The Fantasies I Couldn’t Keep Quiet That Monday

I’m writing it because keeping it in has become heavier than saying it. There are things that don’t fit into any couple’s conversation, things that don’t belong in any coffee with friends. The protagonist of this is called Clara. A name I made up to put distance between myself and what I’m going to tell. If you recognize yourself in any of what follows, you probably already know what this is about.

***

7:00 a.m.

The alarm doesn’t ring because I turned it off last night with too much confidence in myself. Eyes open before seven, the room still dim, Raúl beside me asleep face down with one arm hanging off the bed. I watch him for a few seconds. He has a broad back and hair stuck to his right temple. I love him. That’s not in question.

But the first thought of this morning is not tender.

It’s a warm pressure born just beneath my navel and spreading slowly, without hurry, as if my body already knew exactly what it wanted before my head had fully woken up. I can feel my pussy swollen and wet under my pajamas, the lips stuck together by a dampness that was already there when I opened my eyes. Last night we started something he left half-finished, using tiredness as an excuse: he had slipped his hand inside my pants, had managed to open me with two fingers, and then fell asleep with his palm still resting on my mound. That interrupted sensation is still there, latent, like a conversation no one ever closed.

I could touch him now. The idea crosses my mind and almost makes me smile. I could pull down his boxers, take out his still-soft cock, and put it in my mouth until I woke him with it hardening against my tongue. But I already know how that ends: he’d open his eyes with the expression of someone who needs five more minutes of sleep, gently move my head away, kiss my forehead, and say something like “later, Clara.” And that “later” that never comes weighs more than desire itself. I’d rather get up before exposing myself to that.

I stay a moment longer staring at the ceiling. I count to ten. I get up.

7:15. Shower.

The hot water falls on my shoulders and relaxes them. The rest, not so much. I soap myself slowly, and when my hands reach my chest I feel the sensitivity I’d already been carrying since I opened my eyes. My nipples harden at the touch of the sponge, stiff and taut beneath the foam, demanding attention with a sharp little stab that runs all over my skin. I pinch one between thumb and forefinger, twist it slowly, and feel how that tiny current goes straight down to my pussy and tightens it on itself.

I close my eyes. Raúl’s image slips away without me pushing it. In its place appears the electrician who came last Tuesday, a man in his forties with tattooed arms and hands that knew what they were doing. He spent half the morning lying under the circuit box in the hallway, focused, not talking much. When he straightened up to ask me for a glass of water, he looked at me directly, with no calculation or apparent intention. At the time it meant nothing.

Now, with hot water on the back of my neck and my hand sliding down between my legs, that memory is enough. I imagine him grabbing me by the hair, pushing me against the tiles, prying my pussy open with those grease-stained fingers before shoving his cock into me with one hard thrust. I give him a voice: “stay still, fuck.” The fantasy is so cheap and so effective that I’m almost angry at how fast it works.

I spread my outer lips with two fingers and search for my clit with near-mechanical precision. It’s swollen, protruding from its hood, slick from a mix of water and my own fluid that feels different, thicker. I massage it in circles, slowly at first, then with more insistence, until the tingling turns into a thick current that fills my belly. I’m not looking for tenderness. I’m looking for that clean, brutal release that knocks me, for one second, out of this head that won’t stop talking. I brace one hand against the cold tile wall and the other keeps going, firm, insistent, soaking itself in my own desire while water runs down my back and slips between my ass cheeks.

I start breathing faster. My thighs tense against the shower screen. I masturbate with short, quick movements, sinking two fingers into my pussy when I feel I need more, opening myself a little so they can go in better, so I can feel the wet, hot pressure inside. I can feel them sliding in easily, to the knuckle, and curving as they search for that spongy spot in the back that I have memorized. The palm of my hand presses my clit each time I thrust, and that’s what finally breaks me. I pull out the fingers coated in my own juice and go back to the clit, rubbing it in fast circles, two flat, soaked fingers grinding it mercilessly while with the other hand I twist a hard nipple until it hurts.

The orgasm comes quickly and functionally, first like a lash in the lower belly and then like a jolt climbing up my spine and making me clench my teeth. My pussy contracts on nothing, empty, biting itself in short spasms that almost throw me off balance. I feel a hot stream running down the inside of my thigh, my own cum thinning into the shower water. I stay there panting with my forehead against the tiles, still trembling, fingers still buried inside, and my clit throbbing like a second heart while the water carries the heat out of my skin.

I finish rinsing off and get out of the shower.

7:45. Breakfast.

The coffee maker finished its cycle before I came down. Raúl’s already gone: the clean mug in the dish rack is the only sign he was here this morning. I pour myself coffee, cut bread, sit by the kitchen window.

The children are still asleep. The house has that specific stillness of Monday mornings, when the day hasn’t really started yet and nobody needs you. I like this moment. I should use it to think about something useful.

But my head doesn’t know how to stay still.

Without warning, the memory of the pilates instructor from Saturday comes back. He didn’t do anything out of line, I have to say that: he corrected my posture with his hands like he does with everyone, fingers on my shoulders, then on my hips to align them. A technical gesture, repeated class after class. But I replayed it in bed Saturday night, masturbating on my side so Raúl wouldn’t notice, and this morning it comes back more clearly than before: the exact pressure of his hands, the smell of clean cologne, the way he said “like this, much better” without looking me quite in the eye, and how close his crotch was to my ass as I held the downward-dog pose.

I notice I’m bringing a hand up to my neckline almost out of habit, squeezing one breast through my pajamas and feeling the nipple harden again under the fabric. I pull my hand away. The coffee is still hot. I force myself to take a sip. It doesn’t help. My pussy is throbbing again; the first round was only the first and my body is already asking for the second.

I stand up before the fantasy grows by itself. I go up to the guest bathroom, the one the children never use, and lock the bolt. I look at myself for a moment in the mirror: uncombed hair, cotton pajamas, eyes still a little puffy, nipples standing out hard against the thin fabric. I yank my pants and panties down to my thighs and brace myself against the cold sink. The porcelain edge presses just above my pubis and I feel the contrast with the heat coming from between my legs.

This time I take my time. I imagine him still, facing me, with that concentration he has when he works, but looking at me. Looking at my pussy, open over the sink, shiny and soaked. I put words in his mouth: “open wider, Clara, let me see you properly.” And I open myself, parting my lips with the fingers of my other hand so he can see my clit peeking out swollen, how my pussy hole clenches on its own at the thought that he’s looking. One hand on my waist, the other between my legs, pushing my ass aside just enough to get better inside me with two fingers first, then three, scissoring them inside me to open me up, while I masturbate on the sink edge, rubbing my clit with two quick fingers.

I imagine him crouching down, putting his mouth against my pussy, sucking me whole, getting his tongue deep inside and then licking up top, grinding the clit with the tip of his tongue while he keeps fucking me with his fingers. I imagine his other hand coming up, two fingers wet with my own fluid slipping slowly into my ass, opening me there too, filling me through both holes at once. I shove my hips against my own hand, jam three fingers in as deep as they’ll go, feel them sliding in a wetness that’s already running down my thighs.

The orgasm comes from deeper inside and lasts longer than the one in the shower. It’s one of those where the pussy closes in spasms over the fingers, biting them like it wants to milk a cock that isn’t there. I have to grab the faucet so I don’t fold in half. Jolt after jolt, five or six of them, until my clit becomes unbearable to touch. I stay like that for a few seconds with my forehead against the mirror, with three fingers still inside me, until my breathing settles back into place.

I go downstairs. The toast is cold.

11:00. House chores.

I start a load of laundry, clean the countertop, wipe down the living room furniture. Routine should occupy my head, and it doesn’t.

I bend down to pick up a T-shirt from the floor and, without knowing how, I think of the neighbor from the fourth floor, the one who always rides up in the elevator with headphones on and never says anything. The other day he held the building door open for me and smiled, just that, a two-second gesture that in the moment meant nothing and that I’ve spent three days not knowing where to put. I imagine him pressing me against the elevator wall, lifting my skirt without a word, slipping a hand under my panties to check how wet I already am before pulling out his cock and fucking me standing up between two floors, with my mouth covered by his so nobody hears us.

I wipe the hallway mirror and remember a scene from the series we watched last night, one where she’s sucking him off on her knees in a kitchen while he holds her by the hair, and Raúl brushed it off with “so over the top,” and it left my mouth dry for the next twenty minutes. I clean the little table and my mind jumps on its own to another place: me on my knees, a cock in my mouth, two hands gripping my hair, someone whispering dirty things while he pushes it all the way down my throat. I try to push it away. It comes back.

It’s constant. There’s no pause. It’s like having a radio on in a language that can’t be silenced.

I sink onto the sofa. Just a moment, I tell myself. I close my eyes and tilt my head back. My hand moves on its own, almost without my deciding it. Third time this morning. There’s no concrete image, only the physical need to shut off something that won’t stop. I pull open my leggings, push them and my panties down under my ass, and touch myself directly, with no preamble. My pussy is swollen, the outer lips so inflamed they part by themselves, the clit tense and hard to the touch, like a little cock asking to be crushed. I rub it with two fingers faster and faster, with no patience, until my whole body gets tight and sensitive. I push my middle finger in all the way, curve it, pull it out again shining with slick and go back to the clit. The orgasm is short, mechanical, a little empty, a dry contraction of the pussy on nothing. I stare at the ceiling afterward, with my sticky fingers still resting on my thigh, more exhausted than before.

How long have I been like this?

Months, maybe. Or always, and only now I feel it more clearly because the rest of the day has become so predictable that this is the only thing that isn’t. I don’t know for sure. That uncertainty is tiring too.

12:30. The supermarket.

This should be the most mundane errand of the day: a list, a cart, twenty minutes. It isn’t.

Every person I cross paths with in the aisles becomes, without me deciding it, the starting point of a story that goes nowhere. The young guy stacking yogurts and asking if I need help in a completely neutral voice; I imagine him following me into the stockroom, unzipping his pants, offering me his young, hard cock so I can suck him against a stack of milk crates. The man who picks up the same jar of crushed tomato as me and makes some filler comment about prices; in my head he takes me to the supermarket bathroom, pushes me against the sink, and fucks me from behind without asking me anything, one hand covering my mouth and the other squeezing a breast under my sweater. The regular butcher, who knows me by name and asks if I want the usual cut with that friendly Friday smile; I imagine him wiping his hands on his apron, vaulting the counter, opening me right there between the deli fridges and eating my pussy against the cold chamber.

None of them does anything. None of them hints at anything. And yet I leave there with my pulse racing, my wet panties sticking to the inside of my thighs with every step, and a shame I can’t explain to anyone because nobody knows anything. All of it happened inside my head while I filled the cart like normal.

I sit in the car before starting it. I rest my hands on the steering wheel and wait for my heart to settle. It takes longer than it should. I have to squeeze my legs together to bear the pounding between them, and for a second I seriously think about putting my hand down my pants right there in the parking lot, with the tinted windows. I don’t. But only because someone passes too close pushing a cart.

The hardest part is not desire itself. It’s the guilt that comes after, automatic, uninvited. That feeling of having done something wrong when in fact nothing at all has happened. The people starring in my fantasies are right now living their lives normally, not knowing they exist inside my head, not knowing I’ve made them fuck me in five different ways down supermarket aisles. And yet I leave there with the same face I’d make if I had done something real.

I start the car. I turn the radio up too loud.

6:00 p.m. The afternoon with the children.

They arrive hungry and noisy as usual: backpacks thrown in the entryway, the older one arguing with the younger over something utterly unimportant. The kitchen starts to smell of sautéed onion and warm bread.

I move between the pot and the table on autopilot: I taste the sauce, set out the cutlery, correct a badly worked-out sum, listen to a detailed story about a fight at recess. I smile when I’m supposed to. I absentmindedly stroke a head. I’m patient. I’m present. I’m the mother I’m expected to be, and I really am.

But there’s something beneath all of it. A constant pulse that doesn’t stop even while I’m explaining the difference between a noun and an adjective. Desire doesn’t disappear when there are responsibilities: it shrinks, slips into the margins, waits in silence. The panties that were still wet have dried on me now and they chafe, stuck to the pussy that’s still inflamed, reminding me every time I change position that I’ve been hot all day. What unsettles me most now isn’t that it’s there. It’s how much I’ve gotten used to feeling it as part of the background.

***

10:30 p.m. The series on the sofa.

Raúl gets home at nine looking like it’s been a long Monday. We eat with the children already asleep and talk about practical things: the meeting he has tomorrow, whether the car is making a strange noise or if we’re just becoming paranoid. After dinner we sit on the sofa. He has the remote. I have his hand on mine on the cushion, our fingers interlaced in an automatic, familiar gesture that neither of us needs to think about for it to happen.

I’m not here.

I’m imagining taking the remote out of his hands and straddling him without saying a word. His expression changing in seconds, from confusion to something else. Lowering his zipper, taking out his cock, putting it in my mouth before he can say anything, sucking it all the way down my throat until I get it hard as stone. Then climbing on top, lifting my skirt, sliding my thong aside and taking him all in in one go, grabbing the back of the sofa to start moving up and down on him. That tonight there’s no tiredness or “later,” that his hands grip my ass with a firmness I’ve been missing for weeks, that he opens me fully, drives his hard cock up into me every time I sink my hips, grabs a breast with his mouth over my unbuttoned blouse and sucks my nipple while he fucks me. That he says, “that’s it, Clara, ride that cock right, you’ve wanted it all day.” The fantasy is so specific I have to move my leg so I don’t freeze completely, so he won’t notice the trembling.

—Are you okay? —he asks without taking his eyes off the screen.

—Yes. Why?

—I don’t know. You’re weird tonight.

I’m not weird. I’ve been soaking wet all day and right now all I want is to get fucked the way I know you’re not going to fuck me.

—Just tired —I say.

He nods. Turns back to the screen. I press my fingers against my own knee and count to ten in silence.

At eleven I tell him I have a headache and go upstairs before he does. I lock the bedroom door, something I never do. I lie face down on the bed with my clothes still on and my face buried in the pillow.

I masturbate without taking anything off, first over my pants, rubbing myself against my own hand placed between the bed and my pubis, fucking my fist like an impatient teenager. Then I can’t stand it and yank everything down to my knees. I take two fingers to my mouth, wet them with saliva even though I don’t need to because my pussy is already dripping, and slide my whole hand between my legs. The images keep changing without order: the electrician getting up from the floor with grease-stained hands, opening me against the hallway wall and pushing it into me all the way; the pilates instructor adjusting my posture with that calm concentration he has, holding my hips in downward dog and fucking me slowly while he says “that’s it, much better”; Raúl on a better day than this, eating my pussy for half an hour until he makes me come three times before starting to fuck me; a version of me that doesn’t have to ask or wait or justify herself to anyone. I slip one hand under my body and rub my mound with contained rage, searching for the clit, crushing it with two quick fingers.

I lift my ass a little off the bed and slip two fingers into my pussy from behind, to the knuckle. I can feel them slide in as if nothing, my thighs stuck together with my own fluid, the sheets wet beneath me. I start fucking myself with my hand at a fast rhythm, pulling my fingers out and shoving them back in hard, imagining a stiff cock pushing into me from behind, filling me completely, slamming deep until it leaves me breathless. With the thumb of my other hand I search for my ass and press there, not entering, only pressing the opening to feel that sensation of being open on all sides. I come like that, clenching my pussy around my hand, biting the pillow so I won’t make noise, face buried and hips grinding against the mattress in a long series of spasms that seems never to end.

The orgasm takes its time, as if my body knows it’s the last one of the day and wants to make the most of it. When it comes I arch against the mattress, my thighs closing over my own hand, trapping it, my pussy contracting around my fingers with a force that almost scares me. I feel the hot stream running down the inside of my thigh, a thick release staining the sheet. I stay there afterward, face down, thighs tight and breathing slow, with my fingers still inside my pussy because pulling them out seems, in that moment, like too much effort. I don’t move for a long while.

I get up. I wipe between my legs with the first tissue I find. I put my clothes straight. I pretend to be asleep when Raúl comes in.

Now I’m writing this while I listen to him breathing beside me.

There’s a word that’s been circling in my head for weeks and I don’t want to write it because putting it on paper makes it more real, more final. But I also know that not writing it doesn’t erase it or explain it or change anything I feel. It just leaves it floating there, unnamed, which is perhaps the most uncomfortable version of all.

What’s inside me is not something I chose. And I still don’t know whether it’s something I want to change, if it can be changed, or if it’s simply what there is. I only know that tomorrow I’m going to wake up at seven, that Raúl is going to be sleeping face down with one arm hanging off the bed, that I’m going to have my pussy already swollen and wet before I open my eyes, and that all of this is going to start over again exactly from the beginning.