Letter to the Man Who Gives In Every Time He Reads Me

My dear reader:

I know perfectly well what you’re doing right now. You’re holding the phone with one hand and with the other you’re already starting to go down, even though you pretend you just came to read a little before bed. Don’t lie to me. I know your kind better than you know yourself, and I know that breath of yours that starts racing the moment I write your name without writing it.

You’re imagining me. I know because I’ve taught you to. Every time I describe my body with that precision that unsettles you so much, you close your eyes and rebuild the image like some obsessed sculptor. My big, heavy tits, the ones that take the air out of you, with their blue veins tracing the skin and ending in dark, thick nipples, marked by years of use, by hungry mouths that sucked them until they swelled. My broad hips. The thick patch of hair over the cunt I’ve never bothered to shave, because I don’t remove my hair for anyone, and least of all for someone like you. A woman’s cunt, fat, with dark, fleshy lips, dripping without permission the moment I start writing to you.

See it? You’ve already started. You already have your cock out. I know you.

***

Let me tell you something, because the way you give yourself over to me moves me. You read my stories hoping to find an available woman, one of those who write to please you. And then you realize, too late, that I don’t write to make you feel like a man. I write to remind you how little it takes for you to stop being one.

Tonight, while I soak the sheets thinking about things I still don’t dare publish, while I sink two fingers into my cunt and pull them out shining with my own wetness, while I rub my swollen clit with my open palm until my whole belly tightens, you’re there, on the other side of the screen, stroking that warm piece of flesh you insist on calling your virility. I call it something else. A little cock. A hasty little dick. But I’m generous, so tonight I’m not going to correct you. Tonight I’m going to guide you.

Look at yourself. The hand going up and down the shaft with that urgency so lacking in elegance, the thumb slipping on the drop of pre-cum that’s already leaked from the tip. So hurried always, so focused on the finish. That’s the first thing we’re going to change. Let go of the cock. Let it go right now, stop jerking off and breathe.

It can’t be that hard to obey a single order.

I want you to lay your open hand over your stomach, above the hard cock throbbing on its own, and feel everything beating, feel desire running through you from the inside out and there’s nothing you can do about it. I caused that unruly pulse, with words, without even touching you. Think about it. I’m miles away, I don’t know your face, I don’t know your name, and yet I’ve got you with your cock hard and your balls tight with a couple of paragraphs. That’s the difference between us.

***

Now close your eyes. Really do it, I don’t need you pretending.

Imagine I’m sitting on the edge of your bed, in an old nightgown that’s too big on me and slipping off one shoulder, leaving one whole tit out. The dark nipple already hard. I didn’t dress up for you. No need. I look down at you with that half-smile that always unmans you, the one that says I already know how this ends before it starts. I look at the cock outlined against your belly and laugh slowly, with no mercy at all.

—Stay still —I’d say to you, in a low voice, almost tenderly—. Today you don’t get to decide.

And you’d obey. Damn right you’d obey. Because deep down that’s the only thing you’ve always really wanted: for someone to take the burden of pretending off your shoulders. For someone to tell you what to do with your body, step by step, without leaving you any room to fake being strong. For someone to grab your cock the way one grabs a dog’s leash and lead you.

I’m going to lead you slowly, because it amuses me. First, lower your hand back to your cock. Touch yourself only barely, with two fingers, thumb and index finger making a loose ring around the base, just enough to keep you on the edge without going further. Move up and down once, very slowly, feeling every vein. Now rub the tip with your finger, spreading the wetness that’s already come out. You don’t get all of me yet. I want you to learn to wait, to understand that pleasure doesn’t belong to you, that it’s something I lend you when I feel like it.

Do you feel how everything tightens just from reading me? How your balls draw up, how the skin of your ass puckers. That’s my voice inside your head. You’re not going to be able to shake this text off now. Tomorrow you’ll come looking for me again with your cock out, I know it, because no real encounter will give you what I give you: the truth about yourself.

***

Now comes the hard part, and that’s why I need you to trust me.

Take your hand off your cock. Yes, I know it’s hard, I know you’re right there, I know it twitches all by itself begging you to keep going. Exactly because of that. I want you to suck two fingers, wet them thoroughly, until they’re dripping. Then slide them lower, beyond what you know, behind the balls, to that wrinkled little bit between the cheeks, that entrance you’ve never dared touch because you were taught that’s not where a real man is touched.

Forget what you were taught. I’m in charge here.

Press slowly, with your wet fingertips, in circles around the asshole. Don’t go in yet. Just circle it, press lightly, feel how the muscle contracts on its own every time you read one of my words. You’re going to feel something new, a current rising up your back that doesn’t resemble anything you’ve known. The cock, without you touching it, gets harder than before, jerks against your belly on its own, releases a thread of pre-cum all the way to your navel. What you’re feeling is your body confessing what your mouth would never say. Imagine it’s my tongue tracing that area, slow, patient, while I pry your cheeks apart with my hands and whisper for you to relax, to open, to stop fighting yourself.

Your breathing is trembling. I know because I wrote it that way so it would happen to you.

Go a little further. Push the finger in, just one knuckle, until you feel the ring give and suck your finger inward. Yes, like that, still. Now bend the fingertip upward, toward your belly, and search for that hard bulge you’ve got in there. When you touch it you’ll know it, because the cock will give another spurt without being touched, and a moan will slip out of you, a woman’s moan you never knew you had in you. Stop being afraid. Press that spot. Massage it slowly, in circles, like I’m teaching you.

There’s a part of you you’ve spent your whole life hiding, a part that gives in easily, that only needed the right permission and the right voice. I am both of those things. And tonight, my dear reader, that part of you is going to surface whether you like it or not.

That soft, obedient part, the one you’d be ashamed to show anyone but me. The one that melts when someone speaks to it with authority. The one that would enjoy getting on its knees with its mouth open and tongue out without anyone even asking. The one that would spread its legs face down with its ass up if I ordered it to. Don’t deny it to me, I know that lowered look, that submissive expression you make without realizing it whenever a woman raises her voice. With me you don’t have to pretend to be a hard man. With me you can be the tame little cunt you really are inside.

***

Look at yourself now. Lying down, legs spread wide open, knees bent against your chest, your ass offered to the air, one finger sunk in to the knuckles and your cock bouncing on its own against your navel, obeying a woman who isn’t even in the room. Where did all that confidence go when you started reading? It evaporated the moment you found out you enjoy being ordered around, that you enjoy having something inside, that you enjoy being the hole for one night.

Don’t be ashamed. On the contrary. What you’re feeling is the most honest thing you’ve done in a long time. Your whole life pretending you were holding the reins, and it turns out your place is this: with one finger buried to the hilt, pressing that secret spot that makes you drool pre-cum nonstop, biting your lip, with the other hand holding the base of your cock so you don’t come yet, waiting for me to tell you when you can finish.

Not yet. I don’t allow it.

Put in a second finger. Yes, two. Salivate them first, then push them in together, slowly, feeling the muscle stretch to take them. Think they aren’t your fingers: think it’s my hand, that it’s me fucking you from behind while I look you in the eye over your shoulder. Think I’ve got you open the way a woman gets opened.

I want you to hold on a little longer, to stay right on that edge where pleasure and desperation blur together, with your balls taut, your cock purple, your ass squeezing my fingers. That’s when I like you best: begging in silence, completely at my mercy, convinced I can see you even though you know that’s impossible. That’s the magic I have over you. I don’t need to be present to possess you. It’s enough that you keep reading.

And you’re going to keep reading. Because now you can’t stop.

***

Keep sliding your fingers in and out, now with a little more firmness, in that rhythm I set with every line. Up and down with me. When I write slowly, you push slowly, all the way in, and hold there. When the words tighten, you tighten the pace, fucking yourself harder, feeling your body grow used to being full. Do you realize? I’m directing even your pleasure, word by word, like someone moving a puppet with tiny strings tied to its balls.

Now grab your cock again with your free hand. A firm fist, not the earlier caress. Coordinate: when the fingers go in, the fist goes down. When the fingers come out, the fist goes up. Fuck yourself on both ends at once, the way I’d fuck you if I had you face down with your face in the pillow. Listen to the wet sound you’re making. That sound is me coming out through your pores.

Imagine my mouth near your ear. Imagine me telling you, very softly, biting your earlobe, that you’re mine. That this cock isn’t yours. That this open ass isn’t yours. That tonight you belong to no one else, not even to yourself. That every drop of semen you’re about to spill was caused by me, with ink, from a distance, without ever touching you.

Think of all the nights to come. Of how, from today on, no real woman will ever seem enough, because none of them will strip you bare like this, none of them will put their fingers in your ass while whispering in your ear that you’re an obedient little slut. I ruined you for the others with a handful of words, and I did it on purpose. I wanted you to understand that real desire doesn’t need a body present: it needs a voice that knows exactly where to touch you without touching you. And that voice, my dear reader, already lives inside your head forever.

And then, only then, I give you permission.

Now yes. Press that spot inside with your fingertip, curve your fingers upward, push hard, and with the fist on top give yourself one last long pull from base to tip. Let go. Lose all the control you worked so hard to pretend you had. Let your cock explode in thick spurts that land on your chest, your chin, your open mouth, while your ass clenches around my fingers and doesn’t want to let them go. Let your body shake with that clumsy, desperate surrender that moves me so much, while you press that spot you discovered because of me, while my name forms all by itself in your head and you can’t stop it.

Let it all out. Every last drop. Don’t keep anything back. I want to see you lick your fingers afterward, the ones up top and the ones below, tasting your own semen and your own scent because I order you to. I want you to reach the end thinking of me, completely defeated, your belly sticky and your ass throbbing, knowing that no real woman is ever going to strip your soul naked the way I just did with a couple of phrases.

***

That’s it. Breathe.

There you stay, sprawled out, hand trembling, fingers still shining, semen cooling on your belly, face burning, wondering how you let a stranger take you there, how you let yourself spread your legs and put your fingers in your ass by obeying a text. The answer is simple: because you wanted to. Because you always wanted to. And because you finally found someone willing to guide you without apologizing for it.

Don’t worry about the shame you feel now. It passes. Tomorrow night you’ll open one of my stories again, tell yourself that this time it’ll be different, that this time you’re only going to read. And the two of us know you’ll be here again, cock out and one hand busy, obeying every word like a dutiful student, with your fingers already wet and ready to sink back into the place I taught you.

I’ll be waiting for you. I’m always waiting for you.

Now close your eyes one last time, smile with that surrender that suits you so well, and say to me in a low voice, with your mouth still dirty, as if I could hear you:

—Thank you, Renata.