I Wake Up Soaking Wet and I Always Imagine You

There are mornings when my body gets ahead of my mind. I wake up with the sheets damp and something that isn't exactly pain spreading upward from my belly, filling the space beneath my sternum, rising into my throat. My hips move on their own, seeking friction against nothing, against the mattress, against the air. My eyes still closed, the room still dark, and I'm already lost before I've fully woken up. I realize I have my hand between my thighs, who knows since when, two fingers buried in my soaking-wet cunt, moving on their own with a rhythm I learned in my sleep.

It doesn't matter if I was satisfied the day before. It doesn't matter if I touched myself the night before, just before falling asleep with my phone in my hand and my eyes heavy. The sensation appears without a pattern and without warning, and once it arrives it's impossible to ignore. My whole body suddenly lights up: my skin more sensitive than usual, my breathing slower, time suspended in that strange hour before dawn when the world doesn't exist yet and I'm nothing but body. My nipples harden against the fabric of the T-shirt I sleep in, and when I brush them with my free hand I let out a quiet moan that hangs in the darkness.

And then I imagine you.

I don't have your face. I never did. You're a man with years on you—the kind that show in your posture, in the way you move, in the way you place your hands on something you want—with something in your eyes that says you already know what you want and don't need to justify it. In my imagination you don't appear all at once: I build you slowly, with the same care used to build something that matters. The shoulders, the hands, the firmness of what you ask for without having to ask. Your cock outlined against your pants before you even touch me, thick and hard, as if simply looking at me had gotten you that way.

And the way you look at me.

Because I imagine you looking at me as if you still can't quite believe I'm here. With that mixture of desire and disbelief that makes me lose my mind: that you can't believe a girl like me is willing, available, looking back at you without any reservations. That doubt of yours—that small, well-hidden insecurity I almost overlook if I weren't paying attention—is what turns me on more than anything else. Not arrogance. Not the confidence of someone who has already won before beginning. The astonishment of someone who didn't expect to win.

There's something about that imbalance—you with years on you, me with an urgency I still haven't learned to disguise—that gives me a satisfaction difficult to name. It's not compassion. It's not exactly power. It's something closer to the certainty of being precisely what someone needs, at exactly the right moment, without excuses or half-measures. I don't have to pretend I don't want this. I don't have to act as if I don't care. I can be completely here, completely present, completely willing to spread my legs and let you fuck me until the two of us see nothing but a blur, and that freedom—the freedom not to pretend anything—is part of what makes me lose my head.

I imagine how you would enter the room. Not running, not with visible urgency. Slowly, like someone who wants to make it clear that he has control even when, inside, he has none at all. That contradiction—the calm façade, the overflowing desire underneath—is what works best for me when I close my eyes and build you in the darkness before dawn.

There's a difference between desire that sits and waits and desire that gets up to come looking for you. Yours is the second kind. I notice it in the way you don't ask whether you can, but come closer and see how I respond. In the way you don't offer—you take, with the certainty of someone who knows that what he takes isn't going to run away.

You haven't had this in a long time. I can tell by the way you seek me out.

***

In my fantasy it always begins the same way: we're both still dressed, you behind me, your hands on my hips as if you were going to say something important, and instead you say nothing. You simply press yourself against me and I feel how turned on you are even through the fabric. Your cock hard and thick, outlined against my ass, seeking the cleft between my buttocks and rubbing there, insistently. There's something about that—the urgency, the need—that folds me inward in a way I wouldn't know how to explain if someone asked me.

“Like that,” I tell you. “Squeeze me hard.”

And you do. You squeeze my hips with both hands and move against me, seeking friction with whatever is there, with whatever you have, and you moan softly like someone who's been holding something back for too long. I tilt my head back and let you. I close my eyes and allow myself to be what you need, because I love being it too. One of your hands travels up my belly, finds a breast beneath the fabric, squeezes it whole, and my nipple turns to stone between your fingers while your other hand moves down to my crotch and feels through my clothes to see how I am: soaking wet, the fabric stuck to my lips, you snorting against my nape when you discover it.

“You're soaked,” you whisper, and your voice comes out hoarse, incredulous.

“For you,” I answer. “All of this is for you. Put it in, come on. Now.”

You turn me around. You yank my T-shirt over my head and my tits are left bare, heavy, my nipples pointing upward, begging for a mouth. You crouch down and suck one while squeezing the other in your hand, and I grab your hair and press your face against me so you won't stop, so you'll bite, so you'll use your teeth. You go down my belly with wet licks, yank off my panties—the elastic scratches my hip, I don't care—spread my thighs with those big hands, and bury your face in my cunt without ceremony. Your whole tongue, flat, sweeping from my entrance to my clitoris in one long pass that makes me fold at the waist.

“Oh, fuck,” I moan. “Like that, don't stop, there, right there.”

You suck my clitoris with your lips closed around it, tugging at it, and push two fingers inside me at once, thick, all the way in, curling them upward to touch that spot that makes the air escape me. You move them quickly, with your whole wrist, while your tongue keeps working my clitoris, and I clutch the sheets with both hands and start fucking myself against your face, lifting my hips to meet your mouth. My juices fill your beard, I hear you swallowing, hear you moaning against my cunt because the taste has driven you crazy, and that vibration of your voice buried in there sends me straight toward my first climax.

“I'm coming,” I warn you. “I'm coming in your mouth, don't move, don't move.”

And I come. My legs close around your head, my heels dig into your back, and my whole belly trembles while I empty hot liquid into your mouth. You don't stop. You swallow, suck, stay there with your tongue pressed into me while the orgasm shakes me, and when I finally open my legs and let go of your head, you climb up my body with your mouth shining and the smile of someone who's just eaten well.

“Now,” you tell me. “Now spread your legs.”

And you fill me with one movement: everything, all at once, without warning. Your entire cock, right to the base, pushing against the back of me. The air leaves me. My eyes roll back. My nails dig into your forearms and a sound comes from between my teeth that I don't recognize as my own, a low growl, half pain and half glory, because you're thick and you've put it in without stopping and you're opening me up inside in a way I'm going to feel all day. You stay still for a second—just a second, as if we both need to process what has just happened—and then you start moving, and there's no pause anymore, no gentleness, none of the things we both know this doesn't need.

I move with you. I seek you out. I thrust my hips upward with every one of your strokes so you'll reach deeper, so there won't be any space between us. And it works: you reach a place that's rarely reached, and I cry out because it would be unfair to keep quiet about it. The sound of your balls slapping against my ass with every thrust fills the room, mixed with the squelch of my soaking-wet cunt swallowing your cock again and again.

“You can't believe I get this wet when you put it in me?” I ask between gasps. “Look how it goes in. Look at your cock going inside me.”

You look down and a masculine groan escapes you when you see how you disappear inside me, how I come out shining with wetness every time you withdraw, how I swallow you back to the base when you thrust. You don't answer with words. Your answer is to squeeze harder. To grab me beneath the knees and open me even wider, fold me until my tits are crushed against yours, fuck me from above with the whole weight of your body falling onto me.

***

At this point in the fantasy I stop for a moment and imagine your face: the concentration, the vein standing out on your forehead, the sweat already making your skin shine. The real effort of someone giving everything because he knows this doesn't happen every day. The muscles in your arms tense, your jaw clenched, your eyes fixed on me as if looking away might break the spell. Your cock shining with me every time it comes out, your belly flexing with every thrust, your balls tight and full.

You make me come. You turn me around. You put me on all fours with a firmness that allows no argument and drive your cock into me again from behind, all the way in, grabbing my hair with one hand and my ass with the other. My breasts bounce with every blow. Big and full, moving with the momentum of your thrusts while you use me for your own pleasure, and that—that you use me, that you're so honest in your need—turns me on more than any tenderness you could offer. I didn't come here for tenderness.

“Tell me I'm yours,” I ask, my face pressed against the mattress and my ass raised for you.

“You're mine,” you answer, pulling my hair back, arching my spine. “This cunt is mine. Say it.”

“It's yours. All yours. Fuck me harder, come on.”

Your hips slam against mine again and again, with a rhythm that begins controlled and grows animal as you get closer. I feel every impact. I want them all. You push your thumb into my ass while you keep fucking my cunt with your cock, and I let out a muffled scream against the pillow because the feeling of being filled from both sides makes me see stars. I feel your hands return to my hips, guiding me, setting the rhythm you choose.

You turn me over again. You want to watch me. You want me beneath you when what is going to happen happens. You spread my legs again and put it back inside me, this time slowly, inch by inch, looking me in the eyes, and my vision clouds with pure pleasure.

“Choke me,” I tell you.

The first time you do it carefully. One hand around my neck, little pressure, watching me to see how I respond. I meet your gaze without blinking. I raise an eyebrow.

“Is that all?”

The second time isn't as careful.

Your hand really squeezes and the air is cut off and the whole room grows smaller, brighter, more concentrated on a single point. I moan in a way that surprises me even inside my own head, a hoarse sound trapped in my closed throat. I ask for your other hand on my face—just once, hard—and my cheek burns immediately, my skin reddening at the same pace as the heat rising inside me, and my eyes roll upward because the combination of everything—your cock buried to the hilt, your hand on my throat, my burning cheek, your balls slapping against my ass with every thrust—takes me to a place where thought can't reach.

I'm nothing but sensation.

Only that heat expanding from the center of my body toward the edges, toward my toes, toward my scalp. Only the sound of your breathing mixed with mine, our bodies striking each other with the urgency of someone who knows time is running out. Only the pressure of your fingers and the temperature of your skin against mine. Only your cock moving in and out, the friction, the squelching, my cunt contracting around you without my telling it to.

There's a moment—brief, impossible to hold—in which everything converges at once: the weight of your hand on my neck, the heat of your body against my back, the sound of your broken breathing at my ear. A moment in which there's no before or after, only this. Only the present reduced to a point so small it fits entirely inside the chest.

I contract. I squeeze. My body does what it does without my deciding. I come on your cock with a scream that the hand on my throat lets me release only halfway, and I feel my cunt squeeze you, milk you, pull you inward while the whole orgasm shakes me.

***

“I can't hold out any longer,” you tell me.

And there's a small shame in your voice, almost invisible, but I hear it. You're worried you've reached the limit too soon; that edge you can't push any farther makes you insecure. But I let out a moan—just one, hoarse and true—right when you release my neck to let me breathe, and that sound says only one thing: that I was on the edge too, that there's nothing wrong with this, that if you came apart quickly it was because what happened here deserved it.

“Come inside me,” I ask, and there's something deliberately small in my tone, something that asks instead of demands, because I know that's part of what you need to hear. “Fill me completely. I want to feel you.”

You finish inside me with a long growl that rises from your belly, and I feel the hot spurts one after another, your cock pulsing inside me, emptying you to the last drop, and I contract around you, my body squeezing you with every spasm that runs through me from head to toe. My fingers digging into your arms, my back arched, my legs trembling around your waist. I thrust my hips upward again and again, still seeking you, completing myself with you to the end, milking you until there's nothing left to give.

“Come on,” you tell me in my ear, your voice broken. “Like that. Squeeze, squeeze, don't let me go.”

And I cry. Not from sadness, not exactly from pleasure either, but from overload: my body doesn't know how to process everything it's receiving and chooses tears as the only available outlet. I can't see anything. Everything turns white, or everything turns black—I don't know which—but the result is the same: for a moment, I'm not here.

When I come back, the first thing I feel is your weight on top of mine. Heavy. Warm. Real to the extent that something imagined can be real. Your cock still inside me, softening slowly, your semen dripping down my thighs when you finally pull out.

I come once more without either of us moving, just from the contact and the heat and the sensation of still having you on top of me, our mixture streaming over my ass and the sheets. One long spasm that folds me forward and won't let me release my breath completely.

“You're beautiful,” you tell me, in the voice of someone who has just understood something he never expected to understand.

You lick my neck. The salty skin, still racing. You give me a slap on the chest, gentle this time, almost affectionate. And you get up.

***

The sheets are damp. The room has the same gray light it always has at this hour. I'm still alone.

You're not here. You never were. I don't know what your name is, I don't know what your face looks like, I don't know whether you exist somewhere in the world or whether you're just a construct my body needed this morning so it could get up and carry on. I pull my fingers from between my legs—they're shiny, sticky, carrying the smell of my own come—and rest them on my belly while my breathing returns.

I lie still for a few minutes, looking at the ceiling. My breathing gradually returns to its rhythm. The heat subsides slowly, like water after the fire has been put out. I can feel the muscles in my legs still tense, the skin of my neck still sensitive, the tips of my fingers damp, my cunt pulsing softly, satisfied for now.

There's something reassuring about knowing this desire doesn't need to be resolved all at once or in a single person. That it can live here, in this space between sleep and day, without having to become real in order to be true. What I imagine has the precision of something that matters and the lightness of something that can't hurt you. You're complete in my head: the firmness of your hands, the weight of your body, the thickness of your cock, the sound of your voice when urgency strips away your composure.

I think I should get some water. I think I have things to do. I think that the next time I wake up like this, you'll be there again, punctual and faceless, waiting for me to invent you all over again.

And I know I will.