he told me about an exhausting shift. Still, there was something in the way he looked at me that didn’t quite fit with a quiet evening. More than once I caught him smiling to himself, as if he were keeping a secret.

After dinner we sprawled out on the sofa. He draped an arm over me and settled me between his legs. His hand began moving on its own over my thigh.

“Today was a fucking awful day,” he said.

“That bad?”

“Bad and long. When that happens, I get home with my head a mess and needing to blow off steam.”

I turned slightly to look at him.

“How do you blow off steam?”

He held my gaze with a calmness that made me nervous.

“Sometimes I masturbate. Sometimes I watch porn. Sometimes both.”

He said it so naturally that it took me a second to react. He noticed the change in my expression immediately.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I didn’t know you did it that often.”

“I wasn’t hiding it from you. It just never came up.”

I fell silent, but inside I was churning. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was a strange pang, an absurd insecurity, the image of him getting turned on by other women while I was away. He stroked my knee.

“Come on. Watch with me. You might like it.”

I should have said no. Instead, I nodded.

He opened his laptop on the coffee table and brought up a video site. He didn’t choose at random; he went straight to a category featuring women with women, as if he knew exactly what he was looking for. I was even more bewildered when I realized he knew the names, the scenes, the actresses. He pointed to a mature woman, very self-assured, with a body that commanded attention and a brazen smile.

“This one drives me crazy,” he said. “Look at the way she looks into the camera. She knows exactly how hot she is.”

I kept watching the screen, uncomfortable at first, then hypnotized. The scene showed two adult women kissing hungrily, touching each other without the slightest shyness, grabbing each other’s asses, sucking each other’s nipples, and spreading their legs as if they had all the time in the world. There was nothing innocent about their bodies or their gestures, and that gradually loosened my shame until it turned into heat.

I felt Mauro’s hand on my stomach.

“Does it bother you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You need to lie better.”

His palm moved a little lower and settled over my crotch, above the dress. I was already wet. He knew immediately and let out a low laugh.

“That, I understand.”

On the screen, one of the women knelt between the other’s legs and began eating her pussy unhurriedly, licking in long strokes, spreading her open with her fingers, lingering on her clit until she trembled. I couldn’t look away. My breathing had grown shorter. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Mauro unbuttoned his pants and slipped his hand inside his boxers.

I turned toward him just as he pulled out his cock. It was hard and heavy, the head glistening. He began stroking himself slowly, absorbed, as if he had completely forgotten I was beside him. That image hit me harder than the porn. Seeing him like that, genuinely aroused, unfiltered, barely moaning as he gripped himself firmly, stirred something darker in me.

“Fuck...” he murmured, staring at the screen. “I want to fuck them so badly.”

I should have been offended. Instead, a lash of sensation shot between my legs. My hand moved on its own, and I reached for his wrist.

“Let me,” I said.

I took his cock and began masturbating him. It was so hard it barely yielded in my hand. He spread his legs slightly, took a deep breath, and let me do it while he kept watching. My hand moved faster. On the screen, the scene showed a sixty-nine, both women moaning with their faces buried between each other’s thighs, and Mauro began panting.

“Keep going,” he ordered quietly.

I did. I wet my hand with saliva and gripped him better, stroking up and down with more force. He thrust his hips forward slightly, completely surrendered to the impulse, and his arousal infected me in an almost obscene way. Watching him come to a video would have been one thing; making him come with my hand while he desired other women was something else entirely.

He came with a hoarse moan, shooting jets of semen across his abdomen and my wrist. He stayed that way for a few seconds, breathing raggedly, his head thrown back. Then he caught me by the chin and kissed me.

“Now you,” he whispered. “Touch yourself.”

I was still watching the screen, but no longer out of simple curiosity. The wine, the jealousy, and the kink had left me burning. I slipped my hand beneath my dress, moved my thong aside, and slid two fingers between my lips. I was soaked. Mauro watched my face, not my hands, as if he wanted to see the exact moment I stopped pretending to be in control.

“That’s it,” he said. “Deeper.”

I obeyed. I pushed in two fingers, then a third. My pussy swallowed them easily, wet and hot. I moaned involuntarily when I rubbed my clit with the base of my palm.

“Fuck, you’re so wet.”

He lowered his head and sucked one of my breasts through the dress’s low neckline before pulling the fabric down. He freed one breast, then the other. He bit my nipple gently at first, then hungrily. I kept fingering myself while watching the bodies on the screen and feeling his mouth on my tits. The combination quickly undid me.

“Imagine one of them touching you,” he murmured, sucking harder. “Imagine that mouth between your legs.”

My back arched. I closed my eyes for a moment and did it. I saw that mature woman, confident and dominant, looking at me while she spread my legs and swallowed me whole. A spasm passed through my belly.

“Don’t stop,” I said, almost voiceless.

Mauro pulled my dress down to my waist, ripped off my thong, and knelt in front of me. He spread my knees with his hands.

“I want to see.”

There was no tenderness in that moment, and that turned me on even more. He opened my pussy lips wide and gave a short whistle when he saw how wet and glossy I was. Then he put his tongue on me without preamble. One long lick, from underneath to my clit, followed by another, slower and firmer. I grabbed the back of the sofa and moaned loudly.

“That’s how I like you,” he said against my skin. “Dripping.”

His tongue worked with obscene precision. Licking, sucking, tapping my clit, pushing two fingers in at the same time to spread me open and make me feel how slippery I was. He fucked me with his fingers while eating my pussy, speeding up whenever he noticed me trembling.

“Mauro... don’t fuck around... I can’t take this.”

“You can take whatever I say you can.”

That tone went straight through me. He gripped my thighs and pulled me closer to his face, burying himself shamelessly, moaning too as he sucked me. I began grinding my hips against his mouth like a desperate woman. Every time the tip of his tongue brushed my clit, a delicious jolt ran through my legs.

I came with a broken cry, squeezing his head between my thighs. He didn’t pull away. He kept licking while I came, drinking everything, prolonging my orgasm until he made me writhe.

When he climbed back onto the sofa, his mouth was shining and his eyes were darker.

“Now we can talk seriously.”

I looked at him, still trembling.

“Talk about what?”

He turned off the video. For a second I thought everything would return to normal, but then he opened another page. A private account. Photos of an adult woman, dark-haired, small-framed but with very pronounced curves, posing in bathroom selfies, in a work uniform, in tight clothes. Nothing overtly explicit at first glance, but intimate enough for me to understand immediately that this was not just any profile.

“She works with me,” he said.

I felt a brief hollow in my stomach.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Because I fucked her.”

My mouth went dry, although I was still wet between my legs. I looked at him, waiting for a smirk, a “Just kidding,” anything. None came.

“It was a while ago,” he continued. “After a shift. In an apartment she rents near the clinic.”

I said nothing. I didn’t know whether to slap him or ask for details. My body took sides before my pride could: another wave of heat spread through my pussy.

He noticed. He always noticed.

“You’re jealous.”

“Yes.”

“And horny.”

I pressed my lips together. Mauro smiled crookedly.

“Say it.”

“Yes.”

He settled in front of me and slowly scrolled through the photos. In each one he found something to point out: her mouth, her ass, her surgically enhanced tits, the way they showed beneath the fabric of her scrubs.

“Whenever she bent over in the break room, she’d put those tits in my face. She did it on purpose. I put up with it for a while, until one day I stopped caring about behaving myself.”

I listened with my heart pounding. It was cruel. It was indecent. And it had me wet again.

“Do you want me to tell you how it happened?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes. I want you to.”

He moved closer until his knee was between my legs.

“Then imagine you’re her.”

He grabbed my face firmly, not to truly hurt me, but to assert himself. The gesture alone was enough to raise gooseflesh along my arms.

“So you liked provoking me at the clinic, did you?” he said, looking at me as if I really weren’t myself. “Showing me that cleavage, brushing against me in the hallways, pretending you didn’t notice.”

The humiliation of the game struck me straight in the belly. I lowered my gaze, and he lifted it again.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes.”

He opened my dress completely, pulled it down my arms, and left me naked except for my shoes. His hands closed around my tits and squeezed them firmly. It hurt a little. I moaned.

“You have no idea how badly I wanted to suck these tits.”

He lowered his mouth and began biting my nipples, licking and sucking them with a voraciousness that made me gasp. It wasn’t a tender game: he was reenacting a scene, and that strange distance excited me even more. His tongue circled one nipple, then he took it fully into his mouth, sucking hard until it stood rigid. Then he switched to the other without letting me rest.

I slipped my hand between our legs and searched for his cock again. It was already hard once more. I barely stroked it before he moved my hand away.

“Not yet. First I want you good and open.”

He laid me back on the sofa, lifted my legs, and draped them over his shoulders. The sight was brutal: his face between my thighs, his hands holding me firmly, my swollen, wet pussy spread open before him. He spat on his fingers and thrust them in. Two. Then three. They slid in easily because of how wet I was.

“Fuck, you’re so tight and hot.”

He opened and closed me with his fingers several times, burying them to the hilt and drawing them out slowly to get them wetter. Then he rubbed my clit with his thumb while continuing to finger me. I began moving desperately.

“Stay still.”

I couldn’t. He smiled maliciously, pulled his pants all the way down, and positioned his cock at the entrance to my pussy.

“Now.”

He thrust in all at once. I felt the head open me, then the rest of him, thick and hard, driving all the way to the bottom. A cry escaped me, and I dug my nails into his forearms.

“That’s it,” he said through his teeth. “That’s how she cried too.”

He started fucking me hard from the very first thrust. Not slowly, not romantically, not carefully. Hard. Pulling almost all the way out and driving back in with a jolt. The sofa creaked beneath us, and my body came apart with every collision of his pelvis against my ass.

“Look at how I go into you,” he murmured.

He reached out, turned a full-length mirror that stood beside the cabinet, and positioned it in front of us. I could see myself: disheveled, my tits bouncing, my legs spread over his shoulders, my boyfriend’s cock sliding in and out of my glistening pussy. The sight hit me with such a powerful rush of kink that I moaned louder.

“Don’t look away.”

I obeyed. I watched myself open my mouth every time he drove deep inside me. I watched myself bite my lip, losing control. Mauro grabbed one of my tits and slapped it a couple of times, sharply. Then again. The sting made me shudder.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes...”

“Do you like me fucking you while thinking about someone else?”

The question humiliated me and turned me on at the same time.

“Yes.”

“What a slut.”

He thrust faster. Deeper. I could no longer distinguish between jealousy, anger, and desire. Everything had become one filthy, delicious current that emptied my head. He kept talking to me as if I were that colleague from the clinic, calling me by a name that wasn’t mine, describing where he had put her, how he had bent her over, how much he had made her moan. And instead of pushing him away, I spread my legs wider.

“That’s how I wanted to hold you again,” he said. “Like this, open and swallowing my whole cock.”

I could only answer with moans and broken phrases. I felt my clit rubbing against his pubic bone with every thrust, adding brutal friction to the internal pounding. I was on the verge of coming again.

He knew it and pulled his cock out abruptly.

“No. Not yet.”

He made me stand and led me in front of the mirror. He bent me over, holding me by the nape of my neck. He spread my ass cheeks with one hand and smacked my ass hard. Then again. And again. The sharp sound filled the room.

“Stay like that.”

He entered me from behind again, more slowly at first this time, as if he wanted me to feel every inch. When he was fully inside, he stayed still for a second, gripping my hips tightly.

“Fuck, you have a great pussy.”

Then he started really fucking me. Long, deep thrusts, at a steady rhythm that made me move a step forward and back again. My reflection showed everything: his hand gripping my hair, my ass taking the blows of his pelvis, my tits swaying, my lips parted. I felt completely exposed, and that made me even hotter.

“Tell me you want more.”

“More.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“More, goddammit.”

He answered by gripping me harder and speeding up. He slapped my ass again, leaving my skin burning. Then he slid one hand around the front of me and began rubbing my clit while continuing to drive his cock into me from behind. I nearly collapsed.

“No, no, no... not like this...” I panted.

“Yes, like this.”

His fingers worked quickly, wet with my own fluids, while his cock pounded inside me without mercy. It was too much. I came in a long, messy orgasm, squeezing his shaft with involuntary spasms. I trembled so hard I had to brace both hands against the mirror to keep from falling.

Mauro didn’t stop. He kept fucking me through my orgasm, using my still-convulsing body to chase his own. I could tell from his breathing, the brutal stiffness of his cock, and the way his fingers dug into my waist.

“I’m about to come,” he said, his voice broken.

He pulled out in time and pushed me slightly farther forward. I watched him in the mirror, gripping his cock and coming over my buttocks and lower back, coating me with hot semen in several intense pulses. The contrast between the cool air and his thick release running over my skin made me moan again.

We stayed still for a few seconds. Me panting, him bent behind me. Then he turned me by the chin and kissed me. He still tasted of my pussy.

“You have no idea how you look like this,” he said.

I looked at myself in the mirror again, covered in red marks on my ass and tits, disheveled, his remnants running down my legs. Far from feeling ashamed, I liked what I saw.

Mauro crouched behind me and ran his tongue over one of my buttocks, gathering some of his semen. Then the other. The gesture was so animalistic and obscene that another pulse of arousal went through me.

“You’re crazy,” I said with an exhausted laugh.

“So are you. Otherwise you would have stopped me ages ago.”

We went to the bathroom to clean ourselves up and returned naked to bed. I thought that would finally be the end of it, but he lay there with one hand beneath his head, watching me with that thoughtful expression that put me on alert.

“There’s something else I want to tell you.”

“It scares me when you start like that.”

“Don’t be scared. It’s just... after tonight, I think I want to stop fantasizing about it and actually do it.”

I sat up on the mattress.

“Do what for real?”

“A threesome.”

The word hung between us, naked and heavy. I didn’t answer right away. My body was still sensitive, satisfied, and tired, but my mind had already shot off in several directions at once. Jealousy. Curiosity. Fear. Kink.

He stroked my leg slowly.

“I’m not imposing it on you. I’m telling you because it turns me on to imagine it with you. And because, judging by how you got tonight... I think it turns you on too.”

I looked at him in silence. He was right, and that irritated me almost as much as it aroused me.

“I don’t know if I want to see you touching another woman in front of me.”

“But you do want to imagine it.”

I lowered my gaze. He smiled.

“That’s what I thought.”

He leaned closer and kissed my shoulder. His hand moved up my stomach without hurry, as if he knew I didn’t need to start from scratch.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” he said. “But tell me one thing.”

“What?”

“If it happened... would you prefer her, or a woman like the one in the video?”

I laughed, but it was a weak, nervous laugh. I closed my eyes for a second and, to my dismay, both images turned me on. The real colleague. The mature woman on the screen. Jealousy mixed with desire. Moral disgust transformed into wetness all over again.

“I’m not answering that.”

“You’ll answer me eventually.”

His hand was already between my legs, confirming what I didn’t want to admit. I was wet again.

“You’re such an asshole,” I murmured.

“And you’re a beautiful little fantasist.”

He kissed me calmly, without the violence of before, but with the same confidence. I kissed him back while feeling my body betray me again. That night I made no decision, but I fell asleep knowing something I hadn’t dared admit before: sometimes jealousy doesn’t extinguish desire; it dirties it, makes it more dangerous, and that is exactly why it becomes so hard to let go.

Before I fully drifted off, Mauro whispered in my ear:

“When you’re ready to answer me, tell me whether you want us to find a woman... or whether you want it to be her.”

I didn’t answer. But the way I squeezed my thighs together was enough for him to understand that conversation was not over yet.