I Touched Myself Thinking About Him Before Seeing Him Alone

I wake up at 10:14 in the morning and the first thing I feel is relief. Today I don’t have to get up early, I’m not in a hurry, I don’t owe anyone anything until noon. Light slips through the gap in the blinds and draws a warm stripe across the sheets. I lie still for a moment, listening to the silence of the house, before stretching my arm toward the nightstand.

I pick up my phone and there’s his message, like every morning for weeks now. “Good morning, princess.” Two words and a pet name that melt me more than I’m willing to admit. I send him something brief, something that pretends to be calm, and set the phone face down on the pillow.

I wrap myself in the blankets as if I could trap a little more of that sweet laziness. I turn onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow. I wish he were here. I wonder, half-joking and half-serious, whether this pillow would feel like his chest. If instead of fabric it were his hands sliding down my back, over the low curve of my waist, over my ass.

The truth is that ever since I met him, this desire hasn’t left me. It’s not something I can switch off with willpower. It’s a specific hunger, a need for him to cover me completely, to pin me to the mattress with his weight until he leaves me breathless. Adrián has that way of looking that seems to ask permission and demand it at the same time, and that undoes me.

I remember the last time we were alone at my place. Just a stolen afternoon, an hour before my mother came back. We kissed slowly, as if we had all the time in the world and none at all. He, who always seems so reserved, so proper, let his hands speak for him. He ran them over my curves with a mix of care and hunger that still raises goosebumps on my skin just thinking about it.

That afternoon I ended up with my panties soaked, just like I have them now as I remember him. I know he wanted me as much as I wanted him; I could feel it in the way he struggled to pull away, in the way he breathed against my neck. And yet we stopped. We always stop. That restraint is perhaps what drives me the craziest.

I close my eyes in the solitude of my room. I kiss the palm of my own hand, imagining it’s his lips, that it’s his mouth moving over mine. With my other hand I lift the thin sleep bra I wear and bare my breasts. I touch them the way I wish he would: first slowly, circling, and then with just the right pressure.

I pinch one nipple and feel the current run straight down between my legs. I repeat it on the other one. Each pinch ignites something, and I can feel myself getting wetter with each one. My crotch is already soaked, hot, impatient. It’s too late to stop now. I don’t even try.

I yank off my panties and let them drop to the edge of the bed. I run my fingers over the lips of my sex, slowly, and part them. When I pull away, a shiny thread forms and breaks in the air. I go back over them until my middle three fingers are thoroughly wet, and with them I seek out my clit, already swollen and so sensitive that the first touch makes me hold my breath.

I rub it in small circles, first gently, then faster. The room is so silent that I can hear the wet sounds of my own hand, obscene and delicious. With my left hand I keep playing with my breasts, barely tugging at the nipples. If anyone could see me now, they’d think I was shameless.

***

What if he were the one to find me like this? The idea sinks its claws into my mind and I squeeze my thighs together without meaning to. I imagine he opens the door without warning and sees me: almost naked on my own bed, nipples hard, legs spread, my sex a gleaming mess. What face would he make? Would he look at me with that fake-angry expression he has, the one that says, “look what you’ve done”?

What if I touched myself in front of him? If I held his eyes while I gave myself pleasure, shamelessly, offering him the whole show? Maybe he’d stay perfectly still, holding himself back as always. Or maybe, for once, he’d stop being good. Maybe he’d cross the room, move my hand aside, and use me for once and for all, without asking permission.

I can’t help moaning. The sound escapes me on its own, rough, and I’m surprised by how much hearing myself turns me on. I’m about to come, I can feel it rising like a wave, but I stop right before it breaks. I don’t want it to end so soon. I want to stretch this out; I want to savor every second of the fantasy.

I bend my knees and spread my legs wider. I feel exposed, vulnerable, and I like it. Then I remember that I’m really alone in the house. My mother left early for work and won’t be back until the afternoon. No one is going to hear me, no one is going to walk in. I can do whatever I want, as hard and as filthy as I want.

I touch myself again, this time without restraint, paying attention to every sensation. I slide one finger inside and slowly pull it out. I repeat it. I pick up the pace. It’s not enough. I push two in and curl my fingertips, searching for that spot that makes me see stars. I find it, press it, and a shiver runs from my navel to the nape of my neck.

But I want something bigger. I want to feel full. I scan the room until I spot the little bottle of round-capped deodorant I keep just for moments like these. I get up and head to the vanity.

***

In front of the mirror I finish taking off my top and I’m left completely naked. A lot of the time I don’t like what I see: I criticize myself, I compare myself, I hide. But today, with my body on fire and my cheeks flushed, I see myself differently. Today I look good. I’d even say I look desirable, and that thought gives me a courage I don’t usually have.

I let my hands wander over me again in front of the glass. I watch myself touching myself, my fingers sliding between my thighs, my chest rising and falling. I wish he could see me like this. I wonder what he’d do to me if he had me like this, surrendered, defenseless. What he’d whisper in my ear. How much longer he’d keep pretending to be the proper boy he acts like.

I take the container and go back to bed. I lie on my back and, before anything else, bring the improvised toy to my mouth. I lick it, circle it with my lips, suck it slowly imagining it’s him. I think about his hard cock, about what it would feel like to have him this way, and my mouth waters while my body keeps getting wetter and wetter.

I lower the bottle down my stomach, run it several times over the lips of my sex until I reach my clit, spreading the moisture around. And then I push. It’s cold, and the contrast tears a long moan out of me. I penetrate myself firmly, without tenderness, without caring about the mess I’m leaving on the sheets.

I move fast, filling myself over and over, until my arm starts to tire. I leave the little bottle inside, held tight by my own muscles, and squeeze my legs to feel it more. I bring my hand back to my clit and rub it from the front, in circles that get tighter and tighter.

My body pushes the intruder out and I let it slip free for an instant, only to push it back in again. In and out, without any fixed rhythm, chasing the pleasure wherever I can find it. I feel it coming again, this wave higher than the last, unstoppable. This time I don’t stop.

I touch myself harder, fingers flying, thighs trembling. I think about his gaze, his hands, that afternoon that was left unfinished, and that’s what drives me to the edge. I come with my throat betraying me, a cry that echoes off the empty walls of the house.

I clench and relax, once, twice, while the aftershocks shake me. The toy slips out on its own and I let it go. I bite my lip. I breathe deeply. Little by little I come back to myself, to the room, to the morning, to the reality of rumpled sheets.

I stay there a few seconds, staring at the ridiculous, perfect scene I’ve just enacted. Then I sit up, clean up the evidence, air the room a little. I look at the clock: 11:30. I smile. My body is loose and my head feels light, but desire, far from going out, seems more awake than ever.

***

Because today isn’t just any day. Today, for the first time, we’ll be alone at his place. No mothers coming home, no clocks rushing us, no excuse about having to behave. The thought flutters in my stomach as I step into the shower and the warm water finishes waking me up.

In front of the closet I think it over calmly. I choose the pastel pink lingerie set, the softest one I have. I want to look sweet, tender, a little innocent. After all, for him I’m his princess, and I like being that. But we both know that behind that pastel pink is a woman who this morning came in all by herself thinking about him, and who this afternoon has no intention of stopping.

I dress slowly, savoring the anticipation. Every button, every strip of lace against my still-sensitive skin is a promise. I imagine the moment he opens the door, the way he’ll look at me, the first kiss with no clock hanging over us. And for once, I pray he won’t hold back.

I pick up my bag, look at myself in the mirror, and smile at the girl in the reflection. Today, at last, I’m going to find out everything I’ve imagined alone in this bed so many mornings. I close the door behind me with my heart pounding against my chest. Let it begin already.