I Read His Stories Every Night and Started Wanting Him

I had been stuck in a routine for three months, and it was eating me alive. Work, dinner, series, sleep. Repeat. My bed was a desert I came to every night too tired to feel anything and too restless to sleep. It was on one of those sleepless nights that I found his profile.

His name was Adrián, or at least that was the name he used online. His account was a discreet corner where he posted short stories, fragments of tales with no prudishness and no pretensions. It wasn’t cheap porn. It was something else. Something that wrapped itself around you from the first lines and wouldn’t let go until you were done with your pulse racing, your cunt soaked, and your breathing shattered.

I read the first text out of curiosity. It was about a woman who ended up alone in a hotel during a work trip and what happened when a stranger slid a note under her door. It was explicit, yes, the woman ended up with that stranger’s cock buried to the back of her throat while he pulled her hair and whispered filthy things in her ear. But what hooked me wasn’t only the sex scenes. It was the way he described desire. Like something that burns your clit from the inside before anyone even touches you.

That night I read five more stories. At three in the morning I turned off my phone, rolled over in bed, and stared at the ceiling. My skin was hot, my panties were wet, and there was a strange feeling in my stomach, as if I had uncovered something I’d been looking for for a long time without knowing it.

***

Over the next few weeks, his profile became my nightly ritual. I’d get home, shower, pour myself a glass of wine, and crawl into bed with my phone. I didn’t need anything else. His words did the job no man had managed in months. I came with two fingers buried in my cunt and my thumb on my clit, biting my lip to keep from crying out while, on the screen, another imaginary woman got fucked against a wall.

Adrián posted three or four times a week. Every text was a different world: a teacher who called a student in after class and ended up with her skirt hiked to her waist and the boy’s cock splitting her open across the desk; two neighbors who shared a balcony and a lot more than glances, she ended up sucking him through the railing while he squeezed her tits over her nightgown; a woman who discovered the erotic letters her husband had been writing to another woman and masturbated while reading them, imagining herself as the recipient. The stories were different, but they all had one thing in common: tension. That moment when you know they’re going to fuck and your cunt gets there before the reading does.

One night, after finishing a story that left my hands shaking and my fingers sticky with my own orgasm, I did something I’d been resisting for weeks. I wrote him a message.

“Your latest story left me breathless.” That was all. Simple, direct. I hit send and turned the phone face down as if it were burning.

He replied the next morning. A brief message I hadn’t expected: “Thank you. What part hooked you most?”

It wasn’t a simple polite thank-you, but an invitation to talk about what had stirred me. I stared at the screen for ten minutes before answering.

“The elevator scene. When she tells him she’s been thinking all through dinner about taking off his tie and kneeling down to suck it right there.”

His reply came almost immediately: “That’s my favorite too. Describing desire in words sometimes makes you come before the cock itself does.”

He was right. And he was the proof.

***

The messages became frequent. First once a day, then several times. We never talked about banal things. He didn’t ask what I’d had for dinner, and I didn’t tell him about my job. Our conversations revolved around something more intimate than daily life: fantasies, desires, the things you think while you’re sticking your fingers in the dark and never tell anyone.

—What turns you on more —he asked one night—, being told how they’re going to fuck you, or being surprised without warning, pushed against a wall and taken all the way?

I took a while to answer. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because telling him felt like taking my panties off in front of a stranger.

“Being told. Every detail. Letting the words reach me before the cock does. Tell me how you’re going to spread my legs before you touch me.”

There was a long silence. Then his message appeared: “Then I’m going to write something for you. And when you read it, I want your hand between your legs.”

Four days went by without him posting anything. Four days in which I checked his profile more times than I care to admit. On the fifth day a new text appeared, untitled, with only a dedication: “For the one who reads in the dark with her fingers between her thighs.”

It was me.

The story described a woman who got home from work, poured herself a glass of wine, and got into bed with her phone. So far, it could have been a coincidence. But then it described what that woman felt while reading: the heat that started in her nipples and slowly traveled down to her cunt, the way she bit her lip without realizing it, how her free hand slipped under the elastic of her panties almost by instinct and found her clit already swollen and throbbing.

It was as if he were watching me. As if he knew exactly what I did every night while reading his stories. I felt exposed and aroused at the same time, a combination I had never experienced in my life.

The text went on. The woman in the story began to touch herself slowly, following the rhythm of the words she read on the screen. She parted the lips of her cunt with two fingers and traced slow circles over her clit. Each paragraph raised the intensity. Her fingers found their own rhythm, going in and out, slicked with her own wetness, her breathing quickening, and at the exact moment the story reached its climax, when the woman had three fingers buried inside and her thumb pressing her clit, she received a message from the writer: “Are you reading this now?”

I looked away from the text. I had a message from Adrián: “Are you reading this now?”

My breath caught. That wasn’t a metaphor. I literally stopped breathing for three seconds. Then I let the air out slowly and answered with fingers trembling and wet from my own cunt.

“Yes.”

“And are you doing the same as her? Do you have your fingers in your cunt while you read?”

I closed my eyes. My right hand was between my thighs, two soaked fingers inside me, moving slowly for the past ten minutes. I didn’t lie to him.

“Yes. Two fingers. I’m dripping.”

***

—I’m going to call you —he wrote. Don’t answer if you don’t want to. And if you do answer, don’t take your fingers out of your cunt.

The phone vibrated fifteen seconds later. I saw his name on the screen, took a deep breath, and slid my finger to accept the call. I didn’t say anything. Neither did he, for a few seconds. All I could hear was his breathing, calm, deep.

—I’m not going to ask you your name —he said. His voice was deeper than I had imagined. Measured, as if he weighed every syllable—. I don’t need to know it. I just need you to listen and do exactly what I tell you.

—I’m listening —I whispered.

—Close your eyes. And take your fingers out of your cunt. Not yet.

I obeyed. I withdrew my hand and felt a spasm of frustration run through my belly.

—Imagine I’m there, in your room. You didn’t hear me come in. You’re lying exactly as you are now, with the sheet up to your waist, your panties soaked and your skin still hot from what you just read. You open your eyes and see me standing by the door. My fly already open and my cock hard under my pants.

His voice wrapped around me like something physical. It wasn’t only what he said, it was how he said it. Unhurried, untroubled, as if we had all night ahead of us. And we did.

—You’re not scared —he continued—. You’ve been waiting for me for weeks, even if you didn’t know it. You’ve been sticking your fingers inside yourself thinking about the cock of the man who writes to you. You look at me and say nothing, you just spread your legs a little under the sheet. I come closer slowly. I sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t touch you. I just look at you. I look at how the bulge in your underwear presses against the fabric.

I could see it. With my eyes closed and his voice in my ear, I could see it with a clarity that scared me. The silhouette of a man sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me with a calm that was almost cruel, his cock straining through his fly.

—I ask if I can take the sheet off you. You nod. I pull it down slowly, centimeter by centimeter. I see your T-shirt, your bare legs, the dark triangle of your wet panties. I still don’t touch you. I slide the tips of my fingers through the air, half an inch from your skin. Close enough for you to feel the heat of my hand without it ever quite brushing you. Now open your legs for me. All the way.

I opened them. In my bed, alone, I opened them as if he were really there.

—Good. Now I want you to put two fingers in your mouth. Suck them. Soak them with saliva. Make them really wet.

I did it. I sucked my fingers slowly, imagining it was his cock I had in my mouth, tasting the salty tip, sliding my tongue under the glans.

—Are they wet? —he asked.

—Yes —I answered with my fingers still at my lips.

—Now take them out of your mouth and drag them down your neck, between your tits, over your stomach, until you reach the elastic of your panties. But don’t put them inside yet. Not yet. Rub your fingers over the fabric. I want you to feel how wet you are underneath.

I did every gesture exactly as he asked. When I reached my cunt over the panties, the fabric was so soaked it stuck to my lips. A moan slipped out of me without my meaning it to.

—I heard you —he said, and his voice sounded rougher too—. Now yes. Move your panties to the side. Don’t take them off. Just move them aside. And with two fingers, open yourself slowly. I’m watching you do all this. I’m seeing your cunt open, pink, shining. I’m seeing you in a way nobody else ever has.

My hand was trembling. I pushed the fabric aside and parted my lips with two fingers. My other hand held the phone against my ear as if it were my last point of contact with reality.

—Now touch your clit. One finger. Just one. Slow circles. Don’t put anything inside yet. Just the clit.

I obeyed. The first touch drew another moan from me, longer this time.

—Is it hard? —he asked.

—Very hard —I said—. Swollen.

—Keep going. Slowly. Don’t speed up. I’m watching you from the edge of the bed. I’ve taken my cock out and I’m stroking it while I watch you. It’s rock hard. Weeping pre-cum. And you know it. You know every turn you make on your clit makes me harder.

I could hear, or thought I could hear, the rhythmic sound of his hand on the other end of the phone. The image hit me like a jolt: him, sitting somewhere, cock in hand, masturbating to the rhythm of my voice while I masturbated to the rhythm of his.

—Now put one finger in —he said—. Just one. Slowly. All the way in.

I slid it in. I was so wet it went in with no resistance at all.

—Are you inside?

—Yes.

—Move it. In and out. Like it’s my cock entering you for the first time.

I started to move it. Slowly. In. Out. I felt the walls of my cunt clench every time it slipped out, begging for it every time it went back in.

—Now two —he said—. Put two in. I’ve got a thick cock. You need to open up for me.

I added the second. The sensation of fullness made me arch my back against the pillow. I was so slick that the two fingers went in and out with a wet, obscene sound that carried through the line.

—I can hear you —he said in a thick voice—. I can hear how wet you are. I can hear the sound of your cunt swallowing my fingers. Keep going. Faster.

I sped up. With the thumb of the same hand I found my clit and started pressing it while I kept pumping the two fingers in and out. The combination made me lose rhythm for a second, panting into the phone.

—That’s it —he said—. Now imagine it’s me. That I’m on top of you. That I spread your legs wider, pull your knees up to your chest, and ram myself all the way in on one thrust. Without warning. All at once. All of it.

—Adrián —I moaned.

—And I don’t stop there. I start fucking you hard. No asking permission. Listening to your tits bounce with every thrust. Watching your face fall apart. You scratch my back and tell me in my ear not to stop, to fuck you harder.

—Don’t stop —I said, even though it wasn’t him fucking me, it was me with three fingers now, up to the knuckles, driving myself alone at the pace he set with words.

—I turn you over —he went on—. I put you on all fours. I grab your hair and I fuck you from behind. And with my other hand I smack your ass. Hard. And again. And I keep fucking you.

The image took me right to the edge. I felt that unmistakable pull in my belly, that point of no return.

—I’m close —I panted—. Adrián, I’m close.

—Hold on —he said, his voice breaking—. Hold on until I tell you. I’m close too. I want us to come together.

I slowed down, grinding my teeth, feeling the orgasm coil at the base of my spine and wait for the order. I could hear his breathing coming apart on the other end, hear the wet rhythm of his hand speeding up.

—Now —he said at last, his voice shattered—. Come. Come with me. Now. Right now.

And I came. With three fingers buried to the hilt in my cunt and my thumb crushing my clit, arched back, biting my lip not to scream and screaming his name through my teeth anyway. I felt the contractions clamp down around my own fingers, wave after wave, while on the other end of the phone I heard him groan low and long, with that man’s voice that tells you he’s emptying himself out completely.

I stayed still for a long minute, fingers still inside me, feeling the last spasms tighten around them. All you could hear was my ragged breathing and his, which had gone unsteady too. He wasn’t as serene as at the start.

—Are you okay? —he asked quietly.

—I don’t know if that’s the word —I said, and laughed. A nervous, relieved laugh, my thighs still trembling—. I’m overwhelmed. And soaked. I’ve made a mess of the sheet.

—Me too —he admitted—. Imagining you while I told it to you was more intense than I expected. I just came all over my own stomach like a teenager.

Another laugh escaped me. There was a silence that didn’t need filling. One of those shared silences that are worth more than any conversation.

—Are you going to write about this? —I asked.

—I’m already writing it in my head —he answered—. But this time I’m not going to publish it. This story is only ours.

***

We hung up around four in the morning. We didn’t say goodbye. One of us simply ended the call and the silence that remained was different from every silence before it. A full silence, warm, like a sheet after sharing a bed, even though the sheet I had was stained with my own orgasm and the wine I’d spilled without realizing it.

I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. It smelled of my shampoo, the half-finished glass of wine on the nightstand, and something I couldn’t name but that had to do with having shared the most intimate part of me, the most open cunt and the hoarsest throat, with someone whose face I didn’t even know.

The next morning, while I waited for coffee, I opened his profile. A new text had been posted twenty minutes earlier. No title. No dedication this time. Just a line at the end that said: “Some fantasies don’t need to come true to be perfect. All it takes is the right voice at the exact moment and fingers willing to obey it.”

I smiled. I poured my coffee. And I waited for night to come.