The Desire I Imagine When I Go Out Riding Alone

I never told anyone this. I’m writing it now because it weighs less when I get it out of my head and leave it somewhere, even if it’s on a page no one will read. I’m thirty-two years old, I’m five foot nine, and I’m the opposite of delicate: broad shoulders, strong legs, the body of someone who rides for miles every weekend. The people who pass me on the street would never imagine what I think about. And it’s precisely that distance between what I look like and what I desire that turns me on the most.

I’ll start with the only thing that’s real, because the rest lives only in my imagination.

On Saturday mornings I head out riding on the dirt roads that ring the town. I like the silence, the smell of wet earth, the feeling of being far from everything. But there’s one detail I keep to myself: under my cycling shorts I wear a thong. Not a discreet one. A flashy one, red lace, the kind of color you’d notice from far away if someone yanked my clothes down. No one knows. I ride for hours with that secret pressed against my skin, with the lace working its way between my ass cheeks with every pedal stroke, and every time the seat brushes my cock, pressed tight against the fabric, I feel like that garment reminds me who I am when no one is watching.

If only someone knew, I think. If only someone found out.

That’s where the fantasy starts. Always the same, though each time I add a new detail.

***

I’m on a lonely stretch, one of those roads where the path disappears among the trees and you can no longer see the highway. I hear a bicycle behind me. It’s a man quite a bit older than I am, with gray hair and arms weathered by the sun. He catches up to me, matches his pace to mine, and starts talking as if we’d known each other all our lives. I give him a name in my head: Marcelo.

The conversation is light at first. The weather, the climbs, how good it feels to breathe at this hour. But there’s something in the way he glances at me, in the way he lingers a second too long on my legs, in the way his eyes drop to the bulge I’m making against the shorts, that makes me understand he can read what everyone else can’t see. We ride together until we reach a clearing where the road widens and no one comes by. We stop. The silence turns thick.

—Those clothes suit you —he says, and he doesn’t mean the shorts.

I don’t answer. I look down. That’s all the answer he needs.

Marcelo leans his bike against a tree without hurry, like someone with all the time in the world. He comes closer. He puts one hand on my hip, slowly, and with the other he brushes the hem of my shorts until he finds the lace hidden underneath. He smiles. Not with surprise, but with satisfaction, as if he’d guessed my secret before touching it.

—Look at what you’re hiding —he murmurs—. And here I was taking you for just another guy.

In the fantasy my legs are shaking. I like that part: the exact moment when I stop pretending. He turns me against the tree, pulls my shorts down to my thighs, and leaves the thong on display. The red lace sinks into my ass crack and he adjusts it with two fingers, tugging the thin strap upward until the thong wedges itself into my slit and rips a moan from me that I couldn’t hold back. I feel exposed and desired at the same time, and those two things together are what I chase every time I close my eyes.

—Spread your legs —he आदेशs—. Open them, like that, stay still.

I obey. Marcelo runs his hand over my ass over the lace, grabs it all, squeezes it. Then he reaches around from the front, beneath my fallen shorts, and finds my cock hard against the wet fabric of the thong. He lets out a soft laugh when he feels the spot of pre-cum that has already soaked the lace.

—You’re leaking —he says in my ear—. I barely touched you and you’re already like this.

He makes me turn around. He presses my back against the bark of the tree and crouches in front of me. He pulls the thong down just enough to get my cock out, without taking the garment off, leaving it tangled around my thighs with the shorts. He takes it into his mouth in one motion, no ceremony, and sucks me all the way down. I feel his tongue travel from the base to the tip, feel his lips brush my glans, feel his throat take me down against my balls. It’s the first time another man has sucked me off, and in the fantasy Marcelo does it as if he’d spent years waiting for this particular cock.

—Look at me —he says, pulling his cock out of his mouth for a second—. Look at me while I suck you.

I look at him. His lips are shiny with saliva and my fluid, his gray beard scraping against my thighs. He takes me back into his mouth and works me with a patience that unravels me. He licks me underneath, sucks each ball separately, devours me whole again. I grip his head with both hands, not with any strength, just enough to feel that he’s there, that this isn’t just another dream.

—Don’t come yet —he warns me when he feels my cock getting even harder in his mouth—. Today you don’t choose when. I do.

He lets go of me. He stands up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and turns me against the tree again.

***

From that point on, Marcelo stops treating me like a man. And that, in real life, would be so hard for me to ask for, but in the fantasy it happens on its own.

He speaks to me softly, with a calm authority that never needs to raise its voice. He tells me how to stand, how to arch my back, where to put my hands. I obey every word. There’s a surrender in that that I can’t find anywhere else: letting someone else decide for me, becoming whatever he wants me to be for as long as it lasts.

—You weren’t born to be in charge —he whispers in my ear, his open hand against my belly—. You can tell by the way you drop your eyes. You can tell by the way you move your ass when you think no one’s looking.

He’s right, and in the fantasy I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s a relief.

He puts me on my knees in the grass. He pulls down his shorts and takes his cock out, thick, dark, with heavy balls hanging low. He puts it in my mouth without asking. I take it all, sucking clumsily at first, swallowing saliva, learning how to work my tongue against the underside of the head the way he tells me to.

—Like that, slowly. Lower. Relax your throat and go down.

He pushes my head with both hands. His cock fills my mouth, reaches the back, makes me tear up. But I don’t let go. I take him in and out at the rhythm he sets, spit running down my chin, the salty taste of his own pre-cum on my tongue. Marcelo looks down at me, satisfied.

—You learn fast, look at you. You’d never guess this isn’t your first time.

I imagine he promises me things. That if I behave, he’ll teach me. That he’ll shave me completely, my legs, my chest, my ass, everything, until my skin is smooth like I always dreamed. That he’ll buy me proper lingerie, not the stuff I hide in the bottom of a drawer, but the kind you choose carefully, looking for what matches best. That he’ll turn me into another person, a version of me that only exists in my head and that I named years ago: Lucía.

Lucía. That’s my name when I’m alone in front of the mirror.

In real life I’ve never dared to go beyond the thong and a lipstick I use and wipe off in five minutes. But in the fantasy Marcelo takes me all the way. He transforms me, slowly and in his own way, into the woman I keep hidden.

And what surprises me most, every time I rehearse this scene in my head, is that he never hurries. He doesn’t treat me like a conquest for the afternoon. He treats me like something worth taking care of. He tells me we’ll go slowly, that there’s time, that first I have to learn to see myself the way he sees me. That patience is, maybe, the most erotic part of all. Not the sex itself, but the feeling that someone finally understands exactly what I need without my having to explain it in clumsy words.

***

The clearing among the trees transforms. It’s no longer a dirt road: it’s a room in an old house in some lost town, with the shutters half closed and a big bed. Marcelo isn’t alone. In the fantasy his wife appears, a woman his age, with steady hands and an amused look. The two of them have been together for years and share a taste no one in town would suspect.

She looks me up and down and nods in approval, like someone assessing a good find.

—You’ll do —she says, barely—. We’ll need to polish you a bit, but you’ll do. Strip him completely, Marcelo. I want to see everything.

Between the two of them they undress me on the bed. They leave me only the red thong, which draws a smile from her. She kneels me at the edge of the mattress, spreads my ass with both hands, and stares at it for a long while, as if she were appraising merchandise.

—It’s way too tight —she tells him without looking at me—. We’ll have to work it.

She herself coats a finger with saliva and slides it into me a little at a time, to the knuckle. I clench my teeth against the pillow. She adds another. She moves them in circles, opening me, while Marcelo holds my head and strokes my hair.

—Relax your ass —she says with a calm that isn’t sweet at all—. If you tense up, it’ll hurt more. Breathe and let go.

I obey. Fingers go in and out, two, three, until I feel my ass open in a way I’ve never felt before. Then she pulls them out and tells me to turn over. She does my makeup patiently, sitting on the edge of the bed, explaining each step as if she were initiating me into a craft. She paints my lips red, the same red as the thong, and makes me press my mouth against a handkerchief. He watches from the armchair, unhurried, his cock out of his pants, stroking it slowly as he watches us. I feel like a project, like something being built little by little, and I love that. I’m not a man who just happened to pass through: I’m someone they’re turning into what they wanted to have.

—Say thank you —she tells me when she’s done.

—Thank you —I say, and my voice comes out finer than I expected.

—Thank you what? —she insists.

—Thank you, ma’am.

Marcelo lets out a satisfied laugh from the armchair.

***

The scene I repeat most is the one with the game between the two of them. Marcelo gets up from the armchair and comes to the bed with his cock standing, thick, pointing at me. His wife positions me on all fours, ass raised and chest against the mattress. She pushes the thong to one side, just enough to leave my ass free, because he likes it when I don’t take it off completely. She spits between my ass cheeks and spreads the spit with her thumb, working it in until I’m good and slick.

—He’s ready —she tells him—. Put it in.

I feel the head of his cock pressing against my ass. Marcelo pushes slowly, with that patience that’s his trademark. At first it hurts, a burning that makes me bite the sheet, but he doesn’t stop or rush. He gives me ground little by little, millimeter by millimeter, until I feel the head pass through the ring and slide all the way in. I run out of breath.

—There it is —he murmurs—. The worst part’s over. Now relax and enjoy it.

She holds my face between her hands and whispers in my ear how well I’m doing. Marcelo starts moving, first short, just pulling out and pushing back in a few centimeters. Then longer. Each thrust fills me completely, makes me creak inside, forces me to moan into the pillow. The thong’s lace is still there, shifted to the side, brushing my skin with every shove.

—Look at how it opens him up —she says, crouched beside us, watching where we’re joined—. He’s already swallowed all your cock. And he still wants more.

He tells me not to make noise, then tells me to make as much noise as I want. He contradicts himself on purpose, just to remind me that he sets the rules. When I tell him I want it faster, he stops completely and leaves me begging. When I ask him to stop because I can’t take it, he drives himself all the way in and stays still, crushing me into the mattress with all his weight, forcing me to get used to it.

In my head, anal sex isn’t rough or rushed. It’s patient. He knows what he’s doing and I trust him, which is the hardest part to get in real life and the easiest in fantasy. She kisses my neck while this happens, strokes my hair, calls me by the name I chose. Lucía here, Lucía there. Hearing that name in another mouth, not in my own in front of the mirror, is what finally sets me on fire.

—Tell him what you are —she whispers—. Say it out loud.

—I’m Lucía —I pant, my face pressed to the mattress—. I’m your slut.

—That’s right —he answers, fucking me harder—. That’s my Lucía.

She stands in front of me, lifts her skirt, and guides my face between her legs. She orders me to eat her pussy while he keeps fucking me from behind. I learn fast, with my clumsy tongue, searching for the clit among the folds, sucking it the way she tells me to.

—Higher. There. Suck there, Lucía. Like that.

I’m trapped between the two of them, with his cock going all the way into me and her cunt soaking my face. Marcelo speeds up, grabs my hips with both hands, and drives into me with all his strength. I hear the dull thuds of his balls against my ass, hear the lady panting over me as she grinds herself against my mouth.

—See how well he behaves? —he tells her, never stopping—. If you catch them in time, they learn fast. They come just from having the cock inside them, without touching themselves.

And it’s true. My cock is dripping beneath my body, hard as a rock, untouched, and I feel like I’m going to come any second just from him pounding my prostate. She comes first, smothering my face against her cunt, shaking all over and holding me by the hair. Then Marcelo lets out a long grunt, digs his nails into my hip, and spills inside me, load after load, filling my ass with so much semen that I can feel it running down my thighs as soon as he starts pulling out. I come at the same time, hands-free, staining the mattress with long jets that leave my mind blank. In the fantasy, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

***

Sometimes I add one more twist. I imagine they’re not just the two of them. That Marcelo invites a friend his age, another calm, self-assured man, and that the three of them use me all afternoon while the lady directs the scene from her chair, like a conductor who knows exactly when each instrument comes in. I imagine someone sets a phone on the dresser and records, and that idea —of being on record, of being seen by people I’ll never know— gives me a mix of panic and desire I can’t explain.

I imagine my mouth occupied by one cock and my ass by the other, pinned from both ends, letting them do what they want. Marcelo in my mouth, shoving me back against my throat until my eyes fill with tears. The friend behind me, fucking me with less patience, rougher, taking advantage of the fact that my ass is already wide open. The lady in front of us with her legs crossed, giving directions like she’s running a rehearsal.

—Make him swallow it. All of it. Don’t leave a drop outside.

And they make me come in my mouth one and then the other, while she holds my jaw open and forces me to show the semen before swallowing it. Then they make me turn around and fill my ass too, one after the other, without extra lube, taking advantage of the load left by the previous one. I end up with my ass open, dripping with cum, sprawled face down on the bed and the red thong tangled around one ankle.

Because that’s the hardest part for me to admit: the exhibitionist side is what I like most. It’s not enough to do it. I want someone to see what I become. I want proof that, at least once, I was exactly what I always wanted to be and I didn’t hide it.

In those longer versions of the fantasy, the lady gives me instructions the whole time. To look at the camera, to smile, to tell the three of them what I want. And I do. With that higher voice, without shame, I say out loud every word I’d never dare pronounce in real life. That I’m a slut. That I love being fucked by more than one man. That I want more cocks, more cum, more hands. Marcelo and his friend laugh softly, not at me, but with that complicity of people sharing a good secret. And for once I feel myself at the exact center of something, desired by everyone in the room.

***

Then the fantasy dies away on its own, as fantasies always do, and I’m back on the real dirt road, on the bike, in the honest sweat of effort. I keep pedaling with the lace thong under my shorts, with my cock still half hard from memory, and no one for miles around suspects a thing. The seat rubs against me, the memory of what I just imagined stays with me a little longer, and I smile to myself in the middle of the fields.

I don’t know if I’ll ever dare to do more. I don’t know if Marcelo exists somewhere, waiting to cross paths with me on a remote road, reading in me what I think I hide so well. Maybe he does. Maybe the next time I hear a bike behind me it won’t be my imagination.

For now this is enough for me: the secret pressed against my skin, the name I give myself when I’m alone, and the certainty that, in some corner of my head, I’m already everything I want to be.

Lucía. And I still haven’t told you the rest.