I Wanted to Watch Her Pleasure Herself Alone, and I Finally Told Her

It doesn’t happen to me all the time, but there are times, when you’ve got me revved up to a thousand, that questions, doubts, fantasies, desires start bubbling up in me. Deep down, that’s what it is: a filthy thrill. A thrill I had never felt for anyone until you came along and opened a door I thought was locked tight.

I suppose before I simply hadn’t found the person who could make me imagine beyond the obvious. With others, desire stayed where it was visible, in what could be seen and touched. With you, it started slipping into the corners, into what isn’t said, into what each person keeps for when they’re alone.

I’ve always been fascinated by one simple idea: women give themselves pleasure just as much as men do, for a thousand different reasons, and yet it’s hard for any of them to admit it out loud. I had no idea how much it could turn me on that you, precisely you, would make me part of your private moments. Those times of yours, with your hands buried between your legs, with two fingers opening your cunt, with your palm pressing your clit and, sometimes, with your toys shoved all the way in.

We’d had a perfect weekend. A rented cabin on the outskirts, no signal, no clocks, fucking each other until we lost count of the loads. I had licked your cunt until you were voiceless, you had sucked my cock in the shower, in the kitchen, on the sofa, and we still had energy left. But all good things have a return ticket, and Sunday afternoon meant heading back.

I don’t know how it started. Maybe it was the long road, the light falling through the trees, that sense of intimacy that builds inside a car when it’s just the two of you and the world goes by blurred in the window. The thing is, the conversation, without warning, started to heat up.

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

I’ll admit it, I didn’t hesitate.

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

I thought you’d want details, that you’d ask how and when, whether I jerked off thinking about you, whether I came in my hand or in the shower. But before you could, I turned the question around. I was more curious about you than I wanted to talk about myself.

—And you? —I said, trying to sound calm, even though my cock was already starting to press hard against my jeans.

—Of course I do —you answered, and I could hear the smile in your voice without even looking at you—. Sometimes in the shower, with the stream of hot water hitting my clit directly until my knees go weak. Sometimes in bed, flat on my back, legs open and my fingers knuckles-deep. Sometimes with a toy, sometimes with another.

I tightened my grip on the wheel. Sometimes with a toy, sometimes with another. That line kept circling in my head, along with the image of your fingers sliding in and out of your wet cunt.

—Toys? —I asked. —What kind do you have?

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

My curiosity shot through the roof, and something else too. 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 whose key only you had, and in the middle there you were, naked, legs open, cunt shining.

—And which one’s your favorite? —I pressed. —The suction toy, I’m guessing. Everybody raves about those.

—No way —you said, and I caught the playful disdain in your tone—. Too mechanical. It sticks the sucker to your clit and sucks it like a vacuum, sure, but that’s all it is: press a button and wait for it to make you come. I prefer my pink friend shoved all the way into my cunt.

I didn’t really know why, but that simple confession was driving me wild. My cock was pressing so hard I had to adjust myself in the seat. Maybe it was the casual way you said it, with no shame, like someone commenting on what they prefer for breakfast.

—That’s weird —I said, needling you a little—. I swear everyone swears by the suction toy.

—Depends on each woman. With my friend, I’m the one in charge —you answered, lowering your voice a little, as if you were confiding a secret—. I decide how I place it, how I move, how much goes into my cunt, how much comes out, whether it goes fast or slow. Whether I want it buried all the way in or just teasing the entrance. No motor gets to decide for me.

The one vibrating was me. My cock was hard as a rock, pushing against the fabric, and I could feel your voice changing with every word, becoming denser, lower, wetter. You were getting turned on by your own explanation too, and that lit me up even more.

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

—It’s very simple —you said, turning your head slightly toward me, just enough for me to catch the curve of your smile in profile—. I set it up firmly against the mattress, pointing upward, and I kneel over it with my knees wide open. First I play on the outside only, run it slowly over the lips of my cunt, up and down, until I’m so wet the rubber slips.

—Go on —was all I could manage to say. My mouth had gone dry.

—Then I let just the tip go in. I slide it in a centimeter, pull it out, slide it back in. I love the little sound it makes going in and out, that splashing of a soaked cunt. That silly little chop, chop, chop. Hearing it turns me on so much, knowing I’m that wet just thinking about things.

—Fuck —escaped me. My cock was throbbing inside my pants.

—Yeah —you laughed softly—. I build up the rhythm little by little. I thrust it a bit deeper, pull it almost all the way out, drop back down again. Meanwhile I pinch my nipples with my other hand, tug on them, squeeze them hard. 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 put it deeper —you said—. Drop down all at once, sit on it all the way to the hilt, feel it opening me up completely, pushing into that place where it starts to hurt a little and that’s exactly why it feels even better. Letting myself go completely, riding it like a crazy woman until I come screaming. But I feel dirty, filthy, and that stops me. So I always leave it at the tip, play with it until I come lightly and that’s it. As if I should be ashamed of wanting more cock, even if it’s rubber.

***

That last line shook me more than everything before it. Not because of the filth, though that too, but because of something else. It hurt me a little that something that gave you pleasure made 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 weird. You’re enjoying yourself, your body, what you like. If you want to shove it all the way in, shove it all the way in. 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 something I’d said had landed.

But the body, meanwhile, was doing its own thing. You had me so hot that driving had become nearly impossible. I felt every gear change as an unnecessary distraction, and I know you were the same, because one hand had settled on my thigh and your fingers were dancing on their own, scratching closer and closer to my fly. When you finally slid your hand all the way down and squeezed my bulge through the fabric, a rough groan tore out of me.

—You’re rock hard —you murmured, and squeezed me again, weighing my cock in your palm—. All this talking about my toy has got you like this, hasn’t it?

—As you can imagine —I managed to say.

You pulled down my zipper without taking your eyes off the road and slipped your hand into my briefs. When your fingers closed around my naked cock, I thought I was going to run us right off the road.

I took the first motorway exit I saw. I didn’t think about it. I just signaled and turned, looking for a secluded lane, a dirt pull-off, anywhere the car could be cut off from the world for a while.

I found it behind a row of trees, a widening of dirt where someone must have parked a tractor in season. I switched off the engine and silence dropped over us at once. All you could hear was our breathing and, far off, the muted hum of cars carrying on without us.

There was no preamble. We lunged at each other like two teenagers, tripping over our seat belts, laughing between kisses at how ridiculous the position was. I yanked your T-shirt over your head and tore your bra down in one pull, leaving your tits bare, your nipples already hard and waiting for me. I dove on them, took them in my mouth one after the other, sucked them, bit them, tugged them with my lips while you threw your head back and moaned against the car roof.

—The cock —you panted—. Take it out again, I want it.

I got my pants down to my knees. You lifted yourself just enough to shove your panties down under your skirt, left them dangling from one ankle, and didn’t waste another second. You climbed onto the driver’s seat, swung one leg over the gear stick, and sat astride me, your already soaked cunt brushing the tip of my cock.

—Put it in me —I whispered in your ear—. Put it in yourself, the way you like it.

You lowered your hand, took me at the base, and guided me to the entrance of your cunt. First you ran my tip over your lips, up and down, exactly like you’d described to me ten minutes earlier with the toy. The same choreography, but in flesh. I, under you, was moaning through clenched teeth, my hands on your ass, not daring to push yet, letting you set the pace.

And then you sank down. All at once. All your weight on me, my glans and my whole cock driving into you to the hilt, until your ass hit my thighs and both of us moaned at the same time.

—Like this —you gasped with your eyes closed—. All the way in, to the bottom, like I don’t dare on my own.

—Ride me —I begged—. Like you were telling me before. Don’t hold back.

And you did. You started moving up and down on me with your hands braced against the car roof, first slowly, feeling me slide in and out inch by inch, then faster and faster, rougher, looser. The windows fogged in two minutes. The whole car rocked with every thrust of yours. I gripped your hips and helped drive you down, burying my cock to the root, watching your face go slack with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes half-lidded.

—There, there —you moaned—. Don’t stop, fuck me hard, fuck me hard, fuck.

I sucked one nipple while you rode me. I slipped a hand between our bodies and found your clit with my thumb, that swollen, slippery little button, and started rubbing it in circles to the rhythm of your hips. I could feel your cunt squeezing my cock in waves, harder and harder, faster and faster.

—I’m coming —you warned, your voice breaking—. I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

And you came on me with a long, rough moan, your cunt spasming around my cock, squeezing me so hard I couldn’t hold back. Two more thrusts from below, me driving you upward with my hips, and I let go too, unloading into you in hot spurts, my head buried between your tits and my teeth sunk into the skin of one shoulder.

We were so horny we barely lasted ten minutes. We didn’t need any more. When we were done, you stayed leaning against my chest, my cock still inside you, cum dripping between us, both our breaths still ragged, the glass fogged from the inside. You laughed against my neck.

—You’re insane —you said.

—You started it —I replied.

Good memories. Even now, when I pass that motorway exit, I smile to myself and get half hard.

***

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

I’d love, one day, to be a spectator to your pleasure. Not a participant, not this time. Just a witness, with my cock in my hand if need be. Let me enjoy that live view while you, step by step, repeat your whole ritual with your pink friend, unhurried, as if I weren’t there or, better said, knowing I am there and choosing to keep going anyway.

I want to watch you set the scene. Naked on top of the bed, legs wide open, the rubber toy braced against the mattress waiting for you. The foreplay, the way you fondle your tits and slide your hand down to your cunt to check whether you’re already wet. How you play with it at the entrance, how you let yourself be carried by the tip to the beat of that silly, sweet music that makes the chop, chop, chop sound for your ears and now mine too. I want to watch you ride it for me, without restraint, until you reach your orgasm with your cunt bouncing on top of the pink rubber.

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 through your head. To let yourself sink onto it as much as you want, all the way down, to the very limit, sitting on top of it with all your weight, without asking permission, without prejudice.

While you do it, I want to take in every bit of it. The shape your mouth makes when the air slips out of you. Your half-lidded gaze, with your eyes barely open. Your moans, first contained and then not anymore. The silhouette of your body tracing your pleasure in the air, your nipples stiff and hard, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the trail running down your belly. That silent music your soaked sex makes when the rubber goes in and out, the wet sound of your cunt, known to no one else.

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 decor. Or you can involve me, look me in the eyes while you drive it in to the hilt, whisper how you like it, where and in what way it gives you the most pleasure, say filthy things in my ear, ask me to jerk off in front of you while I watch you come. Whatever you prefer. Whatever the moment calls for.

All 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 a second thought and fuck like animals in the driver’s seat. For you to understand that wanting more doesn’t make you filthy. That watching you doesn’t make me a bad kind of voyeur. That this, whatever it is that’s being born between us when we talk without filters, is just another way of wanting each other.

Maybe another day I’ll dare confess another fantasy, because the truth is I’ve got quite a few tucked away and you keep unlocking them one by one. Watching you with another woman licking your cunt, having you suck me off in front of a mirror, letting me come on your tits or your face. But for now I’m satisfied with this one, and it’s no small thing.

So I’m leaving it here, written down, for you to read at your leisure when I’m not in front of you and you can’t see my face light up as I say it. And then, when you get home, with the pink friend in your hand and your cunt already throbbing, you only have to decide one thing.

Are you game?