The Fantasy I Fulfilled During the Heat Wave

It’s been ages since I sat down to write. I know, and I apologize in advance. Life turned me inside out over 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 still can’t quite believe actually happened to me. I fulfilled a strange fantasy, a slightly embarrassing curiosity to confess, one of those things you carry around for years without daring to try. 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, with brown eyes and dark hair. Nothing too striking if you passed me on the street. I’m the kind of person who goes unnoticed, and maybe that’s why my mind makes up inside what I don’t dare show on the outside.

A few days ago I started feeling ill. A dull headache, a throat dry as sandpaper, a stuffy nose. 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 structure at the back of my parents’ house: a room of my own and, attached to it, a bathroom that’s still only half finished. It has everything—a toilet, some kind of shower, the walls already up—except two things: the door and the water. The plumbing is still just a promise.

To avoid infecting 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 faucet just outside, stretched it inside, and that was that. Makeshift, 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 seeps into the sheets and won’t let you sleep. The water came out at room temperature, almost lukewarm, and you ended up getting 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 isolation were strange. With no one to talk to, no obligations beyond taking my temperature and waiting, the hours stretched 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, shut in and starved of stimulation, started asking for what it wanted in a more and more insistent way.

***

That afternoon the heat was one of the worst. I had spent hours sprawled on the bed, sticky, staring at the ceiling and cursing the fan, which couldn’t keep up. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I grabbed the hose, turned on the faucet, and let the water fall over me. It was an immediate relief, that kind of simple pleasure you underestimate until you need it.

I soaped myself slowly, without rushing, enjoying being alone and knowing no one was going to show up. The main house was empty: my parents had gone out and weren’t coming back until night. The bathroom without a door let in the white light of the siesta and the distant noise 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 wrap around me: the heat outside, the relative coolness of the water, the skin slick with soap. It had been so long since I’d taken a moment like that, without guilt, without a clock, that it almost felt forbidden.

As I slid 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. I kept soaping myself, now with another intention, sliding my fingers back toward my ass, something I hadn’t allowed myself to do in a long time.

I started slowly. One hand went up and down my erection, the other massaged carefully, my fingers slipping over the soap. I worked one finger in, then a little more. My breathing started to quicken on its own. And then the idea came.

The hose.

It was there, at my feet, spitting lukewarm water against the tiles. It wasn’t thick, the pressure was soft, almost a thread. And all at once I remembered something I’d seen more than once in some lost video at three in the morning: women who shoved a hose inside themselves and let the water fill them up before expelling it. It had always stirred up a strange mix of curiosity and lust in me. I had never dared. But that afternoon, alone, hot in both senses of the word, I asked myself why not.

Anyway, no one can see me. No one’s going to know.

I soaped myself even more, generously, making sure everything was nice and slick. I bent down, squatted, and brought the tip of the hose closer. The first contact was strange: the cold plastic, the water dripping, my own hand trembling a little with nerves. I pressed it in gently, without forcing it, while with my other hand I kept stroking myself so I wouldn’t lose my focus or my arousal.

It didn’t go in the first time. Or the second. My body resisted, as if it were as uncertain as I was. I eased up, took a deep breath, tried again. I played with the position, with the angle, masturbating at the same time to keep my body relaxed and excited all at once. And then, when I stopped thinking about it so much, it gave way. The tip slid inside and a shiver ran the length of my back.

I felt the lukewarm water pushing through, filling me slowly, a completely new sensation, uncomfortable and fascinating at the same time. I stayed still for a few seconds, taking it in, my heart pounding against my chest. Then I kept going. I pushed the hose in a little farther, moved it barely at all, and the pleasure mixed with that liquid strangeness until it became something with no name.

It was a mix that’s hard to explain. The soft pressure of the water expanding inside me, the friction of the plastic, the firm hand on my erection that didn’t slacken for a second. Each thing on its own wouldn’t have meant much; together, they made a cocktail that had me completely surrendered. I opened my eyes and saw myself reflected, blurry, in the wet tile: crouched, panting, doing something I had never confessed to anyone. And I liked seeing myself like that.

***

And there, in the middle of all that, I realized one detail I hadn’t fully processed: the bathroom didn’t have a door.

If anyone showed up—a nosy neighbor, my father coming back early, anyone at all—they’d find me like that. Squatting, panting, with a hose shoved up my ass and my hand busy with the obvious. The mere idea, instead of stopping me, lit me on fire. The risk, however unlikely, added a layer of lust I hadn’t expected. I started imagining footsteps in the yard, a shadow framed in the doorless opening, eyes discovering me right then.

I don’t know whether I wanted it to happen or whether I was just turned on by the edge of the possibility. Probably both. I masturbated harder, faster, while I kept playing with the hose, listening intently for the slightest sound, with that delicious tension of someone doing something they shouldn’t and dying to do it in full view of anyone.

The pleasure rose in waves. Every movement of the hose sent a different shudder through me, and the hand on my cock set the rhythm. I started breathing through my mouth, clenching my teeth, feeling everything gather in one single point about to burst. I held out as long as I could, stretching the sensation, delaying it, until there was no way to contain it anymore.

I came with a spasm that bent me forward. A moan slipped out of me without permission and bounced off the unfinished walls. I stayed there for a few seconds, curled in on myself, with the water still running 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 got my breath back a little, I carefully pulled the hose out. Then I sat on the toilet and let my body do what it had to, expelling all the water that was left inside. Basically, I’d given myself an enema without meaning to. The practical detail, in the middle of such an experience, almost made me laugh.

***

The curious thing is that, far from feeling satisfied, I was left wanting more. Now my insides were clean, my body was loose, and my head was full of new ideas. While I was writing this—because yes, I wrote it almost right away, still with my skin all goosebumped—I realized that talking about these things gets me hard all over again. It always happens. I can’t write a story like this without ending up masturbating again in the process. And I think as soon as I hit the final period I’m going back to the bathroom to keep exploring.

Sorry for any mistakes I may have let slip through; I’m still a mess when it comes to writing. I promise I’ll try to come back more often now that I’ve discovered that isolation and heat can be very good creative companions. But before I go, one question kept 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?