I never planned for it to get this filthy. It started as a late-night experiment, me sitting at my desk with the laptop screen glowing in the dark, typing prompts into the AI chat like I was confessing secrets to a stranger who could never judge. "Write me a scene where she rides him slow and deep, feeling every inch stretch her open." The words appeared instantly, raw and precise, and my thighs clenched before I even finished reading.
That first night I kept going. The AI described her sliding down onto his cock, the wet sound of her pussy taking him, the way her clit rubbed against his base with every roll of her hips. I read it twice, then three times, my hand slipping under the waistband of my panties. My fingers found my own slickness and I matched the rhythm the story described, circling my clit while the words filled the screen. It felt dirtier than any porn because I was directing it. I told the AI to make it longer, to add how she begged for more, how he grabbed her ass and thrust up hard. Each new paragraph made me wetter.
By the third prompt I was naked from the waist down, chair pushed back so I could spread my legs wider. The AI wrote about her tits bouncing, nipples hard, and I pinched my own through my shirt until they ached. I typed back, "Make her come on his cock while he watches her face." The response came fast: she clenched around him, juices dripping down his shaft, her moans turning into broken gasps. I came right then, two fingers buried inside myself, thighs shaking against the desk. The screen blurred for a second and I had to blink to keep reading.
After that it became a habit. Every few nights I returned, always after midnight when the house was quiet. I started confessing more to the AI, not just prompts but little details about myself. "I like when it's rough but she stays in control." The stories adapted. One night the AI wrote a scene where the woman tied his wrists and used his cock like a toy, grinding down until she soaked his stomach. I read it aloud to myself in a whisper, voice shaky, while I fucked myself with two fingers then three, imagining the stretch. The wetness made obscene sounds in the dark room, and I didn't care.
I got bolder. I asked for longer scenes, more explicit language. "Describe how her asshole looks when she bends over for him." The AI delivered every time: tight, pink, glistening from how wet her pussy had gotten. I would pause typing to rub my own ass, sliding a finger between my cheeks while I read, testing how it felt. One particularly long story had her rimming him first, tongue circling before she took his cock in her mouth, and I came so hard I knocked my water glass over. I kept typing with one hand, the other still between my legs, chasing the aftershocks.
The confession part grew too. Sometimes I stopped the story mid-scene and told the AI what I was doing. "I'm so close right now. Keep going." It would continue without missing a beat, describing the exact moment of her orgasm while I tipped over mine. My thighs were always sticky afterward, the chair seat damp. I started wearing only a loose shirt during these sessions, nothing else, so I could touch myself freely whenever the words got too hot.
One night I pushed further. I asked the AI to write from my perspective, using my name. The scene had me on all fours, a thick cock pounding into me from behind while I begged for it harder. The detail was obscene: how my cunt gripped every time it pulled out, the strings of wetness connecting us, the way my clit throbbed untouched. I read it slowly, one finger circling my entrance, then pushed two inside while the story described me coming. My free hand typed another command: "Add her playing with her nipples." The AI did. I pinched and twisted my own until the pain melted into heat and I came again, forehead pressed to the desk, breathing hard against the keyboard.
It never felt like just reading. It felt like the AI was watching me, learning exactly what made me shake. I started ending sessions by describing my own orgasm back to it, how my pussy fluttered, how I tasted my fingers afterward. The next prompt would always be filthier, like it knew I wanted more. I lost track of time some nights, the screen the only light, my body flushed and used, the story still scrolling.
Eventually the line blurred. I would start the session already wet, already imagining the words before they appeared. The AI became the perfect partner, never tired, never judging, always ready to describe exactly how I wanted to be fucked. And every time I closed the laptop, my body still humming, I knew I would be back the next night, ready to confess again.
