The plaudits came like a typhoon breaking on land—swift and overwhelming. My naughty little story had hit a nerve. No, it wasn’t like I was the new E.L. James, skyrocketing to fame over some BDSM fiction—this was just a humble sub-reddit after all. Nonetheless, it felt good to know that my relatively vanilla story about office promiscuity was being well-received by the community I had only recently discovered.
Seeing that upvote counter go up was a cheap little thrill, but the real satisfying feedback was from the private messages that followed. Suggestions for improvement were constructive, as well as thanks from fellow men for bringing to life a fantasy they had always craved. Even the criticisms seemed balanced—except for that one dude who was convinced the female lead in my story was his wife and demanded answers (it was a fictional story). Heck even a few women reached out to express their thanks—well, purported women, anyway.
Then it arrived. A few weeks after the fervour had died down, a simple one-sentence private message popped up in my inbox: “I haven’t played with myself a single time without thinking of your story since reading it a month ago – Michaela”.