What I Do Alone with My Readers’ Emails

There’s a ritual I’ve never confessed to anyone and that I repeat every time I publish a new story. I wait a few days, just long enough for people to read it, and then I open my email with my heart racing and a very clear idea of what I’m going to find. I don’t check invoices or work messages. I look for the others. The ones written by strangers who got turned on by me.

This afternoon was no different. I closed my bedroom door even though I live alone, as if I needed the ceremony of locking it to give myself permission. I sat on the bed with the laptop on my knees, in an old T-shirt and nothing underneath. The screen lit up the dim room. And there they were, waiting for me, an inbox full of messages I hadn’t opened yet.

The first thing I felt wasn’t in my head. It was lower down, that warm tingling I know so well and that comes even before I read the first line. Just knowing those emails existed, that men I’ll never see had taken the time to write to me after jerking off, I was already wet.

I opened the first one.

***

“Your stories are so hot,” it began. “Honestly, you got me rock hard. I already want to read one where someone fucks you and see how much you enjoy it. I’d love to have a little slut like you to try out everything possible. I jerked off thinking about you.”

I read that last sentence three times. I jerked off thinking about you.

I have to admit something, and I’d rather say it outright so no one holds back: it turns me on like crazy when they talk to me like that. When they call me a little slut, when they describe without any filter what they’d do. It doesn’t offend me, quite the opposite. Every crude word is like one more finger on my skin. So if any of you are reading this and hesitating to write to me like that, don’t hesitate. I assure you it gets me wetter than you can imagine.

I slid one hand under my shirt while I kept reading. Not in a hurry. I just rested it on my belly, feeling it rise and fall with my breathing, which was no longer calm.

The second email was longer. A man told me he had read my latest story in the bathroom at work, hiding, and had had to go back to his desk pretending everything was normal while he was still hard. He described the desk, the coworkers next to him, the risk of someone noticing. That image set me on fire in a way I hadn’t expected: a stranger turned on by me right there in the office, holding back, with my story still pounding in his head.

I closed my eyes for a second and imagined myself there, under his desk.

***

When I looked back at the screen I already had two fingers moving slowly between my legs, not going in yet, just brushing, stretching out that moment beforehand that is, for me, the best part of all. The anticipation. Knowing I can, that I’m going to do it, but not yet.

The third message was from someone who wrote with mistakes, clearly in a hurry, as if the words weren’t coming out fast enough. He said he had come twice in a row while reading my story, that it had never happened to him with anything written. That normally he needed to see, not read, but that I’d managed something different. That he pictured me with a specific voice even though he’d never heard me.

And that was when I really started.

I slid down onto the bed, set the laptop aside but turned it so the emails were still visible, because I needed to see them while I touched myself. I slipped one finger inside, slowly, and let out a moan I couldn’t control. I was so wet it slid in with no resistance at all. Tight, hot, ready for a while already.

I was thinking of all of them at once. Not one, all of them. Of the idea that at this very moment, scattered across cities I don’t know, there were men who had pulled down their pants because of something I had written. That my fake name, my invented voice, had made their cocks hard. That I, without touching them, without seeing them, had made them tremble.

That’s my fantasy. The real one, the one that doesn’t appear so explicitly in my stories.

***

I imagine myself surrounded. A circle of men around me, all naked, all moving their hands at the same rhythm. They don’t touch me. That’s the rule of the game I make up in my head: they can’t touch me. Only look. I’m in the center, on my knees, letting them stare at my tits, which aren’t huge but they love them, and my ass, which is big and I know it and I like knowing it.

And they look at me. They devour me with their eyes while they masturbate, each in his own time, some faster, others holding back to make it last longer. I feel every gaze as a physical weight on my skin. The thrill isn’t in them touching me. It’s in the fact that they can’t, in that they want me so much they’re content to watch me and finish because of me.

As the minutes pass, in my head, they start coming. One after another. And I let them stain me. I feel the warm spurts falling on my back, on my chest, on my ass. It’s filthy and it’s exactly what I want. To be the absolute center of desire for a bunch of strangers all at once.

That’s what I was thinking while I slid in a second finger and started moving them faster.

***

The laptop was still there, off to one side, with an email half-read. I glanced at it through my gasps and saw a stray line: “I wish I could see your face when you come.” And I thought: I’m making it right now, and you’ll never see it. That distance, that wall between what they imagine and what actually happens in my bed, drove me insane.

I brought my other hand up to my chest and squeezed one nipple between my fingers, hard, the way I like it. I arched my back. The whole room smelled like me, like heat, like a locked-in afternoon. The sheets were twisted and damp beneath me.

I couldn’t take much more. I had been in that threshold state for so long, heating myself up read after read, that when the orgasm came it hit me all at once, without a gentle warning. I clamped my legs around my own hand, held my breath for one endless second and then moaned long and loud, not caring about anything, with my face buried in the pillow and my fingers still inside me, feeling myself clench around them again and again.

It took me a while to come back. I stayed lying there, staring at the ceiling, my breathing slowly unraveling and a stupid smile I couldn’t get rid of. The laptop was still on beside me, with all those men waiting in the inbox, not knowing they had just made me finish all together.

***

That’s why I sat down to write this almost without getting dressed, with my body still loose. I wanted to thank them. All of you who write to me, who dare to tell me in detail how my words got you hard, where you were, how many times. You have no idea what a favor you do me. Every email is fuel for the next time.

There’s only one thing I want to make clear, and I say it affectionately. I’m not going to send photos, or videos, or personal details. It’s not out of contempt, it’s purely privacy and safety. What happens between us lives in the imagination, and that’s where I want it to stay, because that’s exactly where it works best. If you saw me for real, this voice they’ve invented for me would lose all its force. And that voice, the one that speaks in your ear when you read, is me in the most honest way I know.

I know this story is shorter than the others, and I apologize for that. I didn’t want to tell a made-up story this time. I wanted to tell this one, the real one, the one about an ordinary afternoon, an email full of dirty messages, and a woman alone touching herself while thinking about how many touched themselves first thinking about her.

I promise I’ll be back soon with something much longer and much filthier. In the meantime, keep writing to me. Keep telling me everything. I’ll keep reading you like this, with the door closed and my hand busy.

Kisses.