The Fantasy You Asked for in a Whisper

The fabric is fine but opaque, and what you can't see matters to you more than you expected. Lying on the bed's duvet, with your right arm free and your left tied to the headboard with a silk scarf, all you have are the sounds: the hum of the air conditioning, the distant traffic through the half-open window, your own breathing growing shorter with every minute. You're wearing a thin lace nightgown that barely covers anything, and although the room isn't cold, your skin has still broken out in gooseflesh. Your nipples stand hard beneath the lace, and you can feel your pussy beginning to get wet just from the anticipation.

Everything happened too quickly for you to process it properly.

Before I blindfolded you, you said one thing. You said it very quietly, your eyes fixed on mine and your jaw clenched, as if you needed to hear yourself say it to believe that you really meant it:

—Use me. However you want. In front of whoever you want.

Then I blindfolded you. And there was no turning back.

***

That morning, when we arrived at this hotel downtown, the idea didn't exist. The plan was to rest: two nights away, a new city, forgetting work and obligations for forty-eight hours. But we entered the room, left our suitcases on the wooden chest at the back, lay down on the bed with our shoes still on, and stared at the ceiling, and something slipped in between us. That thick stillness hotels have, as if the walls shut out the world and only whatever happened inside remained.

We went downstairs for a late lunch. You ordered the set menu and I ordered the same. We had two glasses of white wine that arrived very cold and went down nicely in the heat of the street. With the coffee, without either of us saying anything, you took out your phone and opened the app. We'd had it installed for months, but we'd never really used it.

—We're only looking, you said, without taking your eyes off the screen.

We started swiping through profiles. Couples from the area, single women, single men. You dismissed most of them within two seconds with your thumb. But you went back to some of them. You zoomed in on the photos, read the descriptions, fell silent for a moment with your lower lip caught between your teeth. I watched you more than the screen, because something was happening on your face that interested me far more than any profile.

We saved several. A couple in their forties with direct photos, her with a cock in her mouth and him looking at the camera, and a concise description that made it clear they knew what they were doing and weren't looking for complications. A dark-haired woman, shoulder-length hair, who appeared in the photos wearing lace lingerie, her fingers inside her thong and a crooked smile promising things. You said the photos seemed too staged, but you didn't delete anything. There was also a man who wrote well and had the kind of face that becomes more attractive the longer you look at it.

And then there was another profile. No face, just photos of the body of someone who clearly had no shame about it: broad chest, defined stomach, and a thick, veiny cock hanging heavy in the last photo, cropped just below the navel. You swiped past him in silence the first time. The second time, you went back. The third time, you stayed there longer than anyone would spend on something they were “only looking at,” your thumb hovering over the screen and your cheeks flushed.

—That doesn't mean anything, you said when you noticed me smiling.

But you'd already saved it, so I kept quiet.

We went back upstairs with the coffee still warm in our bodies and that particular state fantasy leaves you in when you've been turning it over for too long: your mind racing, your body lagging behind, a heat that doesn't quite know where to go. You let me take off your shoes slowly, then your pants. You were left in the new underwear—a white lace set you'd bought for the trip—and your T-shirt. We began touching each other without hurry, mouths against necks, hands searching for what we already knew. I slipped my hand beneath the lace and found that your pussy was already wet, your lips swollen, your clitoris hard and waiting. But it was when I bent down just beneath the left side of your jaw—that spot of yours, the one that always gives in first—that something in your expression changed.

—Why not? you said, almost in a whisper. Call them. Anyone. The one without a face.

And I understood exactly what you were asking me for.

***

Now you've been alone in the bed for a while, and you don't know how long. Time works differently when you can't see. You notice things you normally don't register: the creak of the mattress when you shift your weight, the texture of the duvet beneath your free fingers, the temperature of the air coming through the window as it brushes your exposed ankle.

You ask something. No one answers. You remembered too late that this was the deal: stay still, stay quiet, pay attention to everything you might hear. If you behaved, there would be a reward at the end. Or more than one.

Your nipples harden without anyone touching them. You wish you could reach them with your free hand, squeeze them between your fingers, tug them until they hurt a little, but you wait. The scene hasn't begun, and you don't want to break something that hasn't yet had the chance to happen.

The bedroom door opens.

Footsteps. More than one pair. Very quiet murmurs and a brief, contained laugh you don't quite recognize. The sound of the door closing. Silence.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you can't control it.

Who is it? Which profile? How could all of this have been arranged so quickly?

And when the first fright passes, the other questions come, the ones you didn't want to ask yourself: Will he like me? Will I live up to what he imagines? Will he get hard when he sees me like this, open, with my pussy already soaked? But of course they matter to you, because deep down this game between us is still a matter of two, even if there's a third person in the room today.

You also think the inevitable, given the situation: Will it be a man or a woman? Will it be the thick cock from the photos, or that brunette's tits? And the uncertainty swaying before you makes everything more intense, because every possible scenario has its own weight and its own heat.

Someone approaches the foot of the bed and pulls away the duvet covering you with a gentle tug. You hear a brief sound from below, something between surprise and approval, a whispered “fuck” in a man's voice that isn't mine, running all the way down your spine and squeezing your thighs together by reflex.

The zipper of a garment. Shoes falling. Clothes landing on the chair. More murmurs, muffled, conspiratorial laughter. And then another sound: the unmistakable smack of a hand on a hard cock, that wet, rhythmic noise you recognize from years of listening to me masturbate beside you in bed. Only this hand isn't mine.

After that, a silence that's too long. You strain your ears until concentrating hurts. And then you hear it: breathing changing rhythm, the unmistakable sound of two mouths meeting, something wet and slow that you can't stop imagining even though you can't see it. Then another sound, lower and fleshier, and you don't have to think long to know what it is: a mouth sucking a cock, mine or his, you don't know, but it's happening less than two yards away from you.

The bed sinks slightly at your feet. Someone sits on the edge.

There is no doubt now. What you're hearing are kisses, licks, muffled gasps from a throat being filled, sighs rising in intensity only a short distance from you. And over all of it, the wet, rhythmic sound of a serious blowjob, the kind done without hurry and with both hands, cheeks hollowed and saliva running. Your mouth is half-open, and you don't know since when. A low, involuntary moan escapes you, and you bite your lip to silence yourself.

You remember that at first you didn't want this. The hassle of arranging something like it, the discomfort of the unknown, the modesty. But now you're submerged in the darkness of the fabric, your pussy soaking the duvet beneath your buttocks, and what you're feeling doesn't fit any of the words you would have used before.

***

You start imagining. You can't help it.

You imagine him in front of me, kneeling on the bedroom floor, his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. You imagine me taking hold of his hair gently at first, then more firmly, pushing his head against my pelvis until he gags. You imagine me looking down at him with the expression I wear when something is going exactly the way I wanted. You imagine me telling him to open his mouth wider, stick his tongue out farther, suck me all the way down to the balls. You imagine me gripping his jaw, pulling my cock out of his mouth dripping with saliva, rubbing it across his face, his cheek, his closed lips, before thrusting it back in hard, all the way down his throat.

The thought makes you squeeze your thighs together. You touch your breasts over the lace, slowly, with the palm of your hand, then pull the lace down with two fingers and pinch one nipple directly, with nothing between us, trying not to lose yourself in the sounds coming from the other end of the bed.

You can hear more clearly now. You hear the muffled “mmm” of a mouth that's too full. You hear my low voice, recognize it even though you can't make out the words, that tone I use when I'm saying filthy things in your ear at three in the morning. You hear spitting, short breaths, the wet, greedy sound of a tongue roaming over swollen balls.

Is he doing it right now? Has he swallowed it all the way?

The smell of the room changes. There's something warmer, heavier in the air. Sex has a smell that can't be mistaken for anything else, and now the room has it: clean sweat, semen getting ready to come, wet pussy, saliva.

You hear the moans. You recognize mine among the others. You'd know them anywhere, that deep panting that escapes me when they've got me right on the edge.

The bed begins to move. At first with a slow, almost restrained rhythm, as if someone doesn't want to make too much noise. Then more defined, clearer, with no attempt to hide it. The springs answer. Someone says something very softly that you can't make out, but you distinguish an “that's it, keep going” in my voice, and behind it the unmistakable sound of a cock sliding in and out of a tight ass, that wet, sticky rhythm that can't be mistaken for anything else. And you slip your hand inside your underwear and confirm what you already knew: you're completely soaked, so wet your fingers slide, your clitoris swollen and throbbing, hotter than you can remember being in a long time.

You masturbate slowly. Two fingers parting your lips, the heart of your middle finger circling your clitoris with just the right pressure, without hurry. You want to stay on this edge as long as possible, at that exact point where desire and uncertainty mingle and every new sound is a little jolt climbing through your belly. You move very little so you don't disturb the bed, so you don't break anything, so the sounds at the far end can continue without interruption. You insert one finger, then two, and your pussy welcomes them without resistance, dripping over your knuckles.

You also imagine that he might be the one who has me now. That he's using me the way I might use you. That he has me on my knees, or face down, or wherever he wants, and I've let him in because that's what we both wanted this afternoon. You imagine my face pressed into the pillow, accepting what's coming, my knuckles white as I clutch the headboard, a stranger's cock opening my ass for the first time in front of you, even though you can't see it. You imagine me gritting my teeth at the first thrust, holding my breath when he pushes all the way in, moaning softly when he finds the rhythm.

The thought soaks you even more. You speed up your fingers, raise the palm of your other hand—you have to let go of your nipple to do it—and squeeze your clitoris again with your thumb while the two fingers slide in and out. A real moan escapes you, long and involuntary, and for an instant you're afraid you've broken something, but no one stops. On the contrary: the sounds at the other end of the bed speed up, as if your moan had given them permission.

You hear the rhythm of the bed increase. Whoever is there isn't hiding anything anymore. The springs groan shamelessly, someone pants aloud with that deep, hoarse cadence men have when they can't stop anymore, and the fleshy sound of pelvises colliding reaches your ears with brutal clarity. There's a very brief moment of tension, that two-second silence just before the end. You recognize it. And then you hear the sound you've been waiting for: a muffled roar, held between clenched teeth, followed by a pant from me that you'd recognize in a packed stadium, the one that escapes me when I'm coming. And over all of it, two, three wet lashes—the unmistakable sound of a load landing on skin, not inside, outside—and then a whispered “fuck” that you don't know which of the two it came from.

You squeeze harder. You're on the edge. Your pussy contracts around your fingers on its own, your thighs tense, and you feel that you're two thrusts away from coming.

But the weight leaves the bed before you get there, and you remain on the brink, trembling, your fingers still and your breathing cut short. A frustrated whimper escapes between your teeth.

Silence. The shower running. Footsteps. The bathroom door closing. The water stopping. The door opening again. Very low murmurs that never become clear words.

Someone sits on the edge of the bed, level with your hips. Two fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, a gentle tug on either side. You lift your hips without thinking, and the white lace slides down your legs to your ankles and falls to the floor. Now your pussy is bare, your legs spread, wetness shining along the insides of your thighs.

You hear someone pick it up from the floor and bring it to their nose, inhaling slowly. Then they hold it beneath yours for a moment, a second that lasts far longer than it should, flooding you with your own scent—thick, sharp, intimate—before letting it drop again.

Muffled murmurs beside the door. A very brief laugh, almost imperceptible. Among the whispers, you make out a single word: enjoy. Then the bedroom door opens and someone leaves without a sound.

The person who remains comes closer. They pull your nightgown up above your navel, leaving your tits bare, and you feel your nipples harden even more in the cool air. Warm breath very close, moving slowly down your belly, over your hip bone, along the inside of your thigh. You feel two hands opening your legs wider, positioning them wherever they want, without asking.

A tongue moves slowly from bottom to top over what has been waiting for it. Long, flat, soaked. It stops at the top, right over your clitoris, and stays there, making slow circles, the tip barely brushing it, exactly the way you like when you can't take any more. Then two fingers push all the way in, curling upward, finding the familiar spot, while the tongue continues without pause. A long gasp escapes you, almost a moan, and you feel your thighs begin to tremble on their own.

You're so wound up, so close to the edge, that it takes you a moment to register what you're hearing me say. I have to repeat it, my mouth still wet with you, my chin glistening, my fingers moving inside you without stopping:

—I already came. In his mouth. Now it's your turn. Come as many times as you want. Take off the blindfold if you want.

You don't take it off. You spread your legs wider, until your groin pulls, thrust your hips against my face, and bury your free hand in my hair. And I keep going.