The Fantasy That Left Me Shaking at That Party

I’m writing this because if I don’t, I’ll spend weeks turning it over in my head.

It happened four days ago. A costume party in an apartment in the city center, organized by someone I only vaguely know from a work group. It wasn’t the kind of party where everyone knows each other and plays board games. It was the kind of party where the music is loud enough that no one has to give explanations and the alcohol comes fast enough that everything seems possible.

I spent almost two hours getting ready. The long, dark wig, straight, reaching almost to my waist. The stiletto shoes — red, pointed, with heels so high that for the first ten minutes I walked as if I were learning how to use new legs. The silicone tits taped on with special adhesive, perfectly placed inside a tight black dress that left no room for ambiguity. The shaping briefs that gave my silhouette a curve at the hip I don’t naturally have. The red lace thong, so thin it was already brushing my ass with every step. The makeup that took me forty minutes to apply properly.

When I saw myself in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself.

And that was exactly the point.

I took a moment just looking at myself. The person in the mirror was a woman with a woman’s body, a woman’s walk, the look of someone who knows what she has and has no intention of apologizing for it. It was a version of me that only exists on occasions like that. It was also the most honest version I know.

I arrived at the party after eleven. In the elevator I ran into a man dressed as a vampire who let his eyes roam over me from head to toe and then looked straight ahead, as if he could undo what he’d already seen. I caught a glimpse of the bulge in his pants before the doors opened.

The apartment was huge, packed with people, with the music at full blast and the lights low. There was an improvised bar in the kitchen and several tables with drinks scattered around the living room. I poured myself rum and cola and started moving through the crowd.

I felt the looks. Not all of them were the same. Some were surprise. Others confusion. But some — the ones that mattered to me — were something completely different. The way a man looks when he’s already making a decision.

I blended in with the crowd. I talked with some people, laughed with others. It was the kind of atmosphere where time moves differently: fast and slow at the same time. The music made the floor vibrate lightly. The costumes made everyone seem freer, more allowed.

After midnight, I noticed him.

He was leaning against a wall near the bar, holding a glass he wasn’t drinking from. Average height, several days’ worth of beard, dark T-shirt tight across his chest. He wasn’t the kind of man who walks into a room and fills it. He was the kind who waits, watches, and when he acts already knows exactly what’s going to happen.

He was looking at me without hiding it.

I looked away. I pretended to be very interested in the conversation beside me. When I looked back at him, he was still there, and this time he gave a subtle nod toward the hallway at the back.

I’m not going to do that, I thought.

A few minutes passed. I looked at him again almost by accident. This time it wasn’t subtle. It was a direct look, with no questions, telling me exactly what he wanted and exactly where.

The hallway. The back bathroom. The half-open door with the light on.

I waited two more minutes. Finished my drink. Excused myself from the conversation and walked toward the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind me.

There was no conversation. No introductions. A hand on my shoulder, firm, pushing me down. It wasn’t even a question. It was a foregone conclusion I had already accepted before I walked into the bathroom.

I dropped to my knees on the cold tiles. My dress rode up my thighs and the shaping briefs pressed against my crotch.

He undid his fly with two fingers and pulled his cock out directly, no underwear, as if he’d known he was going to use it sometime that night. It was thick, dark, veins standing out, the tip already shiny with pre-cum. He held it in front of my face without saying a word.

I ran my tongue from the base to the glans, slowly, tasting the salty sweat mixed with something more intimate. I took him into my mouth little by little, accepting him centimeter by centimeter, and he let out a deep sound from his throat that went straight to the center of my body.

—Just like that, suck it —he said, in a low voice that left no room for argument.

I started sucking him with hunger. Saliva dripped from my chin and onto my fake tits. I ran my tongue over the frenulum, licked his balls, took him all the way back in until the tip hit the back of my throat and I had to breathe through my nose so I wouldn’t choke. He watched me from above with narrowed eyes, savoring every gag.

He didn’t move my head. He didn’t pull my hair. He just let me do the work, one hand on the wall and his eyes half-closed. His cock got even harder between my lips, hotter, fuller. I felt him starting to tremble when he was close.

—Swallow it —he said through clenched teeth.

He drove himself deep into my mouth and came with a hard jolt. The hot semen filled my tongue, thick, salty, and I swallowed as much as I could without taking him out. A thread escaped from the corner of my mouth and slid down to my chin. He stayed inside a few seconds longer, moving only slightly, squeezing out the last drops against my palate.

When he was done, he wiped the tip with toilet paper, threw it over my shoulder, adjusted his clothes, and left without looking at me.

I stayed a moment in front of the bathroom mirror.

The mascara slightly smudged. The wig a little askew. The semen at the corner of my lips, which I wiped away with my finger and licked off without thinking. And something on my face that wasn’t shame.

It was something else.

***

I went back to the living room with a feeling that had no clear name but took up a lot of space. I could still taste the semen in my throat and feel the warm wetness between my legs.

I found him without looking for him: tall, brown-skinned, broad-shouldered, with that kind of physical confidence that doesn’t need to show off. He was standing near the center of the room, looking at the dance floor. When I looked at him, he was already looking at me.

I went over. There was no plan, no strategy. Just the impulse to move toward him.

We started dancing in that space almost by unspoken agreement. His hand settled on my hip naturally, as if we’d been doing it for months. I felt the heat of his body against my back, and something else growing with every beat of the music: a hard, thick bulge pressing against my ass through the dress.

—You’ve got a big one —I said in his ear, my mouth near his neck, moving my hips back to rub myself against his cock.

I felt him tense for a moment and then he laughed, very low.

—You want it? —he asked, squeezing me harder against him.

—Let’s go outside for a smoke —I suggested.

As we made our way out, a friend of his appeared out of nowhere. He was tall too, good-looking despite how drunk he was, with eyes already half-lidded from alcohol. He joined us without asking.

We went out into an interior garden in the building. There was a stone bench and some tall plants that made a dark corner in one side. The friend sat on the bench, took out a cigarette, and put it to his lips. By the time he had lit half of it, his eyes were already closed.

We looked at each other for a second.

We slipped in between the plants.

He shoved me against the wall with one flat hand on my chest. His lips dropped to my neck, my collarbone, the top of the dress, sucking hard, leaving marks I’d have to cover with makeup for days. My hands found the buttons of his shirt and then the buckle of his belt.

—Nice —he murmured, his hands on my tits, squeezing them.

He yanked down my neckline and pulled my silicone tits out over the bra. He grabbed them hard, squeezed them, bit them without care, ran his tongue over my chest. Desire does curious things: it didn’t matter that they were fake. What mattered was the way he looked at me while he groped them. As if I were completely his.

I opened his pants and slipped my hand into his boxer briefs. I wrapped my palm around his cock. Thick, tense, throbbing, much bigger than the one in the bathroom. I pulled it out into the open and started stroking it slowly, feeling it grow harder with every movement.

—Down —he said, pushing me by the shoulders toward the ground.

I went down.

I knelt on the cold earth of the garden. My briefs had ridden up and the thong was wedged between my ass cheeks. I took his cock with both hands and brought it to my mouth. I started with the tip, sucking the swollen glans, circling the edge with my tongue, and then I took him in all the way.

I took him into my mouth and he started moving. Slowly at first, with his hands on my neck setting the rhythm. Then deeper and faster, fucking my mouth like it was a cunt. With one hand he held my head. With the other he slapped my cheek, softly, then again. He brushed my lips with the tip and shoved it back in, all the way to the back of my throat, until tears sprang to my eyes and saliva ran down my chin and onto my tits.

He yanked my hair from the roots, so hard I felt like the wig was going to come off entirely.

—Whore —he said, voice rough—. Fucking whore, look at how you suck it.

He pulled his cock out of my mouth, slapped my lips with it, and spat in my face. The hot spit slid down my cheek to my chest. I opened my mouth wider, tongue out, begging him to put it back in.

I should want him to stop, I thought. I don’t want him to stop.

He hauled me up by one arm, turned me around, and shoved me face-first against the wall. He yanked my dress up with one hand, pulled my shaping briefs down to my knees in one motion, and tore off my red lace thong with two fingers. He spat between my ass cheeks, twice, and with his thumb smeared the saliva over my hole.

—This is what you wanted —he growled, his voice different now.

I felt the tip of his cock press against my ass. Thick, insistent, with no lubrication besides the spit.

He drove in all at once.

The pain came before anything else. A white, dry pain that shot through me from my asshole to the pit of my stomach. I clung to the wall with my fingers, looking for something to hold onto and finding nothing. My body protested in a raw, direct way. The tears came on their own.

—Take it out —I begged, voice breaking.

—You wanted this, right? —he answered.

—It hurts.

—I know —he said, and pushed deeper.

He held my hips with both hands and drove into me without pause. Every thrust tore a broken moan out of me. My teeth were clenched. My knees were in the dirt. The stockings had torn at some point I hadn’t even noticed. I could feel my ass opening around his cock, the pain mutating into something stranger, denser, a mixture I didn’t know how to name.

He ran a hand around to the front and grabbed my cock, small and hard under the wrinkled briefs. He squeezed it in his palm while he kept fucking me from behind.

—Look at how hard you are —he laughed—. You’re soaking wet. You like it, whore.

And it was true. Pre-cum was dripping onto his hand and I couldn’t deny it.

—Bark —he told me.

I froze for a second.

—What?

—Bark. Like what you are tonight.

—I’m not going to…

He squeezed my neck from behind with one hand. Not hard enough to choke me. Hard enough to make me understand it wasn’t a question. The other hand kept pounding me against his cock.

—If you don’t do it, I’ll hit you. And you know I mean it.

There was a strange silence between us. I could hear the distant music from the apartment upstairs. The traffic on the street. My own ragged breathing. His friend asleep on the bench four meters away from us.

—Woof —I whispered.

—Louder.

—Woof! —I yelled, my face wet with tears.

He laughed. A laugh from deep in his chest. And he kept moving inside me while I barked, with my knees scraped on the dirt, the wig half fallen off, mascara running, and my dress lifted to my waist. Each thrust tore a broken bark out of me, half pain, half something else.

—Woof —I cried—. Woof. Woof.

—Good bitch —he said, squeezing my neck harder—. Good dirty bitch.

He dug his fingers into my hips and sped up. His cock went in all the way, to the base, each thrust a lash. I could feel his balls hitting my perineum. I could feel him swelling inside me, getting even thicker when he was close to the end.

He turned me around.

He put me on my knees in front of him, both hands in my wig, and jerked himself off furiously over my face. My mouth was open, tongue out, eyes closed waiting for it. He let out an animal growl and came all over me. Hot streams on my forehead, my eyelids, my cheek, my mouth. Thick, a lot, more than I expected. He smeared his cockhead all over my face, rubbing it over my lips, my chin, mixing it with my tears and mascara.

—Swallow it —he said, putting the tip in my mouth.

I sucked the last of him down, obedient, with semen running down my neck to my fake tits.

I stayed there, on the earth, not moving.

Dirty. Sore. Completely wrecked. My ass throbbing and my face dripping with semen.

When I lifted my head, he was already walking back toward the building, fastening his pants. There was no goodbye. Nothing. His friend was still asleep on the bench with the dead cigarette between his fingers.

***

I walked home with my heels in my hand and my torn stockings dragged under my arm. It took me twenty minutes to get there. I didn’t take a taxi.

I needed the cold and the time. I could feel the semen drying on my skin, the other man’s cock still throbbing inside my ass even though it had been gone for a while.

What I can’t get over isn’t what happened. It’s what I felt while it was happening. The pain was real. The humiliation was real. The tears were real. And it was also real that at no point did I want it to end.

I can’t really explain that.

I only know that that night I was in the dark garden of a building in the city center, with my knees in the dirt and my wig half fallen off, barking in the dark for a man whose name I don’t know. And that when I went home with my mascara running and my body aching, I felt more complete than I had in a long time.

I don’t know whether that says something about me. It probably does.

But I am writing it down. And that counts for something too.