I Wanted to Watch Her Enjoy Herself Alone, and I Finally Confessed It to Her

It doesn’t happen to me all the time, but there are times, when you really get me going, when questions, doubts, fantasies, desires start bubbling up. At heart, that’s what it is: a turn-on. A turn-on I had never felt for anyone before, until you came along and opened a door I thought was locked.

I suppose I simply hadn’t found the person who could make me imagine beyond the obvious. With other women, desire stayed in plain sight, in what can be seen and touched. With you, it began slipping into the corners, into what isn’t said, into what each person keeps for when they’re alone.

One simple idea has always fascinated me: women give themselves pleasure just as much as men do, for a thousand different reasons, and yet it’s hard to get anyone to admit it out loud. I had no idea how much it could turn me on that you, exactly you, would let me in on your private encounters. Those moments of yours, with your hands and, sometimes, with your toys.

We’d had an absolutely perfect weekend. A rented cabin on the outskirts, no signal, no clocks, enjoying each other until we lost track of the hours. But all good things have a return ticket, and Sunday afternoon meant it was time to go back.

I don’t know how it started. Maybe it was the long road, the light falling between the trees, that feeling of intimacy that builds inside a car when it’s just the two of you and the world blurs past the window. The fact is the conversation, without warning, began to heat up.

—Do you masturbate when I’m not around? —you suddenly asked, without taking your eyes off the windshield.

I’ll admit it: I didn’t hesitate.

—Sometimes, yes. I’m not going to lie to you.

I thought you’d want details, that you’d ask me how and when. But before you could, I turned the question around. I was more curious about you than I was interested in talking about myself.

—And you? —I said, trying to sound calm, though I no longer was.

—Of course I do —you answered, and I heard the smile in your voice without needing to look at you—. Sometimes in the shower, sometimes in bed. Sometimes with one toy, sometimes with another.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel a little. Sometimes with one toy, sometimes with another. That phrase kept spinning around in my head.

—Toys? —I asked—. Which ones do you have?

—The usual —you said with a shrug—. A decent-sized rubber little friend and a suction toy. What else do you need?

My curiosity shot through the roof. There’s something about imagining the person you want in a scene you’ve never seen, in a moment you’re not part of, that feels strangely intimate. As if you were letting me into a room only you had the key to.

—And which one’s your favorite? —I pressed—. The suction toy, I imagine. Everyone raves about those.

—No way —you said, and I could hear the playful disdain in your tone—. Too mechanical. It does the job, but it’s like pressing a button and waiting. I prefer my pink friend.

I didn’t really understand why, but that simple confession had me absolutely on fire. Maybe it was the matter-of-fact way you said it, without shame, like someone talking about what they prefer for breakfast.

—How weird —I said, teasing you a little—. I swear everybody swears by the suction toy.

—Must be a matter of taste. With my friend, I’m the one in charge —you replied, lowering your voice a little, as if confiding a secret—. I decide how I position myself, how I move, how much goes in, how much comes out, fast or slow. No motor decides for me.

The one vibrating was me. And the worst, or the best, part was that I could hear how your voice changed with every word, how it grew thicker, deeper. You were getting turned on by your own explanation too, and that only heated me up even more.

—Wow —I swallowed—. I get it, but I can’t quite picture it.

—It’s very simple —you said, turning your head just enough for me to catch the curve of your smile out of the corner of my eye—. I set it up nice and firm, pointing upward, and I kneel over it. First I play only on the outside, moving it slowly over my lips until I’m completely wet.

—Keep going —was the only thing I managed to say.

—Then I let just the tip go in. I love the little sound it makes going in and out. That silly little chop, chop, chop. It drives me crazy.

—Fuck —escaped me.

—Yeah —you laughed softly—. I slowly pick up the pace. But there’s a problem.

—A problem? Why?

There was a brief silence. When you spoke again, your voice had changed; it wasn’t just desire anymore. There was something more fragile underneath.

—Sometimes I’d like to take it deeper —you said—. Let myself go completely. But I feel dirty, depraved, and that stops me. So I always stay with the tip, I play with it until I come, and that’s it. Like I’m ashamed to want more.

***

That last sentence shook me more than everything that came before it. Not because of the turn-on, though that too, but because of something different. It hurt me a little that something that gave you pleasure could also make you feel bad.

—Hey, no —I said, and this time I was serious—. You don’t have to feel that way. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re enjoying yourself, your body, what you like. There’s nothing dirty about that. Nothing.

You didn’t answer right away. I saw you rest your head against the headrest and close your eyes for a second, and I knew some of what I’d said had gotten through to you.

But meanwhile, my body was doing its own thing. You had me so horny that driving had become almost impossible. I noticed every gear change as an unnecessary distraction, and I know you were in the same state, because you had one hand on my thigh and your fingers were dancing all on their own.

I took the first motorway exit I saw. I didn’t think about it. I just put on the indicator and turned off, looking for a secluded road, an empty lot, anywhere the car could be cut off from the world for a while.

I found it behind a row of trees, a stretch of dirt where someone must have parked a tractor in season. I turned off the engine and silence fell over us all at once. The only sounds were our breathing and, in the distance, the muted hum of the cars carrying on without us.

There was no preamble. We threw ourselves at each other like two teenagers, getting tangled up with the seat belts, laughing between kisses at how ridiculous the position was. You climbed on top, I reclined the seat, and what came after was urgent, clumsy, and perfect.

We were so horny we barely lasted ten minutes. We didn’t need more. When we were done, you stayed leaning against my chest, both of us still breathing hard, the glass fogged up on the inside. You laughed against my neck.

—You’re insane —you said.

—You started it —I replied.

What memories. Still now, whenever I pass that motorway exit, I smile to myself.

***

And now, after setting the scene with that Sunday, comes the real confession. The one I didn’t make in the car because I couldn’t find the words then, and that I’ve been keeping to myself for weeks.

Some day, I’d love to be a witness to your pleasure. Not a participant, not this time. Just a witness. To let myself enjoy that live, while you, step by step, repeat your whole ritual with your pink friend, unhurried, as if I weren’t there or, better yet, knowing I am there and choosing to keep going.

I want to watch you prepare the scene. The foreplay, the way you tease yourself at the entrance, how you let yourself be led by the tip to the rhythm of that silly, sweet music made by the chop, chop, chop for your ears and, now, for mine too. I want to see you ride it for me, without holding back, until you reach your orgasm.

And above all, I want that time to be different. I want you not to hold back. To let in everything your body asks for, without guilt or shame, without that ugly word, “dirty,” circling your head. To let yourself sink onto it as much as you want, without asking permission, without prejudice.

While you do it, I want to take it all in. The shape your mouth makes when your breath slips out. Your half-lidded gaze, with your eyes barely open. Your moans, first restrained and then not anymore. The outline of your body tracing your pleasure through the air, nipples hard, the sheen of sweat on your skin, that silent music made by your cunt that nobody else knows.

I’m not asking you to perform for me. Quite the opposite. You can ignore me completely, lose yourself in your own thing as if I were part of the scenery. Or you can let me in, look me in the eyes, whisper to me how you like it, where and in what way it gives you the most pleasure. Whatever you prefer. Whatever the moment asks of you.

What I really need is for us to enjoy it together, with that complicity of ours, the same one that made us take some random motorway exit without thinking twice. For you to understand that wanting more doesn’t make you depraved. That looking at you doesn’t make me some dirty peeping tom. That this, whatever it is that’s being born between us when we speak without filters, is just another way of wanting each other.

Maybe another day I’ll dare confess another fantasy to you, because the truth is I’ve got quite a few tucked away and you’re unlocking them one by one. But for now I’ll settle for this one, which is no small thing.

So I’m leaving it here, written down, for you to read calmly when I’m not in front of you and you can’t see how my face lights up when I say it. And then, when you get home, you only have to decide one thing.

Are you in?