The Fantasy I Fulfilled During the Heat Wave
It’s been a very long time since I sat down to write. I know, and I apologize in advance. Life turned me upside down in the last few months: between work, exams, and that constant feeling of not having a single minute to myself, inspiration went down the drain. But today I’m back, and I’m back with one of those anecdotes that I can hardly believe actually happened to me. I fulfilled a weird fantasy, a curiosity that was kind of embarrassing to admit, the sort of thing one carries around for years without daring to do it. I hope you like it.
My name is Lucas, I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’m bisexual. I’m five foot nine, fair-skinned, brown-eyed, with dark hair. Nothing that would especially catch your eye if you ran into me on the street. I’m the kind of person who goes unnoticed, and maybe that’s why my head makes up for inside what I don’t dare show on the outside.
A few days ago I started feeling sick. Dull headache, throat dry as sandpaper, nose blocked. Nothing serious, but enough to set off the alarm. I decided to isolate myself until I could get tested and rule out the worst. I live in a little structure at the back of my parents’ house: a room of my own and, attached to it, a bathroom that’s still half-finished. It has everything — toilet, a sort of shower, the walls already up — except two things: the door and the water. The plumbing is still a promise.
So I wouldn’t infect anyone, I decided to use that half-built bathroom during the days I was locked away. I solved the water problem as best I could: I hooked a hose up to a tap just outside, stretched it in there, and that was that. Improvised, yes, but it worked.
On top of that, we were going through a brutal heat wave. The kind of heat that doesn’t let up even at night, that gets into the sheets and won’t let you sleep. The water came out at room temperature, almost lukewarm, and you ended up stepping under the hose two or three times a day just to be able to breathe. It wasn’t a luxury, it was survival.
The first days of confinement were strange. With no one to talk to, no obligations beyond checking my temperature and waiting, the hours stretched out like chewing gum. I read a little, stared at my phone until my eyes got tired, took long naps that left me more exhausted than rested. And my body, locked up and without stimulation, started demanding what it wanted in a way that grew more and more insistent. I’d wake up with my dick rock hard, crushed against the mattress, sticky with pre-cum, and I’d spend the whole day with that dull pressure in my balls, like I had a funnel open between my legs.
***
That afternoon the heat was one of the worst yet. I’d spent hours stretched out on the bed, sticky, staring at the ceiling and cursing the fan that wasn’t enough. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I grabbed the hose, turned on the tap, and let the water fall over me. It was immediate relief, that kind of simple pleasure you underestimate until you need it.
I soaped myself slowly, unhurriedly, enjoying being alone and knowing no one was going to show up. The main house was empty: my parents had gone out and wouldn’t be back until night. The bathroom without a door let in the white light of the afternoon nap and the distant sound of some cicada. I was completely alone in my own world.
The lukewarm water ran down my back and pooled on the tiles, forming a puddle that slowly escaped toward the unfinished drain. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the sensation wash over me: the heat outside, the relative coolness of the water, skin slick with soap. It had been so long since I’d taken a moment like that, without guilt, without looking at the clock, that it almost felt forbidden.
As I ran my soapy hand over my cock, I felt that familiar tingle, the one that has nothing to do with hygiene. It had been a while since I’d given myself a moment, and my body was demanding it. My dick started hardening at once, swelling between my soapy fingers, the glans peeking out red and shiny every time I pulled the foreskin back. I started jerking off softly, my palm sliding over the full length, squeezing just under the head, that damn sensitive spot that made me grit my teeth.
I kept soaping myself, now with a different intention, sliding my fingers back toward my ass, something I hadn’t let myself do in quite a while. With my middle finger nice and slippery I started massaging my hole, in circles, feeling it contract and relax, feeling it respond to the touch. My other hand didn’t stop moving up and down my cock, setting a slow but steady rhythm. I slipped the tip of my finger in and felt the tight ring give little by little. I pushed a centimeter farther and an electric jolt ran up my spine. I put in a second finger, spread them apart inside, and my mouth opened on its own in a gasp.
My breathing picked up on its own. And then the idea appeared.
The hose.
It was there, at my feet, spitting lukewarm water onto the tiles. It wasn’t thick, the pressure was soft, almost a trickle. And suddenly I remembered something I’d seen more than once in some video I’d stumbled across at three in the morning: women shoving a hose into their pussy or their ass and letting the water fill them up from the inside before pushing it back out, kneeling, eyes rolled back. It had always given me a strange mix of curiosity and dirty excitement. I’d never dared. But that afternoon, alone, hot in both senses of the word, with my dick dripping pre-cum and my fingers still inside my ass, I wondered why not.
After all, nobody can see me. Nobody’s going to know.
I soaped myself even more, generously, making sure everything was good and slippery. I rubbed soap over my hole, my perineum, my swollen balls, and all over my cock, until my hand slid over my skin on its own. I crouched down, got into a squat, and brought the tip of the hose closer. The first contact was strange: the cold plastic against my hot hole, water dripping between my cheeks, my own hand trembling a little from nerves. I pressed it gently, without forcing it, while with my other hand I kept jerking myself so I wouldn’t lose focus or desire.
It didn’t go in the first time. Nor the second. My body resisted, as if it doubted as much as I did. The ring closed up the moment it felt the tip pushing, as if it had a will of its own. I eased off, took a deep breath, tried again. I slipped my fingers out, spread one cheek open with my free hand to expose myself better, and with the other I guided the hose back to the center. I played with the position, with the angle, jerking myself at the same time to keep my body relaxed and aroused. Every time I clenched my fist around the glans, my ass opened for an instant on its own. And then, when I stopped thinking about it so much, it gave way. The tip slid in, two, three centimeters, and a shiver ran through my entire back.
—Fuck me, Jesus Christ —I muttered to myself, voice rough, unable to believe what I was doing.
I felt the warm water pushing its way in, filling me slowly, a sensation completely new, uncomfortable and fascinating at the same time. A thin, steady stream forcing its way inside me, expanding walls that had never felt anything like it. I stayed still for a few seconds, taking it in, my heart pounding in my chest and my belly beginning to swell a little. Then I kept going. I pushed the hose a little farther in, a few more centimeters, moved it just slightly, pulling it out and shoving it back in again in small thrusts, as if someone were fucking me slowly, and the pleasure mixed with that liquid strangeness until it became something with no name.
It was a mixture that’s hard to explain. The soft pressure of the water expanding inside me, the plastic rubbing against my hypersensitive ring, the firm hand on my cock that didn’t let up for a second. None of it alone would have meant much; together, they formed a cocktail that had me completely given over. I jerked myself with my thumb and index finger pinching the glans, then I ran my whole palm down to the base, then back up again, twisting my wrist at the tip, that thing I do when I want to come fast. The water kept going in, and I could feel my belly getting fuller and fuller, a hot weight down there clouding my head. I opened my eyes and saw myself reflected, blurred, in the wet tile: crouched in a squat, dick hard, red, clenched in my fist, with a hose coming out of my ass and water running down my thighs. A mess. And I liked seeing myself like that. I liked it a lot.
I pinched one nipple with my free hand and let out a short moan. I’d never dared touch myself there during a handjob, and discovering that it turned me on too made me grin like an idiot. I brought my hand back to my cock and sped up the rhythm.
***
And then, in the middle of all that, I realized a detail I hadn’t fully processed: the bathroom didn’t have a door.
If someone showed up — a nosy neighbor, my dad coming back early, anyone — they’d find me like this. Squatting, panting, with a hose shoved all the way up my ass and my hand busy pounding my hard cock. The mere idea, instead of stopping me, set me on fire. The risk, however unlikely, added a layer of filth I hadn’t expected. I started imagining footsteps in the yard, a shadow framed in the doorway that wasn’t there, eyes finding me right then, the look of surprise, the awkward silence before they ran off. Or worse — or better — someone who didn’t leave. Someone who stayed to watch, who came closer, who grabbed my hair, who replaced the hose with something hotter and harder.
I don’t know if I wanted it to happen or if the edge of the possibility was what turned me on. Probably both. I jerked myself harder, faster, my hand a blur over my dripping cock, while I kept moving the hose in and out in short thrusts, alert to the slightest sound, with that delicious tension of someone doing something they shouldn’t and at the same time dying to do it in full view of anyone. I imagined a huge cock going into my mouth while the hose opened my ass, and my balls tightened against my body, ready to explode.
The pleasure rose in waves. Every movement of the hose jerked a different tremor out of me, a warm lash through my insides, and my hand on my cock set the pace. I started breathing through my mouth, clenching my teeth, feeling everything concentrate into one single point ready to burst. I squatted a little lower, spread my legs as wide as I could, and with every downward stroke of my fist over my cock I pressed my ass against the hose, fucking myself, pushing it deeper. The water kept flowing in and there was no room left; I could feel my belly taut, the pressure searching for a way out. I held out as long as I could, stretching the sensation, delaying it, biting my lip so I wouldn’t come yet, until there was no way to hold it back anymore.
I came with a spasm that folded me forward. The first rope of cum shot out onto the wet tiles, a thick white strand that stretched through the air before splattering on the floor. The second landed on my own hand, hot, viscous, sliding between the fingers that didn’t stop pumping. The third and fourth came in spurts, slower, running down the tip of my dick and dripping from my balls. A long, rough moan escaped me without permission and bounced off the unfinished walls. My whole body was shaking, my ass clenching and loosening around the hose with the last aftershocks of the orgasm, my belly contracted, my legs turned to jelly.
I stayed like that for a few seconds, folded over, with the water still running, the hose still inside, the cum still dripping from my dick and my own panting as the only soundtrack. My legs trembled from the effort of squatting and the orgasm at the same time.
When I’d caught my breath a little, I removed the hose carefully, feeling every centimeter of plastic sliding out of my sore, sensitive ass. A little stream of water escaped behind it and ran down my thighs. Then I sat on the toilet and let my body do what it had to do, expelling all the water that had stayed inside in a long, noisy stream that made me laugh to myself. Basically, I’d given myself an enema without meaning to. The practical detail, in the middle of such an experience, almost made me laugh.
***
What’s funny is that, far from feeling satisfied, I was left wanting more. Now everything inside was clean, my body was loose, my ass open and throbbing, and my head was full of new ideas. I was already thinking about trying something thicker, about getting two fingers all the way in, about finding my prostate calmly and making myself squirt again without touching my cock. While I was writing this — because yes, I wrote it almost immediately, still with my skin prickling and dried cum stuck to my hand — I realized that telling these things gets me hard all over again. It always happens to me. I can’t write a story like this without ending up jerking off again in the process, and I can already feel my cock printing against my pants as I type. And I think as soon as I put the final period down I’m going back to the bathroom to keep exploring, with the hose, with my fingers, with whatever.
Sorry for any mistakes I may have missed, I’m still a disaster when it comes to writing. I promise I’ll try to come back more often now that I’ve discovered confinement and heat can be very good creative partners. But before I go, I’ve been left with a question turning over in my head, and I’ll leave it with you.
What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever used to give yourself pleasure?