While my boyfriend was sleeping

This story is from when I was 20 years old, an age when fire ran through my veins and the need to feel desired was almost an addiction. By that time, I was already very hot-blooded; any man who smelled of testosterone, who had a firm gaze, or hands that promised they knew what to do with a woman, turned me on. Well, not just anyone, but most of them. I had already slept with several guys from university, with a couple of daring neighbors, but I still wanted more partners, more experiences, more of that feeling of being used and desired with an intensity that would leave me breathless.

My father had a friend named Harry.

Harry was a man of about 45, strong, manly, with that kind of presence that fills a room. He had a mustache, well-trimmed, which gave him an air that was both paternal and dangerous. His arms, defined under his shirt, betrayed someone who wasn’t afraid of physical work. His wife, Regina, was a very beautiful woman who took great care of herself, always impeccable, but with a gaze that sometimes seemed absent, as if she had accepted something. One day, my father invited them over for a meal. So I wouldn’t feel alone among adults with their talks about politics and work that bored me to death, I invited my boyfriend, Petter.

That day, after going through my closet a thousand times, I dressed in a black miniskirt, the kind that flies up with any movement and that, if I bent over a little, would reveal more than it should. I put on a little white cotton blouse, so tight that even my nipples showed, which were particularly hard just from thinking about the night, and a pair of black boots that went up to my knees. That’s how I was, helping my mom with the meal preparations, feeling the skirt’s fabric rubbing against my bare thighs, because I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was a risk, but the idea electrified me. When it was almost time for the guests to arrive, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and noticed I looked frankly sexy, like a porn star, like anyone who saw me would think I was begging for sex. I hesitated for a moment between staying like that or changing into something more discreet, but the dirty thoughts won out. I wanted Petter to fuck me with these clothes on, to feel the desperation I was carrying. So I decided to stay like that.

Petter arrived, a good, handsome boy, but perhaps a bit too innocent for what I needed at that moment. I introduced him to everyone, and when we were alone for a moment in the hallway, he said with glassy eyes, “You look so good, Bianka.” I replied, biting my lip, “Well, it’s so you can fuck me until we’re tired, until I can’t take it anymore.” He grabbed my ass firmly, squeezing both cheeks through the thin fabric of the skirt, and kissed me with an eager tongue. I could already feel the wetness soaking my lips; I needed cock right then. But at that moment, my mom came looking for us and asked us to join the others in the living room.

At the gathering, everything was very lively. I quickly noticed that Harry got along very well with Petter. Too well. He kept serving him glass after glass of whisky, and Petter, like a fool, accepted them all with a smile. I didn’t really understand why Harry wanted to get my boyfriend drunk, but deep down, a part of me was starting to suspect and get turned on by the possibility. Harry’s gaze never left me; every time I moved to serve food or pick up a plate, I felt his blue eyes scanning my body, stopping at the curve of my ass, at the neckline of my blouse. He looked at me as if he was already undressing me with his mind.

Well into the night, everyone was super drunk. My dad, slurring his words, asked Harry and Regina to stay overnight in the guest room so they wouldn’t drive in that state. Although, to be honest, I noticed that Harry had barely drunk anything, just short sips. Petter, completely out of it, would collapse on the living room sofa. It was around 11 PM when we formally went to sleep.