I Touched Myself Thinking of Him Until I Came Twice

After midnight, I was still tossing and turning between the sheets, unable to fall asleep. I’d spent three hours listening to the fan’s muffled hum and counting the damp stains on the ceiling, but it wasn’t the heat keeping me awake. It was him. Him again.

Mateo had moved into the apartment across the hall two months earlier. I was twenty-nine; he had to be in his thirties, with a short beard and those broad shoulders that showed beneath his T-shirt whenever he carried the grocery bags in from his car. That afternoon, we’d crossed paths in the elevator, and he’d smiled at me while looking much farther down than my neck. Nothing more. A twenty-second exchange of glances and a crooked smile. And there I was, at one-thirty in the morning, my pussy throbbing beneath my sleep shorts, dying to touch myself.

I sighed, rolled over in bed, and reached toward the white wooden nightstand pressed against the right side. I switched on the little lamp, and its warm light washed over my thighs. To hell with trying to sleep.

I settled onto my back, my spine against the mattress and my legs slightly apart. I was wearing only a thin camisole and cotton shorts that were already clinging to my hips. I never slept in a bra; that was the advantage. I closed my eyes and imagined that the hands about to run over me were his.

I slowly lifted my camisole, dragging the fabric up over my stomach until it was bunched beneath my chin, above my breasts. The cool air struck my nipples, and they hardened instantly. With one hand I grabbed an entire breast, squeezing it from underneath, and with the other I pinched the pink nipple until I let out a sigh I hadn’t meant to release. “That’s it, Mateo. Harder,” I thought, biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh at my own madness.

I began playing with both nipples at once, rolling them between my fingers, tugging them slightly upward as I arched against the mattress. I felt the first throb between my legs, dull and insistent. My crotch was pulsing, and my shorts were already hot. I needed more.

I slowly lowered my right hand, tracing a path over my belly, across my navel, until my fingers met the waistband of my shorts. I slipped them inside without taking the garment off. Over the lace underwear I’d chosen that morning, I began making circles directly over my clitoris. Softly at first, pressing a little harder bit by bit. The fabric was already soaked through. I let out a quiet moan and didn’t bother silencing it: I lived alone.

“Imagine it’s him,” I told myself. I imagined Mateo above me, his broad back blocking the lamplight, his mouth fastened to my neck and his calloused hand buried where mine was. I gave the phantom his face. I quickened the circles, and my hips began moving on their own against my palm.

It wasn’t enough. I pulled my hand out, lifted it to my mouth, and slipped two fingers—the middle and ring fingers—inside as far as they would go. I sucked them slowly, feeling my own saliva soak them, my tongue circling around them. With my other hand I kept playing with my breasts: tugging one nipple, then the other, and squeezing my whole breast against my sternum. When my fingers felt thoroughly wet, I pulled them from my mouth with a pop, hooked my thumb into the waistband of my shorts, and yanked them down to my knees along with my underwear.

I spread my legs wide and lowered my hand again. I ran my fingers over the outside of my pussy, parting my lips, splashing through the wetness. I was a fucking lake. I moved from top to bottom, from clitoris to entrance and from entrance to clitoris, without putting anything inside yet. I was torturing myself. I gave my clitoris a few taps—two, three—and pulled away before it could make me come. I repeated the same thing ten times, and by then I was already trembling.

With my free hand I brushed the blond strands away from my face and brought my thumb to my mouth to bite it. With the other, I finally pushed one entire finger inside. The sensation of stretching myself for the first time that night drew a long groan from me. I pulled it out almost to the tip and sank it in again. “Fuck me, Mateo,” I whispered against my own hand, and I felt no shame at all. I inserted a second finger. I began scissoring inside myself, opening and closing, searching for friction.

My legs trembled with every thrust. I buried my fingers up to the knuckles, twisted my wrist, pulled them out, and pushed them back in. With the pad of my thumb I searched for my clitoris and tapped it in rhythm with the thrusts. I inserted a third finger, and at that point it was no longer playing. I was really fucking myself now.

I increased the pace. The bed creaked softly with the movement of my hips. I bit the pillow beside me to keep from screaming. With my other hand I grabbed one breast and shook it. I thought about Mateo pinning me against the hallway wall, his beard scraping my neck, his cock entering me in a single thrust inside the elevator with the doors jammed shut. Disconnected fantasies, each one cruder than the last, all mingling with the wet slap of my fingers.

I felt the knot tighten in the pit of my stomach. My thighs tensed, my toes curled. A couple more thrusts, two twists of my thumb over my clitoris, and I came in a long spasm that arched my entire back. I released a hoarse moan that was swallowed by the pillow. I felt my fingers squeezed inside, trapped by the contractions of my pussy. I stayed still with my hand buried there, breathing through my mouth, feeling every inner throb.

After a while I pulled them out and brought them to my mouth. I sucked all three fingers one by one, savoring my juices, salty and sour. I tasted good. I smiled to myself in the darkness.

But I wasn’t finished. The first orgasm had merely taken the edge off, just enough to let me start playing in earnest. My clitoris was still throbbing, and my pussy was asking for something bigger.

I finished taking off my camisole, shorts, and soaked underwear all at once and threw them onto the floor. I was completely naked on the mattress, my sweaty skin shining beneath the lamplight. I reached toward the foot of the bed and grabbed two small but wide cushions that I used for decoration and never took off at night. I positioned them beneath my lower back, one on top of the other, to raise my pelvis at a comfortable angle.

With my hips elevated, I spread my legs much wider. I could feel the cool air in the room on every inch of my soaked pussy. I ran my hand over my entire vulva, playing with my clitoris, which was still hard and sensitive, and felt a new warmth forming below my belly. This time I was going for my G-spot.

I inserted two fingers and curved them slightly toward the ceiling, forward, searching for that rough patch a few centimeters inside. With my other hand I stroked my clitoris with my entire palm, making broad circles as my breasts bounced slightly with every movement. I found the spot and pressed.

“There, there, there,” I whispered, not knowing to whom.

I inserted a third finger and began pounding that spot with short, deep thrusts. My elevated position let me hit it squarely every time. I felt a new pressure, different from the first orgasm, heavier, as though someone were emptying me from the inside. My hips moved upward on their own, seeking more. My thumb never stopped circling my clitoris.

My head was turned against the pillow, my mouth open, panting loudly. I imagined Mateo between my legs, watching me come all over his fingers. I imagined his crooked smile. I imagined his hoarse voice telling me, “Come on, show me how wet my neighbor gets.” And I let go.

The climax came like a muffled wave. I felt my fingers inside pushed outward by a savage contraction. I pulled my hand away from my clitoris and, with what little strength I had left, covered my mouth so I wouldn’t wake anyone in the building. I screamed into my palm, a scream that came from my chest, while my legs shook on their own and something warm streamed between my thighs until it soaked the cushion underneath me.

I had come so hard that I’d soaked the entire cover. I felt it sticky against my skin. I didn’t care at all.

I stayed that way, my legs still spread and all three fingers inside me, feeling each aftershock travel through my body. The spasms lasted a long minute, each one softer than the last, until I lay still. Without strength or desire for anything, my heart pounding against my ribs and air entering in gasps.

After a while, once my breathing had settled, I carefully pulled my fingers out. My pussy felt soft, satisfied, and a little sensitive to the touch. The cushions underneath were ruined, but it was only the covers. I laughed out loud, alone, and the sound of my own laughter in the empty apartment seemed obscene and perfect.

***

I stood up, my legs still trembling. I removed the soaked covers and threw them into the laundry basket, along with my underwear and camisole. I took some wet wipes from the drawer and cleaned myself between the legs, over my belly, and across my thighs. Then I found a clean cotton garment, put on an old T-shirt, and lay down between the fresh sheets.

I switched off the nightstand lamp. Everything went dark. I heard the building’s noises: a car starting below, a dog barking in the distance. From across the hall came the faint sound of the elevator doors opening.

I smiled in the darkness. I hoped it was him coming home. I hoped we’d run into each other in the elevator again tomorrow. And this time, I thought, maybe I’d dare to return his smile while looking much farther down than his neck, too.

I closed my eyes with my pussy still warm and throbbing softly. I fell into Morpheus’s arms in less than a minute.