Slowly, I grab the three prints from late last night and pin them to the wall. Mavi had been setting up for his live stream, dressed in a baby blue lingerie set complete with sheer knee highs that almost had me falling apart right there. One picture is of him bending over to fix the camera, another with him biting his lip, looking completely innocent, and the next had him staring at his screen, ready to put on a performance.
I step back and look at the full collection and I do what I always do, which is study it the way I study my professional work, looking for patterns and gaps and the moments where the framing succeeds and the moments where it fails. This is the lie I tell myself, that this is work, that this is artistic practice, that the reason I spend more time in front of this wall than I spend in front of anything else in my life is because I am honing my craftand not because I am in love with someone I have never met and have no right to love.
Reaching up to my favorite photograph, I remove it from the wall and drop into my office chair, tracing the curve of Mavi’s ass in the blush set. It’s my favorite.
“You’re such a pretty doll,” I murmur.
I trace his face with my thumb, then jerk my hand away. I pick it up again, tracing the line of his jaw. The way his lashes sit against his cheek in the half-blink I captured. I wonder what he smells like, then hate myself for wondering. I have been close enough to guess, once, in the hallway last week, something sweet and bright that hit me so fast I lost my train of thought mid-step, but guessing is not knowing and I want to know.
I want to press my face to his neck and breathe until I can identify every note and then I want to catalog them the way I catalog everything, file them into the system, and give them a place. Honey, I think. And something sharper underneath. Citrus. I think about citrus and honey and my thumb moves lower, tracing the line of his collarbone, the edge of the lingerie, the place where pink fabric meets skin, and I can feel my body responding to the image the way it responds every time I hold this photograph, which is immediately and involuntarily, a heat building in the pit of my stomach and without any input from the part of my brain that is supposed to be in charge.
A notification on my phone steals my attention but only because it’s a certain kind of sound, a reminder for a very specific type of task.
A wild grin splits across my lips as I set the photograph down on the desk and open my laptop, flipping through windows until I find the right one.Velvetloads on my screen and then I click theBehind Glasstier, the highest paid subscription tier there is.
I found it three weeks after I started photographing him and I have watched every upload since, hating myself with eachclick and each payment authorization. I have never commented. Never tipped. Never interacted. I am a ghost in his audience, a number on his analytics, and the anonymity is necessary because engaging would be a choice and a choice would be a step and a step would bring me closer to a door I am not prepared to walk through, though God knows I've imagined knocking a thousand times.
“Have you been working hard, Doll?” I mumble, scrolling down to the bottom to find a recent upload.
It’s the blush set again.
I lean closer, loving the way the ring light is positioned at an angle that flatters the planes of his face. The production quality is immaculate in a way that my professional eye cannot help but admire even as I despise myself for watching. He knows his angles. He knows his light. He builds his content with the same care I bring to my shoots and the recognition of that, the awareness that we are doing the same thing from different sides of the same obsession, makes something tighten in my chest every time I notice it.
“Good afternoon, Alpha,” Mavi purrs to the camera as he leans forward. He blows a kiss toward the screen, a gorgeous smile splitting across his face.
I know this is just for show but in moments like this, Mavi is only talking to me.
“Were you a good boy? I would hope so because I’ve brought you a present.”
My heart starts beating a little faster as the chaos in my head quiets. There’s no need to tap or count or sort and stack my thoughts. The only thing left is myself and my pretty little doll.
I hate the relief that comes with the silence even as much as I crave it. Mavi twirls around and begins his routine, swaying and dancing in front of the camera like he was made for it. The blush fabric shifts and pulls taut against his skin, slick coatinghis skin. I catch it every time he stretches, just the sliver of pale skin between his thighs glistening with his mess.
“Doll, is that for me?” I ask to no one in particular. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.” I reach forward to touch the screen while shifting in my seat, my cock becoming painfully hard. My free hand moves to grab myself through my pants, my knot already starting to swell.
I shouldn’t.
A Hollis Alpha wouldn’t do this.
But I just… I can’t stop.
My fingers tighten around myself, the contact a relief so sharp it's almost pain, almost shame. I move the photograph to the side of the screen so I can have both versions of Mavi, the unguarded one and the one who’s performing for me.
“You like that, Alpha? Just like that, don’t you?”
My throat tightens as he shimmies the panties down his hips and then grabs the clear silicone dildo he favors. Mavi delicately takes a seat, kneeling just at the edge of his couch before twisting to the side and shoving the dildo up his ass.
He lets out a long, exaggerated moan, old comments flying up the side of the screen.
But I don’t care about any of them.
“So fucking pretty, Doll.”
I squeeze my cock again, trying to hold myself back but with every thrust into his sweet little ass, I just imagine replacing that dildo with myself.
What would happen if… I did?
A groan pulls from my throat as I place my hands on the desk, trying to fight my lack of control. Mavi’s obscene sounds pour through the room, my hips moving of their own accord, my knot swelling further.
My lips part as I watch the pretty Omega fall apart for his audience, my body reacting against my will. I reach down to grab my cock again, trying to hold back my orgasm but it’s no use.
My cock pulses in my grip just before I unload in my pants, rope after rope of cum coating the fabric until it’s soaked through.
“Just like that Alpha. You’re such a good boy, for me, aren’t you?”
It’s like he’s speaking to me, my release pulsing through me as another wave crashes. I continue to rock forward, riding the feeling until my pants are drenched through. “Sweet doll, fuck, look what you do to me.”
I wrap my hand around my knot, squeezing painfully hard to simulate locking into his ass, pretending that gorgeous blushed face on the screen is a result of my knot.
His video ends, the screen dimming to black and just like that, shame fills the silence.Hollis Alphas don’t do this.I’ve never wanted to be a Hollis Alphaless.
