The Reader Who Turned Me Into His Chat Toy

I’ve been writing erotic stories for a couple of years. I do it at night, when the apartment falls silent and no one asks me why I’m smiling at the screen. I upload what I write to a website, someone reads it, someone comments, and the next day everything goes back to normal. That was all it was. Until he came along.

The night I published my latest story, I stayed up later than I should have, checking the email linked to my account. They were almost always brief messages, a “loved it” or a “write more often.” But that morning there was one that was different, long, written calmly. It was signed by someone who called himself Mateo.

He said he had read everything I’d uploaded, that he liked the way I described things, and that he found it hard to believe there was a real woman behind those words. He asked me, with a naturalness that disarmed me, whether I did in bed what I made my characters do.

I shouldn’t answer him, I thought. And I answered anyway.

I told him yes, that sometimes I tried things so I could write about them better. I don’t know why I was so honest with a stranger. Maybe precisely because he was a stranger, someone who would never see me in the supermarket checkout line or at the office. I told him that that week I had started exploring something new, that I was learning to play with my ass, slowly, with a single finger, and that it still hurt.

His reply took two minutes.

—Do you do that often? —he wrote—. Do you feel like a real slut when you do it? I bet that little ass of yours could take more than a finger by now.

I read that word, “slut,” and something tightened in my stomach. Not with disgust. The opposite. I read it twice, and before I knew it I had my hand inside my pajama pants, two fingers parting the lips of my cunt, realizing how wet I was just from reading it.

—Not often —I replied—. I’m just starting. And I doubt I could fit anything else. Two fingers go in with effort, and it hurts. But I like just the right amount of pain.

—That’s because no one has taught you yet —he answered—. Do you feel like a slut when you stick them in your ass? Have you tried using lube so they’ll go in more easily? Your honesty has my cock rock-hard. I’m sitting here with my dick in my hand, reading you, just so you know.

I laughed to myself in the darkness, my face burning. My hand had been resting on my thigh for a while without my realizing it, and now I moved it upward, opened my pajama bottoms all the way, and touched my clitoris in slow circles while rereading the sentence. I told him yes, that I felt like a slut and liked feeling that way, that for now I was content to get myself wet so I could slide my finger in, that I sucked my fingers and lowered them, covered in saliva and juices, to my asshole. And then, I don’t know where I found the nerve, I asked him if he wanted me to send him something.

—I want to see it —he wrote—. I want to see you open yourself for me. Your cunt and your ass, both of them. I want to see you with your legs spread wide, slut.

***

I propped the phone against a stack of books, backlit, so it would show what was necessary and nothing more. I pulled my pants down to my ankles, then took them off completely, and lay on my back on the bed with my knees raised and spread as far apart as possible. I licked three fingers for a long time, until they were soaked with saliva, then lowered them down my belly to my cunt. I opened my lips with two fingers of my other hand, showing everything, my swollen clitoris, my wet, dripping entrance, and below it my tight asshole, pulsing. I pushed one finger, then two, into my cunt, up to the knuckles, and pulled them out shining with juices to take them to my asshole. I pushed in slowly, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound. The finger went halfway in and a moan escaped me, which I covered with my other hand. I moved it inside in circles, opening myself, while the thumb of my other hand rubbed my clitoris. I recorded almost four minutes like that, fucking my cunt with two fingers of one hand and my ass with one finger of the other, arching my waist so everything would be visible. When I sent it, my hands were trembling—not from fear, but from adrenaline—and my thighs were shining with wetness. It was the first time I had shown anything like that. The first time someone had asked me for something and I had obeyed.

—Good little slut —he replied a few minutes later—. You’re obedient. I knew it as soon as you answered my first email. I can see your cunt dripping and your ass begging for more. Now I want more.

—More what? —I wrote, even though I already knew I was going to do whatever he told me.

—I want you to put something else in that ass. Something longer, thicker. A thick marker, one of those broad ones. Find one, wash it well, and open yourself with it while thinking about me. Thinking about my cock going in there.

I stared at the screen. I had never put anything in my ass except my fingers. The very idea made me a little dizzy, and that dizziness turned me on more than anything else. I got up with my legs still trembling, went to the desk naked from the waist down, and came back with one of the thick markers I used to jot ideas down on loose sheets of paper.

—What if I hurt myself? —I wrote.

—You won’t hurt yourself if you go slowly —he replied—. I’ll tell you what to do. You have to learn to take it little by little, to relax your asshole, to push outward when you put it in. Will you do it for me?

—Yes —I answered.

That word, written all by itself, lit me up inside in a way I hadn’t expected.

***

I cleaned it well and lay on my side, one knee drawn up to my chest so my ass would be fully exposed. First I touched myself unhurriedly, two fingers sliding in and out of my cunt with an obscene wet sound that filled the silent room, until I was soaked and my breathing had grown shorter. I passed the marker between my legs, plunged it into my cunt, and pulled it out dripping with juices, gleaming all over. I placed it where he wanted it. I pushed a millimeter. The ring tightened and stopped. I took a deep breath, pushed outward as he had told me, and felt my asshole give way as the tip sank in. I stopped. I pushed a little more. I could feel myself opening, that ring stretching around the plastic, that dense pressure that hurt and promised something at the same time, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him on the other side of the screen, his cock in his hand, waiting.

I worked it in slowly, millimeter by millimeter, pulling it out a little and going back in deeper each time, until only the cap was left outside. My ass burned and throbbed, full, while my cunt dripped below, soaking the sheet. I let go and allowed my body to get used to it. Then, almost without meaning to, I started moving with it inside me, pulling it almost all the way out and sinking it back in completely, slowly, feeling every inch scrape inside me. With my other hand I rubbed my clitoris in quick, nonstop circles, and I felt my belly tighten, felt that I was about to come harder than ever. I recorded myself without really knowing what I was showing, the marker sliding in and out of my stretched asshole, my fingers pounding my clitoris, my empty cunt opening and closing while my ass swallowed it all. I could think only of the fact that it was for Mateo, that he had asked me to do it, that I was doing it because he had asked me to.

I came with the marker buried all the way inside me, clenching it with my asshole in spasms that shook my whole body, biting the sheet so I wouldn’t scream. When I finished, I lay still for a while, panting, the marker still inside me, staring at the ceiling. Then I pulled it out slowly, feeling my ass empty with one final tug, and sent the video before I could change my mind.

—So fucking good —he replied immediately—. You enjoyed it, I can tell. You were soaked, and your little ass swallowed the whole marker. Your asshole moved all by itself when you came. I knew you were obedient, and I was right. I just came too, watching it.

—Yes —I wrote to him—. It felt different. Deeper. Stronger than with my fingers. It filled me in a way I didn’t know. Do you like me as your obedient little slut?

—I love it —he answered—. And I still have ideas for you. To open that ass little by little, to prepare you. I have experience with this, teaching a woman to surrender, to take a whole cock in her asshole without pain. I’m going to enjoy myself with you.

—And what’s the next idea? —I asked.

—Something a little wider. The handle of a ladle, for example. Or whatever you have handy that’s thick and smooth. But that’s for tomorrow. You’ve been very good today. Now go to sleep with your cunt wet, thinking about me.

***

I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned in bed, going over every message, every word of his, and caught myself smiling in the darkness like an idiot, my hand between my legs again, touching myself slowly until I came twice more thinking about him. It wasn’t only physical. It was that someone told me what to do and I wanted to do it. All my life I had been the one who decided, the one who organized, the one who didn’t ask anyone’s permission. And suddenly a stranger would write two lines and I would obey with my whole body, and it gave me a strange peace, a calm I didn’t understand but didn’t want to let go of.

The next day I worked distractedly. I thought about him in meetings, in the elevator, while I made dinner. I caught myself looking for the ladle handle in the kitchen, gauging its thickness, squeezing my thighs beneath the counter, and felt my face burning for no reason at all. I went to the office bathroom twice to touch myself, quickly, biting my hand so I wouldn’t make a sound, and returned to my desk with my panties soaked.

That night, as soon as the silence settled in, I opened the chat.

—I’ve been thinking about what you told me all day —I wrote—. I touched myself in the work bathroom thinking about you.

—I know —he replied, as if he knew me—. That’s why you write to me as soon as you can. You like having me tell you what to do. You’re already my little slut, even though you haven’t seen my face.

—I like it —I admitted—. I’m your little slut.

—Then tonight I want to see you again —he said—. But first, tell me something. What do you fantasize about while you do it? In detail. I want to know what’s going on in that dirty little head.

I told him the truth. That I imagined it was him opening my ass slowly with his fingers, telling me in my ear what he was going to do to me. That I imagined myself on my knees, sucking his cock all the way down, until I gagged, saliva running down my chin. That I imagined myself against the wall, my hands braced against it, my skirt raised, and him putting it in me from behind without asking, holding me by the hair while he fucked my asshole and filled me with cum. That I imagined myself surrendered, letting him do whatever he wanted with me, letting him come in my mouth and swallow every drop.

—That’s exactly what I’m going to do when I have you —he wrote—. First I’m going to undress you slowly so I can look at your whole body, lick your tits until your nipples are hard and red. Then I’m going to put you on your knees and push my cock into your mouth, all the way to your throat, and you’re going to suck me while looking at me, your eyes watering, until I make you swallow my cum. Only then will I put you against the wall, raise your skirt, pull down your panties, and you’ll feel the full weight of my body against your back while I open your cunt with two fingers. I’m going to fuck you in the cunt first, until you’re about to come, and right then I’ll pull my cock out, spit on it, and ram it all the way into your asshole at once. And only when you’re begging me to stop—or to keep going—will I fill your ass with hot milk until it drips down your legs.

I read and moved by myself, my hand once again where it shouldn’t be, three fingers buried deep in my cunt and my thumb pressing my clitoris. I answered him with increasingly shorter sentences, because I could barely think anymore, only feel my belly contracting on its own every time I reread “fill your ass with milk.”

—Do it —he wrote—. Show me. I want to see that asshole swallowing the whole handle.

And I did. I washed the ladle, soaked it thoroughly in my cunt, and began sliding it slowly into my ass, breathing deeply, pushing outward. It was thicker than the marker, much thicker, and I felt every millimeter of stretching like an electric shock. I stopped three times, thinking I wouldn’t be able to do it. Each time I looked back at the screen, reread “good little slut,” and pushed a little farther. That night I got more of it inside me than ever before, endured more, went deeper, and all the while the only thing holding my thoughts together was his written voice, his “good little slut,” his “that’s how I like it,” his “swallow it all.” With the ladle buried up to the handle in my ass, I started fucking myself with it, sliding it in and out while putting two fingers in my cunt at the same time. My fingers touched the ladle through the inner wall; I felt the two things moving, and my clitoris throbbed so hard it hurt. I came biting the pillow, my phone recording, my ass clenching around the handle in waves that wouldn’t stop, juices soaking the sheet, feeling sluttier and freer than I had in my entire life. When I finished, I couldn’t even take it out. I stayed that way for five minutes, full, trembling, listening to my own breathing.

***

That was several weeks ago, and we’re still talking almost every night. We don’t know each other in person. I don’t know whether I want that to change or whether I’d rather it stay this way, in this territory of words and late nights where I’m someone else. Sometimes I wonder what the people who see me during the day, so proper, so in control of myself, would say if they knew that at night I open my ass with whatever he asks me to use, that I record myself for him, that I suck my fingers covered in my own juices while thinking about his cock.

I’m still writing stories. But now there’s one I’m not going to publish, one that belongs to me and him, and that writes itself every night, one message at a time. I’ve become more curious, bolder, more capable of asking for what I want. He taught me that surrendering doesn’t mean losing yourself: sometimes it’s the only way to find yourself. And to come like never before.

And if you’re reading this, maybe you’ll understand why I’m telling it. Because writing was always my way of touching something I didn’t dare say out loud. And this time, for the first time, the story is completely real.

—Lu 💋