Home Alone and My Mother’s Drawer

I remember that afternoon with a clarity that still surprises me. Not the exact year, not even the season, but the smell of the empty house: detergent, silence, possibility. My mother had gone out with my aunt to do the month’s shopping and left me alone until nightfall.

I don’t know how to explain what I felt back then without making it sound like something it wasn’t. Since I was little, there had been something in me that looked at the world in a different way. The fashion magazines my mother kept stacked on the living-room cabinet drew me more than anything else. The actresses on TV, with their fitted dresses and that particular way of moving, fascinated me in a way that wasn’t exactly the same as my friends’. They looked and desired. I looked and wanted to be.

There were artists who affected me that way. Women who, in their songs or videos, conveyed something I couldn’t put into words: a mix of power, sensuality, and confidence that I associated with femininity. The woman who seduces and knows she seduces. The one who chooses who looks at her and who fucks her. That attracted me, and not in the same way one desires another person, but in a deeper way, as if I recognized something of my own in that image moving on the screen.

I also noticed the way I behaved with other people. I was never the one who led the group, never the one who took the initiative. I followed, listened, sought approval. I felt comfortable in that place and never questioned it much. But sometimes, in quiet moments, I wondered why that role came so naturally to me while the other one, the one I was supposedly meant to have, fit me like clothing in the wrong size.

***

That afternoon, after the door closed behind my mother, I stood in the hallway for a few minutes. The house breathed differently when it was empty. Bigger. More permissive, as if the walls themselves loosened a little when there was no one left to watch.

I went to my room, sat on the bed, and stared at the ceiling for a long while. I knew what I wanted to do. I had thought about it before, many times, in those moments just before falling asleep when thoughts come unfiltered and my hand would wander on its own inside my briefs, my hard cock against my palm, imagining myself dressed, imagining myself open, imagining myself being filled. But there was always someone home, always a reason not to do it. Or maybe what there was was fear, which is different from a reason even if it looks a lot like one.

That afternoon there was neither.

I got up, went out into the hallway, and walked to my parents’ bedroom. I pushed the door open slowly, even though no one could hear me. My heart was beating fast, and that feeling—the invented danger, the secret about to happen—was part of what pushed me forward. I could already feel my cock swelling inside my pants, pressing against the fabric, wet at the tip.

I stood in front of my mother’s dresser.

The top drawer held her underwear. I’d seen it open once before without paying attention, in passing, but now I looked at it with a completely different intent. I pulled it open very slowly, as if some part of me expected it to be locked.

***

What I found inside was more than I expected. There were several sets folded neatly: a burgundy satin robe, two lace thongs in different colors, a black corset with gold detailing in the seams, and a cream-colored babydoll with thin shoulder straps and a semi-sheer fall of fabric. At the back, behind everything else, there was a small bottle of lubricant.

I stood there looking at it all without touching anything for a moment I couldn’t say how long lasted. As if the first contact would be irreversible. As if the instant my hands touched that fabric, something would shift forever.

I picked up the babydoll.

The fabric was soft, softer than I’d imagined. I took it to the bathroom and closed the door, even though I was alone in the house. I closed it anyway. I stripped naked in front of the long mirror that covered the whole wall and looked at myself without clothes, my cock already half-hard hanging between my legs, my balls tight against my body, and I tried to look at myself differently, as if the eyes watching me from the other side of the glass were not exactly the same as always.

I pulled the babydoll over my head and let it fall. It reached mid-thigh. The semi-sheer fabric revealed the skin underneath, and the thin straps on the shoulders made me seem narrower. In the mirror I saw something I hadn’t expected to see: a figure that, if you didn’t look too closely, could have something feminine about it. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to be, but it was closer to that than anything I had ever seen before.

I went back to the drawer for the matching thong.

I laid it on the floor, opened it, put one foot in, then the other, and slowly pulled it up my legs. When the triangle of fabric reached my crotch, I had to arrange my cock, pushing it downward so it would fit inside the lace, and the simple brush of the fabric against the head tore a low gasp from me. The back string slid between my buttocks, snug, pressing against the hole of my ass with a sensation I didn’t have a name for yet, but which was completely new. I pulled it up to my waist and looked at myself in the mirror.

I stayed like that for a moment, still, with my cock outlined beneath the thong, the damp bulge pushing the fabric forward. I could feel the string slipping into my ass every time I took a deep breath, as if it were stroking the hole from the outside, reminding me that there was something there that wanted to be opened.

It wasn’t fear. It was something else. A kind of recognition, like when you arrive somewhere for the first time and have the feeling you already knew it.

***

I tried on the rest of the garments one by one. The black corset was loose on me, but the texture of the lace against my chest, scratching my nipples as they hardened immediately, was a sensation I hadn’t anticipated. I ran my palms over it, pressing the fabric against my nipples, and felt a direct tug between my legs, my cock throbbing harder. The satin robe gave me something different: more covered, more wrapped, the cool fabric sliding over hot skin, brushing the tip of my cock with each movement.

At some point in the process, while I looked at myself in the mirror wearing the babydoll and the cream thong, I decided I needed a name. Not the name I’d been given, but one that would be mine in another way, that would belong to this version of me that existed only in here, in this empty bathroom, with the door shut and the afternoon continuing outside without knowing anything. I kept looking at myself until a name came on its own, effortlessly: Camila.

Camila. Yes. That.

I said it to myself very softly, almost without moving my lips, as if it were a word that could break if I said it too loudly. And then, looking myself in the eyes in the mirror, I said it again, a little louder:

—Camila. I’m Camila. And I want to get fucked.

Hearing myself say that out loud, alone, with the babydoll falling over my thighs and my cock squeezed inside one of my mother’s thongs, made me tremble. I took my hand to the bulge over the lace and squeezed slowly, and a thick drop moistened the fabric from inside.

***

The lubricant was still on the edge of the dresser where I’d left it. Every time I looked at it, I felt it was part of what that afternoon had in store for me. I had been thinking about that too, about the desire to feel something inside, to be opened, to have my ass filled like I saw in the videos I watched late at night with the volume off. I didn’t have the exact words for what I wanted, but the idea was that, and it was as clear as anything else I had ever felt in my life.

I grabbed the bottle, went back to the bathroom, and pulled the thong down to my ankles. I got on all fours in front of the mirror, ass pointed back and head turned so I could see myself. The babydoll rode up my back, leaving my ass completely exposed. Seeing myself like that, on all fours, offered up, with the hole exposed and my hard cock hanging between my legs, made me moan without meaning to.

I put lubricant on my fingers, a lot of it, until it was dripping, and brought my hand back. I started touching myself on the outside, very slowly, drawing circles around the hole, learning the geography of my own body as if for the first time. In a way, it was, because I had never looked at it like this, never treated it with that attention. My ass tightened beneath my fingertip, clenching and loosening, asking for something I hadn’t given it yet.

The first pressure was strange. Uncomfortable. My body resisted, as if it still didn’t understand what I was asking of it. The hole closed tightly against the tip of my finger, defending itself. But I kept going, slowly, letting the resistance give little by little, pushing and waiting, pushing and waiting. When the first finger went in all at once, up to the knuckle, the sensation was a mix of things: a slight burn that made me close my eyes, a deep tingle that raced up my back, and a curiosity that outweighed any discomfort.

—Ah… fuck —I whispered to the mirror—. It’s inside. I’ve got it inside.

I waited. I breathed. The muscle gave way, enveloping my finger, squeezing it with a heat I had never felt before.

I pushed the finger deeper and felt how the lubricant made the movement easier. I started sliding it in and out slowly, and with each motion the sensation became less strange and more intense. My cock stood hard against my belly, dripping pre-cum onto the tiles. It wasn’t exactly pleasure yet, or maybe it was, but of a kind I didn’t recognize because I had never felt it before: a pleasure that came from inside, not from my dick, a pleasure that belonged to me as a woman and not as the other one.

When I tried to add a second finger, the resistance came back, stronger. The hole closed again, tight, refusing. I waited, applied gentle pressure, soaked everything with more lubricant until the fingers slid on their own, and I gained space millimeter by millimeter. The moment the two fingers were inside, I became aware of the heat, of the pressure from the inside out, of the sensation of expanding, of opening like a woman opens to be fucked. I started scissoring my fingers inside my ass, separating them, forcing the muscle to yield more, and every time I spread them, a moan slipped out of me without permission.

I saw myself in the mirror with the cream babydoll fallen over my thighs, the fingers of my right hand buried to the hilt in my ass and my left hand gripping my cock, and I liked the image in a way I hadn’t expected. It was Camila. Camila opening herself alone. Camila the slut.

I wanted more. I wanted something thicker. I wanted to feel it for real.

In the vanity drawer I found a makeup concealer, one of those thick, elongated plastic tubes, about the size of a medium cock. I washed it, covered it in lubricant until it was dripping, and brought it to my mouth first, not knowing exactly why I was doing it, simply because I felt it was part of something, a gesture that fit what I was feeling at that moment. I licked it slowly, sucked it the way I’d seen cocks sucked in the videos, hollowing my cheeks, letting saliva run down my chin. I took it all the way to the back of my throat, gagging and all, imagining it was a real cock, imagining a man grabbing me by the nape and fucking my mouth until he made me cry.

When I pulled it out, it was shining, covered in saliva and lubricant. I got back on all fours, rested my cheek against the cold tiles, and brought the bottle to the entrance of my ass.

I pushed very slowly.

The resistance was greater than with my fingers. Much greater. The muscle clamped shut hard, refusing to admit something so thick. I pushed, waited, breathed, pushed a little more, and felt the hole stretch, felt the rim tense around the tip until suddenly it gave and the head of the bottle slipped in with a jerk. I shouted. Not loudly, a muffled cry against the floor, but I shouted.

—Ah, fuck… fuck, fuck…

I stayed still with the tip inside, feeling my ass throb around it, adjusting. Then I pushed more and more until almost the entire bottle was inside me. I had never felt anything like it. The sensation of being full, of having something occupying me from within, was exactly what I had been looking for without knowing it.

I started moving it. I pulled it almost all the way out and shoved it back in to the hilt, finding a clumsy rhythm at first, learning. The sound the lubricant made was wet, obscene, and I loved it. I loved hearing myself like that, hearing my ass get fucked, even if I was the one doing the thrusting.

I moved slowly at first, looking at myself in the mirror. I saw my face changed, something different in the expression. Mouth slightly open, eyes narrowed, neck tense, a strand of saliva at the corner of my mouth. I looked different from how I always looked. I looked fucked. And that, for some reason I still couldn’t fully explain, was exactly what I wanted to see.

I increased the pace. I started thrusting the bottle into myself harder, each shove deeper, faster, until my ass accepted everything without resistance, lubricant dripping down my thighs. My breathing sped up on its own, and with it came sounds I didn’t try to control: sharp moans, broken sobs, a woman’s voice coming out of me without my knowing I had it inside.

—Yes… like that… deeper, deeper… I’m Camila, I’m a slut, I’m Camila…

Hearing myself say that, with the bottle going in and out of my ass, with my mother’s babydoll stuck to my back with sweat, took me to a place I had never been. I was alone in the house, the whole afternoon was mine, and that was also part of what made everything feel so intense. That space of freedom no one had given me but that somehow was completely mine.

I grabbed my cock with my other hand and started jerking off at the same time, with both things happening at once: the bottle fucking my ass and my hand stroking my cock hard. The combination was a sensation with no prior reference. Every time the bottle went deep, a lash of pleasure shot up my spine and tightened my belly. Every time it came out, I felt the emptiness begging it to return. And the cock in my other hand, throbbing, swollen, wetting my palm with pre-cum.

I found a spot inside that made me go white. A place that, when the bottle hit it, made my whole body convulse on its own. I started attacking it, ramming myself there over and over, while my hand moved faster and faster over my cock.

—I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, oh God, I’m cumming…

The orgasm hit with an intensity that made me bend my elbows and press my forehead to the mirror, cold against my hot skin. The cock exploded against the tiles, thick jets of semen shooting out with so much force they splattered the floor in front of me and soaked my hand, my wrist, my arm. And my ass clenched around the bottle in spasms I couldn’t control, squeezing it, milking it, as if it had a life of its own and were trying to wring out something that wasn’t there.

I stayed like that for a long time, breathing against the glass, with the bottle still inside and semen dripping from the floor down to my knee. I had never cum like that in my life. Not even close.

I pulled the bottle out very slowly, and felt the sudden emptiness, the open ass that took time to close, throbbing, a little lubricant escaping over the edge. I looked over my shoulder in the mirror and saw the red hole, swollen, still slightly open, shiny. The image of an ass that had just been fucked. My ass. Camila’s.

***

Afterward, while I cleaned the tiles with toilet paper and put everything back where it belonged with care, folding each garment exactly as I’d found it, washing the bottle with soap until there was no trace left, I realized I didn’t feel guilty. I had expected to feel it, had anticipated it as an inevitable part of what I’d just done, but it wasn’t there. What was there instead was something more like a clarity that hurt a little because of how new it was.

Camila. The name kept echoing somewhere inside me. And my ass still throbbed, reminding me.

I closed the drawer, placed the lubricant bottle at the back exactly where it had been, and left my parents’ bedroom. The house still smelled of detergent and silence. The afternoon outside kept its rhythm, knowing nothing. But something in me had shifted, and I knew it, and I knew it wasn’t going back to its old place.

The things that are named never become invisible again.

That was the first afternoon. There would be others. And in each one, Camila grew a little more, taking up more space, becoming more real, more of a slut, more open. Until one day she stopped being a secret kept in someone else’s drawer and started being simply who I was.