The Night I Gave Myself to Myself in the Patio

I still remember the cold of that night with a precision that surprises me. It wasn’t the uncomfortable cold of winter, but a clean, almost transparent kind, the sort that wakes your skin instead of numbing it. I was in the patio, finishing hanging the laundry, my hands a little numb and the rest of the world asleep around me.

My name is Renata, and that was the first time I understood how far my own body could take me when no one was watching.

The house stood on a quiet street, the kind where not a single car passes at two in the morning. I had left the washing until last, as always, because I hated hanging it during the day. I preferred that dead hour when the patio became mine, when I could move around in my sleepwear without anyone seeing me, with only the hanging sheets and the distant sound of some dog for company.

I took the damp clothes from the basket one by one and stretched them over the clothesline. The gesture was mechanical, boring, repeated a thousand times. But that night there was something different in the air. The silence was so dense you could almost touch it, and the darkness wrapped around me like a blanket no one had asked for but that kept me warm anyway.

I don’t know when it started. Maybe it was the fabric of a T-shirt brushing my neck, or the cold raising goosebumps on my arms, or simply the absolute certainty that I was alone. But suddenly I felt a warm tingling that had nothing to do with the clothes or the weather. A small, stubborn heat born somewhere below my navel and refusing to go out. I felt my cock begin to move on its own inside my boxers, thickening against the fabric, searching for room.

I stood still, a towel half-hung between my hands.

What’s happening to me?

I looked toward the dark kitchen window. I looked at the wall separating my patio from the neighbors’, high and secure. No one. Absolutely no one. And that solitude, instead of calming me, turned me on even more. It was as if the entire patio were giving me permission.

I lowered the towel, one of the thickest I owned, heavy terry cloth that smelled of soap and night. Instead of hanging it, I let it fall onto the tiles. The gesture seemed absurd and exciting at the same time. I was about to do something I had never allowed myself to do, and merely thinking about it made my pulse race.

I sat on the towel with my legs bent. The cold ceramic seeped through the fabric, but I didn’t care. My breathing was ragged and my ears were alert to the slightest noise, although deep down I knew no one would come.

I slid my hand beneath my T-shirt, slowly, as if negotiating with myself. My palm moved up my stomach, recognizing every inch of warm skin, and reached my chest. I pinched my nipples with my fingertips, first one, then the other, in slow circles, and felt them harden beneath my touch until they were like two little stones. I pulled them upward, twisted them slightly, and an electric stab shot straight down to my cock, which was already pushing impatiently against the elastic.

A sigh escaped me without permission.

The cold of the night and the heat of my own hand created a contrast that drove me crazy. Every time the breeze brushed my bare skin, I broke out in goosebumps, and every time my fingers pressed again, an electric current ran through me from head to toe.

I turned over on the towel, slowly, almost as if I were spinning on a carousel, searching for a new position, a new sensation. I wanted to feel everything. I wanted that night to last as long as possible.

I’m alone. No one can see me. I can do whatever I want.

The idea intoxicated me more than anything else. There was no guilt, no hurry, no one to whom I had to give explanations. Just me, my body, and the complicity of the darkness.

With my other hand I moved below my waist, feeling for the waistband of my boxers until I slipped inside. My fingers found the tip and gently wrapped around it. It was already hard, pulsing to its own rhythm, demanding attention. I pulled it out of my boxers in one tug, and there it was in the open air, pointing toward the sky, the skin stretched so tight it seemed ready to burst, the tip already wet with precum that glimmered faintly in the little light spilling in from the street.

I gathered some of that moisture with my thumb and spread it over the entire head, sliding in circles around the glans. I shuddered all over. I closed my fist around the base and began moving it down and up with calculated slowness, squeezing hard on the downstroke, loosening slightly on the upstroke, savoring every inch as if it were the first time I had touched myself. My cock grew even harder with every stroke, and the wet sound of the foreskin sliding against my palm reached my ears like an obscene promise.

Before I knew it, I was masturbating right there, under the open sky, in my own patio, with nothing above me but stars hidden behind the clouds.

And I didn’t care about anything.

I felt brazen, daring, even a little slutty, and that word—which in any other context would have made me uncomfortable—set me alight like gasoline. I was alone, enjoying my body without shame, completely naked from the waist up and with my boxers lowered to my thighs, my cock out, hard and throbbing, giving myself the most magical handjob I can remember.

God, I love this.

I loved the feeling of my firm hand controlling the thing pulsing between my fingers. I loved the way my other hand kept torturing my nipples, barely pinching them, tugging at them, right on the edge between pleasure and a delicious little pain. I loved being, that night, the absolute master of my own pleasure.

I spread my legs wider, leaned my back against the little wall around the flowerpots, and without stopping jerking off, lowered my free hand to my balls. I squeezed them gently, rolled them between my fingers, felt them draw up against my body, dense and warm. Then I continued lower, along my perineum, the tip of my middle finger pressing that spot that makes you see stars, and my cock gave a lash between my fingers, spitting another thick drop of precum that slid along the vein underneath until it soaked my wrist.

“Fucking hell,” I whispered, and the word spoken softly in the middle of the sleeping patio seemed like the most obscene thing in the world.

I sped up my fist, spat into my palm, and grabbed myself again, using the saliva as lubricant. The slapping grew louder, wetter, dirtier. Every stroke pulled the foreskin back and left the head shiny and red, peeking out between my fingers, and I watched it, fascinated, as if the cock in my hand weren’t entirely mine.

The cold no longer bothered me. On the contrary: I needed it. Every gust of icy air against my sweaty skin multiplied the intensity of everything, as if my body couldn’t quite tell whether it was cold or hot and chose, just in case, to feel it all at once. The breeze hit my balls, wet with saliva, directly, and the sensation was so raw, so exposed, that it took my arousal up another notch.

***

I remember that sensation of heat with a clarity time never managed to erase. A powerful, overwhelming heat that flowed from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head, as if a warm tide were rising inside me and leaving me breathless. It was too much and, even so, I wanted more.

I writhed on the towel, arching my back, pressing my heels against the cold ceramic. I was so comfortable and so uncomfortable at once, so exposed and so safe, that the contrast had me on the edge of sanity.

I never thought I would fuck myself that way. Like that, with my own hand, in the darkness of my patio, surrounded by damp sheets swaying slightly in the wind. I hadn’t planned any of it. I had gone out to hang the laundry and ended up discovering a version of myself I didn’t know, one that dared to desire itself without filters, without guilt, without witnesses.

I changed the rhythm. Closed fist and twisting motions. Now I brought my hand up with a screwlike movement, twisting my wrist slightly when I reached the head, and lowered it with my thumb pressed against the vein underneath. My cock answered every variation as if it had a life of its own, swelling further, throbbing harder, spitting threads of precum that fell onto my stomach and stained my rolled-up T-shirt.

For a second I imagined someone watching me from beyond the wall. Someone silent, hidden, watching me jerk off in my own patio with my cock out and my balls exposed. The mere idea made me squeeze harder and pant more deeply. Then I imagined a mouth. Any mouth, faceless, sucking me slowly, its tongue licking the head, its lips closed and sliding down to the base, swallowing me whole. A hoarse moan escaped me, and I had to stifle it by biting the back of my free hand.

I sped up the rhythm of my fist without realizing it. My breathing became short, desperate pants. I clenched my teeth to keep quiet, although inside I was screaming.

A little more. Just a little more.

My legs began to go numb, that very particular stiffness that warns you the end is near. The muscles in my stomach tightened like ropes. My balls drew up until they pressed against the base of my cock, hard as stones. I squeezed my eyes shut and let the entire universe shrink down to that point of heat between my hands.

I was right on the edge. I felt it rising, unstoppable, a wave I wouldn’t be able to contain even if I wanted to. And I didn’t want to. God, how I didn’t want to.

My hand hurried through the final strokes, firm and precise, my fist a tight cylinder around my wet cock, and then the world split in two.

I came with an intensity that doubled my entire body over. I felt the first jet shoot out with such force that it reached my chest, warm and thick, splattering against a nipple that was still hard. The second landed on my stomach, in a long streak that tangled in my navel. The third and fourth didn’t travel as far: they ran over the head and covered my entire hand, slipping between my fingers, warm against the freezing air. I kept pumping slowly, milking myself, squeezing out every drop, and with every squeeze a little more cum came out, dribbling over my knuckles to my wrist.

I had to bite my lip to muffle the moan struggling to escape, and even so a hoarse, animal sound slipped out and disappeared into the silence of the patio.

I stayed like that for a few seconds, or perhaps minutes, with no sense of time, my cock still hard in my hand, pulsing through its final spasms, and my eyes fixed on the dark sky. The semen cooled on my skin, tracing shining paths from my chest to my pubis. With my fingertip I collected some from my stomach and brought it to my mouth, more out of curiosity than anything else, and the warm, salty taste made me close my eyes again.

***

Little by little, my body began to cool, to land back in reality. My breathing slowed, deep and steady, until it returned to an almost normal rhythm. The heat that had coursed through me receded like a falling tide, leaving me with a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I lay there a while longer, half naked and happy, my cock now soft against my thigh, listening to the distant dripping of some badly closed faucet and the rustle of the sheets in the wind. I wasn’t in any hurry to get up. I wanted to stretch that moment out as long as possible, to keep it whole and intact so I could return to it whenever I needed.

I thought about how absurd it would sound if told aloud. A person alone in their patio at dawn, hanging laundry and ending up jerking off with their cock in the open air, coming all over themselves like an animal in heat. But there was nothing absurd about how I felt. I felt free. In possession of myself. Reconciled with a body I had struggled to inhabit for so long.

That night I understood something no mirror had ever taught me: pleasure doesn’t need an audience or permission, only darkness, silence, and the willingness to dare. Sometimes the most intense fantasy isn’t the one other people star in, but the one you discover alone, when you finally stop judging yourself, when you accept that your own hand can fuck you better than many others.

At last I sat up. I picked up the towel, now wrinkled, warm, and marked with damp patches of semen, and set it aside to wash again. I wiped my stomach and chest with a dry corner before pulling up my boxers, feeling my exhausted cock settle back inside. I hung the rest of the laundry with a silly smile that wouldn’t leave my face. The cold was still there, just as clean as before, but I was no longer the same person who had gone out into the patio half an hour earlier.

I tiptoed into the house, closed the door carefully, and climbed into bed with my body still vibrating inside, the smell of my own cum clinging to my fingers. Before falling asleep, staring at the dim ceiling, I knew that dawn would stay with me forever.

And here I am, telling you about it for the first time, hoping you enjoy it as much as I still remember it.