My Virtual Girlfriend Agreed to Strip in Front of Me

My name is Diego, I’m forty-two years old, and I live in Zaragoza. I’d been disconnected from the world for a while, shut up inside myself after a few very dark months that aren’t worth going into, but that left me with hardly any energy for anything. Above all, no desire to meet new people or start relationships.

Back then, an adult content platform had become all the rage, and I ended up subscribing to several girls. More out of boredom than anything else. I’d watch their photos, look at their videos, and after a while I’d feel that same loneliness again, multiplied. I needed something different. Something that felt, even from far away, like having someone on the other end of the phone.

Out of all the girls, there was one who caught my attention for something that went beyond her body. She wrote well. She had a sense of humor in her comments, she spoke to her subscribers like it came naturally, and you could tell there was a person with a head on her shoulders behind the screen. Her name was Lucía. She was twenty-three and lived in Bilbao.

One night, in one of those moments when you do things you wouldn’t dare to in daylight, I wrote to her. I made her a specific proposal: I wanted her to be my virtual girlfriend. I’d pay her sixty euros a month and, in exchange, I wanted to be treated as if we had something. Good mornings, good nights, telling each other about our day, long conversations, advice, and, when I felt like it, something hotter.

I explained that I wasn’t looking for a real-life meeting. That I wasn’t going to pressure her to see me. That if at any point either of us decided to end it, no problem. I made it crystal clear that this wasn’t a proposal to meet up, but to have company at a distance.

I thought she’d leave me on read. But she replied. She told me the proposal was unlike anything anyone had ever suggested to her before, and that she was curious to try it. She said she’d never done anything like that with a subscriber either, and that she preferred to be honest: if at any point she felt uncomfortable, we’d stop with no hard feelings.

—Deal —I wrote.

—Deal —she replied.

***

What started as a whim ended up working better than I’d expected. Lucía wasn’t a girl looking for someone to keep her, and I wasn’t some old guy trying to buy himself a girlfriend. We were two people who, for different reasons, fit into a strange routine that worked for both of us.

We didn’t talk every day. There were weeks of heavy contact and weeks when we barely exchanged a message. When she had exams, she’d disappear. When I was dragging myself through one of my bad days, she was the one who wrote first, asking how I was. And I returned the favor when she told me about some annoyance, some fight with her partner, some hookup that hadn’t gone as she’d expected.

Because Lucía had a partner. That was part of the rules, and we both respected it. What we had didn’t conflict with that. I never asked for more than we’d agreed, and she never crossed that line with me.

Over the months, she grew more confident. She started sending me everyday photos: what she was wearing to go to university, what she was making for dinner, her morning coffee. Then came the other ones. Selfies in lingerie before going out partying, photos in bed wearing a short slip, and very soon, hotter things: close-ups of her tits with the nipples hard, peeking through her fingers; photos lying face down with her ass raised and her panties wedged between her cheeks; and the occasional short video where she spread her cunt with two fingers and whispered my name. I’d answer with audio messages telling her what I’d do to her, how I’d lick her pussy until she was trembling, how I’d shove my cock into her all the way to the hilt, and she’d send me back audios, panting as she came in her bed.

One day I confessed that I’d been jerking off to her photos and audio messages for months. That I knew her better than I knew almost anyone, and at the same time I’d never seen her in person. She laughed and told me she felt a bit the same, that she knew things about me she’d never told her boyfriend, and that the thrill of not having a face to put to me drove her crazy.

—You see me every day —she wrote—. I don’t even know if you can grow a beard.

I hadn’t sent her a single photo of myself the whole time. Not because I was hiding, but because from the start she’d told me she’d rather not see me, that her mind ran faster when she could imagine the person on the other side.

***

Eleven months passed like that. And then the trip came up.

For work, I had to spend three days in Bilbao. When I told her, the conversation went quiet for a long while. She kept typing and deleting, typing and deleting, I could see it in the WhatsApp dots. In the end she only sent one sentence.

—Do you want to see each other?

I told her yes, but I proposed something specific so she wouldn’t feel pressured. I said we could have lunch together, talk as always, and then afterward, if we were both still comfortable, I wanted to suggest something. Something that didn’t involve touching. Something that respected her partner and my own inability to handle what a real meeting would be like.

I explained the idea in writing. I wanted us to go up to my hotel room after lunch. And there, without touching each other even once, she would strip in front of me. She would sit opposite me and let herself be looked at, just as I’d looked at her in hundreds of photos. And I, facing her, would jerk off my cock without moving from the armchair until I came watching her touch herself. I’d pay her the equivalent of two months of our routine for that afternoon.

—Look, and nothing else —I wrote—. Not a single finger on either of us.

It took her two days to answer. When she did, she told me she accepted on one condition: that we repeat the no-contact rule together in the room, out loud, before we started. She needed to hear it from me.

—You have my word —I replied.

***

I booked her into a hotel in the city center. When I went into the restaurant that afternoon and saw her sitting at a table in the back, I felt something strange. It wasn’t the feeling of meeting someone new. It was almost like seeing again someone I’d shared a lot with, but had never given a hug to. She had her hair up and a shirt open over a white T-shirt. She stood when she recognized me.

—Diego.

—Lucía.

We kissed each other twice on the cheek as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Lunch, really, was just any ordinary lunch. We talked the way we always did, with the same comfortable silences and the same jokes. The only difference was that this time I could see her face when she laughed and she could see my hands when I gestured. Little things WhatsApp doesn’t convey.

When we ordered coffee, she asked directly.

—Do you still want what we said?

—I still want it. And you?

She nodded without saying anything.

We took the elevator up together. We didn’t speak. When the hotel room door closed, she was the one who repeated the rule out loud, looking me in the eye, just as she’d asked me to do by message.

—We don’t touch. Neither you to me, nor me to you.

—We don’t touch —I repeated.

***

To break the ice, I suggested something half as a joke. One item off, her turn; one item off, my turn. It worked. She started with her shoes, I started with mine. Then the socks, the watch, the pants. When it was time for her T-shirt, she hesitated for a second and let it fall to the floor. She was wearing a plain black bra, nothing special, but to me it seemed more obscene than any lingerie she’d ever sent me in a photo. My cock was already standing hard over the top of my boxer briefs, and she looked at it out of the corner of her eye without saying anything, wetting her lips.

When she reached behind her to unhook her bra, my breath caught. The cups fell forward and her tits appeared, smaller than I’d imagined from the photos but with larger, darker nipples, already stiff from the cold or whatever. She stood there for a moment with her breasts bare, not covering herself, letting me look. I pulled off my shirt and yanked down my boxers. My cock sprang up, hard, and she stared at it without pretending not to for a second.

—Fuck —she said softly—. It’s bigger than I imagined.

—You didn’t imagine anything —I answered—. You didn’t even know if I could grow a beard.

She laughed and tucked her thumbs into her panties. She pulled them down slowly, bending over, and showed me her ass before her cunt. When she straightened and looked at me head-on, she was all there in front of me. Shaved pussy with a narrow strip, pink lips, long legs, flat stomach. All mine to look at and not touch.

I took advantage of the room having two large armchairs facing each other, separated by a low table. The distance between them was three or four meters. Enough to see her completely. Enough for neither of us to cross that line.

When we had no clothes left on, she sat in the armchair with her legs crossed. I sat opposite her, my cock pointing at the ceiling, pressed against my stomach. We stayed like that for a while, saying nothing, just looking at each other. It was a mixture of shyness and arousal I hadn’t expected to feel at this point.

—And now what? —she asked.

—Now do what you do when you’re alone.

She smiled and settled back against the chair. She uncrossed her legs very slowly and spread them, placing one foot on the edge of the armchair so I could get a good look at her cunt. She started with her tits, with both hands, no theatrics. She kneaded them, pinched her nipples between her index finger and thumb, tugging them upward until they turned red. Then one hand slid down her stomach, lingered at her navel, and kept going lower. She ran two fingers over her cunt, very slowly, up and down, still on the outside, like she was warming herself up for me.

When she opened her lips with her fingers and showed me how pink she was inside, she was already wet. I could see the shine from where I was. She pushed her middle finger all the way in, pulled it out, and with that same finger started making circles over her clit.

—Look how soaked you’ve got me —she murmured.

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she needed to find the feeling again, and when she opened them she was looking at me once more.

I already had my hand on my cock. I’d been imagining it for minutes and it took nothing to start. I gripped it at the base and moved my hand slowly up and down, squeezing the head properly on every pass. A thread of pre-cum dripped from the glans and I used it to lubricate the full length. What cost me was keeping the pace slow. I wanted to last. I wanted to watch the whole movie without skipping any scenes.

***

Lucía moved in the armchair as if she were dancing very slowly. She raised and lowered her hips following her own hand, bit her lip, let out a few sounds that were lost against the backrest. She pushed two fingers into herself to the knuckles and pulled them out shining wet, then used them on her clit, making a wet sound that filled the room. Every so often she looked at my face, other times she looked at my hand. I tried to do the same: sometimes her eyes, sometimes her tits hanging as she leaned forward, sometimes her cunt open with a finger inside.

—Show it to me properly —she said—. I want to see how you stroke it.

I leaned back in the armchair, spread my legs, and left my cock in the center so she could see it all. I started jerking it faster, fist closed, up and down, letting her hear the sound of skin sliding over itself.

—Like that, jerk it with your hand —she blurted, then laughed at her own line—. Fuck, what a cock you’ve got.

She squeezed her nipples with her free hand while she kept rubbing her cunt. She started panting harder, mouth open, and at one point brought her wet fingers to her lips and sucked them while looking at me.

—You taste like something —she said—. I wish you were licking it off me.

There was a moment when she said something in a low voice, almost to herself.

—Fuck.

That word, said like that, in a hotel room, after a year of talking through a screen, made me lose my head a little. I had to stop my hand for a second, pinching the base of my cock with two fingers so I wouldn’t come too soon. She noticed and laughed softly.

—Don’t hold back for me —she said.

—I’m holding back for me, not for you.

I started again more slowly. She kept speeding up. She brought her legs up onto the armchair, propped her feet on the edge, and from where I was I could see her whole body: the completely open pink cunt, the tight little hole underneath, the fingers going in and out faster and faster, the other hand now between her legs too, one hand circling her clit and the other shoving three fingers inside. It was an image I’d imagined for months and it was very far from what I’d been able to picture. It was better. It was real.

—Diego, I’m gonna come —she said, her voice broken—. I’m gonna come looking at your cock.

—Come, fuck. Come for me.

She came before I did. Her legs tensed, her stomach tightened, her back arched away from the chair, and she let out a long moan she didn’t bother to hide. Her fingers kept circling her clit while a little spurt of fluid escaped, wetting her hand and running down the inside of her thigh. She stayed shaking for a while, pressing her cunt with an open palm, and when she finally opened her eyes she looked at me from the other armchair with shining eyes and said:

—Now you. I want to see you come. I want to see how much comes out.

I did as she said. I changed pace, started pounding my cock fast and hard, squeezing the head on every downward stroke, watching her cunt leaking from the other side of the table. She spread her legs even wider for me, shoved two fingers all the way in and left them there, still, so I’d have somewhere to look.

—Imagine you’re inside —she told me—. That you’re fucking me from behind. That you’ve got my hair in your hand.

I didn’t take long. Too little time, for my liking. My whole body went tight, my balls clenched against the base, and I came, shooting four or five thick ropes of semen that landed on my stomach, my chest, one even reaching my collarbone. I let out a long grunt and slumped back into the chair, my cock still throbbing in my hand and warm semen sliding over my skin.

She watched it all without looking away, with that smile of hers that said she knew exactly what she was doing. She brought her fingers to her mouth again and sucked her own juices off while looking at me covered in it.

—Fuck, that’s a lot —she murmured—. All that load was for me.

When I finished, the two of us stayed silent for a while, catching our breath from different armchairs, not moving.

—Fuck, that was weird —she said, and laughed.

—Weird and good —I answered.

—Weird and good —she repeated.

***

That meeting was the first. There have been others since. On some, we kept the rule like that first time. On others, the two of us changed our minds on the fly and there were hands where before there had only been looks, and mouths where before there had only been hands, and my cock inside her cunt, the one I’d been imagining for a year. But that afternoon in the hotel room, with three meters between us and an entire year of conversations behind us, is the one I keep coming back to when I think of Lucía. Because that’s where I understood something: you don’t always need to touch for something to mark you. Sometimes, looking is more than enough.