I imagine that while you’re reading this, you’re sat on your bed these words on your computer screen. You're wearing a sweatshirt and some shorts. One of my stories is loaded in the browser and the text has dragged you from your solitude into the world I’ve created.
I can just see you sat there, your brain painting the picture, like mine did. Your hand sometimes rising to your mouth and sometimes to stroke your earlobe, your eyes fixed to the screen, taking every word, every emotion, every implied meaning and your fingers raise until they’re over your mouth.
You read for a while, your legs moving apart first then back together your right hand falls to your leg, your fingers brush your bare thighs, I know you’re doing it without thinking because the only thing you’re concentrating on is the screen.
You suddenly look down and realize that your fingers are brushing the material between your legs, and electric feelings are coursing though your beautiful body. You've started a chain reaction without thought, and you know as well as I do that stopping now would be frustrating, you also know that it’s impossible, you’re committed to this path of action.
You lean back and closing your eyes, your fingers rub over the fabric again, you imagine that it’s the man in my story that’s touching you, and maybe you wish it was me. I’ll never know.
The dampness you feel is urging you on and you ease the strip out of the way, your fingers parting your lips and your fingers stroke them gently before moving up to the place that requires their urgent attention.
A groan escapes your lips as you touch your clit and the noise spurs us both on, both you in my fantasy and me as the writer. The circling motion of your fingers starts slowly, but their speed increases until you grab the duvet cover with one hand and your hips buck.
This is where my imagining finishes and your reality check comes in, who wrote it, who imagined it?
Who knows, maybe next time it’ll be on your webcam and my imagination can take a back seat.