I Confess: The Most Absurd Messages from My Readers
While I finish the next chapter of the story so many of you keep asking me for —the one where I am indeed going to soak things, and how— I’ve decided to leave you a little gift. Something different, lighter, almost a breather between all the filth, all the wet pussy and all the hard cock I usually hand out around here. Let’s call it an interlude, because that sounds more elegant than “the bit where I laugh at you while you jack yourselves off.”
Over the past few weeks I’ve received a lot of emails. Some ask questions, others praise my chapters, and a few just want to get to know me a little better. I’ve tried to reply to everyone without taking too long, because I do love that direct contact. But one is human and does what one can, especially when writing my filthy little stories with one hand on the keyboard and the other, well, you know where.
So why am I writing this?
Because there are readers who, when it comes to relating to another person, have certain… difficulties. And since my storyteller’s instinct never rests, not even when I open my inbox, I’ve decided to introduce you to some of them. Affectionately, with humor, and with their exact quotes, which are priceless. The names, of course, are made up. Obviously.
***
The first one is called Mauro. Or that’s what I’m calling him.
Mauro starts out properly enough, even politely, but he speeds up too fast. In the very first email he asks me for photos and videos, as if we’d been fucking for half our lives. I envy his confidence, truly; I wish I had that blind faith in myself at nine in the morning. But let’s be honest: Mauro has been guilty of speeding and crashed straight into a simple “no” from me. And not a shy “no” either, but a “no” with my tits in place and my panties on.
—Sweetheart —I’d say if I could look him in the eye—, that’s not how you do it. You don’t open a woman’s legs with a “hello” and a download link.
It’s literally the same as walking up to a girl in a club and saying “want to fuck?” before you even know her name. A rejection is guaranteed, and as a bonus you get a lonely night with your dick in your hand, giving yourself the pleasure all by yourself while you think about what might have been.
Here’s his message, so you can judge for yourselves:
“Hi friend, I hope you’re doing well, I was reading your story and I wanted to know if you might have some photos or a video you’d like to share.”
Mauro, that “hi friend” followed by a request for content is the digital equivalent of reaching out to shake my hand and, in the same motion, slipping the other one inside my bra. It doesn’t work. It never works. And even if you’re getting hard just imagining it, my cunt clamps shut instantly.
***
The second contestant is Bruno.
Bruno, darling, starting a conversation with a “hey, horny girl” does not exactly make me want to sit down and chat with you, let alone pull my panties down for the webcam. In fact, I didn’t even reply. You have to start with good manners, a simple compliment, nothing earth-shattering. But with that opening, I confess I’d rather sprawl on the sofa watching the most mind-numbing show on television —with the vibrator charging on the side table, just in case I get the urge— than answer you.
His contribution to world literature was this:
“Hi, horny girl.”
Two words. Two. And he was utterly convinced my heart —and my cunt, let’s not kid ourselves, which is what he was after— would melt. Bruno, if you ever read this, know that I keep your message framed in the section called “cocks I will never suck, free or paid.”
***
Let’s move on to someone more ambitious. I’ll call him Téo.
Right off the bat, Téo proposes an orgy with his partner and a group of friends. Just like that: for me to open up to five or six unknown cocks before I even know how I take my coffee. In my experience, this kind of proposal is about as reliable as an election promise, and usually ends with two drunk guys, one bored girl, and no dick where it should be. Besides, he insists on doing it within a week. Give me time, man, let’s get to know each other, let’s at least have a coffee. You’ll understand that locking me in a room with five or six strangers, with their hands on my tits and their dicks aimed at my face, doesn’t exactly fill me with calm.
The funny thing is that in my stories I explain, chapter by chapter, how desire is built little by little. How it’s planted, how it’s watered, how it’s waited for. How a pair of panties slowly get wetter until they can’t take any more and have to be ripped off in one go. Well, it seems Téo wasn’t interested in that bit of patience and skipped it entirely. Good things come to those who wait, they say. Téo prefers the daily special, and with a plastic fork to boot.
I’m not going to get into the photos and videos thing again, since I’ve already mentioned it. I’ll just wish him luck. May he and his friends, if they exist and aren’t just four wankers invented in front of a screen, find what they’re looking for. And if they pool their wallets, may it at least be enough for a decent dinner before they each jack off in their own direction.
His proposal, summarized and without the most unpublishable parts —and there were quite a few, very explicit about what they intended to put in me and where— went something like this:
“Some friends and I want to spend a good time with you. A kind of private party. Shall we meet up this weekend? Put something up to get things going: a couple of photos, a video, and a description of what you like most.”
Téo, the logistical planning behind your fantasy is admirable. I can already see you assigning shifts: one in the pussy, another in the mouth, another waiting on the sofa with his cock out. The subtlety, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found. And the seduction, don’t even get me started.
***
And now, ladies and gentlemen, here comes the jewel in the crown. I saved him for last because he deserves it. I’ll call him Damián, although he signs his emails with three different names, so call him whatever you like. In the privacy of my thoughts, I have much less publishable nicknames for him.
Damián claims to be the administrator of the website where I publish. Yes, the administrator. He writes to me from one account with one name, signs with another, and mentions a third as if they were an entire committee reviewing my stories —paragraph by paragraph, cunt by cunt, load by load— before posting them. Honestly, all of this is more confusing than one of those movies where time runs backward and nobody knows what the hell is going on.
In his case I’m going to share several messages, because none of them are to be missed. The first one was this:
“Congratulations from the site control for your story, we hope for more from you, you have potential to improve a lot until you descend to the hells of vice and feel cheap. Administration. Regards.”
I don’t quite understand why I’m supposedly meant to descend to the hells of vice or feel cheap. I write what turns me on, which is quite a lot, and that’s enough for me. I don’t think my chapters give the impression that I want to sell myself by the pound, but who knows, maybe they read between the lines better than I do. I also wonder who exactly is expecting more from me. The administration? My readers? The reptilians controlling the world from a faraway galaxy and wanking to stories in Spanish?
In any case, I decided to give him a chance. I replied, playing dumb, asking him which website he was writing from. His answer was award-worthy:
“Where you publish, my dear, I review your stories before uploading them, cheap whore. Administration. Regards.”
I’ll give him credit for the first part. As for the second, calling me “cheap” like I’m a kilo of tomatoes marked down at the market doesn’t really fit the cordial tone of the rest. I don’t think any woman likes being treated like a bargain-basement slut before even the second message. But maybe it’s me, being crazy and offended by nothing.
Damián also has a personal war with commas. He doesn’t know where to put them, he forgets them, piles them up, mistreats them. I have no conclusive proof, just a few emails capable of making any language teacher’s eyes bleed and killing the erection of even the horniest man. The next one was the final straw:
“And about your stories very hooked a married woman and another recently divorced touching themselves without permission then I’ll send you photos of the very sluts, understood cheap whore. Administration. Regards.”
To answer his question: no, I understood nothing. Reading this is like trying to follow a political speech at three in the morning after two extra drinks and with a dildo inside you. And minutes later the whole thing took on a perverse meaning when he attached some images of two women —tits out, fingers in their cunts, looking more bored than anything— that, surprise, had been floating around the internet for years. I very much doubt anyone needs an intermediary to send me photos of them masturbating when they can write to me directly, as so many of my readers have done.
In the end I got bored and replied like this. And here, I confess, I let myself go more than I do even with the finest cock inside me.
—I’m going to be honest, since I am in my stories —I began—. You are not the administrator of anything. You barely know how to write, you can’t handle commas, and I strongly suspect you call me “cheap” in every email because you think that will impress me and make my nipples hard as I read you. Well, no. You do not have the confidence or my permission to call me anything remotely like that. The photos you send me have been all over the internet for years, with two wanks’ worth of traffic in every forum they circulate on, so your lie is showing all its seams. And no female reader who had gotten turned on by me would write to you as an intermediary; she’d write to me, tell me what turns her on about me, how she touches herself reading me, and what she imagines I do to her. Several have already done exactly that, incidentally, in vivid detail.
I told him, in short, that I assumed he had written to me thinking he’d intimidate me, that I’d send him photos, a video of me coming, or anything else he could stash away in his secret folder. Maybe he even thought he had some chance of laying hands on me, even from a distance. The answer, obviously, was no. I even admitted that I felt a certain pity that he had to resort to insults and stolen photos to relate to people, when all he needed was to dial down the attitude, zip up after that, and learn how to speak to a woman without calling her a cunt by the third email. But that he should relax, because soon I’d be posting a chapter he’d find very, very interesting. So much so that he’d need both hands: one to turn the page and the other for the obvious.
You have no idea how good it feels to let off steam like that. Not even the best fuck leaves me that relaxed. And believe me, I’ve had a few good ones lately —the kind where you end up with trembling legs, a throbbing cunt, and hair stuck to your forehead. But no, this textual release was on par with a long orgasm, the kind that curls up inside you and leaves you floating for half an hour. Thank you, Damián, for that gift. In his last email he called me “full of myself” and, to top it off, threw in some other pearl about what he’d like to do to me —and it was definitely not take me out to dinner— that I’d rather keep to myself so as not to bore you.
***
And that’s the parade, more or less. It’s not that I don’t want you writing to me, quite the opposite. So many of you do it with respect, with humor, with genuine curiosity, even telling me without hesitation which scene of mine made you come and in what position, and I’m delighted to answer. That back-and-forth is, to me, one of the most beautiful things about writing in public: that someone on the other side of the screen gets turned on, touches themselves, comes, and then has the decency to come tell me with a couple of well-placed sentences.
But please, if you write to me, do it properly. A real greeting, a sentence with some thought behind it, the patience of someone who knows the things worth having —including the juiciest dirty little things— take a little time to cook. I’ll keep replying, because I think that direct contact with those who read me, desire me, and wank to me in the background is the most enriching thing I have. That doesn’t mean that if one of you gets too crude, I won’t end up dedicating another little interlude like this to them, with their fake name, their spelling mistakes, and their disappointed cock.
So I’ll throw the question to you: what do you make of these little gems? Do you agree with me, or do you think I went a bit too far this time? Let me know in the comments; I read them all, even the ones you write with one hand busy.
A huge kiss to all of you who read me —and for those of you reading me with your fly open, an even longer kiss—. See you in the next chapter, this one with all the usual filth: soaked cunts, hard cocks, moans slipping through the window, and a final load that will be worth the wait.
Yours, until the next scandal.