The Fantasy I Fulfilled Alone in My Apartment

Summer left the whole apartment to me. My roommate had gone to the coast with her family and I still hadn’t traveled to my hometown, so I had two full weeks ahead of me: two weeks with no one knocking at the door, no schedules, no thin wall giving me away.

I was coming off a horrible month. Three exams piled on top of me, whole nights with my notes glued to my face, and a level of tension in my shoulders that no hot bath could loosen. I needed something more direct. I needed to be alone with myself and let it all out, hard, without rushing and without guilt.

So I decided to plan it like someone planning an important date. Because it was a date: with me.

Days earlier I’d bought a tiny red lingerie set. A thong that wedged itself between my ass cheeks every time I bent down to pick something up, and a bra made of soft fabric that brushed my nipples with every movement. It’s not that I have much there: despite having a big chest, my nipples are small and discreet. I learned a long time ago that with me you have to be patient, touch slowly, play with temperature. Take notes, in case it helps you.

That morning I’d gone to the university to hand in the last assignment of the semester and, lucky me, I ran into the professor who got me soaked in every possible way every time he opened his mouth. His name was Esteban and he talked about literature as if he were describing something forbidden. I showed up to his classes in deep necklines and tight jeans, asked questions just to cross my legs and press them together while he answered me with that maddening calm.

More than once I’d caught him looking at my cleavage a second too long. More than once I’d touched myself thinking of him, imagining that he asked me to stay “to talk” and that from one moment to the next I sat on his desk to teach him, with my fingers, how to write an ode to pleasure. Nothing had ever happened. Yet.

That morning, while I handed him the paper, Esteban asked me whether I planned to rest during the holidays. I told him yes, that I had plans. I wasn’t lying. I just left out the detail that those plans included him, or at least the version of him that lived in my head and that did dare to lock the office door.

I came back from campus with that tingling in my stomach, the kind that doesn’t go away no matter what. I kicked off my shoes at the entrance, tossed my keys anywhere, and felt the apartment’s silence like an invitation. No one was going to arrive. No one was going to hear me. It was the perfect day to begin.

***

The first thing was the beer. I took a can from the fridge, ice-cold, and sat on the bed with my phone. I had a few stories saved, the kind that help me get in the mood, and I started reading slowly while taking the first sip.

I took off my T-shirt. I ran the damp, freezing can along the outline of my breasts, drawing slow circles, letting the cold raise goosebumps on my skin before moving closer to my nipples. That’s the key with me: contrast, waiting. If I go straight for it, I don’t feel anything. If I make myself beg for it, the result is something else entirely.

By the time I finished the can, my thong was already wet and my breathing had changed. The words of the story mixed with the image of Esteban leaning over my desk, and I pressed my thighs together without even noticing.

I lay face down and folded a pillow to tuck it between my legs, right against my clit. Rubbing myself against something is one of my favorite sensations. I’ve done it against the sofa, against the corner of the table, against the back of a chair. There’s something about steady pressure, about moving myself, about controlling the rhythm, that drives me crazy.

I started slowly. Up, down, up, down. As the story got hotter, my hips picked up speed. I love drenching everything. The thong, the pillow, the fabric against my swollen clit. I closed my eyes and let myself go against the soft bulge, feeling how every pass lit me up a little more.

I had my little bullet vibrator on the nightstand. I grabbed it without stopping and tucked it into the fold of the pillow, so that every time I pressed down I could feel the vibration shoot straight to the bone. I started giving tiny little bounces on top of it, biting my lip, one hand on my breast, squeezing it.

I wish I had something to put inside me. As wet as I am, it would go in on its own.

I yanked off my thong and rubbed myself shamelessly against the pillow, blatantly, until that wasn’t enough anymore. I leaned forward and shoved two fingers inside me. There’s nothing like touching myself. The men I’d been with thought two minutes of clumsy fingers were enough to leave me satisfied, not knowing that my alone sessions can last three hours if I set my mind to it.

That night I had set my mind to it.

***

I kept moving on the pillow, but I started getting frustrated. I needed something thicker, something firm that would really fill me, and my only shaped toy had broken weeks ago. I still hadn’t bought another one. I cursed under my breath, my fingers buried inside me and my need on the verge of spilling over.

Then I did what any desperate woman in my situation would do. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom almost at a run, my legs trembling, and searched the shelf until I found a brush with a thick, rounded handle.

I came back to the bedroom with my heart racing. I got on all fours on the bed, pressed my face into the pillow, and started rubbing the underside of the brush, the part with the wide handle, against my soaked lips. I dragged it up and down, not pushing it in yet, enjoying the wait, while my other hand held myself open.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I slid it in little by little. I bit the pillow and my eyes rolled back. Nothing like feeling a little full. I began to pump it in and out slowly, measuring the rhythm, listening to my own ragged breathing.

There, yes, like that.

I adjusted the pillow again between my legs so my clit hit one of its ends every time I thrust. The combination was brutal: the brush going in and out, the constant pressure in front, sweat starting to bead on my back. I thought I should wake up like that every morning, swollen, wet, with something inside and my whole body asking for more.

I sat up abruptly so the brush could go deeper, and the rough handle scraped my ass cheeks as I did it. I took the bullet vibrator in my free hand and brought it to my asshole. I love feeling the vibrations there, that extra shiver that runs all the way up my back and raises goosebumps to the nape of my neck.

My legs were cramping and my back was drenched. I knew I was close, that that unstoppable wave was coming. I pulled the pillow away and let myself fall back onto the mattress, with the brush still inside me, held by my right hand.

***

And then I brought my left hand up to my neck.

I rested it there slowly, not squeezing at first, just feeling the pulse beneath my own fingers. I started moving my right hand faster and faster, listening to the wet, shameless sound of my body taking it. Yes, harder.

I squeezed a little. The pressure on my neck made everything down there feel more intense, more focused, as if pleasure had nowhere to escape to. I imagined Esteban on top of me, his hand instead of mine, his low voice in my ear telling me to stay still. Ahhh, so good.

I let go of my neck for a second to squeeze my breasts hard, lifting them toward my mouth and biting them. I love leaving marks, little proof of the moment, signs that will remind me the next day of what I was capable of doing to myself all on my own. Yes, there, just like that.

The brush was going in and out at a rhythm I could no longer fully control. My body clenched around it, over and over, tighter and tighter, more urgent each time. My other hand went back to my neck, the right amount of pressure, the right amount of air, and everything went white for an instant.

My legs started trembling for real, without me being able to stop them, and my hand lost speed on its own, defeated. I stayed sprawled there, panting, with my chest rising and falling and a stupid smile on my face.

What a way to get rid of stress.

I pulled the brush out slowly, still sensitive, and ran my fingers over my soaked pussy before bringing them to my mouth almost out of habit. I stayed like that for a while, naked on the rumpled sheets, listening to my own breathing return to normal.

I had two weeks ahead of me. Two weeks alone, with no one knocking at the door. And this had only been the first night. While I caught my breath, I was already thinking about the next thing I was going to buy before the next session, and how many more times I’d go back to imagining Esteban leaning over his desk, showing me everything he never dared to say to me in class.