The Unknown Man from the Chat Who Made Me Lose Control

It was almost midnight and the house was silent. I’d been going to bed early all week, the routine weighing on my shoulders, and that night I just wasn’t sleepy. I poured myself a glass of red wine, sat on the bed with my back against the headboard, and opened the laptop without any clear plan. I just wanted someone to talk to me. Someone to make me feel, even if only with words on a screen, that I was still capable of wanting, that I still had a pussy asking for attention and breasts that hadn’t been looked at hungrily for weeks.

I went into one of those adult chat rooms where nobody uses their real name. I picked my usual nickname, “Nocturna,” and let the message list scroll by. Most of it was the usual: impatient men typing in all caps, badly framed dick pics nobody had asked for, sentences without a single punctuation mark. I almost closed the window.

Then he wrote to me.

—Good evening, Nocturna. Can’t sleep either?

His nickname was “Wolf.” Not original, I thought, but there was something about that first line, about the fact that he wrote with accents and calmly, that made me answer instead of ignoring him.

—Not much —I replied—. Too much in my head for so little night.

—That’s the worst kind of insomnia. The kind that isn’t cured by sleeping.

Well, he knows how to talk.

I took a sip of wine and crossed my legs under the sheet. We started with the banal stuff: what I did, why I was awake, what I was looking for in a place like that at that hour. He wasn’t in a hurry. He didn’t ask about my body in the first minute or send me anything I didn’t want to see. He took his time, and that time was precisely what turned me on.

—I’m going to be honest —I typed, emboldened by the second glass—. I didn’t come here to make friends.

—I figured. Nobody comes online at midnight looking for friendship. —There was a pause, those three dots that appear when the other person is typing—. So what are you looking for, then?

—Someone to make it hard for me. Someone to make me think about something other than tomorrow. Someone to make me wet without touching me.

—I can do that.

***

What came next wasn’t abrupt. It was like a hand resting slowly on the small of your back and squeezing just enough. He described me sitting astride him, his mouth moving along my neck while one of his hands slid down to find the curve of my hips and the other squeezed one breast under my shirt, pinching my nipple until I gasped. He didn’t use vulgar words right away. He built the scene piece by piece, and I found myself reading every line twice.

—Move slowly against me —he wrote—. I want to feel you breathing and feel you start rubbing against my bulge before I even touch you. I want to feel you wet through your clothes.

I let out the air without realizing it. I set the glass on the nightstand because my hand had already started to tremble a little, and it wasn’t from the wine. I slipped one hand under my pajama pants and confirmed the obvious: I was soaked, my panties already stuck to my lips, my clit throbbing as if it had a pulse of its own.

—I need you to touch me —I replied, and I was surprised by how direct I sounded—. It’s been too long since anyone fucked me properly.

—What are your tits like? —he asked—. I want to know everything before I put my hands and mouth on them.

—Big. Soft. My nipples get hard over nothing. And they’re tired of nobody paying attention to them.

—That ends tonight. I’m going to suck them one by one until they hurt, and then I’m going to bite them.

I slid a little farther down the bed until I was almost lying flat. I pulled my shirt up to my neck and stayed there with my breasts bare in the dim light, following with my free hand the rhythm of what he was writing. I pinched one nipple between my thumb and forefinger exactly as he told me he would, and felt a jolt between my legs. He told me how he’d hold me by the nape of the neck, how he’d close his mouth over one while his fingers squeezed the other, how he’d bite slowly and then soothe with his tongue what he’d just bitten. Every message of his left me with a second of silence in which I could only hear my own breathing and the rustle of the sheets.

—You’ve got me very focused —he wrote—. Do you know how hard it is to write well with one hand when you’re jerking yourself off with the other?

I laughed to myself in the darkness of my room. That little joke, that acknowledgment that he was also holding his cock on the other side, I liked it more than I expected.

—Then we’re even —I typed—. Though I still have both hands available. One on the keyboard and the other where you imagine it.

—Tell me what you find there.

—A soaked cunt, swollen lips, and a hard clit that won’t stop asking for more. And two fingers that already went in on their own.

—Fuck, Nocturna. For only a little while longer, I hope those hands will be available.

***

I told him there was plenty of room on the floor of his imaginary room for me to kneel. I wanted to go down, I wanted to take control even if only in my head, I wanted that stranger’s cock filling my mouth. He let me do it. He described himself staying still, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me as I unbuttoned his pants with calculated slowness and pulled his boxers down until his cock sprang hard against his stomach.

—I’m not helping you —I wrote—. I want to do it myself. I want to make you wait. I want to see your cock trembling before I touch it.

—I’m all yours. Just don’t take too long, or I’ll shove it in all at once.

I bit my lip reading that. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the image take shape: the low light, his quickened breathing, the way he’d look down at me while I held his gaze from below with his cock half an inch from my lips. I wrote that I wanted to lick him first, slowly, run my tongue from the base to the tip as if it were an ice cream, looking him in the eyes so he’d go crazy too soon.

—I’m going to lick your balls too —I added—. One by one, while I hold your cock with my hand and squeeze at the base.

—You’re bad.

—I’m patient. Not the same thing. And I love hearing you ask.

—And all that fits in that mouth of yours?

—Let’s find out. Slowly. First the tip, sucking it like candy. Then more. And more. Until you feel me deep in the back of my throat and tears come to my eyes.

—Fuck, don’t say that to me.

—I’m telling you because I want to feel your balls against my chin. I like it when you start to lose your mind.

My hand had completely abandoned any pretense. I took my panties off completely and let them fall to the floor beside the bed. I pushed two fingers all the way in and felt how tight I was, how wet I was, how the slick sound slipped between the sheets every time I pulled them out and pushed them back in. I told him what I felt, without dressing it up: that my thumb was circling my clit, that I was about to come just from imagining his cock in my mouth, and he answered that as soon as I finished with his, he planned to give me back every second with his tongue between my legs.

—Then I’d better hurry —I wrote—, because that’s what I want to see. I want to feel you eating my pussy until I push your face away.

—Grab your own hair. I want to imagine you like that, naked and on your knees, with my cock filling your mouth and your eyes shining from trying to hold back the gagging.

—Better you grab it —I replied—. Guide me. Put it in all the way. Show me how you like to get sucked.

There was another pause, longer this time. I imagined him breathing deeply on the other side of the screen, in some city I’d never know, with his cock in his hand and his jaw clenched, thinking exactly the same thing I was.

—If I let myself guide you, I won’t be gentle —he warned—. I’m going to shove it down your throat and I won’t let you go until you swallow everything.

—I didn’t ask for gentle. Fuck my mouth, Wolf. Let me drool down to my chin.

***

From there the messages became shorter, more urgent, as if neither of us had patience left for long sentences. He described himself standing up, grabbing me with both hands behind the head and setting the pace, first carefully, pushing halfway in, and then not so much, all the way, until I gagged and he held it there a few seconds before pulling out and letting me breathe. I followed along, writing between breaths, with two fingers moving slowly inside and two more pressing my clit.

—You’re making me choke —I wrote, and I laughed at myself for how wrapped up I was in the scene—. Strings of saliva are falling down my chest.

—I love hearing that. Spit it out and put it back in. Are you really touching yourself?

—Been doing it for a while. I’ve got two fingers inside and I’m dripping. You can hear it. What do you think?

—I think I’m about to lose it if you keep telling me these things. I think you’re exactly what I needed tonight.

That sentence undid me more than any filthy description. I read it twice, with my fingers still for a moment, and felt something I hadn’t expected to feel in an anonymous chat at one in the morning: that there was someone real on the other side, just as alone, just as awake, just as needy for another body —even if only in words— to make him feel alive.

—Don’t stop —I wrote—. Tell me how you’d do me for real. If this were real. How you’d fuck me after coming in my mouth.

—I’d lay you on the sofa. Legs wide open, nice and slow. I’d kiss the insides of your thighs until you begged me to move up. You’d feel my breath an inch from your pussy and you’d push my hair aside to get my face there. And only then would I eat you.

—I’m shaking just reading it.

—I’d go down slowly. First I’d try with the tip of my tongue, from top to bottom, from your lips to your clit, in circles, while my fingers stroke your lips without going in yet. I’d suck your clit whole, with my lips, tugging at it, and make you wait.

—Don’t make me wait that long —I answered, and it was almost a real plea.

—Then I go in. Slowly at first. Two fingers all the way in, curling them upward, while my tongue doesn’t stop on your clit. Out and in until you hear how wet you are. Like that?

—Like that. Exactly like that. Fuck. Faster.

—Faster. Three fingers now. I open you, fill you, and I don’t stop sucking. And when you’re about to come, when you feel your legs lifting on their own, I climb on top of you and shove it in all at once, all the way, until you feel it in your stomach.

—Yes. Fuck me like that. Don’t stop.

—Every thrust all the way in. Your legs over my shoulders. My hand on your neck, not squeezing, just holding you. Watching you get fucked while you bite your lip.

I arched in the bed, alone, the screen lighting my face in the dark. Both knees were open, one hand pumping me with three fingers and the other slapping my clit with the palm, without rhythm, with desperation. What surprised me most was how much his pace, his pauses, the care with which he wrote every word mattered to me. He wasn’t just any stranger vomiting obscenities. He was someone who paid attention, and paying attention, I discovered that night, is the most erotic thing there is.

***

—I’m close —I wrote, and I wasn’t pretending—. Keep saying that, I love it. Tell me how you come.

—I turn you over. On your knees, face against the mattress and your ass up. I take you from behind, holding your hips, fucking you hard. Every thrust is heard. Every slap of my balls against your ass. I pull it out all the way and shove it back in at once, so you scream.

—Keep going. Don’t stop.

—I spit on your ass and slide a thumb into you while I keep fucking your pussy. I fill both holes. And you push back because you want more.

—I want more. Give me everything.

—I’d love to have you like that for real. Feel you squeeze my cock when you come. Feel the exact moment you stop holding back and start dripping on my balls.

—Almost there. Don’t stop.

—I’m not stopping. I’m not going to stop until you come for me. Come on my cock, Nocturna. Now.

And I did. I came reading his words, with three fingers between my legs and my breathing ragged, clutching my legs around my own hand, feeling the orgasm rise from my cunt to my throat in waves that shook my back against the mattress. I cried out into the pillow so I wouldn’t wake the neighbors. A warm gush slipped down my thighs and stained the sheets and I didn’t care at all. I kept coming for over half a minute, with spasms that made me clamp down on the fingers I still had inside. It was intense in a way I hadn’t felt in months, in my empty bed, for a man whose face I would never see and whose real name I would never know. For a few seconds I stayed still, with my fingers still inside me, my heart pounding hard and the laptop still open on the sheets.

It took me a little while to write back. When I did, I was honest.

—I just came like I hadn’t in months. That was… more than I expected when I came in here.

—Same here —he replied—. I just made a mess of half my keyboard too. I wasn’t expecting tonight to get this interesting.

—And now what?

—Now nothing. That’s the best part of this. Tomorrow we’ll be two strangers again. But tonight you were exactly what I needed.

I stared at that sentence for a long while. He was right, of course. I wasn’t going to give him my number, or my photo, or my name. I wasn’t going to ruin what had just happened by turning it into something that had consequences in the morning. That was exactly the fantasy: a perfect encounter precisely because it was impossible, because it began and ended on the same screen.

—Thank you, Wolf —I wrote—. For speaking with accents and for being patient.

—Thank you for coming in when I was about to close out too.

I closed the laptop with a stupid smile on my face and my fingers still sticky. I cleaned myself up as best I could with a towel, turned off the bedside light, covered myself up to my shoulders with my cunt still pulsing from the spasms, and fell asleep almost instantly, without that heavy head that had kept me awake all week. Sometimes you don’t need someone to know you in order for them to make you feel desired. Sometimes all you need is a stranger, a sleepless night, a hand between your legs, and the right words at the right moment.

I never went looking for Wolf again. There was no need. Some fantasies are perfect only once, and this one, without a doubt, was.