What I Imagine Every Night Before Falling Asleep

My name is Renata, and I have a habit I would never confess to anyone. Every night, when the apartment falls silent and the only light is the one from my phone, I open a story and let my hand drift slowly down beneath the sheet. I can’t fall asleep any other way. It’s like praying, but in reverse.

I always look for the same kind of story. I don’t want romance or candles or a man who asks permission. I want to read about a woman being treated like nothing, about filthy talk, about being used even when she says no. I want to read about hard cocks going all the way in, cunt juice running, men filling a woman’s mouth and forcing her to swallow. And while I read, I stop being myself. I become her, the protagonist, the slut who takes all of it and begs for more with drool running down her chin.

I’m a filthy pig and I know it. That’s why I like it.

By day, no one would guess. I work in an office, answer the phone, wear blouses buttoned to the neck, and say “good morning” with a measured smile. My coworkers see me as the quiet girl, the one who never says anything about her life. And they’re only half wrong: I don’t tell them anything because what I have to tell isn’t something you tell. It lives here, in bed, between the sheet and the phone, between my fingers shoved to the knuckles into a soaked cunt, in these hours when the rest of the world is asleep and I transform into the slut I am deep down.

I haven’t had a partner for almost two years. I had something with a guy who was sweet, attentive, one of those who ask three times if you’re okay, who licks your pussy timidly and fucks you like he’s apologizing. And I got bored to death. I never knew how to tell him I needed the opposite, that I wanted him to grab my hair and shut me up with his cock, to ask me nothing, to spread my legs and shove it in without warning. I never told him. I left him and went back to my habit, which at least doesn’t disappoint me.

That particular night the heat was heavy. I’d left the window slightly open and the fan was turning, not doing much good. I was lying on my back, legs open, one hand holding the phone and the other between my thighs, two fingers already inside, moving them slowly, feeling the wetness run down my ass crack and stain the sheet. I was wearing little more than an old T-shirt that rode up to my navel, my hard nipples standing out against the fabric.

The story I was reading told of a woman alone in her house, watched by someone from the darkness. And there, almost without realizing it, I started building my own version on top of the words.

***

In my head, there’s a man standing in the corner of my room. I can’t see his face. The dimness swallows it, and that makes him better. I can only make out the silhouette, the broad shoulders, the glint of his eyes following every movement of my hand, and the bulge growing against his pants.

He’s been there a while without my noticing, watching me slide two fingers slowly into my cunt while I bite the collar of my T-shirt so I won’t make a sound. I pull them out shining with slick, bring them to my mouth, and suck them one by one, looking toward the darkness where I know he is. Because in my fantasy the walls are thin and the neighbors hear every moan, every slosh, and that matters to me and doesn’t matter to me at once. Let them hear. Let them know the quiet girl from six is burying her fingers all the way in.

When I finally see him, I don’t scream. I don’t cover myself. I look at him and keep going, because him being there is exactly what I needed. I yank off my T-shirt and I’m naked for him. My breasts fall heavy to either side every time I arch my back, my nipples hard as stones. I grab one with my free hand, squeeze it, pinch it hard until it hurts. With the other I go back down, three fingers now, opening myself, letting him see clearly how they slide in and out, gleaming.

He doesn’t move. He only drops one hand and opens his pants. I watch his cock come out, long, thick, the head already wet. He starts stroking himself slowly, all the way up and down the shaft, as if we had all night.

—Keep going —he says. That’s the only thing he says—. Don’t stop for me. Open your legs wide. I want to see everything.

And I obey. I raise my knees, spread them to the edges of the mattress, expose myself completely. With two fingers I part the lips of my cunt so the swollen clit shows, throbbing. With the other fingers I work myself there, quick circles, faster and faster each time. I speed up the rubbing of my thumb and he speeds up his hand on his cock, the two of us in the same rhythm, separated by three meters of darkness that feel like nothing. I hear myself: the wet slapping of my fingers going in and out, my rough breathing, the rustle of his fist jerking off. I come like that, looking at him, biting my lip so I won’t scream, feeling the orgasm rise from my cunt to my nipples. My legs tremble and fall open on the mattress, soaked, shining with slick all the way to my thighs.

But it isn’t enough for him. It never is, because I invent him for that.

***

At last he comes closer. I hear him more than I see him: the rustle of clothes falling, the weight of one foot and then the other. I’m still recovering, face down now, my cheek buried in the pillow, my ass lifted without my noticing. I feel the mattress dip with his knee between my legs, forcing them wider.

His hands take my hips and lift me just enough, place my body where he wants it: on all fours, my back arched, my ass held high. He doesn’t ask. One hand pushes my nape down into the pillow and the other spreads my cheeks. I feel his cock press against my slit, slide up and down between my soaked lips, getting wet all over with my slick, teasing my clit with the tip. He makes me wait. He knows I’m asking for it in silence.

When he finally enters, he goes in with one single thrust, all the way to the base. My mouth opens for air and a rough howl slips out of my throat before I can stop it. I feel him slam into my depths, so far in it hurts and feels good at the same time, that mix only a slut like me understands.

I turn my head to look at him and once again I can’t find his face, only the line of his jaw and his hands dug into my skin, leaving finger marks on my hips. He holds me firm, pressing, measuring me like someone measuring a mare before mounting her.

At first I clench my teeth. His cock is too much, the rhythm is too much, each slam shoves me forward and he pulls me back to drive it in even deeper. Then my body gives in, gets used to it, stops fighting. My cunt opens for him, swallows him, sloshes with each stroke. And then I start to enjoy it for real, that filthy pleasure I wouldn’t admit out loud. I hear myself say “more,” I hear myself say “harder,” I hear myself say “break me.” I don’t care if the neighbors hear me. I want them to hear me. I want the whole building to know that at last someone is treating the slut on six the way she silently asks to be treated every night.

He moves without haste, setting a pace that forces me to wait for him. Every time I think he’s going to speed up, he stops and leaves it inside me, throbbing, barely circling his hips. Every time I relax, he drives deeper and tears another scream out of me. He lets go of one hand and reaches down to find my clit, rubbing it with two fingers while he keeps spearing me from behind. I learned to imagine him that way, patient and cruel in equal measure, because an impatient man is useless for this. The good fantasy is the one that takes its time fucking me.

He speaks against the back of my neck, words I’d never repeat by day, words that would make me blush in any other context and here push me closer to the edge.

—Look at how this cunt sucks it in —he says in my ear without stopping—. Look at how you’re swallowing me whole. You’re a slut. Say it.

—I’m a slut —I repeat into the pillow, and I believe it, and I come a little just from saying it.

—Louder. Let them hear you.

—I’m a slut! —I scream—. I’m your slut, keep going, don’t stop!

He gathers my hair in a fist and pulls back until my neck arches. His other hand comes up and closes just lightly over my throat, not enough to hurt, only enough for me to feel the limit. My head clouds over. I can’t think clearly, I don’t want to think, I only want to exist for this, for the cock wrecking my cunt and the words wrecking my head.

This is what I am when no one can see me.

He yanks his cock out suddenly, gleaming with me, and presses it against my ass, barely in, a centimeter, two, testing how far I can take it. I arch, bite the pillow, and he gives a low laugh and goes back to my cunt, more brutal now, punishing me for giving in. I come again, harder, soaking the whole sheet, my thighs trembling uncontrollably, clenching him inside with spasms I can’t control. He feels it and laughs under his breath, satisfied, as if he’d won something.

***

He flips me over with a sharp tug and leaves me sitting on the edge of the bed, my knees on the floor, my face at the level of his waist. His cock is huge in front of me, drenched in my slick, throbbing, the thick vein standing out from base to tip.

—Open your mouth —he orders. His voice comes out rough, breathless—. Suck it all. Clean it. It’s yours.

And I obey, because in my fantasy there’s no other option. I take it in both hands and still can’t close them around it. First the tip, I lick it slowly, tasting myself, that salty, thick taste coming from deep inside me. Then I take it all the way in, as much as I can, and run my tongue up and down the shaft, looking up at him through blurred eyes. I suck his balls one by one, take them into my mouth, go back up and swallow his cock. It still isn’t enough. It’s never enough.

—Do you like playing hard to get? —he says, and closes his hand in my hair again—. You wanted this or not. Answer me, slut.

—Yes —I answer in a hoarse voice, a thread of spit hanging from my lips—. Yes, I want it. Fuck my mouth.

It’s the only true thing I say all night.

He pushes my head toward him and moves his hips in time. His cock goes down my throat, the tip hits the back and I can barely breathe. I gag, my eyes fill with water and saliva runs down my chin, drips onto my tits. He doesn’t stop. He drives it in again and again, both hands on my head, forcing me to swallow him whole. He doesn’t care, and in this place in my head where everything is allowed, neither do I. He can do whatever he wants with me. That’s why I invented him.

—See how it goes all the way in when you stop resisting? —he murmurs without breaking rhythm—. That’s what you needed. Someone to remind you. That you’re a mouth. A cunt. An ass. Nothing else.

I hold his gaze that I can’t fully see. I nod as best I can with his cock buried to the uvula. He tightens his fist in my hair harder, his hips turn erratic, and then I feel him swell in my mouth. He drives it to the hilt and bursts. He fills my mouth with hot, thick cum, stream after stream, and holds my head so not a drop escapes. I swallow everything, feeling it slide down my throat, and when he pulls out there’s still a thread left that drips onto my lip and chin. I gather it with my finger and take it into my mouth. My knees go weak against the floor and one last shiver runs through me, the kind that doesn’t need anyone to touch me, the kind that comes from feeling used all the way to the bottom.

***

And then I open my eyes.

The room is empty. The fan is still turning uselessly. The phone screen has been off for a while and my hand is still between my legs, motionless, still wet, sunk to the knuckles in a cunt that throbs on its own. There’s no one in the corner. There never was.

But the sheets are soaked, there’s a dark stain under my ass, and my thighs are drenched too, and my breathing takes a while to return to normal. I slowly pull my fingers out, shining, and without thinking I bring them to my mouth and suck them clean. I stay like that for a moment, staring at the ceiling, with that strange mix of peace and hunger the fantasy always leaves me with. Satisfied and empty at once.

I get up, go to the bathroom, wash my face with cold water and look between my legs: the lips swollen, red, gleaming. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like the same one who five minutes ago was asking to be used mercilessly, to have her mouth wrecked by cocks. She has the face of a tired office worker, of a girl who tomorrow will answer emails and smile at the doorman. No one I pass in the elevator would suspect what happens in my head the second the lights go out, or how much imaginary cum I’ve just swallowed.

I go back to bed, turn the sheet to the dry side and lie down. I think, as I think almost every night, that I hope someday I find someone who understands this part of me without being afraid. Someone I won’t have to explain anything to. Someone who walks into the corner of the room without asking permission, spreads my legs, and fucks me until I’m left speechless.

Sometimes that scares me. I wonder what kind of man would be capable of giving me exactly what I imagine, of taking me by the throat and filling my cunt and mouth without asking, and whether in real life I would recognize the border that in my head doesn’t exist. But the fear doesn’t last long. It gets crushed right away by the other desire, the stronger one, the one that makes me open a story every night knowing in advance how I’m going to end up: with fingers inside me and my mouth full of muffled moans.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe what I have only works because it never leaves this room, because the stranger in the corner has no face or voice of his own, only the one I lend him, and the cock I make to fit my cunt. If he were real, maybe he’d disappoint me the way the sweet guy who fucked me timidly did. Here, though, he’s perfect. He always does the right thing, which is exactly what he shouldn’t do.

For now, inventing him is enough. I close my eyes and I’m already drawing tomorrow’s fantasy: different, worse, better. Always with someone waiting in the dark, cock out, watching me. Always me giving myself to that someone without conditions, legs open and mouth open.

Tomorrow again. And the night after that too.

Because there are desires that don’t wear out from being used. They sharpen. And long ago I learned to sleep with mine beside me, like someone sleeping wrapped around a soaked secret that she will never say out loud.