I have to start by admitting something I’ve never told anyone out loud. It was the privacy settings on my Facebook story that started everything. I’d been scrolling late one night, lonely in that way that feels like an itch under the skin, when I saw her name in my suggested viewers. Lena. We’d hooked up once years ago after a mutual friend’s party, a messy, breathless thing in her car that neither of us ever followed up on. Now here she was, a ghost in the algorithm.
On impulse I tapped the little gear icon and restricted the story to just her. One person. Private viewing only. Then I posted a mirror selfie in low light, shirt unbuttoned, the caption nothing but a single ellipsis. It felt dangerous and stupid and exactly what I needed.
She viewed it within minutes. The little eye icon appeared, and my phone buzzed almost immediately with a message.
“That for me?” Simple, but the three words carried heat. I typed back before I could second-guess myself: “Depends who’s asking.” She replied with a photo of her own, same low light, her hand resting on the inside of her thigh, fingers just brushing the hem of her shorts. No caption. My cock stirred so fast it almost hurt.
We kept going like that for two nights. Each story I posted was visible only to her; each reply she sent grew bolder. She told me she’d been thinking about that night in her car ever since, how she’d come home and touched herself replaying the way I’d gripped her hips. I confessed I still jerked off to the memory of her taste. The words felt raw and confessional in a way that made my chest tight and my blood rush south.
On the third night she asked if I wanted to meet. No pretense. I said yes so fast my thumbs slipped on the screen.
She opened the door in nothing but an oversized button-down shirt, the top three buttons undone. The apartment smelled like her perfume and something sweeter, like she’d been baking. We didn’t bother with small talk. The second the door closed I had her against it, mouth on her neck, hands sliding under the shirt to find bare skin. She gasped when my fingers found her already wet, and the sound went straight through me.
“I kept checking the story settings,” she whispered against my ear. “Made sure it was still just me.” That confession undid me. I dropped to my knees right there in the hallway, pushed the shirt open, and licked her slowly, deliberately, the way I’d imagined doing for months. She threaded her fingers through my hair and held me there, hips rocking against my tongue while she told me every filthy thought she’d had while looking at my photos. Her voice cracked when she came the first time, thighs trembling around my head.
We made it to the bedroom eventually. She stripped me with impatient hands, then pushed me onto my back and climbed over me. The way she sank down, taking me inch by inch, was almost too much. I had to grip her waist hard to keep from finishing immediately. She rode me with slow, rolling hips, leaning forward so her breasts brushed my chest, and kept talking in that low, intimate voice.
“Tell me what you did after you posted that first picture,” she demanded. I told her I’d stroked myself while imagining her seeing it, how I’d come hard across my own stomach thinking of her eyes on me. She clenched around me at the words and moved faster. We switched positions twice more, once with her on her stomach and me behind her, gripping her hair, once with her straddling my face again while she leaned down to take me in her mouth. Every time one of us got close we slowed down, drawing it out, because neither of us wanted it to end yet.
When I finally let go, buried deep inside her with her legs locked around my back, she came again with me, her whole body shaking. We stayed tangled together afterward, sweat cooling on our skin, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest.
“I’m changing those settings again tomorrow,” she murmured against my shoulder. “Same audience. Just you.”
I smiled into her hair and told her I’d be waiting for whatever story she wanted to tell next. The night stretched on with more touches, more confessions, more slow, deliberate pleasure until the sky outside began to lighten. By the time we finally slept, the only story either of us cared about was the one we were still writing together, visible to no one else.
