The Reader Who Wrote to Me Ignited My Fantasy

Hello, darlings! I’m Vanesa Cruz, a closeted 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, by the way, are going to end up with your hand between your legs, as is only right.

Since I started publishing my experiences, I’ve received a lot of messages. Most of them are from men, those beautiful men who write to me in the middle of the night when they think nobody is watching, with their cock hard in one hand and the phone in the other. Some emails come in burning hot, telling me how they come while thinking of me; others thank me for my stories with a tenderness I didn’t expect; and a few, the fewest luckily, are simply unpleasant 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 older men, the ones who already know where to put their tongue without asking. He, however, was the exception. Something about the way he wrote made me start imagining, and keeps me turned on even now, while I type this with soaked panties thinking about him.

It’s not just desire, it’s the way he says it. There are men who write as if they were crossing an item off a list, hurried, clumsy, asking for a photo of my tits before they’ve even said hello. D, on the other hand, builds. He leaves sentences unfinished so you complete them, drops a detail and falls silent, makes you work your imagination until you end up crossing your legs under the table. And there’s nothing that turns me on more than a man who knows how to wait, one who heats your head up first and then tears your cunt apart.

“Hi, Vanesa. I’ve been following your stories for a while and I’ve been wanking my ass off reading you, honestly I get incredibly turned on. I come thinking about you more times than I should. I just wanted to tell you I’m your fan. I live in the north end of the city and I hope one day I’ll run into you on the subway.”

That’s how this madness began. I found it exciting that he was masturbating while reading what I write, imagining him with his cock in his hand, squeezing the head while he went over my sentences 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, and neither does a cunt.

The messages kept getting hotter with a naturalness that disarmed me. I very rarely decide to send photos of myself; I consider it dangerous, you never know on what screen they end up. However, this time the guy made me feel safe, and we started exchanging our bodies through images, little by little, like someone taking off their clothes in front of a fogged-up mirror.

“Hi, handsome. Thanks for reading me, it turns me on so much to know you touch your cock thinking about me. And yes: if we ever meet on the subway, I’m at your disposal, for whatever you want to do to me. Kisses.”

That was my first message to him. I accompanied it with a photo I love, in which 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 on the fabric, and my legs just slightly parted to hint at what was higher up. I wanted him to look at it for a good while, with his hand already inside his pants.

It worked. His reply came almost right away.

“Wow, honestly I wasn’t expecting you to reply so fast, haha. I got hard instantly. Whenever you want you can see how I touch myself thinking of you. I’m a closeted 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, to slip my hand under your skirt and pull it out all wet. I confess I’m touching myself right now, imagining we go together, that I lick your tits in the seat, that I make you suck my cock right there and then take you to a hotel to fuck you until I break you, to make you feel like the most desired woman in the world. Thanks for the stocking photo, that kind of shot drives me crazy, I want to bite them until I rip them. A kiss, gorgeous.”

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

“Mmmm, that sounds delicious. I love imagining you stroking that cock for me, squeezing it hard, coming while you think of my tits. I’m leaving you something so you can start the day with your cock in your hand. Kisses, Vanesa.”

I replied, accompanying my words with another photo. In that one I’m lying on my back, still wearing the black stockings and garter belt, legs raised and feet resting on the headboard. A pose that says more than it shows: my pussy open, the garter strap biting into my thighs, and the promise of everything underneath. I knew exactly what it would do to him.

“You have no idea how hot it was to start the day wanking with your photos. It had been a long time since an image got me like this. I came twice in a row, the second one almost without resting. 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, the part that mattered most to me. A strong guy, solidly built, skin taut over his abdomen and a huge cock clenched in his hand, thick, veined, with the head glistening with pre-cum. The photo was a little blurry, like it had been taken in a hurry and with one hand, but everything that needed to be seen was there: firm, prominent, with that impatient hardness only youth gives you. My mouth watered imagining it inside me. I stayed staring at the screen longer than I should admit, enlarging the image with two fingers, searching every vein, every fold.

By then I was already at a thousand. My heart pounding in my throat, my nipples hard as stones rubbing against the silk, my panties turned into a swamp, that dizzy feeling in the pit of my stomach that comes right before doing something deliciously stupid. 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 left the phone propped against the lamp, his photo on the screen, D’s cock lighting up my face like an altar.

I lay down on the sheets still wearing the stockings. I yanked my panties down to my knees, not taking them all the way off, I wanted to feel trapped, half-dressed, as if he had stripped me in a hurry. I started slowly, with my fingertips on my thigh, going up just a little, deliberately lingering until I brushed the pubic hair. Let it be him touching me, I told myself. Let it be his hands and not mine, let it be his mouth licking me. I closed my eyes and the fantasy built itself on its own, effortlessly, as if it had been waiting for this moment for days.

I imagined us in the movie theater he had described. The room almost empty, the hum of the projector, that reddish dimness that makes any shame invisible. His hand finding my knee beneath my coat, climbing centimeter by centimeter, finding the edge of the stocking, the garter belt, the bare skin higher up, and finally slipping between my thighs to grab my cock already hard over my panties. His breath against my ear saying filthy things: “whore, look how hard you are,” “I’m going to make you suck it right here,” “then I’m going to shove it in your ass.” I imagined myself kneeling on the sticky theater floor, pulling his cock out of his pants, taking it all the way into my mouth to the throat, while he held my nape with one hand and covered his mouth with the other so he wouldn’t moan.

I opened the drawer of the nightstand and took out one of the toys, the thickest one, the one that most resembles what I had seen in his photo. I brought it to my mouth first, slowly, tracing with my tongue what I would do to him in that dark room. I sucked it like it was real, salivating over all of it, taking it down to the back of my throat until my eyes filled with tears. I imagined his taste like young skin, his hot weight on my tongue, the way he would hold my nape with one hand while the other squeezed a breast over the dress. I moaned against the silicone thinking it was his flesh, sucking it noisily, with spit hanging from my chin, and the fantasy became so vivid I could almost smell his cheap boyish cologne mixed with the sweat of his groin.

I ran it over my body, from my face to my neck, from my neck to my chest, pausing on my nipples, pinching them with my free fingers while the toy slid wetly over my belly. I passed it over my cock too, mine, pushing the silicone against my own dick until a broken moan escaped me, and then I took it lower, to that place where I needed it open, drenched, slowly stretching. The cold tip made me jolt and arch. I eased it in with patience, first just the tip, in and out, playing at resisting, at refusing, with my ass clenching over nothing, until I couldn’t take it anymore and gave in completely.

Then I let it penetrate me, and the initial burn was exactly what I needed. Pain right on the edge of what could be endured, bearable only because in my head it was D pushing, it was his cock forcing its way into me. I felt every centimeter going in, the ring giving way with an electric crack that ran all the way down my spine. “My little fantasy whore,” he whispered in my ear in the fantasy, “here’s what you asked for, hold on tight,” and I told him yes, that I was his, that he could split me in two if he wanted, that he could fuck me like the whore he needed. I took it all, to the hilt, until I felt the end, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream in the empty house.

I started moving it to his imagined rhythm, slowly at first, pulling it almost all the way out and then sinking it back in, savoring the drag inside. Then brutally, as I think he would do it, without asking permission but attentive to every tremble of mine, taking me against the mattress with that youthful fury you can’t hold back. With my other hand I grabbed my cock and started jerking off in the same tempo, squeezing hard from the base, sliding up to the head, spreading the liquid that was already gushing out all over the tip. My feet in black stockings searched for a foothold on the headboard, just like in the photo I’d sent him, and thinking that he had that image saved on his phone, that he was coming while looking at it, that the cock fucking me from the inside would end up spitting inside me, brought me to the edge in seconds.

I sped up the toy, in and out obscenely, hearing the slosh of my own juices while the hand on my cock moved faster and faster. I imagined D over me, sweaty, panting in my ear, “I’m coming, whore, I’m coming inside,” and I felt my own orgasm beginning to climb from my feet. Everything clenched: my thighs, my ass tightening around the silicone, my hand milking my cock.

The orgasm hit me in waves, first a dry contraction that bent me over myself, and then that long tide that never ends and leaves you trembling as if you’d been crying. I came in jets over my own belly, splashing up to my chest, mouth open and voiceless. Each spasm of semen matched an internal convulsion, and I kept moving the toy slowly, prolonging the pleasure, squeezing out every drop of pleasure I had saved up. I came thinking of him, with his fake name on my lips and his blurred body stamped behind my eyelids, imagining that he was coming inside me at the same time, filling me, marking me. It took me a long while to come back, sprawled on the bed, breathing raggedly, warm semen drying between my breasts and the phone still glowing at my side.

I stayed like that for a good while, with my stockings askew, my hair stuck to my forehead and the toy still inside me, pinched by muscles that didn’t want to let it go, going over every word he’d said as someone rereads a letter. I thought about how strange it is to desire someone so much when they don’t have a clear face, when they’re just a written voice and a half-focused cock. And yet, precisely because of that, I wanted him more: because he could be whatever I needed him to be, any cock, any mouth, any tongue going wherever I wanted.

***

When I caught my breath, I wiped the semen off my chest with my hand and brought my fingers to my mouth, licking them slowly, tasting myself as if it were him forcing me to swallow. I wrote him one last thing before the day returned me to my usual life, to routine, to the comfortable disguise of the woman everyone else thinks they know.

“I’ve just had the best wake-up in months, and it was all your fault. I just came like a whore thinking about your cock buried to the hilt. 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 have any mercy: I’m going to suck you until the last drop and then you’ll have to fuck me all night to leave me satisfied. Kisses where you know. Vanesa.”

I rested the phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot, with my cunt and ass still throbbing. The fantasy is still there, intact, waiting. I don’t know if D and I will ever run into each other on the subway, in a theater, or at the door of a hotel. Maybe it never happens. Maybe it’s better that it doesn’t happen and stays like this, perfect, unattainable, mine every time I close my eyes and spread my legs.

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, with his cock hard, ready to fuck me every time I open the door.

To be continued… because stories like this never truly end, and because I still have a lot of imaginary semen left to swallow.

Thanks for reading me. As always, I leave you wanting more, with wet panties and the promise of coming back soon to tell you what else I come up with when night falls, the house goes quiet, and I slip my hand between my legs thinking of you.

Kisses.

Vanesa Cruz.