I never planned to record these for anyone but myself. Late at night, when the apartment is quiet and my skin feels too tight, I press record on my phone and let the words spill out exactly the way my body wants them. This one is for you. For every woman who needs to hear another woman describe what it feels like when fingers slide through wet folds and a low voice tells her exactly how to touch herself. So lie back. Put your hand where you need it. I’ll start slow.
It begins with the sound of rain against the window and the way my silk robe clings to my nipples when I walk across the room. I’m already warm between my legs, already imagining your breath catching as you listen. I sit on the edge of the bed, spread my thighs, and run two fingers along the seam of my panties. They’re damp. I describe it to you in a whisper, the way the fabric sticks, the way my clit swells the moment I press. I want you to do the same. Slide your hand inside your own underwear right now. Feel how your body answers.
I tell you about the man who came over last week. Not because I needed him, but because I wanted a witness to how greedy I can get. He watched me undress. I kept the light low so shadows played across my breasts, my stomach, the curve of my ass when I turned. I climbed onto the bed on all fours and told him to stay in the chair. My voice on the recording is soft but sure when I say, “I reached back and opened myself for him. Two fingers holding my lips apart so he could see how pink and slick I was.” I pause the recording for a moment, breathe, then continue because I know you’re touching yourself now.
I describe the first slow thrust of my own fingers inside, how I rocked back onto them while he watched, how I moaned loud enough for the microphone to catch every wet sound. I tell you the exact rhythm I used, the way I curled my fingers to stroke that tender spot that makes my thighs shake. I want you to match it. Whatever speed I say, use it on yourself. I can almost hear your breathing change through the speaker.
When I came that night, it was sudden and loud. My voice on the audio cracks a little when I admit it, because I’m getting close again just remembering. I tell you how my cunt fluttered around my fingers, how I kept rubbing my clit through it until the pleasure tipped into something almost too sharp. Then I turned over, spread my legs toward the man in the chair, and let him see everything glistening. I asked him to stroke himself while I watched. The sound of his fist moving was wet too. I described it all for you, every filthy detail, because I know some nights you need permission to be this explicit with yourself.
I keep going. I tell you about the toy I use when no one else is around, the thick silicone one that stretches me just enough to burn. I describe pressing the rounded head against my entrance, the way my body yields with a soft, obscene sound. Inch by inch I take it, narrating the stretch, the fullness, the moment it presses against my front wall and my hips lift off the mattress. My voice grows huskier. I tell you to press two fingers inside yourself now if you haven’t already, to imagine they’re that thick toy, to rock your palm against your clit at the same time.
The recording runs long because I don’t rush. I let the silences breathe. I let you hear the catch in my throat when I start circling my clit faster. I confess that sometimes I play these audios back to myself later, listening to my own voice describe how I fuck myself, and it makes me wet all over again. I tell you I’m doing it right now, that my fingers are moving in the same steady rhythm I’m describing, that my thighs are trembling.
Near the end my voice drops lower. I’m close. I tell you exactly how I want you to finish, how to press and rub and grind until your own orgasm rolls through you. I come on the recording with a broken moan, the sound of my fingers working frantically between my legs unmistakable. I stay quiet for a few seconds afterward, just breathing, letting you hear the aftermath. Then I whisper one last thing.
“Whenever you need this, I’m here. Press play again. I’ll be waiting in your ear, telling you how to touch yourself until you fall apart.”
The recording ends. Your hand is still moving. And somewhere in the dark, another woman is already reaching for her phone to hit record.
