This post contains elements of consensual non-consent, i.e. when someone feigns reluctance during sex play. In this case it’s a stealth fuck where someone comes into the other person’s house late at night and climbs into bed with them. Everything in it is fully consensual, and the people involved have discussed the scenario in detail before attempting to fulfil the fantasy. Don’t ever do this in real life unless you have talked about it in detail and understand what your partner consents to (and how they can withdraw that consent if they change their mind), and please don’t read on if you find this kind of thing distressing.
It’s her birthday, and he’s promised her something really special: a midnight visit when she’s asleep. She loves getting fucked in her sleep. The sensation of waking up – dreamy and vulnerable – to find his bodyweight pressing down on top of her. His rock-hard dick shoving roughly into her cunt. For years she’s been desperate for someone to do this to her – for her – and finally it’s going to happen.
The night of her birthday, she stays up late. Her usual bedtime of 10pm gets pushed back and back, as she hovers on the brink of sleepiness. It’s a delicate balance. Like most fantasies, this one can’t just happen out of nowhere – it’s been planned. He told her he’d come at midnight and she knows he’s late for everything, so doesn’t want to fall asleep too soon and be deep into dreams and nightmares by the time he tiptoes inside.
He has a key.
That evening, all she can think about is how softly he’ll turn that key in the lock – lifting the door handle so it doesn’t click, pushing the door ever so gently so the noise doesn’t alert her that he’s there. She pictures him in the long black coat he wears during winter, and the jeans he’ll likely slip off before he even enters her bedroom. Touching herself on the sofa, she imagines his cock already hard in his pants as he steals his way into the house.
He paces up and down the living room of his flat, checking his watch every five minutes and willing time to run faster. The stealth fuck is not his fantasy, but he knows how much she wants it, and the thrill of delivering something she’s begged for so many times is plenty for him to get horny about. He doesn’t wank, because the risk of blowing his load and failing to deliver the goods he’s promised is too nervewracking to contemplate. Instead he watches the clock, checks his props, and runs through the plan.
The stealth is part of the fantasy. She imagines him as a stranger. Tries to push his familiar face from her mind and focus instead on vaguer shapes – the tone of fear and anticipation, the blood pounding in his temples and down to his crotch. She pictures him in gloves. Imagines those gloved hands roughly binding her own so she doesn’t struggle. Eventually pressing against her mouth so she cannot scream.
She comes twice that evening thinking about it. The next day she’ll reflect on how lucky she is, that this can be fun and not frightening. That she knows someone who is keen and kind and careful enough to fulfil her fantasy without ever letting it spill over into something that could cause pain.
Pick up car, drive to hers. Park on the road nearby, not in the driveway – don’t want the headlights giving away his arrival. He’ll bring props – they’ve discussed gloves, rope, and a pillow case to slip over her head if that seems right at the time. Lube, naturally. The only thing he isn’t sure about is how and where to undress. Shoes should come off at the doorway, of course: he isn’t a real burglar, after all, and house rules are house rules. Besides, having his shoes off already will make it easier to strip while she’s struggling.
The clock ticks down the minutes till it gets to eleven PM, and she finds herself too eager to go to bed. He’ll be late, of course, and she doesn’t want to fall asleep too soon. Wants to be just at the edge of sleep, on the fuzzy line between dreams and reality, so when the bedroom door creaks open her brain has half-forgotten that he’d planned to come at all.
Half eleven, he thinks, is probably a good time. After all, she usually goes to bed far earlier than he does. He said midnight but maybe early is good – he doesn’t want her to be too deep into dreams by the time he tiptoes in.
It’s quarter past eleven now, and she needs something to keep her awake. She puts the telly on, grabs a snack from the kitchen. A birthday treat to distract her from wanking away too much pent-up horn.
Driving through the night, his journey takes less time than he imagined. He wonders whether to wait on the road nearby, let the clock run till the dot of twelve. But it’s a Zipcar and they’re rented by the hour. And besides, she’ll be in bed already. He knows her far too well.
Half eleven – should she turn in? It would spoil the fantasy if he arrived to find her awake. But no, not yet. He’ll be late. She knows him far too well.
And if you’ve already guessed the ending then you know me pretty well too, because this is a true story. This was my last birthday, and this is how it began:
At around 11:40 pm, having travelled halfway across London, he tiptoed into the house to deliver on one of my longest-held fantasies… to sneak into my bedroom, find me knickerless and sleeping, then hold me down and fuck me like a rag doll.
But because both of us knew each other too well, we each overcorrected for the other’s time management. And so twenty minutes before midnight, the front door opened to reveal the woman who was meant to be his vulnerable, sleeping fucktoy tucking into a Wispa Gold and watching The Great Pottery Throwdown.
There’s a part 2 to this stealth fuck story, of course. After leaping off the sofa and yelling ‘shit fuck shit fuck I’m so sorry I thought you’d be late’, I gave him a hug and offered him the rest of my Wispa, then tore upstairs as fast as my eager little legs would carry me. Stripped off my clothes, turned out the lights, and did my very best to pretend I hadn’t seen him.
I’ll tell you that part some other time.