The Night I Became His Fantasy

There are parties that start like any other and end as something you find difficult to explain. This is that kind of party.

I took my time getting ready that afternoon. I’d been keeping the costume in a bag on top of the wardrobe for weeks, waiting for the exact occasion. Long black wig, tight vinyl dress riding up my thighs, six-inch platforms. Strategic padding, dramatic makeup, everything in place. It was the first time I’d allowed myself to go out like that at night, to a party with people who didn’t know me beforehand. The anonymity was part of the appeal.

The gathering was at a house north of the city, in the garden of someone I knew only by name from the WhatsApp group where I’d been invited. Those third-hand parties, open invitations with little shared history, are the most interesting. There are no expectations. No image to maintain.

I arrived when the alcohol had already softened the introductions. Music spilled from inside the house into the garden, where most of the people had gathered in a crowd. I poured myself something from a table covered in bottles without asking what it was, settled into a corner, and devoted myself to what I like best: watching.

But that night, I was the one being watched.

***

The first was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of hands you notice before the face. He stared at me from across the garden with a sustained intensity that was anything but casual. I watched him hesitate for a second, make up his mind, and then do something very simple: tilt his head toward the door of the house.

It wasn’t subtle. Nor did he pretend it was.

I pretended I hadn’t understood. I turned toward the nearest person and started an inconsequential conversation about the music. He waited. When I looked back at him, he was still in the same place, with the same expression of someone who knows what he wants will come to him because he has time.

The second signal was more direct. A clear look toward the door, then back at me.

I excused myself from the conversation and followed him inside.

The inside of the house was almost empty. Hallway with closed doors, dim light, the noise of the party muffled by the walls. He was waiting in front of the last door. He opened it when he saw me arrive, and I went in without either of us saying a word.

Small bathroom. A candle burning on the shelf. He locked the door.

“On your knees,” he said. His voice was low, without emphasis, like someone giving a technical instruction.

I knelt on the tiled floor. I felt the cold climbing through my kneecaps and the vinyl tightening over my spread thighs. He unbuttoned his trousers unhurriedly, thick fingers working the button and zipper at exactly the level of my face. When he lowered his boxers, his cock sprang out, heavy and already half-hard, the dark, shiny tip gleaming. It was thick, with a prominent vein running along the underside, and smelled of hot skin and cheap soap.

“Open,” he said.

I opened my mouth. He grabbed me by the hair at the nape, twisted the wig into his fist, and shoved his cock all the way in at once. No warning, no time to position my tongue. The tip struck my palate, then my throat, and I felt the gag rising. My eyes filled with tears immediately, mascara beginning to run in two black tracks.

“Hold it,” he said, keeping me there for another second, buried, my nose crushed against his rough pubic hair.

When he let me go, I coughed, a long strand of drool falling from my chin to my chest. He gave me no respite. He pushed my face back against his groin, setting the rhythm with his hand on the nape of my neck, fucking my mouth with short thrusts and then long ones, deeper each time, until he made me choke. I could hear my own throat making that wet, obscene sound a hard cock makes going in and out, and I could hear myself moaning around it without having decided to moan.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Take all of me.”

He pulled his cock from my mouth for a moment, glistening with saliva, and rubbed it over my face, my lips, my smeared cheeks. He squeezed my cheeks between his thumb and forefinger to force my mouth open and spat inside. Then he put it back in.

I felt him swell harder, the glans growing taut against my tongue. He drove his hips forward once, twice, three times, and grunted under his breath. His come exploded in my throat, thick and hot, forcing me to swallow as he held my head pressed against him until not a drop remained inside. When he finally withdrew, one last spurt landed in the corner of my mouth.

He calmly adjusted his clothes without looking at me and left. The door closed with a soft click.

I stayed on the bathroom floor for a moment. Cold knees on the tile. The salty taste still in my mouth, my jaw clenched, something lit inside my chest that I didn’t quite know how to classify.

***

I went back to the garden. I fixed my wig in the reflection of a window, touched up my smeared lipstick, wiped away with my finger what had dried on my chin, and asked for another glass of whatever it was.

The music had changed. Something slower, heavier. People danced pressed together near the speakers someone had brought outside. I was at that precise point between desire and discernment: drunk enough to want more, present enough to choose. I could feel my cunt throbbing beneath the vinyl, wet since the bathroom, asking for more.

I saw him leaning against the wall at the back.

Dark-haired, massive, with the kind of beard that was a choice rather than neglect. He had a bottle in his hand and watched the party as if observing it from outside. The kind of man who is in places without ever being entirely in them. I like that kind.

I started dancing in his line of sight. Not facing him, not obviously, but in profile. Just enough for him to decide. I crossed his field of vision twice. The third time, he moved.

He said nothing. He positioned himself behind me and put his hands on my hips.

We danced like that for several minutes. His hands moved along my sides, pressing my hips against him. I felt his hard cock against my ass, outlined through the fabric, pushing between my cheeks to the rhythm of the music. He rubbed himself against me with no attempt whatsoever at discretion. His body was solid and hot. He smelled of something citrusy and clean sweat.

“Let’s go outside,” he suggested in my ear.

His friend, from the terrace sofa, suddenly sat up.

“Wait, me too.”

Damián—I’d named him that in my head—gave me a look containing something between apology and patience. I nodded slightly. The three of us went out into the street.

There was a stone bench beside some tall bushes along the side of the house. His friend sat down with the gravity of someone who had just found his ultimate place in the world. He lit a cigarette. Three minutes later, his head had dropped onto his chest.

The two of us watched him in silence.

“He’s sleepy,” Damián said.

“Looks like it,” I said.

We slipped between the bushes.

***

The darkness in there was thick and tangible. Leaves brushed my thighs, and the ground was uneven beneath my platforms. Damián shoved me against the trunk of the nearest tree and kissed me with an urgency that was anything but gentle. His tongue entered my mouth as though it had every right to be there. One hand went straight to my cunt over the vinyl, squeezing hard, feeling the heat through the fabric.

“How long have you been waiting for this?” he asked against my mouth.

“A while,” I admitted.

He put both hands on my chest. He paused for a second, then squeezed.

“Real?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied, and continued.

His hands worked with the kind of concentration alcohol has when it focuses rather than scatters. What he found beneath the vinyl and padding wasn’t exactly what he’d expected to touch, and that clearly didn’t concern him. He lifted my dress to my waist, slipped his hand beneath my thong, and found what was there. He closed his fist around it and squeezed.

“Look what you were hiding,” he murmured, almost amused, and began jerking me off right there, the tree bark scraping my back.

I unfastened his trousers with clumsy hands. His cock was in my hand. Hard, insistent, thick, pressing against the fabric of his trousers, pulsing in my palm when I freed it. I squeezed it from top to bottom, and he grunted softly. A thick thread already gleamed at the tip.

“Down,” he said.

I went to my knees for the second time that night. Cold, damp earth beneath my knees, stockings already ruined, bushes brushing my shoulders. Damián grabbed me by the hair with one hand and adjusted himself with the other, guiding his cock to my lips and rubbing it all over my face before letting me open.

“Stick out your tongue,” he said.

I stuck out my tongue. He rested his balls on it, heavy and hot, and made me lick them one by one while he slowly jerked himself above me. Then he shoved his cock into my mouth, driving it down to my throat.

Unlike the first man, Damián was noisy. He muttered, swore under his breath, gave me instructions that weren’t suggestions.

“That’s it, don’t stop,” he said. “Look at me. Swallow it all. Deeper, bitch.”

I looked at him.

“Good girl,” he repeated, and the word landed somewhere between shame and something that wasn’t entirely shame.

He fucked my mouth without care. I could hear my own throat opening, drool spilling from the corners of my mouth, falling in thick strands onto the vinyl dress. Every time I gagged, he smiled and pushed an inch deeper. He slapped my cheek with his cock once, deliberately. A clear test. I stayed still with my tongue out. He slapped it again on the other side, leaving wet, shining marks on my face.

“Do you want more?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. And I meant it.

He spat. A warm glob landed between my eyes and slid down my cheek. A gesture that should have made me stand up and leave, but instead produced something in me I still don’t entirely understand. I felt my cunt soaking my thong, running between my thighs.

He hauled me to my feet. He turned me around. He pressed me against the tree, lifted my skirt to my waist, and yanked down my thong with a sharp jerk that nearly tore it. He spread my buttocks with one hand, crouched, and I felt his broad, hot tongue licking from bottom to top, from my perineum to my ass, without ceremony, smearing me with saliva. Then he straightened, spat again—this time into his hand—and rubbed his cock with it.

“Stay still,” he said.

I stayed still.

What came next was without warning or gradualness. He drove his entire cock into me in one hard thrust. Sharp, immediate pain, like something occupying a space that hadn’t been prepared to be occupied. I screamed. I couldn’t help it.

“Shut up,” he said, without cruelty, as if it were just another practical instruction, and covered my mouth with his hand.

I bit my lip against his palm. I rested my forehead against the bark. I focused on breathing. I felt him enormous inside me, throbbing, stretching me in a way that burned and that, humiliatingly, was beginning to feel good.

He stayed still for a moment. There inside me, not moving yet, simply present, savoring it. As if he were waiting for something, or as if he simply enjoyed that specific instant when a body gives way.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“It hurts,” I answered.

“I know. That’s not what I asked.”

I didn’t answer. Because the truth was complicated, and my body was already processing it without waiting for my brain.

He began to move. At first slowly, sinking all the way in and pulling almost entirely out, making me feel every inch. Then faster, his hands digging into my hips, driving me against the tree with a rhythm that made my forehead strike the bark each time. The sound of wet flesh slapping echoed among the bushes, mixed with his heavy breathing and the muffled noises escaping me despite the hand still covering my mouth.

“Bark,” he said.

I stopped to process the instruction.

“What?”

“Bark.”

He said it without impatience. With the calm of someone who didn’t need to repeat himself because he knew he would be obeyed.

“I’m not going to—” I began.

He squeezed my neck with one hand. Firm, not violent. A pressure that was more statement than threat. With the other, he kept fucking me, harder, driving all the way in and knocking the air out of me with every thrust.

“Bark.”

I’m between some bushes at night, on my knees in the dirt, with a stranger asking me to bark, I thought. This is the most ridiculous and humiliating thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Woof,” I whispered. A tiny sound. A small, warm shame.

“Louder.”

He buried himself deeper. I felt his balls striking me from behind with every thrust, heavy, knocking against my flesh.

“Woof!” I said, my voice already breaking.

“BARK.”

“WOOF!” I shouted, and the sound blended with the distant music, the noise of the avenue, and the rustle of the leaves around me.

And in that exact moment, something happened. I don’t know how to describe it without making it sound like an excuse or some cheap therapeutic narrative. But in that precise instant—kneeling in the dirt, barking in the darkness, with that stranger fucking me all the way to the bottom and tears at the corners of my eyes from the pain and absurdity and humiliation mixed in equal proportions—something came loose.

Something I’d been carrying on my shoulders without knowing I was carrying it.

Damián sped up. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave bruises I would discover the next day. The final thrust was brutal, buried to the hilt, and I felt his cock swell a second before he yanked it out. He turned my face with his hand in my hair and came in thick spurts into my open mouth, across my tongue, my cheeks, and my wig, abundant semen running down to my chin. A short, sustained grunt as he shook the last drops against my lips.

“Swallow it,” he said.

I swallowed what was in my mouth. The rest remained stuck to my face.

“Thank you,” he said, and his tone was almost formal. He adjusted his clothes, buttoned his trousers, and ran his hands through his hair.

I came out of the bushes, wiping myself as best I could with the back of my hand. Damián’s friend was still asleep on the bench, the cigarette burned down between his fingers. I watched him for a moment and felt something I hadn’t expected to feel: tenderness.

I went up to the house. I washed my hands and face in the same bathroom where I’d been hours earlier. I looked at myself in the mirror.

The woman looking back at me had ruined stockings, erased lipstick, a crooked wig, white residue drying at the roots of her hair. And the eyes of someone who had just done exactly what she needed to do, even though she hadn’t known it when she left home that afternoon.

***

There are things that happen to you and that you know, while they’re happening, will tell you something about yourself. Not because they’re good or beautiful, but because of what they reveal when the filters disappear and what remains is you.

That night, the filters disappeared.

And what I was left being didn’t frighten me at all.