That Night I Touched Myself Until I Lost My Mind

I closed the door to the apartment and leaned against it, breathing deeply. Silence in the hallway behind me and emptiness in the living room ahead. The agency’s end-of-year dinner had ended less than twenty minutes earlier, and my pulse was still pounding in my throat.

His name was Andrés, and I hadn’t exchanged more than three sentences with him all night. A new coworker in the design department, thirty-seven, tall, with dark eyes and a very calm way of looking at things. But every time I lifted my glass, I found him watching me, and every time he lifted his, I watched him. In the elevator ride back, when he got off on the seventh floor and I continued to the ninth, he turned around a second before the doors closed. That was all. One second.

It was enough to make me reach my apartment with my legs pressed together and my panties sticking to my skin.

I left my shoes by the entryway, my purse on the little table, and went straight to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. The black, semitransparent blouse I’d chosen for dinner scraped against my nipples through the lace bra. They’d been hard for hours.

I took a long sip. Then another. I went over to the living-room window and drew the curtain aside just a little. The city lights trembled below, and the glass gave me back my own reflection: lips parted, hair loose over my shoulders, collarbones gleaming beneath the ceiling lamp. I was turned on. And there was no one there to see me.

Except me.

***

I went to the bedroom. I turned on only the little lamp on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. I started by slowly unzipping the side of my dress, as if someone were watching me, as if the gesture had to be a performance. The dress fell to the floor in a black puddle. Underneath, I was left in my black lace bra and panties, a set I’d bought new that night, thinking of the remote possibility that someone might see it. No one had. I was going to do it for him.

I ran my open hand over my stomach, along my ribs, and cupped one breast over the lace. I squeezed. I arched. My nipple hardened even more, and I let out a sigh that wasn’t mine—it belonged to the woman in the reflection. With my other hand, I touched myself over my panties and felt the heat that had soaked through the fabric.

I lay down. I stretched out diagonally across the bedspread, arms above my head and legs spread apart. I closed my eyes.

And that was when it began.

***

Andrés didn’t get off on the seventh floor. He stayed in the elevator with me. When the doors opened on the ninth, he grabbed my wrist and made me back up against the mirror at the far end. Without saying a word, he pushed my dress up to my waist and slipped his hand between my legs over my panties, his palm open, squeezing. I let my head fall against the cold glass and spread my legs wider for him.

“You’re wet,” he said in my ear, his voice rough.

“You know I am,” I answered.

In bed, my right hand imitated his. I moved it down my stomach, slipped it beneath the waistband of my panties, and touched myself. I was soaked. My fingers sank in without resistance, and I let out a moan that echoed through the empty bedroom. I stroked my lower lips with the tips of my index and middle fingers, up and down, taking my time, feeling each touch tighten my stomach further.

With my other hand, I pulled down my bra and cupped a full breast. I pinched my nipple between my forefinger and thumb until the little sting turned into a hot tug that ran straight down to my clitoris. I repeated the gesture. Again. Again. A teasing game between the small pain and the pleasure building below, in my belly.

I arched and took off my panties, pushing them down with my heels. I kicked them off the bed. Now, yes, I was open and available to no one but myself.

I returned to the fantasy. Andrés led me inside the apartment without turning on any lights. He pushed me against the hallway wall, turned me around until I was facing the wallpaper, and pulled my dress up from behind. He ran his open palm over my buttocks, squeezed me, spread me apart. In bed, it felt as though he were touching me, not me. With two fingers, he sought out the entrance to my pussy and penetrated me slowly, all the way in.

Alone, I did the same. I slipped two fingers inside myself and twisted my wrist until the tips found the exact spot, forward, against the inner wall. A “oh, fuck” escaped me, sounding ridiculous in the silence of the room and making me laugh for a second—and in that same movement making me arch again, because pleasure was tugging at me from within with an insistence I could no longer stop.

Thumb on the clitoris. Two fingers inside. Circles, pressure, circles. That was the rhythm. It had always been my rhythm.

In the fantasy, Andrés took off his belt, lowered his pants, and drove himself into me in a single thrust, right there against the wall. He was hard, thick, and I felt him enter until he bumped against my bone. He started fucking me slowly, taking his time, both hands squeezing my hips.

“Be quiet,” he told me when I started moaning too loudly. “The neighbors.”

I answered him in a broken voice:

“Let them hear me. Let them know you’re fucking me.”

***

But it was still too early to come. I forced myself to lower my hand. I took a deep breath. I stared at the ceiling for a while.

I knew what I needed. I stretched toward the nightstand drawer and took out the vibrator, a blue silicone cylinder I’d given myself for my last birthday. I turned it on to the lowest setting and rested it on my pubic bone, not rushing anything, letting the buzzing tickle me softly before lowering it to my clitoris.

At the first direct contact, my whole body jolted. I let out a short, surprised laugh and pressed it against myself again, this time more carefully, letting the tip barely brush my skin. The sensation rose through my spine in waves. I closed my eyes.

The fantasy changed on its own. It was no longer Andrés in the hallway. It was a hotel room, curtains drawn, a chair in one corner. I was tied by the wrists to the bedposts, a black blindfold over my eyes, and on the other side of the door I could hear men speaking quietly about me. Deep voices. They took turns. One said, “Tonight, I’m first,” and another laughed. I tugged at my restraints and grew even wetter, though no one had touched me.

The first voice entered and locked the door. He approached me slowly. He ran an open hand over my stomach, over my pubic hair, and moved down with two fingers until he opened me. “She’s ready, boys,” he announced loudly so the others outside could hear. Then he mounted me and drove his cock deep inside without asking, with all the force of his body on top of mine.

In the real bed, I turned up the vibrator and pressed harder. The first contraction shook my hips against the mattress, but it wasn’t the orgasm yet. It was the warning. The tip of my clitoris throbbed with an urgency that grew every time I exhaled.

I slipped three fingers into my pussy without stopping the vibrator above. With my free hand, I cupped one breast and squeezed my nipple again, harder. I was drenched. I could hear the wet sound of my fingers moving in and out, and that sound in the silence of the room turned me on as much as the fantasy.

“Fuck me,” I said aloud, to no one. “Fuck me now.”

No one answered me. No one had to answer. My voice came out hoarse, and I heard myself as if I were another woman, and that distance was part of the game.

***

I changed position. I rolled over onto my stomach, with the pillow crushed against my pelvis and the vibrator pinned between my body and the fabric. I moved against the pillow, thrusting, rubbing myself. With one hand underneath, I kept the vibrator in place. With the other, I reached back and caressed my buttocks, spread them apart, and let my index finger linger on the most intimate area, barely brushing it, without entering. That teasing was mine, my vice, something I did only to myself when I was alone.

The fantasy mutated again. Now it was a huge party in a house I didn’t know. I was sitting on a central sofa, legs spread and a very short skirt pulled up to my waist, while people watched me all around. Women and men. No one touched me. I touched myself for them, and they watched in silence, as if it were a show. I felt all those eyes on me, and instead of making me ashamed, they gave me a dense, heavy, almost painful arousal. One of the men, without coming any closer, asked me to spread my legs wider. I did. Another asked me to put two fingers inside myself. I did. They all watched me come as if I were a spectacle.

Face down on my bed, I thrust against the pillow two, three, four more times. The vibrator pressed my clitoris against the bone, and the pleasure rose without falling. The muscles in my thighs tightened. The internal contractions became rhythmic, urgent. I was very close.

I turned over again, onto my back. I needed both hands and my whole body stretched out. I lowered the vibrator’s power by one notch because I was about to come and wanted to make it last two seconds longer.

I looked at myself. My tits bare, my bra bunched beneath my breast, my skin flushed in blotches. My legs spread, shining with wetness halfway up my thighs. My chest rose and fell at a rhythm I couldn’t control.

And that was when I couldn’t hold out any longer.

***

I turned the power back up to maximum, pressed the vibrator against my clitoris with both hands, and arched my entire back. The orgasm hit me like an electric shock that began deep inside my belly and traveled up my spine and neck until it made me clench my teeth. I screamed. I screamed loudly. A hoarse cry that was probably heard in the hallway, but I didn’t care, because at that moment there was no hallway, no city, no neighboring apartment. There was only my body exploding.

And that was when I felt the gush. A warm spurt between my legs, then another, a flow that soaked my thighs and the sheet in a second. I let go of the vibrator. I brought my hands to my face. It happened again, more softly, and a third time, almost a tremor. My eyes filled with tears—not tears of sadness, but the kind that come when your body empties itself of everything.

I stayed there trembling for a few seconds, my inner muscles tightening and releasing on their own, without me doing anything. I felt the warm wetness beneath my back and didn’t care. I was completely undone.

***

When I could finally lie still, I heard the silence of the bedroom. The vibrator’s muted hum against my thigh. My own breathing returning to normal. Nothing else.

Andrés was still in his apartment on the seventh floor, probably asleep, unaware of the scene I’d just had with him two floors above. Me, on the ninth, soaked and without having said or even thought half the things that had gone through my head. I suspected it would take me a long time to forget the second he turned around before the elevator doors closed.

And I liked knowing that the next time I ran into him in there, maybe he wouldn’t get off on the ninth.

I reached out and turned off the vibrator. I stayed that way a little longer, naked and breathing, smiling faintly at the ceiling of the dark room. Then I went to sleep, with the sheet still damp beneath my hips and the certainty that the next day I would look at my new coworker with different eyes.