The Reader Who Wrote Me Lit My Fantasy

Hello, darlings! I’m Vanesa Cruz, a closet transvestite, and today I want to tell you about a fantasy that still burns on my skin. I’ve got it lodged in my head and in every inch of my body thanks to a reader from around here whom I’m going to call D. He’ll know I’m writing for him as soon as he reads these lines, and you, meanwhile, will enjoy it with me.

Since I started publishing my experiences, I receive lots of messages. Most of them are from men, gorgeous men who write to me in the middle of the night when they think no one is watching them. Some emails arrive burning hot, others thank me for my stories with a tenderness I wasn’t expecting, and a few, the least of them thankfully, are simply disgusting and go straight to the trash.

But D caught my attention from the very first line. He seemed like an interesting guy despite his age, because he’s quite young and I, I must confess, usually prefer mature men. He, however, was the exception. Something in the way he wrote made me start imagining, and it keeps me turned on even now, as I type this thinking about him.

It’s not just the desire, it’s the way he says it. There are men who write as if they’re crossing an item off a list, rushed, clumsy, asking without giving anything in return. D, on the other hand, builds. He leaves sentences unfinished for you to complete, drops a detail and falls silent, makes you do the work of imagination. And there’s nothing that turns me on more than a man who knows how to wait.

“Hi, Vanesa. I’ve been following your stories for a while and I’ve been jerking off to you like crazy while reading, honestly you turn me on too much. I just wanted to tell you I’m your fan. I live in the north of the city and I hope someday I run into you on the subway.”

That’s how this madness began. I found it exciting that he was touching himself while reading what I write; it made me feel desired from the very first message. So much so that now I miss him when a day goes by without him writing to me. It’s absurd, I know. A grown woman hung up on the words of a stranger. But the skin doesn’t understand logic.

The messages gradually grew hotter with a naturalness that undid me. I rarely decide to send photos of myself; I consider it dangerous, you never know what screen they end up on. And yet this time the boy gave me confidence, and we began exchanging our bodies through images, little by little, like someone taking off their clothes in front of a fogged-up mirror.

“Hi, gorgeous. Thanks for reading me, it turns me on so much knowing you touch yourself thinking of me. And yes: if we ever meet on the subway, I’m at your service. Kisses.”

That was my first message to him. I went with it along with a photo I love, one where you can see my thighs, my calves, and my feet dressed only in black stockings. I chose it carefully, calculating the angle, the light falling diagonally across the fabric. I wanted him to look at it for a long while.

It worked. His reply came almost immediately.

“Wow, honestly I wasn’t expecting you to reply so fast, haha. Thanks. Whenever you want, you can see how I touch myself thinking of you. I’m a closet bisexual, but I have some really hot stories that happened to me in public places, on the subway, in places like that. One of the places I’d love to go with you would be one of those old movie theaters, dark as hell. I confess I’m touching myself right now, imagining we’re going together to start warming up and then I take you to a hotel to make you feel like the most desired woman in the world. Thanks for the picture of your stockings, that kind of photo drives me wild. A kiss, beautiful.”

From that moment on I was already his, and he didn’t even know it. I love being treated like a princess, and D did it masterfully, effortlessly, as if it came naturally to him. From then on I wouldn’t have denied him anything.

“Mmmm, that sounds delicious. I’m fascinated by imagining you touching yourself because of me. I’ll leave you something so you can start the day caressing yourself. Kisses, Vanesa.”

I replied, pairing my words with another photo. In that one I’m lying on my back, with the black stockings and garter belt still on, my legs raised and my feet resting on the headboard. A pose that says more than it shows. I knew exactly what it would do to him.

“You have no idea how damn good it felt to start the day touching myself with your photos. It had been a long time since an image got me this worked up. I’m sending you one of mine so you can get to know me a little. I’m still thinking about you.”

And then I saw him for the first time. Well, part of him. A strong guy, with a well-built body, skin stretched tight over his abdomen. The photo was a little blurry, like it had been taken in a hurry and with one hand, but you could tell everything that had to be seen: firm, defined, with that impatient hardness only youth can give. I stayed staring at the screen longer than I should admit.

By then I was already at a thousand. My heart pounding in my throat, my hands cold, that dizzy sensation in the pit of my stomach that comes right before doing a deliciously stupid thing. And the house, for once, was empty.

***

My wife had gone out to run errands and wouldn’t be back for hours. I closed the bedroom door anyway, out of habit, out of that absurd modesty one carries even when alone. I set the phone against the lamp, with his photo on the screen, so I could look at it.

I lay down on the sheets still wearing my stockings. I started slowly, with my fingertips on my thigh, going up just a little, deliberately taking my time. Let it be him touching me, I told myself. Let it be his hands and not mine. I closed my eyes and the fantasy built itself on its own, without effort, as if it had been waiting for this moment for days.

I imagined us in the movie theater he had described. The almost empty room, the hum of the projector, that reddish dimness that makes any shame invisible. His hand searching for my knee beneath my coat, climbing centimeter by centimeter, finding the edge of the stocking, the garter belt, the bare skin higher up. His breath against my ear telling me things I don’t dare repeat here.

I opened the drawer of the nightstand and took out one of the toys. I brought it to my mouth first, slowly, tracing with my tongue what I would do to him in that dark room. I imagined his taste, his weight, the way he would hold the back of my neck with one hand. I moaned against the silicone thinking it was his flesh, and the fantasy became so vivid I could almost smell his cheap young-guy cologne.

I ran it over my body, from face to neck, from neck to chest, from chest to belly, all the way lower. The cold tip made me jerk and arch. I kept bringing it to me with patience, playing at resisting, refusing, until I couldn’t anymore and gave in completely.

Then I let it penetrate me, and the initial burn was exactly what I needed. A pain right on the edge of what you can bear, bearable only because in my head it was D pushing in. “Tania of your imagination,” he told me in my ear in the fantasy, and I told him yes, that I was his, that he could split me in two if he wanted. I took him all the way, to the hilt, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream in the empty house.

I moved it at his imagined rhythm, slow and then brutal, as I think he would do it, without asking permission but attentive to every tremor of mine. My feet in the black stockings looked for a foothold on the headboard, just like in the photo I had sent him, and the thought that he had that image saved on his phone took me to the edge in seconds.

The orgasm came in waves, first a dry contraction that doubled me over, and then that long tide that never ends and leaves you trembling as if you’d been crying. I came thinking of him, with his fake name on my lips and his blurred body imprinted behind my eyelids. It took me a long while to come back, stretched out on the bed, breathing raggedly, with the phone still glowing at my side.

I stayed like that for a good while, with my stockings bunched up and my hair stuck to my forehead, going over each of his words like someone rereading a letter. I thought about how strange it is to desire someone so much when he doesn’t have a clear face, when he’s barely a written voice and a body half out of focus. And yet, precisely because of that, I desired him more: because he could be anything I needed him to be.

***

When I got my breath back, I wrote him one last thing before the day dragged me back to my usual life, to the routine, to the comfortable disguise of the woman everyone else thinks they know.

“I just had the best wake-up of the last few months, and it was all your fault. You have no idea what you do to me, boy. Someday, that movie theater and that hotel are going to stop being a fantasy. And when that happens, I won’t show any mercy. Kisses where you know. Vanesa.”

I set the phone on my chest and lay there staring at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot. The fantasy is still there, intact, waiting. I don’t know whether D and I will ever cross paths on the subway, in a theater, or at the door of a hotel. Maybe it will never happen. Maybe it’s better if it doesn’t and stays like this, perfect, unattainable, mine every time I close my eyes.

But in the meantime, darlings, this is my confession: there’s a boy I barely know through a few photos and a few words, and he has me hotter than any flesh-and-blood lover. The mind is the hottest place there is, and he moved in there without paying rent.

To be continued… because stories like this never really end.

Thank you for reading me. As always, I’ll leave you wanting more and with the promise to come back soon to tell you what else I come up with when night falls and the house goes silent.

Kisses.

Vanesa Cruz.