I have to start this confession right at the beginning, because nothing else makes sense otherwise. It began on an ordinary Tuesday when I opened my laptop after work and typed those two words into the search bar for the first time: read smut. I had seen them in passing on forums and late-night feeds, always accompanied by knowing winks and recommendations, but I had never let myself click. That night I did. The first story that loaded was simple, almost crude, about a woman who dared her lover to read an explicit passage out loud while she knelt between his knees. My breath caught halfway through the first paragraph. By the third I was shifting in my chair, thighs pressed tight, heat blooming low in my belly. I kept reading. The words were direct, unashamed, describing exactly how wet she became, how she begged, how he finally pulled her up and bent her over the desk. I didnt touch myself at first. I just read, letting the sentences push inside me like fingers. When I finally slipped my hand beneath my waistband I was already soaked, and the first slow circle of my clit made me gasp out loud in the quiet room. That was the moment I knew I was lost. I read until my legs shook and my screen blurred, until I came with my forehead against the cool wood of the desk, one hand still clutching the mouse as if the story might disappear if I let go. Afterward I felt both ashamed and greedy. I bookmarked the page. I told myself it was a one-time thing. It wasnt. Every night after that I returned, searching for longer stories, dirtier ones, ones that matched the fantasies I had never spoken aloud. I learned what made me clench and what made me drip. I learned I liked being told what to do even when the instructions came from a strangers words on a screen. And then came the night I decided to tell someone. Not just anyone. Him. We had been seeing each other for a few months, careful and sweet, still learning each others bodies in the dark. I invited him over on a Friday, heart hammering, and when he arrived I had my laptop open on the coffee table. I want to show you something, I said, voice smaller than I wanted it to be. He sat beside me, curious, and I clicked the story I had chosen earlier. It was longer, more detailed, about a couple who read to each other until they couldnt stand it anymore. I started reading out loud. My voice trembled at first, but the further I went the steadier it became, because the words themselves were so explicit they left no room for embarrassment. I read about her sliding two fingers inside herself while he watched. I read about the sound of her wetness. I read about him finally yanking her panties aside and fucking her on the couch without another word. Halfway through the second page his hand was on my thigh, squeezing. By the time I reached the part where she came around his cock, my own thighs were slick and his breathing had gone rough. I stopped reading. Keep going, he said, low. So I did. I read while he pushed my skirt up, while he pulled my underwear down, while his fingers found how ready I already was. I read the dirtiest lines right as he pushed two fingers inside me, matching the rhythm the story described. My voice cracked on the words she begged him not to stop, because I was begging too, hips rocking against his hand. When the story reached its climax I was close, but he didnt let me finish yet. He took the laptop from me, set it aside, and told me to keep reading from memory while he opened his jeans. I tried. I really did. But the moment he pulled me onto his lap and sank into me in one slow thrust, the words dissolved into moans. We fucked like that for what felt like hours, me riding him, sometimes reaching over to scroll and read another paragraph, sometimes just grinding while he told me how filthy I was for getting this wet from words on a screen. Every time I started to come he slowed down, made me read another line, made me describe exactly what the story was doing to me. By the end I was shaking, voice hoarse, repeating the filthiest sentences like prayers while he held my hips and fucked up into me until we both broke. Afterward, curled against his chest with the laptop still glowing beside us, I confessed everything: how often I read now, how many stories I had saved, how much I wanted to keep doing this with him. He kissed my temple and said the words that sealed it. Then read to me again tomorrow.
I still read smut every night. Sometimes alone, sometimes with him listening, sometimes with his mouth between my legs while I struggle to finish a single paragraph. The habit didnt ruin me. It opened something I had kept locked for years. And every time I type those two words now, I remember the first night I read them, the way my body answered, and the way I finally stopped pretending I didnt want more.
