I Made Myself Come Thinking About My Friend’s Boyfriend

It had been half an hour since they’d closed the door, and my panties were still soaked. Marina and her new boyfriend had said goodbye with a kiss on each cheek, his lingering gaze fixed on mine for a second too long, and ever since then I hadn’t been able to move from the hallway.

Ricardo was snoring on the sofa with the television blaring, unaware that his wife was trembling against the kitchen wall.

The four of us had eaten dinner at the big table: my husband, me, Marina, and her Idris. Early forties, I guessed. Tall, broad, skin the color of roasted coffee, enormous hands. Every time he laughed, the veins in his neck stood out. He ate slowly, spoke little, and when he looked at me, he did it without blinking.

Marina had been talking to me about him for months. Since the divorce, she’d become a different woman: during our Saturday after-dinner drinks, she told me every fuck, every blowjob, every lick in explicit detail. Before Idris there had been some guy named Bakari, a gardener who trimmed her bush once a week and fucked her in the kitchen before leaving. She described how he’d pushed her against the washing machine the first time, how he’d yanked her skirt up, how he’d shoved that dark cock all the way inside her while she gripped the counter with both hands.

I listened to her with my glass trembling in my hand and thought that I had never felt anything like it.

With Idris it was different, Marina said. Idris was the one who stayed. He was the one who opened her pussy with his tongue for half an hour before putting it inside her. He was the one who woke her at five in the morning with his hard cock pressed against her ass. He was the one who had made her come so many times in a row that she’d lost count.

And that night Marina had brought him to my table.

The champagne was to blame. A third of the second bottle was still sitting on the counter. But it wasn’t just the champagne, and I knew it. It was the moment Idris had offered to carry the dishes into the kitchen, stood up without waiting for an answer, and followed me with the stack of glasses. I opened the dishwasher, bent down to put in the first rack, and when I straightened up, he was right behind me.

One second. Two, maybe.

The bulge of his trousers pressed against the fabric of my skirt, right between my buttocks. I didn’t move. I could have stepped away, could have twisted my hips, could have pretended to be looking for something in the cupboard. I did nothing. I felt that heavy, hot package press forward without urgency, as if testing whether I would protest. And when I didn’t, it stayed there for a few more seconds, resting against me, until Idris put a hand on my waist, gently moved me aside, set some cups beside the coffee maker, and went back to the living room as if nothing had happened.

Had he realized I was getting wet inside?

If he had lifted my skirt, pulled my panties aside with one finger, and fucked me right there with Marina and Ricardo on the other side of the door, I wouldn’t have done anything to stop him. I would have bitten my fist and let him fill me.

***

Now I was alone.

I closed the kitchen door with my shoulder and leaned against it. The house was dim: only the extractor hood cast an orange glow over the marble. From the living room came Ricardo’s snores and the canned laughter of a show no one was watching anymore.

I slid my hand between my legs over my skirt. The fabric was hot. I hiked my skirt up to my hips and touched myself over the lace panties I’d put on for the first time that night. They were dripping wet. I slipped a finger beneath the elastic and touched my lips: sticky, swollen, slippery. I closed my eyes and shuddered.

Fifty-two years old, and I had never made myself come with my own hand. No one had ever taught me. Ricardo hadn’t touched me in months, and when he did, he was clumsy, quick, and never looked at me. He had never licked my pussy. Not even when we were dating, not even when we were newlyweds, not even now. I didn’t know what my own pleasure tasted like.

I opened my eyes and scanned the kitchen, looking for something without really knowing what. And there, in the ceramic fruit bowl Marina had given me, was a long, thick cucumber. Dark green, shiny, exactly the thickness of what I had felt pressing between my buttocks half an hour earlier.

I picked it up. It was cool. I squeezed it with both hands, and my legs began to tremble.

I dragged a chair to the center of the kitchen. I placed the cucumber on the seat, the tip pointing upward, and stared at it for a second with my panties lowered halfway down my thighs. Then I pulled my panties back up, raised my skirt to my waist, and slowly sat down on the chair, letting the cucumber settle between the lips of my pussy through the soaked lace.

I closed my eyes.

***

“Where should I put these?” I heard Idris say behind me.

I didn’t turn around. I braced both hands on the counter and arched my back. He came up behind me without putting down the glasses and pressed his cock against my ass again, this time without any excuse.

“There, on the marble,” I told him.

“Something smells strange in here. Something sweet. I can smell it from where I am.”

It’s my pussy, you bastard, I thought without saying it. It’s so wet that if you lifted my skirt, pulled my panties aside, and shoved it all the way inside me, I’d come before you finished pushing.

Idris set the glasses on the counter and placed both hands on my hips. He yanked my skirt up to my waist without asking, as if it belonged to him. He pulled my panties to one side, and I felt the cool air against my swollen pussy.

“You’re soaking wet,” he said in a hoarse, almost gruff voice.

I rocked my hips against the chair very slowly, rubbing my clitoris against the cucumber’s rough skin. The lace fabric clung to me like a second skin. With every movement, the tip rose over my lips and slid back down, wet and shining.

Idris put two fingers inside me first. Both at once, all the way to the knuckles, and I let out a hoarse moan that was swallowed by the noise of the extractor hood. He moved them inside me as if searching for something. When he pulled them out, they were dripping with me, and he held them up at face level so I could see them.

“Suck them,” he ordered.

I put his fingers in my mouth. They tasted hot and salty, like something I had never tasted before. Idris chuckled softly behind me, and I felt the cold metal of his buckle against my lower back as he lowered his trousers.

Then came the head. Just the head, pressing at my entrance, moving up and down over my lips, slipping through my own juices. He didn’t go in yet. He was making me wait, watching me pant against the counter with my skirt bunched at my waist and my panties hanging from one ankle.

“Put it in me now,” I begged in a whisper.

And he put it in me.

With one thrust, all the way to the bottom, tearing a cry from me that I covered with my hand just in time. Deeper than Ricardo had ever gone. Thicker, hotter, more veined. I felt every inch of him opening me from within, my walls stretching to accommodate him, the tip reaching a place I hadn’t known existed.

***

Sitting on the chair in my kitchen, eyes closed and panties pulled aside, I pressed harder against the cucumber and slid it a couple of inches inside me. Just a couple. But it was enough for my clitoris to slam against the rough base and wrench a gasp from me. With my free hand I squeezed my left breast through my blouse, that large, already-sagging breast Ricardo hadn’t touched in years, and pinched my nipple until it hurt.

In my head, Idris was fucking me against the counter, gripping my hips without mercy. His thrusts were long, deep, brutal. My breasts were crushed against the cold marble, my nipples stiff from the contrast, and every impact drew a moan from me that I swallowed myself.

“No, Idris, stop,” I begged in the fantasy, knowing perfectly well I didn’t want him to stop. “They’re going to hear us.”

“Let them hear,” he growled, thrusting harder.

Let Ricardo hear. Let Marina hear. Let them get up from the sofa, open the kitchen door, and see me like this: bent over the marble, my skirt hiked up, my panties hanging from one ankle, and another man fucking me to the balls while I begged for more. The thought filled my mouth with saliva. I began moving faster on the cucumber, rubbing my clitoris against the rough base, with more and more pressure and less and less control.

With my right hand I reached underneath, pulled my panties completely aside, and spread my lips with two fingers. The cucumber rubbed directly against my swollen clitoris, with no fabric between us. It was slick with my own juices. I began moving in circles, in figure eights, searching for the angle, and every rub sent a spasm shooting through my belly.

“Where do you want me to come?” I heard Idris say inside my head.

“Inside,” I panted soundlessly. “Come inside me. I don’t want anything left outside. I want to feel you fill me.”

A lie. The truth was that I wanted to feel the hot stream shooting up inside me, wanted to feel it trickling down my thighs afterward, wanted to come at the same time as him so his cum would mark my womb. I had never come with a man inside me. Ricardo couldn’t last. Ricardo fell asleep. Ricardo was snoring ten yards away from me at that very moment.

I squeezed my thighs together, lowered my body weight onto the cucumber, pushed the tip a little deeper, and the orgasm tore through me like an electric shock.

I bit my lip to keep from screaming. The walls of my pussy convulsed once, twice, three times, closing around the cucumber and expelling a short, thick gush of juices that splattered my thighs and the seat of the chair. One hand squeezed my breast until it hurt; the other gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles white. My head fell back, mouth open, and even so I managed to smother the moan before it passed through the door.

I kept rocking for a few more seconds, wringing out the last tremor, dragging my clitoris against the cucumber until pleasure became almost painful. Only then did I stop.

***

It took me a minute to breathe again.

When I opened my eyes, the kitchen was still dim and the television was still playing in the living room. Ricardo was still snoring. Nothing had changed, except that the insides of my thighs were sticky, my lace panties were ruined, and a cucumber was resting on the seat of a chair.

I cleaned myself with paper towels, tossed the panties into the bottom of the trash, wrapped the cucumber in several layers of napkins, and hid it in the garbage beneath the chicken bones. I put the chair back in its place. I lowered my skirt. Everything went back to the way it had been before.

I went upstairs with my legs still trembling and got into the shower. I needed it. Beneath the hot water, eyes closed and hands spread over my breasts, I heard that voice again—the one that had existed only inside my head.

“I’ll come back another day and have coffee with you,” it whispered.

I smiled to myself in the shower. I knew it was a lie. I knew Idris wasn’t coming back, that Marina would never suspect a thing, that Ricardo would never ask, that no one would ever know what had happened in the kitchen that night.

But I also realized something else, as the water ran down my back and carried away what was left of me: tomorrow, when Ricardo went out to play golf, I was going to go to the supermarket and fill an entire bag with cucumbers. And this time I wasn’t going to wait until the next dinner to come again.