What No One Would Imagine About the Quiet Girl

I’ve always been told I’m the calmest one. The serious one. The one who arrives on time, greets people politely, and leaves without making a fuss.

My name is Valeria.

I’m twenty-seven years old.

I’m brunette, with small breasts, thin legs, and curly hair that I almost always wear tied up. I work in an office where everyone knows me as “the one who never causes drama.” The one who’s never late. The one who never raises her voice in meetings. The one who brings lunch in a glass container and eats alone in front of her screen.

People think I go to bed at ten with a self-help book and wake up at six rested and without a trace of guilt.

The first part isn’t entirely a lie. But the book isn’t self-help.

And what I do before I fall asleep, I wouldn’t tell anyone.

***

That night it was hot. The fan in the corner turned without conviction, moving the warm air from one side to the other without cooling anything down. I’d taken a shower, put on my usual nightgown—fine cotton, simple, completely harmless—and gotten into bed intending to sleep.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

I lay staring at the ceiling for a while. Counted the plaster ridges. Listened to the street noises. Nothing.

I looked at the nightstand drawer.

I opened it.

The book was there, where it always was. Under the old phone charger and the blister pack of aspirin, as if it were hidden even though I lived alone and there was no one who could find it. The spine was cracked from being used so much, and several pages had dog-eared corners. It wasn’t the kind of book you leave on the kitchen counter or talk about in the work chat.

I started on page forty-seven.

In five minutes my breathing had slowed. In ten, it had sped up again, but for completely different reasons.

The story was about a woman who worked in a library and had a regular customer who always came in at closing time. The same man every week. The same ritual every week: he chose a book, she stamped it, he left. Until one night, instead of leaving, he locked the door, turned off the back lights, and walked up to the desk, yanked her out from behind the counter, ripped off her panties from under her skirt, and shoved his cock all the way into her against the shelves of classic literature. Page forty-seven described her sucking him off on her knees among the fallen books, her mouth open wide and saliva running down her chin, while he pulled her hair and told her dirty things she’d been wanting to hear for months.

I knew that story by heart. I could recite whole paragraphs. But my body didn’t seem to remember it. It responded as if it were the first time.

I closed the book against my chest and lay still for a moment.

I thought about Matías.

***

Matías is my coworker. He sits three desks over, always arrives late with a coffee in his hand, and has a habit of drumming his pen on the edge of his desk when he’s focused. Everyone hates that noise. I don’t.

Once he leaned over my shoulder to point something out on my screen. I felt the warmth of his arm brush mine for barely three seconds, and it took me fifteen minutes to get back to typing normally. Afterward I pretended to be looking for something in my drawer so he couldn’t see my face or the blush that had gone straight down between my legs.

Another time we were the only two left in the kitchen at seven in the evening. He was heating something in the microwave, I was waiting for the water to boil. We didn’t say anything important. He commented that the machine coffee was terrible, I said yes, we laughed. When we went back to our desks I spent the rest of the week thinking about it. Specifically, about the bulge showing against his dress pants when he stretched to reach the sugar jar, and whether that bulge was as thick as it looked.

And then there was the conversation from three months ago, when we were talking about a movie—I don’t even remember which one anymore—and Matías laughed at something I said. A real laugh, surprised, unexpected. And he looked at me with an expression I’d never seen before.

—You’re funnier than you look —he said.

It wasn’t a sophisticated compliment. But something about the honesty of those words stuck in me in a way more polished compliments never do. The idea that he’d been watching me. The idea that he’d formed an opinion and had just revised it.

I looked at my coffee. Changed the subject.

But I thought about it for weeks. And every time I thought about it, I imagined his mouth. His mouth saying things a lot less polite than that. His mouth against my cunt.

I was thinking about it now.

***

I left the book open on the sheets and slowly ran one hand over my chest. Even through the cotton I could feel my nipples had tightened until they hurt. I pinched them through the fabric, first one, then the other, and let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I slid the nightgown straps down off my shoulders. The fabric fell to my waist and the fan’s air moved across my bare skin, hardening my nipples even more. I took them between my fingers, stretched them, twisted them with a roughness no one who knew me from the office would believe I was capable of applying to myself. A hot throb went straight down to my cunt with each tug.

I licked both index fingers and put them back on myself, wet, slippery. My nipples hardened even more against the dampness of my own saliva. I pinched them again, harder, until a gasp slipped out between my teeth.

I closed my eyes.

In the fantasy, Matías was really looking at me. Not the distracted glance of someone greeting you in the hallway. He was looking at me the way the woman in the book had looked at the man who locked the door. With all of his attention in the world on me.

—I always knew it —I hear him say, in that voice of his that’s deeper than you’d expect—. I always knew you were a little slut under all those boring clothes. That you were dying for someone to fuck you properly.

Not Valeria at the neat desk with the glass lunch container.

Me. The one who exists only when the door is closed. The one who wants to be grabbed by the hair and put on her knees.

I slid one hand down over my stomach and stopped at the waistband of my underwear. The fabric was already wet. It was sticking to my cunt with a warm, obvious dampness I didn’t bother hiding, even from myself. My fingers followed the edge of the fabric for a moment, not crossing it yet. Letting the tension build. I know how to do it. I’ve learned, over years of nights like this, that rushing ruins things.

I thought about how his arm had brushed mine that afternoon by the screen. About how his coffee had smelled when he leaned over. About the exact sound of his laugh when I caught him off guard.

—You’re funnier than you look.

And you have no idea how wet you make me, Matías.

I smiled in the dark.

***

I pressed my fingers against myself through the fabric and the sensation was immediate, direct, unfiltered. I was already soaked. I could feel the cloth giving way, sinking between the lips of my cunt with each press.

—Ah —I breathed.

Just one sound. Held in, almost embarrassed, even though there was no one who could hear me. There’s something I like about that restraint. The idea that even alone, even in the total darkness of my room, there’s still something in me that holds back.

But only for a moment.

My fingers moved in slow circles over my clit through the fabric. My hips responded before I decided to, lifting just slightly off the sheets to meet the pressure, seeking it, pushing against my hand as if my hand were someone else.

In the fantasy, Matías said my name. Not the way he does when he calls me for something at work, not “Valeria, do you have a minute?” Just my name. Said with an intent I don’t need to explain to myself because I recognize it perfectly.

Valeria. Open your legs.

I repeated that image in my head and spread my thighs, letting the fan’s air reach me directly between my legs over the soaked fabric. A shiver ran up my spine.

The tension built slowly, as it always does when I’m like this. I know every stretch of the road. I know when to speed up and when to hold on. I’ve had a lot of time to learn it, many nights with the same fan and the same cracked-spine book and the same thoughts I never tell anyone.

I slid my hand under the fabric.

The first direct contact with my wet cunt made my back arch before I decided to. My fingers slipped in my own wetness, soaked instantly. I bit down hard on my lower lip. The sheets rustled.

I started with my clit. Slow, tight circles, with my middle finger well wet in my own juices. Each turn made my stomach clench. Then I moved down and shoved two fingers into myself in one go. I was so wet they slid all the way in with no resistance, to the knuckles, and I let out a hoarse moan I didn’t bother swallowing.

—Fuck —I whispered—. Fuck, fuck.

I started pumping my fingers inside myself in a steady rhythm, curling them forward to hit that spot I know exactly where to find. My thumb came up to my clit and pressed it against the bone while I kept fucking myself with my fingers. The sounds my cunt made were obscene, wet, slapping. My hips moved on their own against my hand, driving upward to take my fingers deeper.

I imagined his hands instead of mine. His cock instead of my fingers.

In reality I’ve only ever seen his hands on a keyboard or holding a coffee. In the fantasy they’re slow at first, deliberate, two thick fingers opening me up gradually, feeling how I’m dripping around them. And then they’re not slow anymore. He turns me face down, lifts my hips, and drives into me in one brutal thrust, all the way in, and I scream into the pillow while he grabs my tied-up hair and yanks my head back.

—Yes —I whispered—. Like that, like that, harder.

You’re a slut, Valeria. All quiet in the office and look at you now, soaked, with a coworker’s cock buried to the womb.

—Yes. Yes. Yes.

I pulled my fingers out, wet and shining in the dim light, and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them clean, tasting myself, feeling my own salt on my tongue. I brought them back down wet with saliva and shoved them inside again, three fingers this time, stretching myself more, feeling the burn of the extra width.

My breathing was already ragged. The fan kept turning, indifferent to everything. Outside, the city made its usual nighttime noises. I fucked myself with my hand faster and faster, pushing my fingers in to the base, my thumb circling violently over my swollen clit.

The fantasy sped up with my hand. Matías was fucking me from behind, one hand in my hair, the other on my hip, his cock sliding in and out with a brutal rhythm. Then he turned me around, spread my legs, crouched down, and devoured my cunt with his mouth open, his tongue flat against my clit, two fingers buried inside me, not stopping until I begged him. Then he’d lift me onto him, drive me all the way down onto his cock, and make me ride him until my thighs shook.

The fantasy no longer had a precise location. It wasn’t the office or anywhere I could describe. It was just the sensation of an imaginary cock opening me up, and a voice telling me dirty things in my ear, and me answering without any of the layers I put on every morning before I leave.

Without the calm one. Without the serious one. Without the glass container.

Without any of that. Just a soaked woman fucking her fingers in the dark and whispering “come inside me” to a man who wasn’t there.

The orgasm built from the base of my spine. I recognized it. I let it come.

When it hit, it came in two waves that made me fold forward and press my free hand over my mouth. The sounds escaped anyway—high, sharp, indecent moans—and I felt my cunt clench once, twice, three times around my fingers, squeezing them with a force that almost surprised me. A hot spurt ran down my wrist. My whole body tightened, convulsed, and then slowly began to loosen, like something that had been tense for a long time and finally gives way.

I pulled my fingers out carefully and laid them on my stomach, still trembling. I stayed still for a long time, feeling my cunt keep throbbing, feeling my thighs contract on their own in little echoes of the orgasm.

My breathing, heavy. The ceiling, the same as always. The fan, turning.

The book was open on the sheets beside me, face down, its cracked spine at page forty-seven.

***

I settled onto my side, feeling the warm wetness between my legs stain the sheet a little, and watched the fan spin for a while.

Tomorrow I’ll take the subway at seven fifteen. I’ll arrive three minutes before nine. I’ll make my tea in the kitchen and say good morning to the people I pass in the hall.

Matías will arrive at nine oh five with his coffee. He’ll sit three desks over. He’ll drum his pen. We’ll work in quiet silence all morning.

And he won’t have the slightest idea that last night I came screaming his name with three fingers buried to the base.

None of them will have any idea.

I smiled in the dark. A slow, private smile that the Valeria at the office never uses.

I closed the book carefully and put it back under the aspirin.

I turned off the light.

The calm one, I thought as sleep finally came. The serious one. The slut no one imagines.

And I fell asleep with that smile still on my lips and the smell of my cunt still on my fingers.