The Anonymous Poet Who Filled My Nights

It all began with a notification.

It was a Tuesday night, or maybe a Wednesday, one of those shapeless days that blur into each other. I had my phone on my chest, staring at the ceiling of my room with that soft kind of boredom that comes when you don’t quite know what you want but you know you don’t have it. The screen lit up. New follower. I ignored it. The screen went dark.

Ten minutes later I opened it.

The profile had a name that sounded like a pseudonym: @lapalabranuda. No real photo. Instead, a black-and-white image of hands on a keyboard, focused on the fingers. The bio said: “I write what isn’t said out loud.” And below it, a Telegram link.

He had just over three thousand followers, which was neither a lot nor a little. What it was, though, was consistent: he posted almost every day. A paragraph, sometimes two. Never more. White text on a black background, no images, no filters. Just words.

I read the first post that came up.

Then the second.

Before I knew it, it was two in the morning and I’d been scrolling backward through his profile for forty minutes.

***

He wrote about desire in a way I hadn’t read before. It wasn’t the bloated prose of the romance novels my mother kept on her nightstand, nor was it the clinical, mechanical language of internet forums. It was something his own: direct, nerves on the surface, without unnecessary adornment but not careless either. He would describe a scene — a glance held too long, a hand on someone’s nape, a room with the lights almost out — and do it in such a way that you felt the weight of the moment before anything had even happened.

But when he wrote sex, he wrote it raw. No metaphors. A cock forcing its way into a wet cunt was called exactly that in his texts, with those words, without fear. A tongue going down to the clit and staying there licking until the woman came screaming was told in detail, minute by minute, without cuts. He described the thread of saliva left between a pair of lips and a cock after a blowjob. He described what it feels like for one finger to enter an ass when there’s already another finger inside the cunt. And he did all of that without lowering the level of the writing, without sounding vulgar for vulgarity’s sake, even if the words he used were the filthiest in the dictionary.

There was one I saved that very first night. It was short. It was about a woman crossing a room full of people and feeling a fixed gaze on the back of her neck. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t look for the one watching. She kept walking. But something in her rearranged itself, as if her body were answering that gaze without needing permission. And in the second paragraph, the woman went into the bathroom there and he followed her without saying a word, pressed her against the cubicle wall, lifted her skirt, tore off her panties, and shoved his cock into her in one go, hard, while covering her mouth with his hand so no one outside would hear her moaning. The last sentence said: “Knowing you’re seen like that is the only form of intimacy that doesn’t hurt.”

I saved it. I read it three times that week. The third time I finished with my hand inside my panties.

I fell asleep with my phone in my hand that first night.

The next day I looked him up the second I opened my eyes.

***

During the following weeks I developed a routine that I didn’t tell anyone about. At night, when the house went quiet and I no longer had any excuse to stay awake, I opened @lapalabranuda’s profile and read whatever he’d posted that day. If he hadn’t posted, I reread something from previous weeks. I saved a selection of his texts in a private folder on my phone, as if they were mine, as if by saving them they belonged to me in some way.

And then I started noticing something I hadn’t expected.

His texts did things to my body. It wasn’t just that I liked them or found them well written. It was that I read them and something tightened in my belly, and my nipples hardened against the fabric of my T-shirt, and I felt my cunt go wet without my having done anything to cause it. My fingers would drift on their own to the screen to reread certain paragraphs, certain phrases in particular, certain images he built with a precision that made me feel a strange anger because I didn’t understand how someone who had never seen me could write exactly what I would have wanted someone to say to me.

One night I read a text about a woman waiting for someone who didn’t know she was waiting. It was short, and in the last paragraph the someone arrived, found her naked on her knees on the bed, buried her face in the pillow and fucked her ass slowly, patiently, spitting saliva on the hole every time it threatened to go dry. The description of the exact moment when the cock went in and out and he pressed her ass cheeks with both hands and she came with her fingers on her clit without ever stopping feeling him inside was written with a calm that made it worse. Or better.

I had to set the phone down on the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a moment.

This is ridiculous, I thought.

Then I lowered my hand to my pajamas, spread my fingers between my legs, and realized I was drenched. I hadn’t even thought about touching myself. My body had already decided for me. I started stroking my clit with two fingers, in slow circles, rereading the text with my other hand, and I came in a silent, drawn-out way, without lifting my hips, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound.

Then I stayed still, with my fingers still inside my panties, wet, breathing hard against the pillow.

I read it again.

***

I wrote to him four months after that first shapeless Tuesday or Wednesday.

I had thought about it for weeks. I opened the chat several times and closed it without sending anything. Once I typed “I really like your texts” and deleted it because it seemed too neutral. Another time I wrote something longer, something more honest about what his words did to me — about how many times I had come reading him — and I deleted that too because it felt like too much of everything.

In the end, what I sent was this: “Do you write by commission?”

A practical question. No commitment. An easy exit if he didn’t answer or if he answered something that disappointed me.

He replied two days later. A short message: “Depends on what you want me to write.”

I stared at the screen longer than necessary.

“Something for me,” I replied. “A specific situation. Something I have in my head and don’t quite know how to name.”

There was a pause. A long one. Long enough for me to turn the phone face down on the table and pretend I didn’t care whether he answered. When I flipped it back over, the message was already there: “Tell me the situation.”

***

I’m not entirely sure how to describe what that conversation was like. It started slowly, carefully, like dipping your foot into water without knowing if it’s cold. I would describe an image to him, he would rephrase it in other words and ask me what part of that image mattered to me. These weren’t the questions of a writer taking notes. They were the questions of someone who wanted to understand before speaking.

I told him I was obsessed with the idea of being watched without knowing it. Not as reverse voyeurism, not exactly that. More like the idea that there’s someone who knows you better than you know yourself, who has been paying attention all along while you didn’t know. And when you finally find out, you don’t feel fear. You feel something else.

“And what do you feel?” he wrote.

It took me a few minutes to answer.

“Want,” I wrote. “I want him to fuck me without saying anything. I want him to spread my legs open like he knows perfectly well how long I’ve been waiting for that.”

I sent it before I could regret it. I stared at the screen, my mouth dry.

He replied a minute later: “Keep going.”

I kept writing to him. I told him I wanted the scene to be in my bed, on a Sunday afternoon, with the light coming in sideways through the window. That I wanted to still be half dressed, with my panties on, when he pried my legs apart. That I wanted him to lick my cunt until I came once before he put his cock in me. That I wanted to feel that he knew exactly what I liked without my having to tell him.

He didn’t reply until the next day. When he did, the message was long: the text I’d asked him for, the situation I had in my head, written in his words and his way of building moments. With that precision of his that had been keeping me awake for months.

The scene began with me lying on the bed, still dressed in an old T-shirt and cotton panties. He came in without knocking. He sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at me for a long time, without touching me. Then he lowered his head and licked me through the fabric, slowly, until my panties were stuck to my wet cunt. Only then did he pull them down with his teeth. The description of how his tongue traced my lips, slipped between them, searched for my clit and stayed there licking in circles until I grabbed his hair with both hands, took up three full paragraphs. I came in his mouth. He didn’t even lift his head. He kept licking me until the second orgasm, this time slower and harder, until I was begging him in a low voice to stop or to just put it in me already.

And then he put it in me. No condom, no asking, no saying anything. In one thrust, all the way in. I felt myself opening around him and every inch of his cock going in, and he put his hands behind my knees to spread me wider. He fucked me at a steady pace, unhurried, looking me in the face, waiting to see when I reached the point where I could no longer hold his gaze. When I got there, he sped up. He came inside. And then, still hard, he kept moving slowly, making me feel how his seed mixed with my wetness, until the sensation was so intense that I came again, this last one almost involuntary, my whole body trembling.

I read it twice in a row. The second time with my hand already inside my panties.

I sank two fingers into my cunt with my eyes closed, trying to imagine the cock he had described. With my thumb I rubbed my clit in tight circles, never stopping reading the part where I came in his mouth. I buried my face in the pillow when I felt myself about to go, so no one in the house would hear. I came so hard that a long moan escaped me against the fabric, my hand shaking between my legs and my fingers soaked up to the wrist.

Then I closed the chat, turned off the bedside light, and lay on my back in the dark with my heartbeat in my throat and my cunt still throbbing.

It took me a long time to fall asleep.

***

We wrote to each other for weeks after that. Not every day, but with a frequency I started to look forward to. He never asked me what my name was. I never asked him what his was. We had a kind of tacit agreement: what happened between his words and my reading existed in a space that didn’t need proper names or real coordinates.

The texts he sent me got dirtier and dirtier. I asked him for one in which he fucked me in the ass for the first time, with my face buried in the bed and him spitting saliva on the hole before slowly taking me, centimeter by centimeter, until I learned to breathe with it inside me. He wrote it with surgical care. The description of how my cunt was left empty and throbbing while he filled my ass, and how I myself slid two fingers into my cunt to complete the sensation, was so precise I read it four times that night and came three.

Another time I asked him to write a scene where I sucked his cock on my knees on the floor, unable to breathe, while he pressed my head against his belly and made me take him to the base. He sent it with detail about the tears that slipped out when the cock hit the back of my throat, and with the exact description of the taste of semen when he came in my mouth and I swallowed without letting him go. My mouth watered while I read it. Literally.

Once he wrote to me about hands. Not my real hands, which he had never seen, but the hands of the woman in his texts, which somehow had become mine. He said there was something in the way I described what I was looking for that made him think of someone who knew exactly what she wanted but had learned not to ask for it. And that he imagined those hands opening their panties while reading his texts, and one finger going into an already soaked cunt, and that woman coming silently in the dark of her room without anyone hearing her.

I read it three times.

How do you know that?, I thought. I didn’t ask him. I shoved my hand inside my panties and came in four minutes.

Another night he sent me a text without any previous message, just the text. It was about a woman reading in bed at night, with the phone as her only light, and who suddenly realized that what she had in her hands described her. Not a character. Her. She spread her legs beneath the sheets as she read. She sank three fingers into her cunt and stroked her clit with the other hand. She came biting the pillow. And that feeling, being seen, being named with precision while she touched herself, was exactly what she had been looking for without knowing how to ask for it.

He sent it to me at 1:20 a.m.

I was reading in bed with my phone as the only light. With my hand inside my panties.

I don’t know whether it was a coincidence or whether he knew. I never clarified it.

***

There was one night when the conversation changed.

I’d had a hard day, the kind where everything goes sideways and you come home with your body feeling as if it were carrying stones. I lay back on the bed without getting undressed, with my phone on my stomach, and without thinking too much I wrote to him: “What would you do to me if you were here?”

The question was sent before I could regret it.

He took less than usual to respond.

What he wrote this time had not a single metaphor. Not one indirect image. It began like this: “I’d pull your pants down without saying anything. I’d put you face down. I’d spread your ass cheeks with both hands and lick your ass until you were so wet it would run down your thighs on its own.”

I read it. I lowered my hand.

The text went on. He put two fingers in my cunt from behind, with his tongue still working the hole above. He moved them in slow circles, searching for that spot he knew perfectly well where it was. He made me come like that, my face buried in the pillow and my hips lifted, without stopping licking me while I trembled. Then he turned me over and spread my legs and shoved into me in one go, his cock already soaked with his own saliva, his hands squeezing my tits and his thumbs moving over my nipples.

He fucked me while looking me in the eyes. Without closing his mouth. Telling me in a low voice things I’d never dared to say out loud. “This cunt is mine.” “Look how your pussy’s dripping on my cock.” “You’re going to come so many times you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

He changed positions without coming out. He turned me, put me on all fours, grabbed my hair, fucked me with his open hand on the back of my neck, pressing my face into the mattress while he thrust into me from behind. His other hand went for my clit and pinched it between two fingers until I screamed. He pushed his wet thumb into my ass while he kept fucking my cunt and made me come again, this time with my whole body convulsing and no control over my voice.

When he was about to come, he pulled his cock out, turned me over, pried my mouth open with his fingers, and came on my tongue. I swallowed while looking at him. He ran his thumb over my lip, wiping away a drop that had escaped, and pushed it back into my mouth.

I had to let go of the phone.

I left it on the mattress and closed my eyes. My hand was already inside my panties and I didn’t remember putting it there. I was drenched. My fingers went in on their own, without resistance, and my clit throbbed against my thumb as if it had a life of its own. I started stroking myself with two fingers, first slowly, then faster, mentally rereading the bits that had stuck in my head. “I’d lick your ass until you were so wet.” “You’re going to come so many times you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.” “Look how your pussy’s dripping on my cock.”

I sank three fingers all the way in and curved them, searching for that spot. With my other hand I slipped under my T-shirt and squeezed one nipple between my thumb and forefinger, twisting it until it hurt. The combination made my back arch. I felt everything clench inside me, the walls of my cunt tightening around my fingers, that wave rising up my belly that doesn’t always let itself be called.

I came biting the pillow so no one would hear. A long, sustained orgasm, with my fingers trembling inside me and my hips moving on their own against my hand. When it was over, I pulled out my soaked fingers and brought them to my mouth out of curiosity, without thinking. I licked the taste of wet cunt off them as if it were an answer to something he had asked me.

I couldn’t hold out. I touched myself again almost immediately. This time slower, more deliberately, taking my time. I spread my clit open with two fingers and stroked it with the tip of another, in tight circles, breathing through my mouth. I thought of him saying “this cunt is mine” and I came again, quieter, longer, my whole body curling in on itself beneath the sheets.

I stayed still for a long while, my breathing still fast, my hand resting on my wet stomach, the ceiling my only point of reference.

I didn’t write to him that night. But the next day I sent him a short message: “It was exactly what I needed.”

He replied with one word: “I knew.”

***

Three years have passed since that first notification.

I still follow him. I still read everything he posts. Sometimes he sends me a text that feels as if it was written for me, and sometimes there are weeks of silence. We’ve never met. I don’t know whether I’ll ever know his name or what his face looks like or whether he actually has the body and cock he once described while answering questions from curious followers.

What I do know is what changed in me.

Before him, I didn’t know how to name what I was looking for. I had desires that never quite took shape, like those words you have on the tip of your tongue and that never come out. I didn’t know how to ask to be fucked in the ass. I didn’t know how to say out loud that I liked swallowing. I didn’t know that I could come four times in a row if someone — or something, even if it was only a text on a screen — knew exactly how to take me there. He didn’t give me any of that. He helped me find it. There’s a difference between those two things, even if from the outside you may not see it.

Sometimes I wonder whether he knows what he did. Whether he knows there’s a woman somewhere who keeps his texts in a private folder on her phone and rereads them with her hand inside her panties when she needs to remember that desire can be named with care and with precision, and with the filthiest words in the dictionary, all at the same time.

He probably doesn’t know.

Or maybe he does. Maybe that’s why he writes.