The Night Mariana Imagined Her First Time

The lights were off. A thin thread of light slipped in between the badly closed curtains and drew a pale line across the wall. Outside, it was raining, one of those fine, steady rains that end up erasing the noise of the city. Cars passed far away, muffled by the glass and by the water, as if the whole world had withdrawn to breathe in silence.

Mariana was lying on her side, the sheets pulled up to her waist and her eyes open in the dimness. It had been a long day, one of those that drag on and on. But it wasn’t exhaustion that kept her awake. It was him.

She had been thinking about him since morning, since she saw him in the café and he looked at her a second too long before smiling. One second. That was enough for her to spend the whole day replaying it: the way he had kept staring at her, the way he pronounced her name when he said goodbye, the curve of his hands around the cup. Big hands, long fingers, and she couldn’t stop thinking about how those fingers would feel slipping between her legs, opening her, looking for her.

His name was Tomás. She had found out by chance, because the girl at the counter greeted him by name while she made his coffee. From then on, the word stuck to her, repeating itself on its own in the dead moments of the day: on the bus, in front of her work screen, in the supermarket line under the rain that had started to fall. Tomás, Tomás, and every time she thought it she felt a hot tug low in her belly, a tingling that soaked her panties without permission.

She had seen him on other mornings, always at the same time, always at the same table by the window. They had never really spoken. Barely a “good morning,” once when they happened to meet at the door, and that smile of his that seemed to hold a secret. But that morning had been different. That morning he had looked at her the way someone looks at a person they have already imagined naked before.

And she had held his gaze. That was what wouldn’t let her sleep. Not his smile, but her own boldness, the heat that climbed up her neck when she realized she didn’t want to look away, and that other heat lower down, between her thighs, that had stayed with her all afternoon like a shameful, delicious secret.

Now, in the darkness, she let him in.

What if that night she had said something more?

She closed her eyes and imagined him there, on the empty side of the bed. Not all at once, but slowly, the way things that are truly desired are built. First the mattress dipping under his weight. Then the heat of his body drawing near hers, that contrast between the warmth of another person’s skin and the faint chill of the room air. And lower, in her fantasy, the hard bulge of his cock pressing against his pants, against her hip, telling her without words what he wanted to do to her.

She imagined him placing his lips on hers. A slow kiss, unhurried, the kind that isn’t trying to get anywhere because it is already exactly where it wants to be. She could almost really feel his breath mingling with hers, broken and held back. Tomás’s tongue pushing in, searching for hers, tangling shamelessly, and her letting herself be invaded, already moaning into his mouth.

The scent of his skin formed in her mind with a clarity that surprised her. She didn’t know how he actually smelled; she had never been that close. But her imagination invented it for her: something clean, warm, with a hint of wood and a salty, masculine edge. And with that smell came the hands.

His hands running along her side, down her hip, up her back again. Mariana felt a real shiver run down her spine and bit her lip. She was alone. She knew it. But her body didn’t seem to know, and that was exactly what turned her on.

She moved her own hand to her chest almost without thinking. Her fingers brushed the thin fabric of her nightgown and, beneath it, her skin responded. Let them be his, she told herself. Let them be his fingers. And the fantasy obeyed.

She imagined his mouth descending her neck to her breasts. His tongue tracing slow circles, first around them, then right over the nipples. They hardened against the fabric, sensitive in a way that made her arch her back just a little. She imagined Tomás yanking open her nightgown, baring her tits, and burying his face between them before starting to suck one nipple like his life depended on it. He took it all into his mouth, bit down just a little, let it go with a click of his tongue, and moved to the other one. Every stroke sent a direct current to her cunt, where something was already beginning to stir, to tense and wet itself helplessly.

She let out a sigh. Low in her throat, almost inaudible over the murmur of the rain.

In her head, Tomás wasn’t in a hurry. That was the part that turned her on most: the slowness. She imagined him taking his time, discovering her little by little, as if every inch of her skin deserved a pause. He pushed her hair away from her face, kissed her temple, the angle of her jaw, whispered in her ear, “You’re so fucking good, I want to fuck you slow,” and she shuddered all over, pressing her thighs together to quiet the pounding of her sex.

She thought about what his hands would really be like. She had seen them around the cup, steady, long-fingered. She imagined those fingers undoing the buttons of her nightgown one by one, without hurry, while he looked into her eyes so he wouldn’t miss a single reaction. And then putting them in her mouth, those same fingers, so she could suck them like a tiny cock, coating them with saliva well, because she knew where they were going to end up.

Her left hand stayed there, massaging her swollen breast, pressing and releasing in time with a breath that was no longer calm. She pinched her nipple until a short moan escaped her. The right hand, meanwhile, began to travel downward. Over the sternum, over the stomach, slowly, lingering over every inch as if it had all the time in the world. As if he had all the time in the world.

It reached the edge of the fabric and paused for an instant. Not from doubt. For the pleasure of waiting, for stretching anticipation to the limit. Outside, a distant thunder rolled over the rooftops and the rain intensified against the glass.

Then the hand slid beneath the fabric.

The first touch made her hold her breath. She was soaked, her cunt dripping, she had been from the very first thought, from that café glance that now came back to her mind turned into something else. Her fingers slipped between her swollen lips, found her clit, and she let out a hoarse gasp against the pillow. She moved her fingers slowly, in circles, and the fantasy kept feeding her: it wasn’t her touching herself, it was him. It was his fingers opening her, his hand learning how she reacted, his mouth now lowering between her legs to lick her cunt from top to bottom, with his tongue flat, savoring her.

Like that. Right like that. Eat me whole.

She imagined Tomás kneeling between her thighs, his eyes locked on hers while he sucked her clit, while he pushed his tongue inside and pulled it out shining, soaked with her. He spread her legs wide with his hands, held them up, and gave her no respite. He ate her pussy like he was starving, with wet sounds, with his nose pressed against the bone, with his beard scraping the inner skin of her thighs. Mariana felt the fantasy rip a real contraction from deep below, felt herself clench around nothing while her own fingers played the part of his tongue.

She imagined him watching her in the dark, attentive to every gesture, reading on her face what worked and what made her tremble. Then coming back up, leaving a trail of saliva and wetness across her belly, until he was on top of her and had his hand around his cock. She imagined it thick, hard, throbbing, the red, glossy tip brushing her pussy lips from top to bottom, not going in yet, making her beg in silence. She thought about what it would really be like, the first time, to have him on top of her and let him take control, grab her hips and drive himself all the way in. She had never been with anyone like that, and the idea, far from frightening her, pushed her deeper into the fantasy.

For a moment she opened her eyes and looked at the empty side of the bed, that long shadow where she had placed him. The untouched pillow, the cold sheets. And yet she felt him so close she could almost hear his breathing mingling with the rain. She closed her eyes again. She didn’t want reality to ruin anything.

The rhythm of her hand quickened. Faster, firmer. She slowly slid one finger inside herself, and then another, and pushed them in up to the knuckles while her thumb kept punishing her clit. She let out a muffled moan against the pillow. Her breasts were more sensitive than ever, every brush of fabric a jolt. Her hips began to move on their own, anticipating what was coming, searching, riding her own fingers as if they were Tomás’s cock.

She imagined him finally entering her. All the way, in one thrust, sinking to the hilt with a low growl against her ear. She imagined his weight crushing her into the mattress, his hands pinning her wrists to the pillow, his hips driving first slowly, setting the pace, pulling almost all the way out and then burying himself in her again so she could feel every inch. “That’s how I wanted you, your pussy wide open for me,” he told her in her ear, and Mariana nodded in the dark, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream. Then harder, faster, fucking her mercilessly, the wet sound of their bodies mixing with the rain, her tits bouncing with every thrust, her thighs spread wide, his hands now going down to grab her ass and lift it off the mattress to push even deeper.

The rain seemed to mark the beat. Constant dripping, intense, just like the pounding she felt growing between her legs, just like the imaginary thrusts that were splitting her open from the inside.

She thought about his mouth. His hands. The weight of his body. The way he would say her name, low, in her ear, while she came apart under him. About how he would tell her to get on all fours, to show him her ass, to beg him to shove it back in. She squeezed her thighs around her own hand and kept going, with no pause left now, her breathing turning into short gasps slipping through her teeth. She imagined Tomás behind her, pulling her hair, fucking her doggy-style, spanking her until his handprint was left red on her skin. “Come for me, come on, come on my cock,” the fantasy whispered, and she obeyed.

And suddenly she felt it arrive.

A heat that rose from the deepest part of her belly and spread outward, gaining ground with every second. The beats of her heart blurred with the pulsing of her cunt until they became one thing, one accelerated throb. A contraction of the muscles. Then another. And another, chained together, climbing. Her fingers inside felt the walls closing around them, the whole sex convulsing, dripping, clenching, looking for something to fill it.

At the exact moment of the peak, his name flashed through her mind like lightning. Tomás. And in the fantasy he came with her, growling against her neck, emptying himself inside, filling her with hot semen until she overflowed.

From her mouth came a strangled cry against the pillow, halfway between a moan and a sigh, but so intense it shook her whole body. She finally finished, her back arched, her tits pointed at the ceiling and her fingers still feeling her cunt contracting around them, over and over, in waves that slowly spaced out. She felt her own wetness running down her hand, soaking the sheet under her ass, and she didn’t care.

She stayed still. Exhausted. Satisfied. Her skin covered in a thin layer of sweat despite the coolness of the night, her nipples still hard and her sex throbbing with the last echoes of the orgasm.

It took her a while to catch her breath. The breathing came back little by little, deep at first, then calmer, until it matched the sound of the water again. She slowly pulled her hand out, shiny and sticky, and let it rest on her belly, feeling her heart begin to slow down.

Outside, the rain had begun to ease. It no longer pelted down: it only dripped, gentle, from the edges of the balcony. The world remained suspended in that dark, damp silence, and for a moment Mariana had the feeling that the whole night had been holding its breath with her.

She opened her eyes and looked toward the window. The pale line of light was still there, on the wall, trembling slightly. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I’m going back to the café.

The thought made her smile in the dark. Maybe this time it would be her who looked at him a second too long. Maybe this time she would say something. And maybe what tonight had only existed beneath the sheets, with her own fingers inside her cunt and his name on her lips, would stop being a fantasy and he would end up fucking her for real.

She turned toward the empty side of the bed, the same one she had filled with her imagination, and closed her eyes. The sound of the soft rain lulled her. She let sleep take her while the smile was still on her lips, his invented taste in her mouth and a few drops of sweat slowly drying on her back.