The Night Mariana Imagined Her First Time

The lights were off. A thin thread of brightness slipped in between the badly drawn curtains and traced a pale line across the wall. Outside, it was raining, one of those fine, steady rains that eventually wipe out the city’s noise. Cars passed far away, softened by the glass and by the water, as if the whole world had withdrawn to breathe in silence.

Mariana was lying on her side, with 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 whole day to be spent replaying it: the way he had kept staring at her, the way he said her name when he said goodbye, the curve of his hands around the cup.

His name was Tomás. She had found out by chance, because the girl at the counter greeted him by name while she was making his coffee. Since then, the word had stuck to her, repeating itself in the dead moments of the day: on the bus, in front of the work screen, in the supermarket line under the rain that was beginning to fall.

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 be keeping a secret. But that morning had been different. That morning he had looked at her the way you look at someone you’ve already imagined 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 rose up her neck when she realized she didn’t want to look away.

Now, in the dark, she let him in.

What if that night she had said something more?

She closed her eyes and imagined him there, in the empty side of the bed. Not all at once, but slowly, the way things you truly desire are built. First the mattress sinking under his weight. Then the warmth of his body drawing close to hers, that contrast between the warmth of another person’s skin and the slight chill of the room air.

She imagined 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 feel his breathing mingling with hers, broken, restrained.

The scent of his skin formed in her mind with a clarity that surprised her. She didn’t know how he really smelled; she had never been that close, but her imagination invented it for her: something clean, warm, with a woody undertone. And with that smell came his hands.

His hands moving along her side, down over her hip, back up her spine. Mariana felt a real shiver run down her back and bit her lip. She was alone. She knew it. But her body didn’t seem to care, 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 the nightgown and, beneath it, her skin responded. Let it be his, she told herself. Let it be his fingers. And the fantasy obeyed.

She imagined his mouth descending along her neck to her breast. His tongue tracing slow circles, first around, then right on top. Her nipples rose against the fabric, hardened, sensitive in a way that made her arch her back slightly. Every brush sent a direct current to her belly, where something began to wake and tighten.

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

In her head, Tomás was in no hurry. That was the part that aroused her 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 brushed the hair from her face, kissed her temple, the angle of her jaw, murmured something she couldn’t quite hear but that still made her shiver.

She thought about what his hands would be like in real life. She had seen them around the cup, firm, with long fingers. She pictured those fingers unbuttoning her nightgown one by one, without hurry, while he looked her in the eyes so he wouldn’t miss a single expression on her face.

Her left hand stayed there, massaging her swollen breast, pressing and releasing in time with a breath that was no longer calm. The right, meanwhile, began to move down. Over her sternum, over her stomach, slowly, lingering on each 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 a moment. Not from doubt. For the pleasure of waiting, of stretching anticipation to the limit. Outside, a distant thunderclap rolled over the rooftops and the rain beat harder against the glass.

Then her hand slipped beneath the fabric.

The first touch made her hold her breath. She was wet; she had been since the first thought, since that look in the café that now returned to her mind transformed into something else. She moved her fingers slowly, exploring, and the fantasy kept feeding her: it wasn’t her touching herself, it was him. It was his fingers moving over her, his hand learning how she reacted.

Like that. Exactly like that.

She imagined him watching her in the dark, attentive to every movement, reading on her face what worked and what made her tremble. She thought about what it would really be like, the first time, to have him on top of her and let him take control. 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 pillow untouched, the sheets cold. And yet she felt him so close she could almost hear his breathing blending with the rain. She closed her eyes again. She didn’t want reality ruining anything.

The rhythm of her hand quickened. Faster, firmer. She slowly slid one finger inside herself and let out a muffled moan against the pillow. Her breasts were more sensitive than ever, every brush of the fabric a jolt. Her hips began moving on their own, anticipating what was coming, searching.

The rain seemed to set the pace. Constant dripping, intense, just like the heartbeat she felt growing between her legs.

She thought of his mouth. Of his hands. Of the weight of his body. Of the way he would say her name, low, in her ear, while she came undone beneath him. She pressed her thighs around her own hand and kept going, without pause now, her breathing turned into short gasps that slipped out between her teeth.

And suddenly she felt it reach her.

A heat born deep in her belly and spreading outward, gaining ground with every second. The heartbeat in her chest merged with the throbbing between her legs until it became one thing, one accelerated pulse. A tightening of the muscles. Then another. And another, chaining together, rising.

At the exact instant of the edge, his name flashed through her mind like lightning.

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. It finally ended, with her back arched and her fingers still feeling how her sex clenched against them, again and again, in waves that slowly spaced farther apart.

She stayed still. Exhausted. Satisfied. Her skin covered in a fine layer of sweat despite the coolness of the night.

It took her a while to catch her breath. The breathing returned little by little, deep at first, then calmer, until it matched the sound of the water once more. She slowly withdrew her hand and let it rest on her stomach, feeling her heart begin to slow down.

Outside, the rain had started to ease. It was no longer beating down: it only dripped, gentle, from the edges of the balcony. The world remained suspended in that damp, dark 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, barely trembling. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I’m going back to the café.

The idea made her smile in the dark. Maybe this time she would be the one to keep looking at him a second too long. Maybe this time she would say something. And maybe what existed only under the sheets tonight would stop being a fantasy.

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 gentle rain was lulling her. She let herself drift off to sleep, still smiling, with a few drops of sweat slowly drying on her back.