I Thought of You Until I Had to Touch Myself

Sometimes I think about you. Maybe it seems strange to you, or maybe you wouldn’t even believe me. But it happens exactly in moments like this, when I’m half asleep on the sofa and a summer storm rolls in through the open balcony door. The air smells of wet earth and something electric, and suddenly there you are in my head, uninvited, as always.

Maybe it’s because the cool breeze is raising goose bumps on my skin. Maybe it’s because August arrives unhurried and I have too much time to remember the way you look at me. A sigh slips out of me and I settle onto my side among the cushions. I adore the nap when I’m alone at home, when no one is going to ring the doorbell or ask me what I’m thinking.

I’ve got a thin blanket tangled around my feet, and I lazily pull it up to my chest. My nipples have gone hard from the chill. Or from you. I don’t know which is worse. I move my thighs slowly, just to feel myself, and I imagine the expression you’d make if you knew this was for you.

You’d laugh, of course. You’d act like you’d been expecting it all along, like you saw it coming from a long time ago. But part of you wouldn’t quite believe it, and that’s exactly the part I like. It’s because of your smell, I swear. Just thinking about it makes me feel something give way between my legs, makes me wetter than I should be from so little.

I close my eyes and bite my tongue inside my mouth. God, how badly I want you. I picture you climbing up my legs with your hands, slowly, measuring every inch as if you had all day. If you touched the inside of my thighs right now, I think I’d die on the spot, before you even got to the important part.

You smell so good it isn’t fair. The blanket has done nothing to calm my nipples. I’m starting to suspect they don’t need a piece of fabric. Maybe lips? Yours?

I’ve never asked you: are you more into tits or ass? Although if you have a weakness for me — and we both know you do, don’t even pretend — I suppose the answer doesn’t matter. You want everything. I know that look you get when you want to devour every damn thing put in front of you.

Without even noticing, my hips have started moving. They trace a small, slow circle, and I can feel my clit gathering strength, waking up as if it knows this afternoon is its turn. I stroke my sides under my white T-shirt, that old oversized one I wear around the house without a bra. My hands drift up to my breasts almost on their own.

I think of your face buried between them. Or between my legs. I can’t decide. I want you everywhere at once, and that’s part of the problem. Besides, I’ve always had the theory that you’re a savage, one of those men who stay quiet in public and go wild in private. I’ve thought that since the first day.

One of my hands slides down to my shorts and starts stroking me over the fabric. The muted pressure irritates me more than it pleases me, and I like that. What will it be like to fuck you? How would you touch me if I let you, if I gave you permission to do exactly whatever you wanted with me?

I think you’d leave me shaking on purpose. That you’d turn me on until I was begging and then pull away, just to watch me plead. You’re a bastard, the kind who enjoys being in control. And even knowing that, I still like you, or precisely because of it.

Have you ever gotten hard thinking of me? I’m almost certain you have. I imagine your cock, even though I don’t know it, and I get even wetter from the sheer invention of it. Will it smell as good as the rest of you? I know, I’m filthy. Tell that to my finger, which just slipped under my shorts and is tracing my cunt from top to bottom without asking my opinion.

Discretion doesn’t matter anymore. I am definitely masturbating thinking about you, and why lie, it’s not even the first or second time. I’ve got two fingers circling my clit, drawing circles, while the fingers of my other hand press at the entrance to my vagina. I squeeze and loosen, alternate the rhythm, invent new sensations so I don’t get used to any of them.

I’m soaked. I hope you’re pleased. I leave my clit alone for a second and slide one finger inside myself. Very wet, like I told you. If only I could offer you that finger to lick slowly, looking me in the eyes. If only you’d whisper in my ear that you like seeing me get like this for you, that you’d give me orders about how to keep going, about how to come in front of you and only for you.

I would. For your pleasure I’d do anything you asked with that voice. I slide in a second finger thinking exactly that: of having you standing beside the sofa, dressed, calm, watching me burn while I come apart. Even so, I know I wouldn’t stay quiet. I’d end up begging you to come closer, to give me a real reason not to stop.

I imagine myself completely naked in front of you, and you still fully dressed, immaculate, composed, while I writhe in desperation. Fuck. With a mean little kick, I fling the blanket off me and sit up. I’m too turned on; this isn’t enough anymore. Fingers are fine, but this afternoon I want more.

***

I go straight to the bedroom and open the second drawer of the nightstand. My hand hesitates for a moment between the suction toy and the vibrator. I choose the vibrator, the blue silicone one, because I want something that fills, something that goes in and out pretending to be you. The suction toy is for afternoons when I just want to finish fast. This isn’t one of those afternoons.

I hurry back to the living room almost at a run, as if someone might take it from me, and strip off the little clothing I had on. The T-shirt flies onto the back of the sofa, the shorts end up in a crumpled heap on the floor. There’s a delicious chill in this room, with the balcony still open and the rain drumming outside. I’m so hot that even the wind moving over my skin and making my nipples hard again feels like part of the game.

I lie back down on the sofa, this time without a blanket, without modesty, open to the draft. I switch on the vibrator and stop being delicate. I jump straight to medium power and bring it to my clit. Oh, fuck. What a brutal pleasure. A long moan slips out of me and, behind it, images of us I didn’t even know I was keeping ambush my mind.

On my knees in front of you, with your fingers tangled in my hair. Leaning over the kitchen table while you fuck me from behind and look at me over your shoulder with that half smile. On top of you, with me setting the pace for once. You rubbing yourself against my pussy before entering, making me wait on purpose. I shift positions in my head every few seconds, ravenous, unable to stay still in any of them.

I think about your smell again, your eyes, your big hands, your lips. And your cock, which I still don’t know but decide, right here and now, has exactly the shape and size of my vibrator, going in and out of me without mercy. I turn it up to the maximum and my thighs tense at once.

And then I think something outrageous: that I’m going to send you this. That I’m going to write every word, everything I do to myself imagining you, so you’ll read it and have no choice but to come. So you’ll fuck me the way I deserve, the way we both deserve after far too long. Can you picture it? Reading me in the middle of the night, knowing every line is true?

Would you slam me against the wall so I wouldn’t have any way out? I imagine your hand closing around my throat, not hard, just enough, while you laugh in that way of yours and slip your fingers inside me, telling me I’m hopeless. That I’m not going to stop until I get what I want. And you’re right. I’m not going to stop.

The vibrator is on full power and my cunt grips it harder and harder, as if it wants to keep it. The neighbors are definitely hearing me and, honestly, I don’t care. Let them listen. Several spasms rise from the base of my spine in waves I can’t control, and I feel something burst. The orgasm runs through me from head to toe, from my feet to the nape of my neck, and I feel my own wetness escaping as I tremble. What an absurd pleasure, more complete, more yours.

I sigh and switch off the vibration, though it still takes me another long minute to pull my little silicone friend out of me. I’m in no hurry to go back to the world. I stretch out my arm, pick up the blanket from the floor, and cover my naked body, still goose-pimpled, still throbbing between the legs.

Outside, the storm begins to ease. Inside, so do I. I lie there staring at the ceiling, with the switched-off vibrator beside me and a stupid smile I can’t seem to wipe off my face.

And this time I really decide. I’m going to copy all of this, word for word, and send it to you. I hope you like reading my lines. If anything that comes after is anyone’s fault, let it be clear: it’s your fault. You started it, with your smell and your fucking way of looking at me. I only finished what you left half done.