Have more!

Figuring you've got nowhere to be, you head back to the kitchen for a refill. You feel like you're on a roll, and don't want to stop now, not with the promise of the story getting juicier. It still feels... a little embarrassing, for this reason and that, but certainly not at a level you feel any concern over. Not anymore.

However, the story starts to get really into the teenage drama that some people can't get enough of. You're, at times, a sucker for drama, but for some reason you want it to get back to the real meat & potatoes of the story. The author should know that people are more frustrated by drama based on mere misunderstandings and such and to keep it short. ...So, as you finish your 2nd glass, you find yourself commenting. No big deal. Real polite. ...You go get a third glass.

By the time you're halfway through it, you're commenting... a little more often. Before you know it. The story just kinda... deviated from the guy you liked, and so you want them to know he's got fans. And as you keep reading.. --As the story was all written, said and done years ago, it's already over now-- you nevertheless feel the need to speak up as he fades more and more into the background, so you comment over how hot he is.

By the time your third glass is empty, you're suggesting what should happen instead, entirely. In one big, long comment. And somewhere, along the way, you started to have fun with it, as you visualize what he would do with you next, and what would just be the most CRAZY thing to happen next... but he really loves you, and so he'll risk ANYTHING to taste your body again, because he's SUCH an alpha male that a fertile woman like yourself, he can just TELL that you're the best female around, and he won't settle for anything less..

...And gradually, you've been masturbating while you write... nothing major. Just to keep the creative juices flowing, as it were. You begin to pace your living room, rambling to yourself about ideas, staggering, hair ragged and underwear disheveled, hanging off and moist. And naturally, even underwear is stupidly in the way at that point, so you've gotten rid of THAT nonsense.

Eventually, your comment -- it's still just a single comment, this whole time, is just barely coherent admissions of your own fantasies and preferences and, at some point obviously, your current sheer, shameless arousal. Which by all accounts, and only with hefty beer-goggles on no less, is the only practical way you could possibly find your current ideas perfect, instead of the most self-serving, melodramatic, campy, cringy schlock imaginable. You hit the character limit, and don't know when that happened, so naturally you hit post and start a new comment instantly, picking up where you left off...

At some point, you fall asleep. Somewhere around halfway writing the third comment, where you gone on describing how sexy you are and how men are fighting over you while you're being serviced to give you another heir because they want your magical powers, or some such nonsense. And some time you wake up and stagger to your bed.

In a few days the author, eventually curious why she got comments on a story she wrote long ago, sees your comments... and the only reason she doesn't delete them, is because some of your diehard fans are too damn amused by them. You are something an object of ridicule, of course, but also a source of inspiration. Why hold themselves back when people like you are trauma-dumping with no hesitation.

You'll likely never see any of it, though.