I Want to Be Your Recurring Fantasy Every Night

I already know what you’re thinking. That I don’t mean it seriously. That no woman wakes up, stretches between sheets still warm, and thinks: I wish someone would touch himself thinking about me today. That that’s a man thing, a dirty-mind thing, a thing for teenagers who never got over hiding magazines under the mattress.

And why not? Tell me, seriously. Why couldn’t I want exactly that?

I’m going to confess it to you right now, no beating around the bush, because I’ve been keeping it in for too long and it’s rotting inside me. I want to be your fap material. I want to occupy that dark corner of your head you only go into when you’re alone, with your cock in your hand and nobody to judge you.

I want to be the image you keep nameless in a hidden folder on your phone. The one you open when you think nobody’s watching, with the screen brightness turned down to the minimum and the door locked, while you pull your pants down and grab your already hard dick before the video even starts playing. I want you to replay the same clip over and over, the three-second one where I turn my head and my blouse opens one button too far, and jerk off to the rhythm of that gesture of mine, as if it were part of a private ritual only you know.

***

I saw you the other night, you know? At Mariana’s dinner. You were sitting across from me, on the other side of that long table with candles dripping wax onto the tablecloth. They were talking about politics, about a trip someone was planning to the coast, about things I don’t remember because I was only looking at you.

And you were looking at me. I could tell. Every time I lowered my eyes to my glass, I felt your gaze travel over my neck, down my neckline, pausing a second too long at the start of my tits, where it shouldn’t have been. And when I looked up, you were already looking somewhere else, pretending to be interested in the conversation, jaw tight and wine still in your hand.

I loved it. I loved knowing I was making you uncomfortable. That your body was betraying you there, in the middle of a polite dinner, surrounded by people who would never imagine what was happening between us without a single word being said. That under the table you were getting hard and you couldn’t do a thing about it, and that you were going to have to stay seated with your cock pressed against your fly until dessert, pretending.

I crossed my legs slowly. I let my dress slide a little down my thigh, almost to my hip, just enough for you to guess I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Nothing. Not for everyone. For you. And I saw you swallow hard, saw your fingers tighten around the glass, saw that for one instant you forgot to breathe. I know you were thinking about putting your head there. About moving the fabric aside and eating my pussy over the tablecloth, in front of everyone.

There you are, I thought. You’re already mine and you still don’t know it.

***

Because that’s what I want. I want to be the reason you didn’t hear a single word the rest of the night. I want you to have gone home with the car engine still hot and your dick even hotter, taking the stairs two at a time, unfastening your belt before you even closed the door, already with your hand inside your pants, squeezing through your boxer briefs because you couldn’t hold out even five more seconds.

I want you to have lain down on the bed in the dark, breathing hard, and for the first thing that came to mind to be the moment I crossed my legs. The curve of my thigh. The instant I bit my lip without meaning to and you saw it. I want you to have spat into your palm and started jerking off slowly, letting out air through your mouth, picturing my tongue licking the tip of your cock.

I want to imagine you there, your hand closed around your dick, knuckles white, your foreskin sliding up and down over the shiny head, your back arched against the mattress, searching for more friction, more of something that isn’t there but that your head reconstructs with obscene detail. My voice. The way I said your name when I greeted you, dragging out the last syllable just enough for it to sound like I was about to suck you off to the hilt. I want to see you clench your teeth, hold back, slow down when you feel yourself slipping, start over, not wanting to finish yet because you’re enjoying having me there too much, in your head, at your mercy.

I want to be that. The favorite video in your mental folder. The scene you rewind when everything else bores you. The one that shows up on its own, without being called, as soon as you close your eyes and let your hand do the rest, sliding up and down the hard shaft until your cum shoots onto your stomach.

***

And I already know what you’re going to tell me. I know it by heart, because I’ve been told it a thousand times, always in that condescending tone of someone who thinks they’re protecting me from myself. “Women don’t like that. They don’t want to be reduced to an object. They don’t want to be objectified.”

Shut up. Seriously. Shut up for a second and listen to me.

I’m not here to be anyone’s example. I didn’t come into this world to represent a cause, to be a symbol, to have you admire me from a respectful, antiseptic distance. There’s a place for that, of course there is, and I’ll defend it tooth and nail when I have to. But this is not that place. This is something else. This is what happens when I shut the door of my own mind, spread my legs, and stop performing for everyone else.

Because there’s a huge difference, and I know it well, between someone taking something from me and me handing it over. Between being used and offering myself up on a silver platter, with a wet cunt and an open mouth, asking to be fucked. The first one disgusts me. The second one makes my knees tremble and soaks my panties.

I choose this. I, with every letter of my name, fully aware, am telling you I want to be your dirtiest wank. And the fact that I choose it doesn’t make me any less my own. It makes me more. Because I know exactly what I want and I’m not ashamed to ask for it with the right words: I want you to imagine me on my knees, I want you to imagine me on all fours, I want you to come thinking it’s me emptying your balls.

***

I want to be the image that attacks you at the worst possible moment. In the middle of an endless meeting, when someone is projecting numbers onto a screen and you nod with an interested face while inside you remember how I leaned over the table that night and my neckline opened a little too far, letting you see the edge of my bra and the weight of my tits falling forward. And suddenly you have to cross your legs under the table because you’re getting hard and you can’t even stand up to get yourself coffee.

I want to be your emergency button. Those mornings when you’re running late, already late, with your shirt half-buttoned, and you still stop because you’re so hard you can’t think of anything but emptying yourself fast thinking of me before you leave the door. You go into the bathroom, press your forehead against the cold tiles, grab your cock and yank it with anger, biting your other fist, imagining me bent over the sink and begging you to shove it all the way in. You come in the shower in less than two minutes, with a rough grunt, and you walk out into the world like nothing happened.

I want to be the last thought before sleep beats you and the first one as soon as you open your eyes with a hard cock under the sheets. I want to slip into your long showers, when the hot water runs down your chest and your hand goes down on its own, I want to be in those dead afternoons when you lock yourself in your room with an excuse and in those stolen minutes when the rest of the world thinks you’re doing something else and really you’ve got your phone propped against the pillow, frozen on my face.

I want to be what throws you off. What makes you lose your train of thought. What forces you to take a deep breath and change the subject when someone says my name out loud and you feel heat rising to your face and your cock giving a traitorous tug inside your pants.

***

Picture the scene. It’s dawn. The house is silent, the only sound is the empty street down below, an occasional car, a distant dog. You’re lying on your back, the sheet tangled around your legs, no boxers on anymore, your cock stiff against your stomach, the phone lighting up your face with that cold light that gives away the ones who can’t sleep and can’t stop touching themselves.

And there I am. In your head. Not the polite version that smiles at dinners, not the one who gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek when saying goodbye. The other one. The one that only exists in this corner no one else visits. The one who stares at you without blinking, kneeling between your legs, and whispers in your ear everything that can’t be said out loud: “give it all to me, cum in my mouth, don’t hold back.”

Your hand goes down on its own. You don’t even decide anymore, it just happens, as if your body knows the way better than you do. You grab your cock firmly, run your thumb over the tip already wetting your glans, and start slowly, biting your lip, trying to make the moment last, rebuilding every detail: the way I crossed my legs, the brush of the dress, the second our eyes met and neither of us looked away in time.

You speed up. Your palm slides along the shaft, up, down, fist tightening at the base, loosening over the head, tightening again. Your hips move on their own, ramming into your own hand, searching for something that isn’t there but that in your head is my soaked pussy swallowing you whole. Your back tightens. Your toes curl against the sheet. Your breathing turns short, broken, almost a moan you smother against the pillow so you don’t wake anyone. And in your head it’s me setting the pace, me straddling you, me digging my nails into your chest, me whispering for you not to stop, to keep going, to let yourself go, to fill me inside.

***

I want to be exactly what undoes you.

I want you to come with your jaw clenched and a moan trapped between your teeth, your whole body tense through that endless second when everything stops, with your cock throbbing in your own hand. And then the explosion: hot spurts of cream splashing over your stomach, over your chest, one after another, soaking your fingers, running over your knuckles while you keep squeezing because you don’t want it to end.

I want you to stay there, skin burning, your fingers still wet and sticky with your own semen, your cock still hard and pounding against your thigh, your chest rising and falling slowly as you come back little by little to the real world. The phone screen fading out on its own against your chest. The thick silence of dawn closing over you again, and your smell, heavy, like a man who’s just come, hanging in the air of the room.

And not a shred of guilt. That’s what I want most. For you not to feel ashamed, not to regret it, not to rush to wipe yourself clean with a swipe of your hand as if it were something dirty that needs hiding. For you to drag your semen-stained fingers over your lips and suck them slowly, thinking of me. To embrace it. To keep it. To let tomorrow, in the middle of dinner, when you see me arrive and greet everyone like nothing happened, know that last night I was yours in the only way that truly matters: with my legs open inside your head, swallowing the last drop.

***

I want to be the desire that comes back. Not once. Many times. I want to wear out your imagination, leave your wrist sore, settle into your nights, become that habit you never confess to anyone. I want you to lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, your heart still racing and your cock finally soft on your thigh, and think, unable to help yourself:

Damn it. I need her again.

And then, right at that instant, I want to be awake too, on the other side of the city, in my own dark bed, legs open and two fingers buried to the knuckle in my soaked cunt, my thumb circling my swollen clit, your face in my head, biting my lip so I won’t moan too loud, knowing that somewhere you’re thinking exactly the same thing I am, jerking off at the same rhythm. That the two of us are playing the same game without ever having touched. That this tension we drag through dinners, through polite greetings, through glances that meet for half a second too long, has a secret, pornographic life only the two of us know about. That I’m coming thinking of you while you’re coming thinking of me, and neither of us will ever admit it out loud.

So don’t come at me with that women-don’t-want-this bullshit. I want it. I choose it. I crave it. And if you knew how wet I get thinking that at this very moment you might be opening that hidden folder, cock in your hand, muttering my name through clenched teeth with your back arched and your body wrecked from jerking off to me, you would never look at me the same way at dinner again. You’d cross the table. You’d drag me to the bathroom. You’d fuck me against the wall with your hand over my mouth so no one would hear.

God forbid a woman wants to be that.

God forbid.