The Faceless Lover Who Visits Me Every Night

My name is Carolina, I’m thirty-seven years old, and I’ve lived alone since the divorce. That early morning, I woke with a strange sensation, that half-awake state where you can’t quite tell whether you’re dreaming or the dream has already slipped away between the sheets. I looked at the bedside clock: four minutes past three. Outside, I could hear the rain against the window.

My whole body was begging for something, begging for it desperately even though I still didn’t know what. My legs were spread beneath the duvet, my skin hot, my nipples stiff against the thin fabric of my nightgown. A strange taste lingered in my mouth, the taste of a kiss I hadn’t given. Between my thighs, a thick wetness had already soaked through my underwear.

I closed my eyes and searched for the image that was fading. A man. That was all: a faceless man, tall, with big hands, pressed against my back. And his mouth on my neck, biting me slowly, moving up to my ear to whisper something I hadn’t managed to hear before waking.

I slid my hand beneath the elastic of my panties without thinking. I found my clitoris first. It was swollen and throbbing, as if it had been waiting in the darkness for hours. I pressed my middle finger against it and rubbed in slow circles, feeling my juices run down to the cleft of my ass.

Fuck. I’m soaking wet. And I haven’t even touched him yet.

I plunged two fingers deep inside myself, all at once, without ceremony. My cunt squeezed my knuckles with such a strong spasm that I let out a hoarse moan into the pillow, longer than I’d intended. Thank God I lived alone. Thank God I didn’t have to pretend, lower my voice, or hide a single expression.

I closed my eyes again, and the man returned, clearer this time. He was behind me in the darkness of the dream, pressed against my back, still wearing his jeans, a huge cock hard against my ass. His right hand slid up my belly and took hold of one whole breast, cupping it, squeezing my nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it hurt. Over my shoulder, he let a thread of saliva fall onto my other breast and rubbed it with his palm, twisting and squeezing it. I pushed my ass back and rubbed myself against his bulge, feeling his cock grow even harder, more and more desperate to break free of his jeans.

“Take it out,” I whispered into the air of my empty room, though in the dream I was saying it to him.

With my free hand, I grabbed the dildo from the drawer of my bedside table. It’s made of silicone, the exact color of a real cock, with pronounced veins and a thick base that sticks to whatever surface you put it on. I took it to my mouth before anything else. I wanted to start there; I wanted to suck my imaginary lover’s cock the way I would have sucked it in the flesh.

In my head, I was laying him down on the bed. I tore off his jeans and boxers in one pull, spread his legs, and knelt between them. I licked the tip first, circling the head with my tongue, playing with the metal piercing I’ve worn for years. I tapped it lightly against his cock, tap tap tap, and he groaned through his teeth. Then I took it all the way into my mouth, until I gagged, until I felt the tip touch my throat. I sucked, moving up and down, one hand wrapped around the base and the other squeezing his balls, gently tugging them, listening to his breathing grow rougher and rougher.

Meanwhile, in the real bed, I was putting it inside myself. Slowly, with my tongue, sucking the silicone with the same hunger. I pulled it out covered in spit, shiny, and ran it over my lower lips, sliding it up and down, soaking it in my own juices until it was as wet as I was.

“I need you to put it inside me,” I said aloud, and put it inside myself.

One thrust, halfway in. A second thrust, halfway in again. On the third, I buried it to the base, until I felt the silicone pressing against my pubic bone. The scream that tore out of me was so brutal that I covered my mouth with my free hand. My cunt throbbed all around the dildo, squeezing it, swallowing it. I began moving it, pulling it almost all the way out and thrusting it back in, fucking myself with the rhythm I would have asked of him if he had existed.

I pressed the button on the base, and the dildo began to vibrate inside me. The sensation is indescribable. The entire length of silicone vibrating against the walls of my cunt, against that spot that swells when I’m really turned on, while my other hand hammered my clitoris in fast circles. I was sweating. My hair stuck to my forehead. The sheets beneath me were already soaked, and I didn’t care about anything.

And he, in my head, was watching me. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his cock in his hand, slowly jerking off while he watched me take myself. Come for me, he told me without a voice. Come now, in front of me. I want to watch you.

I came. It was a long, filthy orgasm, the kind that throws your head back and makes you clamp your thighs around the toy. I screamed into the pillow. I felt my juices run down the cleft of my ass and stain the sheets. My fingers never stopped working my clitoris; I couldn’t stop. Every time I stopped touching myself, another spasm shook through me.

***

I didn’t take it out. I stayed like that for a while, the dildo still inside me, panting and sweating, my free hand wandering over my body as if it didn’t belong to me. My nipples were still rock-hard. I pinched them one at a time, pulling hard, enjoying the sharp sting that sent a direct jolt to my cunt. I ran my hand over my belly, my hips, down to my ass. Without thinking much about it, I sucked my middle finger and pressed it against my asshole, barely pushing, barely getting the first knuckle inside.

My cunt squeezed the dildo with another warm wave. I was nowhere near finished.

I closed my eyes again. The faceless man was no longer behind me. Now I was on all fours on the bed, my face pressed into the pillow and my ass held high, while he knelt behind me, gripping my hips. He gave me a sharp slap that made me jump. Another. One more, this time harder, until the imprint of his hand burned on my skin. With his open hand, he spread my ass cheeks and looked at all of me: my swollen cunt, my puckered asshole, everything glistening with juices.

“You’re going to behave,” he told me. I nodded against the pillow, breathless.

And then he penetrated me. Slowly at first, letting me feel every inch as it entered, and then with a savage rhythm, gripping my hair, driving himself deep until he slammed against the back of my cunt again and again. With the thumb of his other hand, he probed my ass, pushing lightly, without quite putting it all the way in. That alone was enough to drive me crazy, make me moan without holding back, make me beg him never to stop.

On the real bed, I was fucking myself again with the dildo, this time on my side, my legs closed and my thighs squeezing it, fucking it with short, rough movements. The vibration reached all the way into my bones. I sucked my index finger and slipped it into my asshole, just the tip, and let out a long moan that rose from somewhere deep in my chest, somewhere I don’t reach easily.

“That’s it, give it to me like that, harder,” I begged no one.

The second orgasm caught me almost without warning. The spasms settled in my belly, climbed to my throat, and left me open-mouthed and breathless for one endless second. I clamped my thighs around the vibrating dildo and arched my whole body, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t wake the building. I couldn’t breathe. My legs trembled in a way I hadn’t felt in months, maybe years.

When I finally switched off the vibrator and carefully pulled out the silicone, my arm was numb, the pillow was wet with sweat and saliva, and my heart was pounding in my temples. I looked at the clock: four thirty-seven. I’d been touching myself for a good hour and a half without realizing it.

***

I left the dildo beside me, on top of the bedside table, without washing it, without covering it, exposed as proof of my night. I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, still breathing hard. The faceless man was already dissolving. I was beginning to forget the details of the dream: his hand on my breast, the bulge in his jeans, the voiceless voice whispering things in my ear.

But I was taking one clear thing away from it: I wanted to see him again that night. The next day, while I made coffee in the kitchen and answered work emails, I would spend the whole time replaying that image. In every meeting, I would look at a male colleague and wonder whether he resembled the dream. The guy in accounting had big hands. The one from IT was tall and quiet. Any one of them could have been the one who returned faceless. Any one of them could lend his face to my imaginary lover the following night, and none of them would ever know.

I turned onto my side against the pillow, still naked, still sticky, and fell asleep with a smile I hadn’t worn in weeks. Two hours later, the sun filtering through the badly closed blinds woke me. I looked at the dildo on the bedside table again and laughed to myself, hoarse, my throat dry from all the moaning.

That night, I promised myself as I stretched out between the stained sheets, I would go further. I would give the lover a face. I would choose him a name, a scent, a voice. I would do things to him I didn’t even know I knew how to do yet.