First off, let me explain what this story is.
I’m inviting other erotic writers to show what they can do on my Substack page. It is part of my evil plan to take over the whole of Substack with erotica! If anyone is interested in being a guest, have a read of this and then DM me:
My eleventh guest writer is Pamela O whose struggles and fantasies I think we can all relate to. Oh, and I just remembered this story was inspired by my New Year Countdown - I don’t want to pull you away, so click on that later!
Let’s start with an interview…
Tell us a little about yourself…
I’m Italian, an erotic writer and pixel artist. Pamela O. is a pen name, inspired by a song about interspatial sex… Follow me to discover more in the future 😋
What are your stories normally about?
I write in English to reach more people, but my stories are mostly set in Italy, and my country is much more than just a decorative backdrop, it deeply influences the narratives. My point-of-view characters are mainly late-millennial women like me: impossibly ironic (their sword and shield at the same time), caught between repressed desires, nostalgia, and a frantic present.
What inspired you to write erotica?
I also write “non-erotic” work, but for me it’s almost impossible not to include sexuality in any story. It would feel like deliberately hiding half of a character, watering down their thoughts and inner world. At the same time, my erotic stories aren’t always “conventionally erotic”: sex acts as engine, consequence, and heat pump all at once.
How much of what you write is from lived experience?
66% is pure fantasy, 33% is real. The remaining 1% is unknown… maybe even to me
This story contains explicit language and descriptions of sexual activity. It is therefore intended for adult audiences only.
Any references to real people or places are purely coincidental.
All characters are 18+
Copyright © 2026 by Pamela O.
All Rights Reserved
Part 1: New Years’s Eve
On New Year’s Eve I got drunk, I threw up, I kissed a stranger, I dove into the freezing sea, but I never masturbated.
Never.
Before, I never did it. But then I started liking women…
Started… My subconscious always knew. After all, as a kid I devoured Treasure Island and Peter Pan. For Carnival I insisted on dressing up as Captain Hook, because I thought I looked like him with my wild jet-black hair, while my mother obviously wanted me to be Wendy. She won in the end—she dressed me as Mr. Smee. “It suits you better, Giulia. And besides, you already wear glasses.”
I wanted the hook, the power, the fear. Instead I got the sidekick with glasses.
And I hated my glasses too.
I still hate them now, pushing my same long dark locks behind my ears every time they slip down my nose.
Then I grew up, and never again pirates for Carnival, not even Mr. Smee.
Because a girl who likes pirates can be… worrying.
My birthday parties were always just a parade of:
Giulia, have you found a boyfriend yet?
Giulia, you want to get married, right?
Giulia, how many kids do you want?
And so I decided to please them. I dated boys. I kissed boys. I let boys fuck me.
I held out. I held out far too long. Then I went where I was always headed, but it’s hard.
God, so fucking hard.
When I went out with guys, I was bored, cold… I honestly didn’t give a damn whether they wanted me or not. I hoped—hoped—it would go badly, just to avoid yet another dud.
With girls, it’s the opposite. Anxiety eats me alive. I never feel good enough. I freeze up. I blurt out stupid shit. I keep my head down. And obviously I can’t go out with my glasses, even though I’ve never been able to wear contacts, because I have too many Mr. Smee complexes, thanks to my mother.
The result is that I can’t see a damn thing, menus included, which I pretend to read.
Some girls find my total incompetence adorable.
They find it much less adorable that I don’t want to come out.
So I barely get laid.
And the less I get laid, the more I want it.
And the more I want it, the more I masturbate.
I do it constantly.
You know teenage boys when they discover porn and spend all day with their dick in their hand? Yeah. Same thing. I open a social network, stop on one of my favorites, and off I go.
Totally harmless, you’d say, if it weren’t for the fact that every time, after the high, I fall into a dark pit of torment. Because I’ve behaved like a man, taking advantage of some unsuspecting woman who did nothing but dare to post a photo with a bit of skin showing. And sometimes not even that.
But I still have two hard limits.
Unbreakable.
First: no New Year’s Eve. Because what you do on New Year’s Eve, you do all year, and I want to try to stop, even though reality has always betrayed me.
Second: no friends.
Tonight we’re celebrating at Veronica’s. A simple night with the usual girls.
I’ve known them so long they’re basically sisters, and I don’t cross certain lines.
This year we’re all here except Gemma, who works in South Korea and won’t be back in Italy until mid-April, for her birthday.
It’s the first New Year’s Eve we’ve spent apart in… I don’t even know how long. We’ve known each other since we were kids. We told each other everything, back when I was dating guys, but now we don’t really talk about our love lives anymore… or at least, I shut it down right away with “I just want to stay single.”
But together we’ve had incredible fun. Like that New Year’s when we swam in the sea. It was with her.
I dove in wearing black underwear. She… white panties and a white bra.
I still remember the way her breasts bounced as she ran through the waves, and how her nipples peeked through the fabric.
I think that was the moment I finally understood I was a lesbian.
But not with her.
No.
She’s beautiful, but she’s like a sister. And I don’t cross those lines.
She and the others don’t know that I’m… Not because they’re bigots, far from it, but because I don’t want things to change. They’re the only people who really matter in my life. And I don’t want to masturbate to them without their consent, without them ever suspecting anything.
I lean my head back against the couch cushion when my phone buzzes.
A notification from the group chat.
Gemma.
“Happy New Year everyone!”
Plus an uncontrolled barrage of fireworks and champagne emojis.
I adjust my glasses and check the time.
Right.
In Korea they’re eight hours ahead. It’s already New Year’s.
A flood of replies bounces back, and I join in too, with my usual Jack Sparrow GIF clinging to a bottle of rum. I’ve never liked Johnny Depp, but she does.
And yet I’m the lesbian.
Which is why my living room doesn’t feature a Pirates of the Caribbean poster, but The Muppet Treasure Island, right next to the shelf with the photo from that Halloween—always at Veronica’s—when we all dressed as pirates. It was our idea, mine and Gemma’s.
Another pirate fan. But straight.
It was the first time I’d dressed up like that since the Mr. Smee days, so I went all in: tricorn hat, eyepatch, oversized shirt, and a hook.
Gemma, right there in the photo, wore a bandana over her wavy brown hair and that red-and-black striped blouse with the crisscross neckline, with a shock blue shirt underneath.
She was so into it that she prepared treasure maps with her usual riddles and hid little gifts for all of us.
I still remember mine, mostly because of the shame.
Seek the eye that never blinks,
Where your face stares back and winks.
I was convinced it was the TV, since Veronica ALWAYS keeps it on, so I searched everywhere: behind it, under it, on top, in the middle of all the cables…
My treasure was the doubloon medallion that still hangs around my neck, but of course it wasn’t anywhere near the TV. It was hanging inside the mirror cabinet in the bathroom.
Gemma had to point it out, because I couldn’t find it on my own.
Lesbian pirate but dumb pirate.
My phone buzzes again, snapping me out of my daze.
Another message from Gemma. A video.
I open it instantly.
She’s sitting on a toilet, framing her face with her now shorter, wavy brown hair streaked with fresh blonde highlights, in what looks like a restaurant bathroom, or maybe her place. I really have no idea.
“Since I won’t be with you tonight”, her voice slurred—who doesn’t drink on New Year’s? “And I’ll never make it to your midnight… well… I thought I’d send you a little souvenir, so I can be there with you…”
And she starts counting down, framing her face.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight…
The phone slips slightly from her hand, and the front camera catches a glimpse of her… red-and-black striped blouse with crisscross stripes.
The blouse.
The same blouse from that Halloween.
Only—
Seven.
Six…
This time she’s wearing nothing underneath.
Breasts.
The phone dips lower, like she’s doing it… on purpose?!
Now the frame is right there, the perfect shape beneath those taut crisscross stripes. I’ve seen them even better that time at the sea, and she’s like a sister, but why is she doing this? And why in this dress?
Five.
Four.
The phone stops there, then moves back up to her lips. Her voice softens.
Three.
Two.
One…
“Happy New Year, girls.”
She kisses the phone.
The video ends.
I stare through my glasses, then glance around my living room, then the kitchen, as if I were afraid I didn’t live alone anymore. As if someone might have seen the tremble on my lips.
It’s not New Year’s yet, after all.
I slide two fingers into my pants, slip inside my underwear, and find my lips already wet.
Gemma, I—
I replay the video and slick myself, but I’ll need to watch it again and again to—
You did this for this, didn’t you?
Or you didn’t think—
You didn’t think one of us could do something like this.
And it’s true, because I’ve never done it before, I swear… You’re like a sister, I could never…
Index and middle finger rub, trace…
But my other wrist stops them, pulls them out of my underwear and pants.
I won’t do it.
I grab the doubloon medallion, throw the phone into the couch cushions, turn the photo face-down on the shelf, and run to the bathroom to take a shower, to let freezing water crash over me, like the sea that night.
***
By the time dessert comes around, I’ve already had three big glasses of prosecco—no, four—and the only thing I know for sure is that I want a fifth. My red dress balloons over my bloated stomach, swollen with baked lasagna, lentils, and enough bubbles to float a galleon, but I don’t give a shit. Veronica and the others are off-limits.
Sisters. Like sisters.
I bite into a piece of chocolate panettone and feel the cream smear around my lips. I wipe it off with my forearm like a sea wolf, then down another gulp. The chandelier light fractures a thousand golden shards that stab my vision. Everyone’s faces blur into one grinning hydra. The TV screeches some obscene remix of “Dammi solo un minuto” that sounds like a plucked gull.
At the table people talk about breakups, new couples, crushes that aren’t really crushes but probably fucks. I’d like to chime in, but I stop myself, like I always do.
Someone brings out the star-shaped pandoro, the mascarpone, the slightly more expensive bottle of sparkling wine. We toast again, and now I’m swaying even while seated, when Veronica pulls out her phone.
“We’re here, girls!”
Midnight already? The clock on the wall swims in and out of focus.
I brace for the TV countdown, but she swipes and pulls up Gemma’s video.
Gemma’s video.
I’ve swallowed gallons of alcohol trying to scrub it from my brain.
The phone screen reflects in the living room mirror, so we all see it magnified. Gemma appears twenty times bigger than life, sitting on that toilet-throne, hair wild, lipstick a smeared battle scar.
“Hi girls! Since I’m not with you tonight…”
Her voice echoes off the walls, deeper, like she’s speaking from underwater. Or from inside my skull.
The countdown starts.
Ten.
The numbers pulse like frantic heartbeats, growing larger each time.
Nine. Eight…
The phone slips in her hand—slow motion now—and the camera catches the blouse.
The pirate blouse.
Those crisscross stripes twist like living ropes, tightening around breasts that seem to swell, deflate, swell again with every breath. The fabric is translucent, almost liquid.
Someone in the room lets out a long, drawn-out “Ooooohhh,” but it stretches into a moan that never ends.
Seven. Six…
The frame dips lower. Her breast fills the entire screen, then the mirror, then the whole room. It’s not just a breast anymore, it’s a moon, pale and glowing under the neon bathroom light. I feel gravity shift toward it. My mouth waters like I could drink the light off it.
The laughter dies. The hydra-faces turn toward me, eyes wide, mouths open in a ravenous hunger of accusation. Or maybe they’re just breathing.
Five. Four.
The phone climbs back up, slow as molasses. Gemma’s lips fill the frame… red, wet, endless.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Happy New Year, girls!”
She kisses the screen.
The smack echoes in a gunshot style.
Sparkling wine explodes across the table, splashing my lenses in slow-motion arcs, and a wicked wave surges straight through my groin, hot and liquid, drowning everything else.
The doubloon between my tits feels like it’s burning a hole in my chest, as my nipples try to scrape the thin fabric of my dress.
Down there, I’m already flooding.
Another toast and the droplets hang in the air before they hit me.
As I hit the floor when I… come.
I need to… rinse. Escape.
I drain the glass in one go, then stumble toward the bathroom, the floor rolling under my feet like the deck of a galleon in a squall.
I lock the door. The small room spins. The mirror is fogged, as my mascara rivers down and crooked glasses slip in place.
I lean on the sink. The cold marble bites my palms.
Breathe.
Just rinse.
I turn the faucet. Ice water crashes out. I splash my face, wrists, neck. Lift the dress, run wet hands up my thighs, but the cold only makes the heat worse. My body vibrates like a taut sail in the wind, and my clutch too.
The clutch. The clutch with the phone.
No. You won’t do it.
But my fingers are already pulling it out.
The screen glows too bright, hurts my eyes.
Group chat. Scroll back. Gemma’s video.
Play.
Her voice bounces off the tiles, distorted, echoing.
“Hi girls…”
I lower the volume, but the more I lower it, the more the words crawl.
I sit on the toilet. Panties shoved aside. Legs open on their own, thighs trembling.
The countdown starts again.
Ten.
I slide two fingers in. Wet. Super wet.
Nine. Eight.
The phone trembles in her hand… on screen, in my memory, in reality?
Seven. Six.
Those stripes. The breasts. They loom larger, the fabric parting like waves. I stick my tongue out, trying to taste the screen.
She’s doing this for me. She has to be.
Five. Four.
My thumb rolls my clit in frantic circles. Breathing ragged.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Happy New Year, girls!”
I come. Hard.
Head thrown back against the wall. Moan ripping out, echoing like thunder in the tiny room. Fingers
driving in through the spasms, my body shuddering. The phone almost slips from my hand, but I grip it tight, keep staring at that frozen frame of her smile, her kiss.
Then I yank my fingers out like they’ve been dipped in acid.
They’re shiny. I bring them to my mouth and lick them clean, to erase the shame.
My doubloon medallion weighs on me like I’ve tied an anchor around my neck.
I grab it with the same fingers, and lift my gaze to the mirror, where Gemma had hidden it for me to find.
It’s the first time I’ve masturbated on New Year’s Eve.
It’s the first time I’ve masturbated to a friend.
A sister.
And tonight the sister is in the mirror, in the fog, in the pulsing neon, in the waves still crashing inside me.
Happy fucking New Year.
Such a sweet, honest, soul-baring intro! You did it again, Pamela. Sexy, tender and warm. Perfection 💖
Incredible writing, your sweet and sexy words keep me reading and my heart racing ❤️!