The Afternoon I Got to Be the One Inside Her

Sometimes I still think about the woman I met that blazing July. She was Italian, dark-haired and sun-kissed; she had these sharp cheekbones and when she laughed, it felt like the whole world paused to listen. It was years ago and we drifted apart – I don't know if she's with someone now, married maybe, what she does for work or where she ended up. Time has softened the edges of her face in my memory; that melodic accent and those expressive hands once so vivid to me are fading, blending into a warm Mediterranean blur. What remains is this ache of tenderness.

When we were together, she was curious but inexperienced with women. I loved showing her what I knew. There's one thing I fantasized about constantly but never found the courage to suggest, and even now, all these years later, I catch myself daydreaming about it.

It started one sweltering afternoon. We'd escaped the heat in my apartment, windows open, fan barely cutting through the humidity. I was getting ready to go out, applying deep red lipstick in the mirror, when I caught her reflection watching me with this intense focus.
"You're beautiful without all that," she said, gesturing at my makeup.
I smiled – women always say that, trying to be sweet. But in that moment, all I could think about was painting that same red across her full lips, seeing how it would look against her olive skin.
Let me tell you what didn't happen that day. What only existed in the private cinema of my mind.
In my fantasy, the afternoon stretches long and lazy. I pour us cold white wine, condensation beading on the glasses. The heat makes everything feel slow, dreamlike. I open my closet and start pulling things out – a sundress, a silk slip, strappy heels.
"Come here," I say. "Let me see you in this."
She protests at first, laughing, but the wine and the heat and something in my voice makes her curious. She tries on the sundress – yellow, barely there, meant for the hottest days. It looks different on her body than mine, and that difference thrills me.
While she admires herself in the mirror, I retrieve something from the back of my drawer. Something I'd bought months before but never had the nerve to use. I step into the harness, adjust the straps, watch her eyes widen in the reflection.
"Is that okay?" I ask.
She nods, and I can see her pulse jumping at her throat.
I approach her slowly, reverently. Push her gently back onto the bed, the afternoon light streaming across her skin. Slide that yellow dress up over her hips. I want to give her everything she's given me – to be the one inside her, setting the rhythm, watching her face as she takes me in.
I start slow, kissing her deeply while my hand slides between her thighs. She's already wet, and when I touch her pussy she gasps against my mouth. I take my time with her, fingers exploring, learning what makes her moan. When I finally push inside her with the toy, she arches up to meet me.
I fuck her slowly at first, watching her face, the way her lips part, the flush spreading across her chest. She wraps her legs around me, pulling me deeper. I run my hands through her dark hair, kiss down her neck, whisper to her in broken Italian – things I wish I'd said when we were together.
"More," she breathes, and I give her what she wants. My hips find a rhythm and she matches it, her pussy gripping me with each thrust. I love seeing her like this – coming undone beneath me, making those desperate sounds, her hands clutching at my back.
When she comes, it's beautiful. Her whole body tenses, then releases, and she cries out my name. I keep moving, drawing it out, until she's trembling and pulling me down to kiss her.
Most of all, I wanted to know what it felt like from this side – to be the one giving that pleasure, watching it build, feeling her come around me. To switch the script and know her from every angle.
Even now, in the dead of winter, I think about that summer heat and what might have been.