Fantasies

There are mornings when my body beats my mind to it. Damp sheets, hips moving on their own—and then I invent you: a stranger who breaks me wide open.

Every morning I wake up with the same fire. It isn’t love, not exactly. It’s something more urgent, and no relief lasts long enough to put it out.

When the masked guide separated me from Mateo at that colonial hacienda, I knew the fantasy we had whispered in the dark was about to become flesh.

I went into the game to make friends. I stayed because there were men there who wanted the same thing I did: something real, nameless, and without a future.

I opened the letter alone in my office and knew something would change before I finished reading. What I didn’t expect was my husband welcoming it.

That night I understood that teaching someone to feel their own body can be the most intimate act of all.

I kept his texts in a private folder, rereading them at night with the lights off. I’d been doing it for months before I dared to write him.

Marcos told her it would be a different night. What Laura didn’t know was that her friends were going to bet chips to win favors from her.

I never liked him. Never commented. I just read his texts at midnight and wondered if he was thinking of someone like me too.

As he described calmly how he wrapped his lovers in plastic wrap, I crossed my legs and pretended the wine was the reason I was hot.

When Diego stopped the car in front of the motel, I knew that late-night conversation about my most secret fantasy had changed everything.

The question I asked him on a Friday night in bed was only the beginning. The game had been running for weeks, and he had no idea.

We put on quiet music, turned off the lights, and promised that whatever was said that night would stay there. The hardest promise to keep.

Seven in the morning, my husband still asleep, and I already feel that heat settling between my legs without asking permission. Another day like this. Or worse.

I told myself it would only be coffee. That I could control the situation. But when he opened the door before I even knocked, there was no turning back.

I looked in the mirror, and the face I saw wasn’t mine. It was hers. And inside that borrowed body, something began to awaken that never should have.

When he opened the wrong box, he knew it was a mistake. But when she entered his office, small and frightened, doll and woman became one.

Behind those boxes, I thought no one could see me. The red camera on the ceiling and the footsteps at the door told me otherwise.

For months, he had stared at the dark corner of his bedroom. The wrong doll they sent him was the closest thing to companionship he’d had in years.

My husband wanted to watch me with his brother. It took me weeks to admit I wanted it too. Then I rented an apartment with a one-way mirror and planned every detail.