The Fantasy I Have When I Close My Eyes

The room has been dark for more than an hour, and I’ve been staring at the ceiling for that same amount of time without seeing anything. The heat of the day is still trapped between the walls, and the building creaks now and then—that old-structure noise that used to keep me awake but that I no longer hear. Water is running on one of the floors above. None of that matters. What matters always begins the same way: I close my eyes, and Valeria appears.

I don’t know exactly when this began. Four or five months ago, if I calculate badly. It was shortly after she moved into the apartment across the hall, in that building where the corridors are too narrow and you end up learning more about your neighbors than you’d like. The first time I saw her was on a Friday afternoon: tall, carrying her grocery bags as if they weighed nothing, with dark hair covering half her profile. I was going out to take the trash down and stood in the doorway three seconds too long.

Three seconds. That was all it took.

Then came the greetings in the elevator, the four-minute conversations about unimportant things. That she was from another city. That she worked in graphic design. That she liked her coffee black and found mornings difficult. I told her similar things. Neither conversation went beyond the landing.

But one night, just once, we arrived at the building entrance at the same time. She was wearing a dress I hadn’t seen before, shorter than the usual ones, and the streetlight outlined her in a way that made me notice things I hadn’t noticed until then. The fabric clung to her ass as she walked, and beneath it I guessed at the line of a thin thong, and lower down I also guessed at a discreet bulge that shouldn’t have been there and yet was. I understood something that night. Or rather, my body understood it, and it took a few days to explain it clearly to me: my cock went hard against my fly in the elevator, and I had to stand behind her so she wouldn’t see.

Now, in the darkness, my hand moves on its own. It’s a habit with routines of its own: the exact point where the pressure works best, the rhythm that lets me keep the image intact without my body getting ahead of itself too soon. I’m already fully hard before I even take hold of it. I spit into my palm, wrap it completely from the base, and start slowly.

***

In the fantasy there’s always a room that doesn’t exist anywhere real. Lamplight, a large bed, windows without curtains looking out onto no particular landscape. The brain needs a setting and builds one out of whatever it has at hand.

Valeria is standing beside the window, her back to me. She doesn’t turn around right away. She knows I’m there and prefers to make me wait, to let me get used to being in the same room as her before anything else happens. She’s wearing a thin cream-colored camisole, her hair loose over one shoulder. Her ass shows beneath the fabric, two perfect half-moons, and it’s clear she’s wearing nothing else.

When she turns, she looks me up and down with an expression that isn’t exactly a smile but works the same way. As if she knows something I’m still trying to put into words. Her eyes drop to my crotch, linger there for a second, then rise again.

—How long have you been thinking about this? —she asks.

—Months —I say in the fantasy, with the honesty I lack in real life.

—I know. It shows. You’re already hard and I haven’t even touched you.

She comes closer slowly, without hurrying. Her fingers graze my jaw, rise to my temple, study me as if I were something deserving of careful attention. Her other hand drops to the bulge in my pants and squeezes my cock through the fabric, shamelessly, weighing me like someone weighing a piece of fruit. In reality, I adjust the rhythm of my hand: slower, more deliberate. I want this to last.

—Are you scared? —Valeria asks.

—A little.

—Good —she says, without explaining why. She doesn’t need to explain it—. Take everything off. I want to see you.

I undress in front of her. My cock springs upward the moment I free it from my underwear, and she looks at it without hiding her interest, bites her lip, reaches out, and grips it at the base with two fingers, weighing it. A thread of pre-cum glistens on the glans. She gathers it with her thumb and brings it to her mouth without taking her eyes off me.

—Tasty —she says.

***

I kneel in front of her. This moment always comes, and it always takes me by surprise even though I’ve lived it dozens of times: the camisole disappears over her head, and there’s a whole body in front of me. A female body in every way I recognize as such: long curves, brown skin that catches the light differently at every angle, medium-sized, firm tits with dark nipples that harden at the first touch of air. And also, without any possible contradiction, a cock. Valeria’s cock. It’s part of her in exactly the same way as the rest, without qualifications, without reservations. Thick, brown, the veins visible beneath the skin, hanging heavily between her thighs and beginning to swell as I look at it.

The first time it appeared in the fantasy, I didn’t quite know what to do with it. Now I know perfectly well.

I take it in my hand. The weight, the temperature, the faint pulse beneath the skin. I stroke it a couple of times with my fist closed, from base to tip, and feel it harden completely between my fingers, the foreskin sliding back to reveal the smooth, pink glans, already gleaming. She lets out a small breath, almost imperceptible, and that single sound is enough to make my hand in the real bed tighten around my own cock.

I open my mouth and move closer. The first contact is gentle, just closed lips recognizing the warmth of her against the skin of the glans. I kiss her there, on the tip, and taste the salty pre-cum. I stick out my tongue and gather the drop forming there. Then I open wide and take her in. First just the head, sucking it as if it were a candy, my tongue working the frenulum. Then I go lower, the shaft entering my mouth until I feel the tip against my soft palate and have to breathe through my nose so I won’t gag.

The sucking begins slowly, my tongue exploring the shape, the clean, salty taste. I feel her harden completely between my tongue and palate, and it creates something direct in my chest, a satisfaction with no exact name but one I recognize every time. I pull her all the way out to breathe, put her back in, spit her out with a strand of saliva hanging between my chin and her glans. I rub her over my face, my lips, my cheek. She looks down at me and smiles.

—This is how much of a slut you get for me —she says, and it isn’t a question.

Her hand rests on my head. She doesn’t push. She only lets her weight settle there. The difference between those two things changes absolutely everything.

—That’s it —she murmurs—. Take it all the way down.

I keep going. The rhythm becomes firmer, more assured. I find the exact spot beneath the glans that makes her tense, and stay there for a moment, circling my tongue slowly, until I hear her make a sound that resembles surrender. I go lower, hold my throat open, rise. I repeat it. Her fingers sink a little deeper into my hair, close into a fist, and for the first time she sets the rhythm. She fucks my mouth slowly, thrusting her hips forward, pulling almost all the way out, then putting it back in. My eyes fill with tears, saliva runs from the corner of my mouth, and I don’t care about anything. With my free hand I grab her balls, massage them, wrap my fingers around them. She growls and presses me harder against her pelvis.

***

In bed, in reality, I’ve had my eyes closed for a while, my jaw relaxed, breathing through my nose. My right shoulder is working. My cock is wet with saliva and pre-cum, my fist sliding easily, and every few seconds I have to loosen my grip and slow down so I won’t come too soon. The fantasy now has the density of something that can almost be touched, almost be smelled.

Valeria tells me to come up. She lies me down beside her on the bed and shifts into place unhurriedly, and before I fully understand what she’s suggesting, I’m already understanding it with my body: she turns around relative to me, head to feet, and suddenly her face is level with my hips and mine with hers. Her hard cock points straight at my mouth, and mine is pointing at hers.

A 69. I’ve never done it like this, in any way, with anyone. But in the fantasy it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

We begin without speaking.

I go back to eating her with my mouth, this time from another angle, with my hands free to grab her hips and ass. I dig my fingers into her buttocks, pull them apart, run my thumb over her asshole, and hear her moan around my cock. She takes me between her lips and begins sucking me with the deliberate cadence of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing. The pressure of her mouth around my glans, the tongue running beneath it, makes me concentrate twice as hard so I won’t stop doing what I’m doing to her.

There’s something of pure concentration in this exchange: maintaining your own rhythm while the other person interferes with it in the best possible way. Valeria moans against my cock, and the vibrations travel straight to my spine. I do the same against hers without meaning to. We squeeze a little tighter, go a little deeper, competing at something neither of us wants to win too soon.

She brings her tongue to that sensitive spot on the frenulum that makes me arch involuntarily. She sucks me all the way, pulls me out, licks my balls one at a time, takes them into her mouth and releases them with a wet snap. Then she takes me deeper and holds me with my cock buried in her throat, and I respond by doing the same: going down as far as I can take hers, my throat working around it, swallowing the saliva pooling in my mouth, until we both have to breathe at the same time and stop for a second before beginning again.

My hands travel over her thighs, her hips, that curve of her ass I never tire of tracing with my fingers. I gently suck her balls, let their weight rest on my tongue for a moment, then return to the shaft. I run my flat tongue from her balls to the tip, wrap it completely again, suck it eagerly. She mirrors every movement on me with variations of her own, as if we were improvising over the same melody and each of us were adding something. At one point she lets my cock go with a wet snap and licks my balls, my groin, my perineum. She runs her tongue right behind them, where no one has ever licked me in reality, and I let out a long gasp that disappears against her glans.

***

My hand in reality has been speeding up for a while. My neck is tense, my breathing ragged, and my pulse beats hard in my temple. I allow myself to stop for a moment. I let go of my cock. I breathe. I touch my balls, tight and hot, then start again more slowly.

Valeria pulls away. She shifts on top of me, facing me, her knees on either side of my hips. She plants her hands on my chest and looks down at me with that expression she has when she knows exactly how difficult all of this is for me. Her cock, hard and wet with my saliva, bounces against her belly. She spits on two fingers in her hand and puts them between my legs.

—Get ready for me —she says—. I want to put it inside you.

I bring my fingers to my ass, find my asshole, and wet it thoroughly. I start with one, entering slowly, twisting it inside, searching for that spot I know is there and that makes my whole body contract. I put in a second. She watches me do it, takes hold of her cock, and strokes it slowly as she waits, unhurried, enjoying the sight. When I’m ready, she pulls my hand away and positions herself, resting the glans against my opening, applying barely any pressure.

—Are you sure? —she asks.

—Yes. Fuck me.

She doesn’t add anything else.

When she enters me, in the fantasy, the sensation has no real equivalent, but my body interprets it anyway: pressure that begins slowly and then stops being slow, a fullness that forces my lungs to make a different kind of effort. I feel the glans opening me, the shaft entering inch by inch, and when she finally has her cock inside me up to the balls, she stays still for a second, letting me get used to it. I dig both hands into the imaginary sheets. She starts to move.

Her hips set a rhythm that changes without warning. Sometimes slow, almost cruel, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in slowly, leaving me on that edge where you can’t take any more but still don’t quite reach it. Sometimes direct and deep, a dry pounding that shakes me all over, leaving no room to think. She grips my hip with one hand to control the angle and grabs my cock with the other, stroking it in time with her thrusts, and I let her, because that’s what she’s here for in this fantasy I’ve built exactly as I want it.

Every thrust brushes that place inside me that makes the air escape from my mouth, and she knows it, and seeks it out deliberately, fucking me there again and again until I’m panting uncontrollably, my cock dripping pre-cum onto my belly.

She leans toward me at one point. Her face close to mine, her hair falling to one side. The warmth of her breath. Without stopping her thrusts.

—What else do you want? —she asks in my ear—. Say it.

—Harder —I pant—. Come inside me.

—I already know that. What else?

I don’t know. Everything. More of this. Don’t let it end.

My body answers for me: I arch, embrace her, dig my heels into her lower back, and pull her closer. She understands and thrusts harder, her entire cock pounding into me, and I make a sound I hadn’t planned to make. She bites my neck, sucks my ear, whispers filthy things I don’t manage to repeat to myself because there’s no time left.

—I’m going to come —she says against my skin—. Inside. All of it.

—Yes. All of it. Empty yourself.

I feel her tense, thrust three more times, very deep, then stay buried as she releases her orgasm inside me in hot spurts. She fills me. When I feel the heat of her semen flooding me inside, I let go too: my cock, trapped between our bellies, explodes even though I’m not touching it.

***

In reality, the orgasm comes before I want it to, as always. The tension gathers in my balls, rises through the shaft of my cock, then spreads outward in a wave that doesn’t last long but is intense and complete. The first two spurts come out hard and paint my chest up to my neck. The next ones land in my hand and on my belly, running between my fingers. I keep squeezing and stroking slowly until the last spasm dies away, leaving only the glans, too sensitive to bear even the slightest touch.

I lie still.

The room becomes a room again. The ceiling, the heat clinging to the walls, the sound of water on some floor above. Valeria slowly dissolves into the darkness, the image giving way to the concrete facts of silence and pillow and the smell of my own room, now mixed with the smell of semen.

I breathe through my nose. Slowly.

I clean myself with the T-shirt lying on the floor, which is what it’s there for.

***

What I feel afterward isn’t exactly relief. Nor is it exactly guilt. It’s something more like a question I’ve spent months unable to formulate completely: if Valeria knew this fantasy existed, what would she say? And if I allowed myself to leave it, to leave the fantasy and enter the realm of real possibility, what would I do then?

I have no answer tonight.

But tomorrow I have to take out the trash, and the elevator is small, and maybe we’ll run into each other again. Maybe she’ll be wearing that dress, or maybe something else, and I’ll stand three seconds too long in the doorway as I did the first time, and at some point the following day, when the lights are off and the building is quiet, I’ll close my eyes.

And she’ll be there.