I Touch Myself Imagining That You’re Reading Me Right Now

There’s something I recently discovered about myself, and I still feel a little embarrassed to admit it. I get turned on by the idea that someone, at this very moment, is touching themselves while reading what I write. It’s not something I planned. It just appeared, like the things that really turn us on do: without asking permission.

Ever since I published my first story, I keep going back to the comments again and again. I’m not looking for dirty messages or cheap compliments. What I like is imagining who’s on the other side. What kind of person sat down in front of the screen and decided to keep reading me to the end.

I picture them calm, relaxed, stretched out on the sofa or already in bed. Some of them aren’t even touching themselves. They just read, barely warm, with that slow curiosity of someone who expects nothing and suddenly feels the temperature rise a degree.

While I think about all this, I notice the first sign. A light dampness in my black thong, the kind I recognize instantly. Without even realizing it, I start contracting and relaxing my muscles, tightening inside, letting go, tightening again.

Every time I contract, I feel a tingle born deep inside and spreading outward. My breathing changes. It becomes shorter, more conscious. I haven’t even done anything yet and I’m already like this.

I choose one of them to imagine. An ordinary man, with no defined face. He’s lying in his bed, about to fall asleep, with his phone lighting up his face in the dark. He just wanted to read something to relax before closing his eyes.

His eyes move line by line. He reads without rushing, without yet knowing that something is waking up inside him. I know it. I’m writing it right now, and as I write it I can feel it waking up in me too.

Imagining him like that, barely hard, almost against his will, I slide my hand down my own thigh. I stroke the inner part, where the skin is thinner, hotter. I move up slowly, unhurriedly, lingering along the way.

***

The skin is soft, smooth. As my hand gets closer to the center, I feel the heat rise, feel how everything down there is asking for attention. I run two fingers over the fabric of my thong, forward and back, not going in yet.

The fabric is wet and hot. The pressure, even through the cloth, sends a spark upward that reaches my nipples. They harden and begin brushing against the bra fabric with every breath.

I think of him again. Little by little, my story is turning him on more and more. He’s imagining me, letting his mind build the scene, put a face and a body to these words that are costing me so much to type right now.

Just writing that sentence heats me up more. I want more contact, I want less fabric. I pull the edge of my thong aside with my fingers and finally touch myself directly.

Ummm.

Everything is trimmed, shaved, and that makes it so much easier to feel everything. My lips are swollen, soaked, throbbing. I slide a single finger between them, up and down, up and down, without pressure, just taking stock of the terrain.

Everything is slippery. It’s so smooth that my finger moves by itself, as if the moisture itself were setting the pace. I close my hand and stroke from bottom to top, covering everything, pressing only lightly.

When I reach the end of the motion, the tips of my fingers brush my clit and a shiver shoots straight up to the ends of my breasts. My legs tremble for a second. I have to stop to breathe.

I think of the man again. He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. He’s reconstructing every gesture in his head, imagining this hand that’s moving right now while he reads. Knowing that turns me on even more.

Ahhh.

I start drawing circles over my clit. Slow at first, barely a touch. I open my mouth a little and let the air out through it, slowly, like someone trying not to make a sound even though she’s alone.

It’s getting harder, more sensitive. I catch it between two wet fingers and move it carefully, to one side and then the other, measuring how much pressure I can take before it becomes too much.

***

I can feel everything inside me starting to stretch, to open, to ask. I tense on purpose and contract my muscles. That contraction sends a rush that runs down my legs and comes straight back to the center.

A soft moan slips from between my lips. I don’t control it. It comes out on its own, just like the wetness, just like the need.

I think of him again. I want to imagine that now he really is stroking his erection while he reads, that he’s reached that point where he can’t just look at the words anymore, that he needs to join me.

Ufff.

Without further ado I slide a finger inside myself, as deep as I can, until my knuckles get wet when I hit the end. I’m soaked, but I feel incredibly good, in control of every centimeter of what I’m doing.

With my palm I press against my clit while I move the finger inside in small circles. The base of my hand brushes and presses exactly where I need it, and the finger searches for that spot that makes my eyes close.

God. Another moan. Longer this time.

I want more. I want to feel more, to fill up more. I pull my finger out and bring it to my mouth. It’s salty, thick, mine. I suck it slowly and then add another, keeping both between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

I lick, run my tongue between them, make them good and wet. I like tasting myself, I like that dirty, honest part of doing it without witnesses, knowing I’m going to tell it afterward.

I think of the man again. By now he’s very aroused, reading with one hand and touching himself with the other. I picture him so clearly that my breathing catches, and then I shove both fingers inside at once.

My breathing speeds up. I feel the warm softness of my insides embracing my fingers, everything slippery, everything alive. I start moving in and out, first slowly, finding the angle.

***

I hear the sound of my fluids with every movement. That wet, shameless sound that only appears when I’m truly at the limit. It turns me on so much to hear it that I have to bite my lip.

I pull my fingers out and go back to my clit, drawing fast circles. Everything is so wet that I slide without effort, without friction, just pure pleasure building in one spot.

It’s getting hard to keep writing while I touch myself at the same time. My hands get mixed up, the words slip away from me, but I don’t want to stop telling it. I want you to read it exactly as it’s happening.

I speed up on my clit. I’m panting shamelessly, my back arched and my heels dug into the mattress. I slide the two fingers back in and they sound again, going in and out.

Fuck.

I can’t stop. I find the perfect rhythm, the one that makes every thrust of my own fingers coincide with the exact pressure of my palm on my clit. Everything fits. Everything pushes toward the same place.

I’m almost there. I pick up speed. I feel that strange pressure, the urge mixed up with needing to pee, that signal I know and that means I’m one step away.

I keep going. I don’t let up. I think of him reading this exact line, of you reading this exact line, and that’s what finally pushes me over.

Then I feel the explosion. A wave of contractions bursting from the center and spreading through my whole body, wave after wave, with nothing I can do but let myself be carried along.

A loud, uncontrolled moan escapes my mouth. I don’t care. I’m alone and at the same time I feel watched, desired, read.

I stay motionless for a few seconds, my fingers still inside. I feel my heartbeat down there, the last contractions squeezing slowly, releasing, squeezing, as if they don’t want to end.

I take a deep breath. I smile without meaning to. I’ve just had the best solo orgasm of my entire life, and the only thing in my head was the people who read me and the idea of transcribing, in real time, exactly how I masturbate.

***

I stay lying there, my hand still between my legs and my breathing gradually returning to normal. The screen glows over my face with all these words I just wrote while I came.

And I think of you. That maybe you made it this far with one hand, just like me. That maybe right now you’re catching your breath, just like me.

I hope that if you’ve read this, you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Because the truth is, and I’m not embarrassed to say it anymore, this was thanks to you. To the idea of you. To you existing on the other side, reading me.

The next time I write, I’m going to be thinking exactly about this moment. About someone, somewhere, letting themselves go with me. And just imagining it, I swear I can already feel that familiar tingle starting up again.