The Stranger from the Chat and Her Camera On

It was late, almost four in the afternoon on a Thursday with nothing going on. The whole house was mine. My parents wouldn’t be back until evening, and I had been lying on the sofa for two hours, unable to concentrate on anything else.

Mateo. Twenty years old. Alone, with an accumulated tension that couldn’t find an outlet anywhere. I had tried everything: porn, memories, imagination pushed to its limit. Nothing worked. What I needed was something different. Someone real on the other side.

So I opened one of those adult chat sites that everyone knows about but never mentions. I started browsing the list of users who were online. Empty names, nothing that caught my attention: generic handles, meaningless initials, numbers that said nothing about anyone.

Until I saw one: Mara_sola.

I couldn’t explain why I stopped there. Maybe it was the “alone.” Maybe the name’s brevity, its involuntary honesty. Maybe it was because I had been searching for half an hour without finding anything. I wrote to her without thinking too much.

—Hi.

—Hi —she replied immediately.

—Mateo. Twenty years old.

—Mara. Thirty-seven.

Thirty-seven, I thought. A fully grown woman. Without the insecurities of girls my age, without the doubts or fear of making a fool of herself that I still carried myself. A woman who, at that age, already knew what cock she liked, how she wanted it, and what to do with it when she had it in front of her.

The conversation grew on its own, effortlessly. Pointless questions at first: where you were from, what you were doing, what kind of things you liked. But underneath it all ran something different, a current neither of us named yet and both of us recognized perfectly.

I was direct.

—Do you have Discord?

There was a brief pause.

—Yes. Why?

—Because I prefer a voice to text.

Another pause. Longer this time, as if she were weighing something.

—All right —she said.

She sent me her username. I looked her up and added her. She accepted in less than a minute.

***

Her voice was the first thing that reached me. Deep, with a calm cadence, as if she had been waiting all afternoon for someone to call her. Cameras off. Audio only.

—So you’re one of those who prefer listening —she said.

—I’m one of those who prefer making sure there’s really someone on the other side —I replied.

She laughed. A dry, genuine sound, nothing fake.

We kept talking. She had the tone of someone who had been through enough situations not to need to pretend surprise. Direct without being aggressive, confident without being arrogant. She asked whether I was alone at home. I told her I was.

—So am I —she said, and those two words contained everything neither of us was saying yet.

I had put on a new pair of boxers that morning. Black, tight, the kind that left little to the imagination.

—I bought new underwear this week —I blurted out, just like that, without any more detours.

—Oh, yeah? —her voice changed slightly, a barely perceptible nuance—. What kind?

—Boxers. Black. Want to see them?

Silence.

—Yes —she said.

I explained that I didn’t take pictures. Pictures remained, files traveled. If I was going to show her something, it would be through the camera, and whatever happened on that call would stay there.

—That’s fine by me —she replied, without arguing.

I turned on my camera.

I stood up in front of the lens. I had already been thinking about her for a while, about her voice, about what might be beneath the silence of that turned-off camera. And it showed clearly in the boxers: the black fabric stretched tight over an erection I had been holding back for an hour without touching myself, the entire bulge outlined, the head of my cock drawn against the cotton.

There was a long pause on the other end.

—Those aren’t just the boxers —she finally said.

—No.

—What is it?

—You can imagine.

Another silence. Then a soft sound, almost between her teeth, which I recognized as approval.

—I can imagine it. And I’ve got it right in front of me, so there isn’t much to imagine.

—Do you like what you see?

—I like that you’re hard for me without having seen me yet.

Then she turned on her camera.

***

She was reclining on a bed with dark sheets. The bedside lamp was on, casting warm, low light, and she wore a thin camisole with spaghetti straps, lying on her side and looking directly into the lens. The room behind her was simple, tidy, unpretentious.

Thirty-seven years old. A body that had worn those years well. Full in exactly the right places, with no apologies to make and no hint of insecurity. She looked at me through the camera with a calm expression, as if she were exactly where she wanted to be.

—I’ve been like this for a while —she said—. Reading.

—What were you reading?

—Something that got me thinking.

—About what?

—About what I didn’t have.—She paused briefly—. Until now.

The camisole hugged her breasts. I could see her breathing, the slow, steady movement of her rib cage, and how the fabric rose in two points where her nipples were already hard.

—Touch yourself —I asked her—. Slowly. As if you had all the time in the world.

She hesitated for a moment. Then she brought one hand to her neckline, slowly, without taking her eyes off the camera. Her fingers moved down over the fabric, brushing the curve of her breast from above, exploring without hurry. She pinched one nipple through the camisole and rolled it between her index finger and thumb, and a small smile escaped her when she felt it grow even harder beneath the fabric.

—More —I said.

—You first —she replied.

I yanked my boxers down. I stood before the camera completely exposed, my cock hard and pointing forward, the tip already wearing a glistening drop that gave me away. She remained silent, watching for several seconds that seemed to stretch on.

—Fuck —she said, the word coming out raw, without adornment—. It’s beautiful.

—Yeah?

—Thick. And that wet tip is making me crazy. Grab it.

I wrapped my right hand around it. It felt hot against my palm, throbbing, the skin taut from how swollen it was.

—That’s it —she said, her voice a little tighter—. Move it. Slowly. Spread that drop over the whole head.

I obeyed. I ran my thumb over the glans, spreading the precum, and lowered my hand to the base in a slow movement. She bit her lower lip while watching me.

—Your turn —I said.

She sat up slowly, without hurry, with the kind of confidence that came from knowing what she had and not needing anyone else to confirm it. She pulled the camisole over her head and let it fall beside the bed.

Her breasts were bare. Large, fair-skinned, their nipples already dark and hard before anyone had touched them. Heavy, round tits, sagging just slightly to the sides under their own weight, with broad areolas and erect nipples in the center, begging for a mouth. I looked at them and thought about everything I would have done if I had been in that room with her: suck them one by one, bite her nipples until she screamed, leave marks all over that white skin.

—Satisfied? —she asked.

—Not yet. I want to see your tits closer. Grab them.

She took one in each hand, lifted them slightly toward the camera, and squeezed them. Her nipples poked out between her fingers, dark and stiff. She ran her tongue over her upper lip without taking her eyes off me.

—Would you like to suck them? —she asked.

—Right now I’d have my mouth full of you.

—And I’d let you. For a good long while.

I sat in front of the camera and wrapped my hand around my cock again. Slowly, without rushing, I began moving up and down, the skin sliding over itself, the head appearing and disappearing inside my fist.

—Touch your nipples —I said—. With your index fingers and thumbs. Take your time.

She obeyed. She ran her thumbs over her nipples, stretched them slightly, then let them go. Then she pinched them harder, pulling them upward until a small moan escaped her. The surrounding skin visibly prickled even through the screen.

—Good —I said—. Like that. Pinch them harder.

She did. She twisted her right nipple between her fingers with quiet cruelty and drew a deep breath through her nose.

—You too —she ordered—. More slowly. I want to watch you jerk off. Every movement. Make my mouth water.

I slowed down. Every movement deliberate, my hand sliding up and down my cock while I watched her. The tension from the beginning, that whole afternoon with no outlet, was starting to find its way out.

—How long have you been alone today? —I asked.

—All afternoon. You?

—Same.

—It shows —she said, flicking her eyes toward my side of the camera—. You’re already dripping.

I laughed. She smiled too.

—Lower your hand —I asked—. I want to see that pussy.

She was wearing a short skirt made of light fabric that covered her thighs. She ran her fingers over the material, brushing the inner side of her thigh from top to bottom and then back up, with a deliberate slowness that was driving me crazy.

—Lift it —I said.

She did so slowly. The fabric rose to her hip and stayed there. She was wearing a small dark lace thong, taut against her pubis. The dampness was already visible, the fabric darker in the center, outlined, giving away exactly what it covered: swollen lips pressing against the soaked lace.

—Can you see it? —she asked.

—Perfectly.

—It’s wet. Soaked. I’ve been like this since you turned your camera on.

—I know. I can see it from here.

—What do you want me to do? —she asked, her voice no longer entirely calm.

—Touch your pussy through it. Don’t take your thong off yet.

She ran two fingers over the fabric, pressing lightly, and let out a small, restrained sound. Her knees moved farther apart. She began sliding her fingers up and down over the lace, following the line of her slit, and every time she reached her clitoris she pressed a little harder, her whole body responding with a tiny tremor in her thighs.

—More —I said.

—If I keep doing this, I’m not going to want to stop —she replied.

—That’s exactly what I want.

—Then take it off me. With your voice.

—Take it off. Slowly. And spread your legs for me.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pulled the thong down over her thighs and knees, then kicked it off. The camera adjusted with her and gave me everything: her thighs spread wide, her shaved pussy with a short line of dark hair above it, her lips swollen and glistening with wetness, the opening clearly outlined, her clitoris poking out, swollen between the folds.

—Fuck, Mara.

—Do you like it?

—I’d eat the whole thing.

—Tell me how.

—I’d start with your thighs. Kisses on the inside. Slowly. Moving upward. And when I reached the top, I wouldn’t touch you yet. I’d blow on you. Just that.

—You bastard.

—Then I’d lick you from bottom to top, slowly, with my whole tongue flat. Gathering everything up.

She brought her fingers to her mouth, wet them with saliva, and ran them over her pussy, drawing circles around her clitoris.

—Keep going —she panted.

—Then I’d suck that clitoris. I’d put two fingers inside you and lick you at the same time, until you came all over my face.

—Oh God.

She pushed two fingers inside herself. I watched them sink all the way in, and the sound reached my headphones: wet, obscene, exact. She began fucking herself with her right hand while her left continued working her clitoris.

***

A few minutes passed. I kept up the slow rhythm, watching her, my cock sliding through my fist with the help of the precum that kept pouring out. She fingered herself with increasing pressure, her eyes fixed on the camera on my side, on what I was showing her.

—Imagine it’s you —she said.

—I’m imagining it. I’m imagining how you tighten when I push it all the way inside you.

—What would you do?

—I’d start slowly. Like you’re doing. Just the tip at first. Rubbing it over your pussy, wetting it with everything you’ve got there. Until you begged me to go faster.

—What if I beg you now?

—Depends on whether you ask properly.

She bit her lip. Her fingers moved inside her with a rhythm that kept building, without her doing anything to hide it, sliding in and out with an increasingly loud squelch.

—Please —she said, without irony, almost seriously—. Fuck me faster. With that thick cock. Push it all the way in.

I increased the pace of my hand. I moved it quickly up and down, squeezing, feeling everything build at the base. She did the same, three fingers inside her now, her wrist moving fast, the wet noise of her soaked pussy filling my headphones.

—Show me your ass —I told her—. Turn around. Get on all fours for the camera.

She did it without arguing. She turned, braced her elbows on the mattress, and offered me her entire ass. Broad, round, white. And between her cheeks, her open pussy gleaming with wetness, truly dripping, a thread of fluid running down the inside of her right thigh.

—Spread yourself open —I asked.

She reached both hands behind her and pulled her cheeks apart. Everything was on display: her pink, pulsing pussy and, higher up, her tight, clean asshole.

—Put your fingers in like this —I told her—. As if I were behind you.

She sank two fingers into her pussy again, this time from behind, and began pumping herself hard. Each thrust made her whole ass tremble.

—Yes, like that, like that —she panted—. Fuck me like that.

I was pounding my cock now without control, watching everything move on her, watching her fingers disappear to the knuckles.

—Suck the other finger and touch that ass too —I ordered her.

She put the index finger of her other hand in her mouth, wet it thoroughly, and pressed it against her asshole. She pushed slowly. The fingertip disappeared inside, and she let out a long, deeper moan.

—Fuck, fuck —she murmured—. I’m about to come.

—Me too.

—Turn around —I told her—. I want to see your face when you come.

She turned and lay back on the bed again, her legs spread wide in front of the camera. One finger in her pussy, two fingers rubbing her clitoris at full speed, her breasts rising and falling with her ragged breathing.

The sounds came through my headphones: her breathing, increasingly uncontrolled, little broken moans escaping without her seeking them, isolated words—fuck, cock, come, God—that pulled from the pit of my stomach all the way down to my balls. I watched her. She watched me. The distance between us stopped mattering completely.

—Don’t stop —she said.

—I’m not going to stop.

—More —she begged—. Like that. Just like me. Come with me.

We were both moving at the same pace now, both watching the other through the screens with the same urgency in our hands. Her room with the lamp turned low, mine with afternoon light coming through the half-closed blinds.

I felt the tension building, rising slowly, my balls tightening against my body, that point of no return one recognizes without mistaking it.

—Mara.

—Yes.

—I’m coming.

—Me too —she said, her voice already changed, shorter, her breathing breaking into little pants—. Don’t stop, don’t stop now. Come all over me, I want to see it, I want to see all that cum pouring out.

I didn’t stop.

I watched her tense. Her fingers moved faster over her clitoris and then stayed planted there, pressing hard, while her body responded. Her back arched slightly. Her thighs trembled around her hand. Her pussy visibly contracted, squeezing again and again around the fingers inside her, a small squirt of fluid escaping beneath them. A long sound she made no attempt to suppress, hoarse, almost a roar, came through the headphones and went straight into my chest.

And me at the same time. The tension reached its limit and broke: the first long, thick burst shot out and fell over my hand and stomach; the second was just as strong, white, coating my fingers; and then several more, forced out by spasms I couldn’t control, my hand squeezing without thought as I watched everything through the screen, as I listened to her come.

We remained silent.

Both of us breathing. Both of us still. My cock still hard and my hand full of semen. Her legs spread, her fingers still between her thighs and her pussy soaked and shining beneath the lamplight.

***

—I didn’t expect that —she said at last, her voice returning to its usual tone.

—What did you expect?

—I don’t know. Something worse. Clumsier. More rushed.—She paused—. Twenty-year-old guys don’t usually have patience.

—Depends on the guy.

—I suppose so.—She brought the fingers she had had inside her to her mouth and sucked them, looking at me—. And some of them know how to give orders.

She sat up in bed. She picked up the camisole from the floor and put it on. I cleaned myself up and got dressed too.

—Should I look for you another day? —I asked.

She looked at me through the camera for a moment before answering.

—Yes —she said—. But give me notice first. I’m not always alone.

She turned off the camera.

I stared at the black screen for a moment, my pulse still racing and my mind spinning over what had just happened. I cleaned myself more thoroughly, picked up my boxers from the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed.

I never learned her last name. I never learned what city she lived in. I didn’t have her phone number, I didn’t know what her face looked like in profile, and I knew nothing about her life outside that room with the lamp on and the dark sheets.

All I knew was that there was a woman named Mara who was sometimes alone, who had a voice that entered through your ears and stayed there, and who knew exactly what she was doing, how to ask for it, and how to spread her legs in front of a camera without asking permission.

I closed the laptop and sat in silence for a moment in my empty room, thinking about when I would see her lit up again on the other side of the screen.

It didn’t take me long to write to her again.