I Fulfilled My Wildest Fantasy over a Video Call

I created an account on that social network without being entirely sure why I was doing it. I told myself it was to connect with interesting people, but if I was honest with myself, what I was looking for was something much more specific: a woman from my city, single, whom I could meet up with and see what happened.

She didn't necessarily have to be a lesbian. She could be bisexual, like I've always been deep down, even though for years I insisted on defining myself differently. I was married. I have a daughter. I've been happy with a man for years. And yet, what turns me on most today, without a doubt, is a pussy. I know it, and I no longer argue with myself about it.

There was also a second reason, vaguer and older: I'm a writer. Or I was, before the people around me convinced me I wasn't good enough for it. They invalidated me so thoroughly, so gradually, that I stopped writing almost without realizing it. Erotic stories, above all: stories where fucking was the center, not a peripheral detail. That part of me also wanted to find some room.

Eighty percent of the people who wrote to me were men. It was predictable, and it didn't bother me either. Most of them followed the same pattern: a greeting, a generic comment, and, three sentences later, a picture of the dick nobody had asked for. But there was one who behaved differently from his very first message.

I won't say his name. What I will say is that he read all my stories, every one I'd published, and commented on them one by one with an attentiveness I hadn't expected from anyone. He pointed out which paragraphs had seemed most charged with tension, the moments when he thought I'd resolved a fuck too quickly, which descriptions had kept him reading with his dick in his hand. Almost nobody does that. Most people say “I liked it” and expect something in return. He didn't.

What attracted me most was his imagination. He had a way of talking about desire that was never predictable. Every so often he'd let slip that he had a proposal for me, something he wanted to suggest if I gave him the chance. Always in the same tone: playful, without pressure, aware that the next move was mine. Until one day he really went for it.

—My proposal is simple —he wrote—. A video call. No faces. Just bodies. Me with my dick out, you as comfortable as you feel. If you accept my conditions, you'll have to propose yours, and I'll have to fulfill them.

The truth was, I didn't feel like watching him beat his dick while I fingered myself staring at him. I preferred imagining a pussy, a woman's mouth, breasts bouncing on their own. So, since I had no real intention of accepting, I decided to make it frankly difficult for him.

—Deal —I replied—, but only if there are at least seven women on the call. You, me, and a minimum of seven chicks. If you can't get them, no deal.

I expected a protest. I expected him to say it was impossible, to tell me to be reasonable. What I got was an “OK” and silence.

***

Almost two weeks passed without him writing. When he came back, he got straight to the point: he asked what day and time worked for me. I told him any Saturday night. Once again, I heard nothing from him until he appeared in the chat one Monday with this:

—Laura, this Saturday, if you want, we'll have the video call. I've got seven chicks willing to spread their legs for you.

—What? Seven? Are you serious? —I replied—. What exactly did you tell them? What's the plan?

—We'll have a group video call —he explained—. No first names, no last names, no personal information. Nobody will show their face. If anyone has tattoos or recognizable marks, they can cover them. The session lasts a maximum of one hour. Nothing else once it's over.

I reread the message twice. I realized he'd used “recognizable” in the masculine, not the feminine, and had said “each one” in the masculine instead of the feminine. But he was playful, he liked those details, and at the time I didn't attach much importance to it.

I promised him I'd think about it. And I did, seriously. I've never seen masturbating as something to be ashamed of: it's natural, it's healthy, and if someone wants to come in front of other people with mutual consent, I have nothing to judge. In fact, it was a fantasy I'd been carrying around for years, but I'd always overthought it. Over a video call, with no faces, things were different.

—Will you record the session? —I asked him.

—No. The app gives a real-time warning if anyone tries. Besides, the only people with access to the recording function would be the administrators: you and me.

—I'm an administrator?

—Yes. I convinced you to do this, so the least I can do is give you control. You can throw out anyone you want, including me. If you kick me out, you get the girls all to yourself.

That made me smile. And then I did something the version of me from three years earlier would never have done.

—Confirmed. Saturday at ten at night.

***

I spent almost an hour installing the application on my computer, testing the camera and microphone, and looking for somewhere to put the laptop so the background would be neutral. I tested the different views: I could see all the screens at once, just some of them, or put one large image with several smaller ones along the right side. I liked that last option.

I also left the Satisfyer charged in case I needed it, although I was pretty sure I preferred having my fingers buried all the way inside me. I put a pair of short leggings and a sports top within reach, in case I wanted to cover myself quickly at some point. When Saturday night arrived, I'd spent the entire day with a strange feeling in my stomach that wasn't exactly nerves. It was more like anticipation for a long-delayed fuck.

I showered and shaved my pussy completely, leaving it smooth, pink, and visible down to the last fold. I sat in front of the computer. Naked, freshly showered, my nipples already hard from the cool air, and my pussy so wet that I felt the moisture sticking to the seat before anything had even started.

Then a message arrived.

—Something's happened that I need to tell you before you enter the room.

—Explain —I wrote.

—A girl asked me to let her boyfriend join her. I said yes, because you never prohibited there being more men. Is that okay with you?

I thought about it. He was already going to be on the call, and he was a man. One more couple didn't change the substance of the matter. Besides, he'd promised that I didn't have to look at any camera I didn't want to.

—Okay —I replied—. But give me the code already. I've been waiting here for a while with my pussy soaked.

—One last thing —he added—. When you said “at least,” I took you literally. I got a little carried away.

My pulse stopped for a second.

—How many girls are there?

—Not counting you, twenty-seven.

I let out a scream my neighbors probably heard. I sat still for a moment, staring at the screen. The initial shock turned into something else: a kind of heat that began in my chest, traveled down my belly, and drove straight into my clitoris, which I felt swell beneath the table as if it had a pulse of its own.

—How many people in total? —I typed.

—The room limit was two hundred. If there are twenty-seven girls plus you and me...

I didn't wait for him to finish. I typed in the code and entered.

***

The screen filled with a grid of small rectangles. In each one was a naked body, still and waiting. Pussies of every color, tits of every size, erect dicks pointing at the ceiling, asses resting on beds and sofas. The counter in the corner showed 198 people connected. Nobody was touching themselves. It was like a strange, charged waiting room, full of different skins and a silence vibrating with the weight of nearly two hundred bodies about to come.

A message appeared in the center of the screen:

“Nobody starts until the hostess configures her view and gives the signal. Hands still.”

I started choosing. There were a lot of screens, and I wanted to select carefully which ones I'd put in the foreground. A slender girl with a tattoo on her thigh and a pussy shaved in stripes. Another waiting with a thick black dildo resting against her leg, not using it yet, its tip already shiny with saliva. Another with the Satisfyer switched on but still in her hand, vibrating in the air beside a clitoris that looked swollen even from a distance. One whose crotch showed very open lips held apart with her fingers, fully visible to the camera, the pink, glistening interior offering itself to the lens. And the last: a dark-haired brunette with her legs spread on a chair, a perfectly shaved pussy, and an expression of total calm, as if she'd done this a hundred times and knew exactly how she was going to come.

I thought for a moment and added his screen too. He had his dick in his hand, long and thick, with a prominent vein on the left side and the glans already emerging from the foreskin. I told myself he'd earned it.

I adjusted my camera and pointed it at my body. I raised one leg over the arm of the chair so everything would be visible: my open pussy, my pink lips, my already swollen clitoris, the glistening thread of wetness running toward my asshole. I checked my own image for a second before starting. You could see everything. Absolutely everything. And I liked what I saw.

***

I wet my fingertips with my tongue, lowered them slowly to my pussy, and began stroking my clitoris with two fingertips, very gently, barely brushing it. In less than a second, every screen in the room began to move.

Most of them started calmly, without rushing. He, off to one side of my screen, masturbated with slow, calculated movements: pulling down the foreskin, revealing the shiny purple glans, pausing at the bottom to show the full length, squeezing the base so the cock swelled even more before moving back up. It was hard to ignore him. He probably knew I was watching.

In the center of my screen, the slender tattooed girl moved her index finger in slow circles around her clitoris. She did it with great precision, almost methodically, stopping from time to time to lower two fingers to her pussy's entrance and sink them in up to the knuckles, pull them out glistening, and bring them back to her clitoris, spreading her own juices over it. I imitated her. I pushed my middle finger all the way in, slowly curled it, searching for the spot I knew, pulled it out wet, and brought it to my clitoris, sliding it through my own moisture. I forced myself to go slowly because when I touched myself like that I came quickly, and I didn't want to orgasm before I'd seen what remained to see.

In another image, the girl with the dildo had started pushing it inside herself little by little. The lips of her pussy opened softly around the toy, stretching to accommodate it, resisting at first, then yielding. The dildo slid in and out, shiny and wet with every movement, strings of fluid clinging to its base when she pulled it all the way out before impaling herself again. I wondered whom she was watching. I wondered whether she was thinking about a real cock or a tongue.

That's when I switched on the microphone and headphones. At first it was disorienting: overlapping moans, panting, the occasional whispered “fuck,” the wet splashing of fingers entering other people's pussies, the rhythmic sound of palms slapping skin. Within seconds it began to organize itself in my mind and became part of what I was feeling. The women moaned harder than the men, at higher pitches, with more abandon. I liked that more than I expected. A moan of my own escaped me, sounding strange as it came from my throat.

***

A woman with very pronounced curves and extremely pale skin captured all my attention. The pink of her pussy contrasted with the milky whiteness of her skin, almost transparent. She had large tits, with dark nipples that had grown rock-hard, and with orange-painted fingernails she stroked herself from top to bottom, holding her lips apart in a V with two fingers, displaying the inside with complete naturalness, her clitoris swollen and peeking out between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. She was the most open of them all, the one moving fastest, the one keeping the least to herself. At one point she brought three fingers to her mouth, coated them thoroughly with saliva, and plunged them into her pussy all at once, burying them to the hilt. A scream escaped her that I heard perfectly clearly through my headphones.

I focused on her and forgot the rest for a while. I imagined licking her pussy slowly, parting her lips with my tongue, pushing it inside as far as it would go, moving up to her clitoris to suck it all while I fucked her with two fingers until she screamed. I imagined her taste. I imagined riding her face to face, rubbing my pussy against hers until I came, soaking her thighs.

When I moved my hand between my thighs again, I was surprised by how soaked I was. My juices were already streaming down to my asshole, forming a little puddle on the chair seat. I hadn't realized how turned on I'd gotten. With my right hand I spread all that wetness over my clitoris, my palm open, slowly, in broad circles encompassing my entire sex. With my left, I pinched one nipple that had been hard for quite a while, stretched it, and twisted it between my thumb and forefinger until it hurt a little. That tiny pain shot straight to my pussy like an electric charge.

I inserted two fingers. Then three. I curled them upward, searching for the rough spot I knew by heart, and began pumping hard while my thumb kept working my clitoris in tight circles. The wet noise my pussy made was outrageous; it could be heard over my own breathing. I knew it was carrying through the room. I didn't care. On the contrary, I moaned louder on purpose, so they would hear me, so the twenty-seven girls would know I was about to come.

Heat began building from the inside. My thighs tensed without my deciding to tense them, my belly contracted, and I felt my asshole tightening and loosening on its own in waves. I knew that sign. I increased the pace. The circular motion grew tighter, faster, almost cruel against my clitoris. I felt the nerve endings beginning to ignite in waves, from the inside out, rising up my back. I settled more comfortably in the chair, planted my left foot on the floor for stability, and arched my pelvis forward so the camera would capture the exact moment I exploded.

Then my body took control.

I moaned without thinking about who was listening. I screamed, actually. The rhythm of my fingers kept speeding up on its own, without me fully directing it. The first orgasm hit me like a punch from the inside: my pussy clamped hard around my fingers, throbbing and squeezing, and I felt a warm gush burst out of me and soak the seat. I really came, harder than I had in months. And I didn't stop. My fingers kept sliding in and out, my clitoris kept throbbing, and another orgasm followed close on the heels of the first, longer, deeper, my whole belly contracted. Then another. As if my body had decided not to settle for little this time, as if it were making up for entire years of fucking quietly, of coming halfway, of finishing without really finishing.

I closed my eyes. I opened them. I closed them again. I saw spots of light. On the screen, the girls were watching me. I felt that many of them had gone still to watch me finish. Someone, on some open microphone, moaned at the same time as I did, as if my orgasm had dragged hers along with it.

I don't know how long it lasted. A girl told me afterward that she'd watched me for almost ten minutes straight, that at some point my eyes had rolled back and my mouth had hung open, that she'd counted at least four orgasms, and that the last gush had reached the edge of the chair. I don't remember it that way. But I can't rule it out.

***

When I became aware of the room again, many of the men had already come and were resting with their limp, glistening dicks pointed toward the screens. Some of the women had too, lying on their backs with their red, swollen pussies still open to the camera. But several of us were still reaching the end. The pale-skinned blonde came while I watched her, three fingers buried to the hilt, biting her lip, and I felt my pussy contract again just from seeing her. Because my microphone was on, my moans had drawn eyes toward my screen during the final stretch of the session. They told me that afterward.

We couldn't see one another's faces. But there was something in the atmosphere of the room that felt like a shared smile, like the collective relief of having done something that was normally done alone. The imagined smell of nearly two hundred bodies that had just come. The desire to repeat it was obvious, even though nobody said it aloud.

When the hour reached its limit and the application closed the call, he wrote to me privately. It took him a little while to start writing coherently. I imagined why: he probably still had his dick in his hand.

—I'll send you an email with the contacts. Eleven girls gave me permission to share their numbers with you. They're waiting for you. Two live in your city, in case you'd like to fuck them next week. And I'll include mine too, in case I ever get lucky and you let me put it inside you.

I closed the laptop. I sat in the darkness for a moment, my pussy still throbbing, my thighs sticky, one finger still inside me almost without realizing it. The seat was soaked. I was soaked.

There had been two hundred people watching my pussy, and me watching theirs. No faces, no names, no story behind them. Just bodies, cock, pussy, cum, and the certainty that there are fantasies one carries for years without daring to say them aloud.

This was no longer one of them.