The Hidden Bag That Awakened My Fantasies

I was twenty-seven and still had never been with anyone. Not for lack of desire—that had never been missing—but because I had never felt free enough to take the step. From a very young age I knew I was different from the others. Outwardly I was the girl who smiled modestly, the one who lowered her gaze when a man held it too long. Inside, though, there was a locked room, full of things only I knew about.

My name is Renata. I’m slim, with brown hair that falls to mid-back, small, firm breasts with pink nipples that stiffen at the slightest touch, discreet hips, and a shaved cunt that by then I barely even knew how to open up for someone else. There are people who glance at me and file me away as a simple woman. But those who take the trouble to really look notice something else. Something that had been waiting for years, patient, for the exact moment to wake up.

I worked taking care of a couple’s son in a big, slightly old house, one of those with long hallways, dark wood furniture, and tiles that were always cold underfoot. It wasn’t luxurious, but it had an air that got under your skin. It stood off by itself, on a quiet street, with doors that creaked on their own and rooms that seemed to hold onto conversations from another era.

That afternoon the heat was thick, the kind that sticks your clothes to your back. The boy was napping and I took the chance to tidy the guest room, the one that was almost never used. The window was open and the curtain swayed slowly, as if someone invisible were pushing it toward me. While I was straightening a box of toys against the wall, I saw a fabric pouch with a zipper, the kind used to store cosmetics. Something was peeking out through the opening. Whoever had left it there had done so carelessly, almost in a hurry.

Curiosity pulled my hands toward it.

I opened it.

And there it all was.

A long vibrator, a muted pink, with a bulbous tip and a thick base for vibrating. Three silicone dildos, different in size and texture, so realistic they were almost intimidating: one thin one to start with, another medium one with swollen veins running along the shaft, and one huge one, thick as a woman’s wrist, with two heavy silicone balls hanging beneath it. A small bottle of lubricant and another thicker one, fruit-scented. A black silicone butt plug, shiny, with a conical tip that widened into a broad stopper meant to go into an ass and stay there. And at the bottom, folded with a neatness that contrasted with the disorder, a piece of red lingerie, sheer, tiny, barely enough to cover what was necessary. Thin straps, openwork lace, fabrics that promised to show more than they hid: a thong with the crotch open wide and a bra with no cups that left the nipples out in the open.

My breathing changed without my asking it to. What I felt wasn’t fear. It was something closer to vertigo, to that second before you jump into water from very high up. I felt my panties dampen all at once, felt my cunt tighten and throb on its own, looking for something to fill it.

I touched the vibrator. It was cold, but just imagining it turned on made heat rise up my neck to my ears. I picked up one of the dildos and held it in my palm. It was thick, veined, so realistic it sent a shiver down the back of my neck. I brought it close to my face without thinking, as if I needed to make sure it really existed. I stuck out my tongue and ran the tip over the silicone head, shy at first, then more eagerly, sucking it as if it were a real cock and feeling my mouth fill with saliva. My body reacted on its own, before my mind had time to decide anything.

I caught sight of myself in the wardrobe mirror. My blouse stuck to my nipples with sweat. My shorts ridden up in the crotch, outlining the lips of my cunt through the fabric. My lips parted, my breathing short, a thin string of saliva running from the corner of my mouth after sucking that dildo.

And that look.

That look was not the timid caregiver who came in every morning speaking softly. It was the look of a woman on the verge of spilling over.

***

I crossed the room and locked the door. The click of the bolt sounded louder than it should have in that silence. I sat down on the rug, my back against the bed, the fan turning slowly above my head, stirring air that never quite managed to cool.

I yanked off my shorts and panties without ceremony and sat there with my legs spread before the mirror. I looked at my cunt, glossy, swollen, the inner lips peeking out between the outer ones and moisture already running down toward my ass. I slid two fingers from bottom to top, unhurried, like someone probing unknown ground. I was already soaked. Already hot. I closed my eyes and let my imagination do what it had been asking permission to do for years.

I took the bottle of lubricant and opened it out of curiosity. The sweet scent made my eyelids lower. I poured some into my palm and spread it over my cunt, mixing it with my own slick, and a little more over the slender dildo, the one I had chosen to start with. I imagined the red lingerie hugging my body, the open thong leaving my cunt on display for anyone to see, the dildos sliding over me slowly, the vibrator turned on and buzzing against me, the butt plug becoming part of me, buried in my ass and shifting every time I breathed. Each object in that bag became a possibility, a version of myself I had never dared be.

And then, without looking for it, a face slipped into my mind and tore a tight moan from between my teeth.

The husband of the lady of the house.

A serious man, a man of few words, always proper. But with a deep voice that had shaken me more than once without his noticing, one of those voices that seem to touch you without touching you. I imagined him walking into that same room, finding me on the floor in the lingerie, my breasts out and my cunt exposed by the red thong. I imagined him standing there in the doorway, staring at me without saying a word, calculating, the bulge growing inside his trousers, and then coming closer very slowly, taking off his belt without haste.

I saw him lean down, take my chin, lift my face toward his. In my fantasy he spoke to me softly, in my ear, things I had never heard him say to anyone. Dirty things, direct things, that in real life would have made me blush and that there, alone, pushed me right to the edge.

Look at you, Renata. So wet, with your cunt dripping, and I haven’t even touched you yet. Look how slutty you are and you didn’t even realize it.

In my head he opened my mouth with his thumb and pulled out his cock right there, in front of my face. Big, thick, throbbing, with a drop of fluid gleaming at the tip. I ran it over my lips, rubbed it across my cheeks, took it all the way into my mouth until I felt it bump against the back of my throat. I, kneeling on the rug, sucked him like I had wanted to do it all my life. I licked his balls one by one, lapped the shaft from bottom to top, swallowed with gagging and with strings of spit running down my chest.

I, on the floor in the room, shoved the slender dildo into my mouth all the way to the base, soaking it with saliva, leaving it glossy, imagining it was his cock choking between my teeth.

Then, in the fantasy, he threw me onto my back on the rug and climbed on top of me. He ripped the cup of my bra off with one hand, sucked my nipples until they were hard and purple, bit them just enough to make me scream. He moved his mouth down the center of my chest, licked my navel, yanked the ridiculous thong aside and buried his face between my legs. He ate my cunt like he was hungry, sucking, licking my clit, tonguing inside me, slurping with his whole mouth on my wetness. I arched my back, grabbed his hair, pressed his face against me, begged him without words. And he took his time, as if he knew that each second of waiting undid me a little more.

I took the thinnest dildo and rested it at the entrance to my cunt, slippery with lubricant and saliva, and pushed it in slowly. It slid in easily and I opened my mouth in a long moan, feeling myself stretch inside for the first time in my life with something that wasn’t my own fingers. My own hand became his. I pulled it almost all the way out, pushed it back in, twisted it, drove it in to the hilt. I imagined him entering me with a slow, deep rhythm, holding my gaze the whole time, never letting me hide my face for even an instant.

“Like that,” I murmured against my own shoulder, not recognizing my own voice. “Slower. Put it all the way in.”

In the fantasy he laughed softly, gasping, telling me I looked perfect like that, open and surrendered in a house that wasn’t mine, with his cock going into me to the balls and coming out shiny with my juice. He drove into me with long strokes, then short ones, then pulled all the way out and slammed back in until he had me howling. I moved against him as if my body had spent years secretly rehearsing that scene, squeezing his cock with my cunt, rocking my hips, searching for the deepest point. I called him by his name without an ounce of shame, begged him not to stop, not to leave me half-finished just now that I had finally let go.

“Don’t stop,” I begged the empty room. “Give me more. Deeper. Break me if you want.”

I took out the medium dildo and replaced it with the veined one. It was a little difficult at first, I had to bite my lip, add more lubricant, push only a little and wait. When it went in, I closed my eyes tight. I felt each ridge scraping inside me, each vein dragging against my walls. I began to fuck myself with it using both hands, faster and faster, until the rug beneath me turned sticky and the sound of my cunt sucking the silicone became obscene, indecent, impossible to ignore in the house’s silence.

With my free hand I grabbed the vibrator and turned it on. The soft buzz filled the room. I pressed it against my clit, barely brushing it, and my whole body jolted. I left it there, holding it against the swollen little bud while I kept driving the dildo into myself with my other hand. The vibrator’s buzz joined everything else. The fruit scent of the lubricant, the sticky heat of the afternoon, the creak of the bed every time I leaned on it, the obscene splashing of my cunt opening around the silicone, the slow turning of the fan. Everything mixed into one current rising from my belly. My forehead was beaded with sweat, my hair stuck to my temples, my thighs trembling on their own, and still I didn’t want to open my eyes for fear the image would break.

I stretched my hand toward the butt plug. I put lubricant on its conical tip and brought it to my back, between my cheeks. I had never put anything up my ass, and just the idea had me ready to burst. I set it in place, pushed just a little, felt the ring resist. I relaxed, breathed, pushed again. Little by little, with patience, with the two vibrations—the vibrator against my clit and the dildo inside my cunt—lifting me higher, the plug went in until I felt the stopper press against my skin. I stayed still for a second, with all three holes occupied, feeling full, feeling used, feeling more alive than I had in my whole life.

In my mind, he held my wrists against the floor and talked without stopping his thrusts, repeating that I was his, that that afternoon I had stopped belonging to myself, that he was going to fill me with his cum from the inside until it ran down my thighs. He told me I was a hidden slut, that he had noticed it from the first day, that he would no longer be able to see me in his house without wanting to slam me against the hallway wall. And I, instead of being afraid, wanted him with an intensity I had never allowed myself to feel before. I begged him to come inside. I pleaded with him to fill me. I said things I had never imagined I could say out loud.

The thought carried me to the edge and pushed me over it. It came like a wave that split me in two. I arched over the rug, squeezed the dildo with my cunt until it almost broke, a strangled cry escaped against my own shoulder so as not to wake the boy. I felt the orgasm pounding in my clit, in the walls of my cunt, in my ass tightening around the plug, in the tips of my bristling nipples. It went on and on, reprise after reprise, until I was undone, with the dildo still inside and the vibrator buzzing softly against my thigh, and a dark patch of wetness spreading in the rug beneath me.

***

That afternoon I didn’t just touch myself. That afternoon I discovered myself. I opened myself. I surrendered to a Renata who had been locked away for too long and who no longer had the slightest intention of apologizing for existing.

When I finished, I lay stretched out on the rug, my body still trembling in small aftershocks, my chest rising and falling as if after running nonstop, my thighs shining, my cunt open and throbbing slowly. I took out the plug carefully, moaning softly at the emptiness it left behind, and then the dildo, which came out with a wet, obscene sound. The fan kept turning, indifferent. The house remained silent. And I was no longer the same woman who had come in to tidy that room.

I lay there a long while staring at the ceiling, feeling my heart slowly return to its place. Part of me expected shame, that blow of guilt I had always been taught to expect. But it didn’t come. In its place there was something new, a strange calm, almost proud, as if I had finally acknowledged aloud a truth I had been denying for years.

I cleaned each toy with a tissue, one by one, wiping away the traces of my saliva, my slick, the lubricant. I put everything back into the bag carefully, in the same order I had found it in. The vibrator, the dildos, the two bottles, the plug, the red lingerie folded at the bottom. I closed the zipper, left the opening just as careless as before, and put it back behind the box of toys, exactly where it had been. No one needed to know I had opened it. That secret was mine alone, and for the first time in a long while I liked having one.

I opened the window all the way so the air would carry away the scent of lubricant and body heat. I straightened my clothes, ran my fingers through my hair, looked at myself again in the wardrobe mirror. The same face as always. The same simple girl everyone else filed away without a second thought. But now I knew what was behind it, and that changed everything.

The boy woke up a little later, calling for me from his room in that sleepy voice children have after long naps. I went to get him, picked him up, spoke to him with the same sweetness as always. Outwardly, nothing had changed. I was still the quiet caregiver, the woman no one really noticed. Inside, though, a door that had been shut for years had just been thrown wide open.

Ever since that afternoon, every time I enter that house I feel the walls watching me. As if something is waiting, crouched in the silence of the long hallways. And I wait too, though I still don’t know exactly for what. I know the fantasy is not going to stay locked in that guest room forever. Sooner or later it will want out, looking for a real skin, a real cock, real hands that aren’t my own.

Because that is where, in that room no one used, I finally woke up. And I do not intend to fall asleep again.