I Imagined Him in Full While Touching Myself

I collapsed onto the bed as soon as I crossed the door, just like every afternoon when I got home from work. That job I hated and that, even so, paid my rent and an occasional whim, little more. I put up with it because I had no other choice, because life had to go on even when my legs felt as heavy as if I’d been standing for hours. Which I had.

The breakup had left me worse off than I admitted out loud. Three years living with Marcos, three years of shared habits, and then suddenly a half-empty apartment and a bed that was huge for me. People said time heals everything. People didn’t sleep on my side of the bed.

I suppose we weren’t made for each other. That’s what I told myself whenever nostalgia squeezed too tightly. A comfortable truth, easy to swallow, and utterly useless at four in the afternoon with the sun slanting in through the blinds.

Everything had changed. Rebuilding myself was costing me more than I’d expected. Few friends, no desire to start anything new, and yet that other thing stuck in my head for weeks. Sex. The lack of sex, rather. It had become a silent obsession that followed me to the supermarket, to work, into the shower.

I couldn’t remember the last time. It had been with him, shortly before everything broke apart, one of those nights when we were already talking only halfway but our bodies still understood each other. Too long ago. So long ago it almost embarrassed me to say it.

I got up with a sigh and headed for the bathroom. I needed a long shower, to strip off that receptionist uniform that smelled of office and air conditioning, to feel clean again. I unbuttoned my blouse in front of the mirror without really looking at myself and let the clothes fall to the floor in a heap.

Hot water running over my skin always relaxed me. The soap smelled of almonds, a small detail I liked, almost the only luxury of the day. I ran the shower over my whole body to wash the lather away, and when the warm stream reached my pubis I felt it differently. A thousand little threads of water striking right there, like tiny shocks that made me brace myself against the tiles.

I let the water run over that spot longer than necessary. I closed my eyes. I spread my feet a little on the shower tray and the sensation grew, warm and persistent, until I had to admit what my body had been asking for for a while.

I turned off the water before going any further. I was wet, and I didn’t want pleasure to begin and end there, standing up, against cold tiles. That afternoon deserved better.

I dried myself almost hurriedly, leaving the towel half-done, and went back to the bedroom with my skin still hot. I opened the drawer in the bedside table, the same one as always, and took out two things: the toy and a small bottle of lubricant. I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, listening to the apartment’s silence, and then I lay down.

I spread my legs and let a little gel fall onto my fingertips. I shivered when I felt it cold and slippery on my lips, that contrast with the hot skin that always sent a chill through me. I closed my eyes and started slowly. No rush at all. I had the whole afternoon and nobody to answer to.

Old scenes flashed through my mind, memories I thought I had kept under lock and key. My breasts sinking into a hot mouth, Marcos’s beard scraping my skin, the weight of his body. My left hand rose on its own to my nipple and I squeezed, and a moan slipped from my throat without permission.

Meanwhile, the other hand gently parted me, brushed the clit and made me contract in a small spasm. I began to circle it, avoiding touching it head-on, playing with the hood, lifting and lowering it, lingering on each turn. That slow torture I knew so well and so seldom allowed myself.

I lowered my hand a little, found the entrance. The gel, already warm, slid between my buttocks and farther down. I sank one finger in, not much, just the tip, twisted it against the walls and shuddered all over. Just a little, I thought, just enough to feel like someone is there.

And in my head it was no longer my finger. It was him. A cock brushing exactly that spot my fingers occupied, firm and soft at the same time, rising to the clit and dropping to the entrance with that patience he had when he wanted to drive me crazy. My breathing quickened with every pass.

By then there were two fingers lost between the folds. I lowered my other hand and, this time, touched the clit head-on, without detours. I was soaked, fluids flowing almost in gushes, and the wet sound in the bedroom’s silence turned me on even more.

Little by little I felt that imagined cock penetrating me. I could feel it making its way in, hard, master of every centimeter, just like so many nights in those three years. My thighs trembled against the mattress. It felt so real I had to open my eyes for a second to convince myself I was alone.

I left the caresses only to switch the toy on. It was cold again. I brought it to my mouth and took it in slowly, pretending to suck a cock, as if I had to warm it with my tongue. I didn’t remember the last time I’d felt a real pulse against my palate, but my body remembered for me. My mouth full, the brush in my throat, that salty taste. I pushed it in until it made me choke back a gag. Yes, it was exactly like that.

The free hand almost flew back to my cunt while I sucked that toy as if it were him. Saliva ran down my chin, hot, and I did nothing to wipe it away. I liked feeling like that, abandoned, with no one looking at me, free to do anything.

I pulled it out of my mouth only to bring it back to my open sex. I rubbed it against my clit as soon as I managed to switch it on, and the vibration made me spread my legs even farther. I needed it inside now, urgently, with that haste that knows no reason.

No, it wasn’t a piece of silicone penetrating me. It was his cock. The one that had given me so many orgasms, with his precise way of moving, of waiting for the right moment. I pushed it in until my fingers reached the limit, until it brushed the deepest part of me. The moans grew in step with the rhythm of my hand. In my head, his touch was more real than the toy itself.

I turned up the intensity and a first burst ran through me, a warning of what was coming, in my belly, in the nape of my neck, in my whole body. Yes, I felt good. Very good. It had been weeks since I’d felt so much my own.

I pulled it away to rub the vibrating tip against the swollen clit and tremors took over my buttocks, lifting them off the bed on their own. I stretched my neck, searched for a nipple with my mouth in an impossible position, because I needed a tongue exactly there, on that spot. I licked it as best I could until my neck ached, and then I let my head fall back onto the pillow, still torturing that hard nipple between two fingers.

The vibrator slipped from my hand and landed between my buttocks. The tingling caught me by surprise, but I didn’t move it away. On the contrary. I left it there, sunk only a little, its dull vibration filtering in between them, no further than that. It felt so good that a short laugh escaped me, almost incredulous.

I pressed it a little harder against myself and the tip brushed the edge of my sphincter. Yes, definitely, it felt delicious. But I didn’t go any farther. Not that afternoon. I only wanted the tingle, the suggestion, the promise of something I was saving for another day.

I brought it back to my sex. I needed to come now. Flickers of the past kept flashing through my mind: someone else’s heat inside me, a mouth biting mine, hands kneading my buttocks almost to the point of pain. I turned the vibration to maximum and went into convulsions I could no longer control.

I was there, one step away, a few vibrations away. I drove it in almost furiously, again and again, until I felt myself empty out completely, until those cramps in the nape of my neck, until I lost track of what my hands were doing. I came like so many other times, imagining his semen filling me hot, feeling my own fluids running between my thighs, almost shouting as my whole body shook.

Afterward came that letting go, that sinking into the pillow with the toy still in my hand. I pulled it away slowly and stroked my vulva gently, claiming the last echoes of pleasure, small reminders of what I’d lived through. Faint shivers that reminded me I was still alive, still feeling, even if only alone.

As best I could, I switched the device off to stop hearing its dull, monotonous buzz. To be left only with the afternoon’s silence and the sound of my own breathing returning to normal.

The revived scenes were already beginning to fade from my mind. A drowsiness that wasn’t quite sleep, and the caress of the sheet rising to drive away the chill that threatened after so much heat.

One more afternoon to miss him. To feel the absence of his sex, of our sex. One more afternoon in which I ended up almost sobbing at the hollow left by his body in my bed, in what was still, at times, our bed.