What I Saw in the Bathroom Ignited a Forbidden Fantasy

It’s been a long time since I last sat down to tell anything. University eats up my hours and, when I get home, the only thing I want is to collapse into bed. But there’s a memory that comes back every so often, without warning, and leaves my body burning. Today I decided to write it down once and for all, even if it makes me a little embarrassed.

My name is Daniela. I’m twenty-two and I work part-time at a gym for the past couple of seasons, so you can imagine how I train my legs and everything else. I have wide hips, a defined waist, and cinnamon skin. I say that not to brag, but because that night, in front of the mirror, I saw myself like I had never looked at myself before.

The story is a little murky, I admit it. The title may be misleading, but I ask you to read it with an open mind. What happened never really happened with anyone but me. And even so, it was one of the most intense things I’ve ever lived through.

***

That afternoon I had the house almost to myself. I was in my room, sprawled out with the laptop on my legs, watching a series that wasn’t holding my attention. I’d spent the whole day with pending assignments and I couldn’t take it anymore. I got up with the idea of getting some water in the kitchen and taking the chance to go to the bathroom.

What a mistake, or what luck, depending on how I look at it now.

I didn’t knock. The door was half-open and I pushed it without thinking. My uncle Adrián, my mother’s younger brother, who was staying with us that month, was inside. He had just gotten out of the shower. He had a towel hanging half off his hips and, since the light was still coming in through the window, he hadn’t turned on the lamp.

What I saw pinned me to the floor. He had his member in his hands, fully erect, and he was stroking it slowly. I don’t know whether he was touching himself or just rubbing on lotion after his bath. My brain couldn’t process anything; it only registered the size and the slow movement of his fingers.

—Sorry, Uncle —I blurted out, my voice shaking—. I didn’t think you were here.

He startled and covered himself as best he could.

—It’s nothing, sweetheart —he said hurriedly—. Just go out, it’s okay.

I almost ran out, my heart racing. I locked myself in my room and sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard. What was he doing? God, his cock was huge. Was he thinking about my aunt? Someone else? Does he like my body? The questions kept spinning through my head, one after another, without stopping.

***

I tried to go back to my work, I swear I did. But every time I fixed my eyes on the screen, the image came back: his hand, the movement, the bathroom’s dim light. I finished what I could only halfway and, to clear my head, I decided to take a long shower.

The hot water ran over my shoulders and down my back. I closed my eyes and, without meaning to, there he was again, holding himself with that calm that had left me breathless. I felt the heat gather low in my belly, different from the water’s heat.

My hand moved on its own. It slid slowly, almost fearfully, until it reached my sex. I started to caress myself softly, tracing my lips with my fingertips, rubbing just a little, unhurried. The heat rose just like the steam. I braced myself against the tiles and let out a low moan.

The sound of my own voice frightened me. I thought someone might hear me on the other side of the wall. I shut off the water in a rush, wrapped myself in the towel, and went back to my room with my body still trembling.

***

In my room I have a large full-length mirror leaning against the wall across from the bed. I let the towel drop and stood naked in front of it. I don’t know what came over me. I looked at myself as if I were someone else: my chest rising and falling, my nipples hard, my skin still damp and shining in the light coming in.

I closed my eyes for a second and called him back into my mind. My uncle, his hand, his size. I started playing with my breasts, taking them in my hands, squeezing them. I brought one to my mouth and ran my tongue around the nipple, bit down on it just a little. I liked watching myself do that, feeling in command of my own pleasure.

I moved closer to the mirror and, on impulse, turned around. I got down on all fours, with my back to the glass, and pushed my hips back until I felt the cold mirror against my ass. I began rocking myself softly against it, back and forth, imagining it was him fucking me from behind.

I rubbed my ass against the surface and, with my hands, spread myself open to see everything reflected back. I pressed my cheek to the floor so the mirror would show it all, uncensored. I put two fingers in my mouth, wet them with saliva, and ran them over my sex, slowly, again and again. I was getting wetter and wetter.

***

I didn’t have toys back then, so I improvised. On top of the dresser was my hairbrush, with a long, smooth handle. I grabbed it without thinking twice. I brought it to my mouth and started sucking it, imagining I was doing that to him, that it was his member sliding in and out of my lips.

I knew the handle was much smaller than what I had seen, but it served to calm the craving. With one hand I took it into my mouth and with the other I played with my clit in slow circles. The brush muffled some of my moans, which I could no longer hold back.

I changed positions. I wanted to watch myself enjoy it head-on, to look myself in the eyes while I did this alone. I sat on the floor with my legs wide open, facing the mirror. I went back to sucking the handle, slowly, savoring how hot it was. I loved feeling like that, so aroused by a memory that hadn’t even been entirely mine.

After a while, I brought the brush down and rubbed it against my sex as if it were real. I passed the handle over my lips, over my clit, pressing a little harder each time. The need to have it inside me became unbearable.

***

I started to ease it in little by little. Slowly, feeling every centimeter, while with my other hand I kept rubbing myself up top. The thrusting started out slow, but as my moans grew, the speed of my wrist did too. It was hypnotic to watch myself in the reflection: my face undone by pleasure, my own hands making me feel all of that.

I got back on all fours, this time facing the mirror, never losing sight of myself. I was fucking myself with the brush and looking myself in the eyes at the same time. What a delight, what a way to feel. I didn’t care anymore if anyone heard me in the house. I moaned shamelessly, lost.

One hand never stopped rubbing my clit while the other pushed the handle inside me. At one point I made a decision that made me burn even more: I pulled the brush out and slowly brought it around to the back, toward my other opening. I slid it in carefully, feeling it go in and out, while I kept masturbating myself from the front.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, locked inside my own game, divided between the reflection and my hands. But my body knew exactly what it wanted. The tension built up in my lower belly, in my legs, in every muscle, until it exploded.

The orgasm shook me to the core. I collapsed onto the bedroom floor, trembling, my breathing broken and my skin covered in sweat. I came down exhausted, but more satisfied than I had ever been with myself.

***

I stayed there, naked, with no strength to get up. Without realizing it, I fell asleep for a couple of hours on the rug, hugging my towel. And I dreamed of him, of that image that had ignited everything, as if the dream wanted to finish what I had started while awake.

When I woke up, it was already night. The house was silent. I crawled into bed still with the echo of pleasure in my body and a strange mix of guilt and satisfaction. I never told my uncle anything. He never brought up that afternoon again. But the two of us knew that something had been left hanging in the air of that house.

Sometimes, when I come across that mirror at just the right hour, when the light comes in, I feel the tingling again. And I understand that the most intense fantasy isn’t always the one that comes true, but the one you allow yourself to imagine alone, without asking anyone’s permission.