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My name is Sofía, and since I was a little girl, I dreamed of an adult life where desire knew no boundaries, where days were woven with threads of skin and nights unraveled in shared gasps. I imagined that as I crossed the threshold of years, my body would become a map for others to explore with devotion, that my home would echo with laughter and sighs—a sanctuary where pleasure didn’t need permission. But the tales I told myself as a young girl crashed against the opaque glass of reality. It wasn’t a lack of desire that held me back, but the relentless murmur of other people’s voices, the ones that weave chains with words and stares.
I live alone in a house with white walls that hold more silences than I’d care to count. Every morning, I step out into the world wearing the weight of a mask I didn’t choose: the impeccable woman, the one who doesn’t raise suspicions or eyebrows. In the neighborhood, windows have eyes, and doors have ears. If a man crosses my threshold past midnight, by the next day I’d no longer be Sofía—I’d be a rumor with legs, a piece of gossip strolling down the sidewalks and slipping into market chatter. “Did you see her last night?” they’d say, with that mix of envy and scorn that seasons their tongues. And at work, it’s even worse. An office of gray desks and invisible rules, where a slip in my private life could cost me my job. It doesn’t matter that I’m good at what I do, that my hands are precise and my mind sharp; to them, my worth is measured by the stillness of my bed, not the strength of my steps.
If it weren’t for these prejudices binding me, my home would be something else. I picture it as a refuge where my friends—those who cross my mind in the darkest hours—would walk in unannounced, shedding their clothes at the door and their inhibitions in the air. It’d be a space where bodies spoke without words, where the brush of a hand or the warmth of a breath would be the language we all understood. But I can’t. Every day that passes without feeling the tremor of another’s skin against mine is a stolen dawn, a page torn from a book I’ll never finish writing. And the blame isn’t mine—it belongs to those souls who’d rather judge than live, who turn desire into a crime and pleasure into shame.
I come home exhausted, my shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. My bag hits the floor with a dull echo, and the hallway mirror reflects a gaze I barely recognize. There’s a fire burning inside me, a spark I can’t extinguish, and tonight—like so many others—I’m tempted to pick up the phone and text him. That friend with a mischievous gaze and a voice that drips like warm honey. He could be here in less than an hour, I know it. All it would take is a message, a few words to untie the knot tightening my chest. I imagine the sound of his car pulling up outside, the crunch of his steps on the gravel, the way his breath would mingle with mine before our hands took over the conversation. But I won’t do it. Not because I lack the courage, but because the world out there doesn’t forgive. He wouldn’t know how to stay quiet. He’d carry it on his tongue like a trophy, let it spill out over a bar table between beers and laughter, and by morning I’d be the prey of his words, laid bare before eyes I didn’t invite to see me.
Those small souls, the ones who turn life into a stage, exhaust me. They go around hunting moments to display, as if pleasure means nothing without witnesses. They get lost in concerts, weaving memories with pixels instead of dancing with the notes floating in the air. They sit before exquisite dishes and let them cool while chasing the perfect angle, as if taste matters less than someone else’s admiration. Even when they travel, they turn the horizon into a postcard to flaunt, letting the wind and sun fade in favor of a screen. And sex—oh, sex—they reduce it to a conquest to narrate, a story that excites them more than the touch itself. Why don’t they understand that the sacred is kept close, that true ecstasy lives in the silence that follows the trembling?
The lock turns under my fingers, and the door seals shut behind me, a wall that protects and imprisons me all at once. The air in the house is still, heavy with the scent of my own solitude, a fragrance that mingles with the exhaustion creeping up my legs like an invisible vine. I slip off my shoes, and the cold floor caresses my feet like a promise that never comes true. There’s an echo inside me, a drumming that won’t stop, a pulse that’s not just from my heart but from something deeper, hungrier. Tonight, like so many others, desire catches me off guard, sliding across my skin like a shadow I can’t dodge.
I collapse onto the sofa, and my hands, almost instinctively, find the hem of my skirt. The fabric yields, and my fingers brush the skin of my thighs, a touch that ignites something I don’t want to extinguish. I can’t have him, but I have myself. Then I walk to the bedroom with slow, deliberate steps, as if each one were an act of rebellion against the chains that bind me. From the drawer beside the bed, I take the vibrator, that cold accomplice that warms with my heat. I turn it on, and its hum cuts through the air like a challenge. There’s no gentleness tonight; there’s urgency, there’s fury. I lie back on the sheets, and my body opens to the ritual I already know, but tonight I want it different—more intense, more mine.
I slide it first to my center, where the pulse beats strongest, and a gasp escapes me, sharp like shattered glass. But I don’t stop there. I guide it lower, further back, where the skin tightens and the taboo whispers. I push it firmly, and pleasure strikes through me like lightning that doesn’t ask permission. My mind catches fire, and in it, I’m not alone. I see their faces, all those acquaintances who cross my life with polite smiles and averted glances. Now they’re not just shadows; they’re bodies surrounding me, claiming me, filling me. I imagine their hands, their mouths, their ragged breaths, and the world outside fades away. Here, in this moment, no prejudices can reach me. Just me, my desire, and the echo of what could be.
The sheets crumple under my weight, a messy canvas holding the heat of my skin as if it were a secret the world doesn’t deserve to know. The vibrator dances between my hands, an unrelenting sculptor carving pleasure into the most hidden corners of my being. I press it deeper, where flesh yields and the soul trembles, and a moan escapes me—not soft or restrained, but wild, like the cry of a bird breaking free from its cage. My breath fractures into short, jagged pieces, and the air in the room grows thick, charged with the scent of my own surrender. There’s no room for shame here; this is my kingdom, and I am its uncrowned queen.
My eyes close, and the curtain of my mind rises to reveal a spectacle that defies censorship. I’m not alone in this delirium. I see them all—faces I pass by day with lukewarm greetings and measured words, now transformed into creatures of desire moving to my rhythm. There’s the man from the coffee shop, the one with the always-impeccable shirt, leaning over me with an intensity I never guessed behind the counter. There’s the neighbor with curious eyes, the one who spends her afternoons watering her garden, now stripped of her modest skirt, her hands tracing paths the sun has never seen. And him, my friend with the easy laugh, he leads this chorus of shadows, his fingers sinking into my flesh as if he knows exactly where to find the fire.
I feel the vibrator pulsing inside me, forward and back, a rhythm that shakes me to my bones. My body responds like an instrument tuned by years of suppressed longing; every movement a note, every touch a symphony. My free hand ventures across my stomach, up to my breasts, squeezing them with a blend of tenderness and violence that tears a sigh from me. In my mind, it’s not my fingers tracing me, but theirs—all at once—a whirlwind of caresses that envelops and unravels me. I imagine their tongues exploring where the vibrator can’t reach, their warm breaths slipping into the folds of my skin, and the pleasure becomes a river I can’t hold back.
But it’s not just the act that sets me ablaze; it’s the idea of being seen, of being taken without permission, of being the center of a desire that doesn’t stop at words or rules. In this corner of my head, no gossip chases me, no stares condemn me. Here, prejudices burn in the same fire that fuels my ecstasy, and each fantasy is a brick tearing down the wall the world built around me. My back arches, and the vibrator finds a spot that explodes lights behind my eyelids. My voice breaks into a wail I don’t recognize, and for a moment, I think these house walls could speak, spilling to everyone what I am when no one’s watching.
Yet the edge of reality lingers, sharp as a blade hidden beneath silk. This is mine alone, a feast I devour in solitude because the world doesn’t know how to share. If only I could open the door, let the night air bring someone of flesh and blood, not just these phantoms I conjure. But I can’t. Outside, tongues wait to weave their nets, and I refuse to be their prey. So I press on, pushing further, letting the pleasure pierce me like a spear of light, knowing this climax, when it comes, will be mine and no one else’s. The heat rises, the tension builds, and my body braces to erupt, suspended on the edge of an abyss only I can cross.
Sweat beads on my forehead, a salty river sliding down to my lips, letting me taste my own surrender. The sheets are no longer a refuge; they’re a battlefield where my body wages a relentless war, and I, Sofía, am both executioner and victim. The vibrator isn’t just an object anymore; it’s an extension of my fury, a whip lashing my flesh from within with a cruelty that exalts me. I push it further, where pain and pleasure meld into a sadistic dance, my ass clenching—resisting and yielding at once—while my core throbs with a hunger that knows no satisfaction. My voice cracks into a guttural roar, the sound bouncing off the walls like an echo of my own depravity.
My hands don’t tremble; they punish. One grips the vibrator, thrusting it with a force that makes me gasp, while the other claws at my skin, leaving red marks on my thighs, my stomach, my breasts. There’s no softness here, only the urge to tear myself open, to split myself until there’s nothing left to hide. I close my eyes, and the curtain of my mind turns black, an abyss where the faces of my acquaintances are no longer just imagined lovers but beasts devouring me. The man from the coffee shop now holds me by the throat, his fingers squeezing until the air escapes in thin threads, his tongue scraping my skin like a blade. The neighbor, with her gardener’s hands, twists my nipples with a ferocity that rips a scream from me, and him, my friend, isn’t content with touching—he splits me in two, his laughter ringing as he drives me to the edge of sanity.
I imagine more. It’s not enough for them to take me; I want them to destroy me. I see the boss from the office, that man in a gray suit with a monotone voice, tearing my clothes off with his teeth, his nails digging into my back as he forces me to my knees. I feel the cashier from the supermarket, the one with quick hands, binding me with invisible ropes, her lips biting where the vibrator can’t reach, her eyes gleaming with a lust I never guessed behind the counter. All of them at once, a coven of shadows surrounding me, using me, shredding me. My body writhes under their imagined weight, and the vibrator becomes their tool, a battering ram piercing my flesh as my mind multiplies it—tenfold, a hundredfold—until I’m a canvas torn apart by their desires.
The pleasure is a razor-sharp blade slicing through me, and I chase it with a sadistic, insatiable thirst. I thrust it with frenzy—faster, more brutal—a torrent crashing over me in double waves, jolting my flesh until the world beneath my feet feels like it’s crumbling in mute thunder. My free fingers don’t caress; they tear at my skin, sinking in with a fury that rips out broken wails, moans splintering between delirium and agony. In my mind, they don’t just possess me—they defile me. They laugh with contempt, spit their venom, bind me to a cross of shadows, and flay me with hands like claws, tongues like embers, sexes like daggers. It’s not enough; I want them to consume me in flames, to choke me with their rage, to reduce my existence to ashes in their pyre. The climax rises like an inky tidal wave, and my body tenses, a bow on the verge of breaking, ready to shatter into a thousand pieces.
Then I unravel. It’s not a whisper or a faint quiver; it’s a primal scream that slashes the silence to shreds, a convulsion rocking me from the depths of my being to the tips of my fingers, an earthquake leaving me trembling in ruins. The vibrator slips from my hands like a spent weapon, and I collapse, exhausted, drenched, with the echo of my own depravity pounding like a drum in the void. But as the fever fades, an abyss yawns open in my chest, cold and cutting. This isn’t enough. My skin screams for a touch I can’t give myself, for foreign hands to truly tear me apart, for a sadism I don’t have to conjure alone. I lie there, undone and ravenous, knowing that at dawn I’ll lock myself back into this invisible cell, the roar of my desire choked in my throat, strangled by those who’ll never grasp the storm I carry within.
