“Hey, babygirl.” My audio voice isn’t exactly my real voice, but close to. “You miss me? I missed you.”
I fake it, but not because I’m not feeling it. I might be a whore, but I still have a refractory period, and I’ve got a lot of ground to cover. If there’s no visual component, well…
“Unhhh.”
I give her one last choking gasp into the mic as I finish. Breathe out a few slow, hard pants.
“You didsogood,” I tell her. “Proud of you.”
I hit STOP. My lips have curved up in a smile without my even meaning to. A reflex, I guess. Because I am proud of her. Taking what she wants. Giving herself up to me, a virtual stranger, like that.
If I were her, if Iweren’t me,I don’t know if I could do it.
The typing-dots reply appears barely thirty seconds after I send it. Then the replies: heart-eyes face. Streaming-tears face. Sweat-drop face. And a photo message: selfie, neck-down, tits overflowing out of a sheer bra, nipples just popping over the edge of the black lace.
I stab the delete key even as my cock twitches.
Stupid fucking feature, the pop-up previews, and no way I can figure to turn it off because any script blocker I write disables the payment applet too. I don’t need any surprises invading my screen like that, even if it’s something nice to look at. It throws off my rhythm and I like to beinmy rhythm. Fully.
I grit my teeth. Later I’ll send some reply—what a very good girl you are xx—but I’m uninterested in real-time back-and-forth. I keep it clean—not literally, but in the sense that I don’t get caught up. Don’t get entangled. All I want, all Ineed, from any of them is the wanting itself. Nothing else. Maybe a nice tip, sure. But once I come, I could easily never think of that person again, lace-covered tits or no. The psychopath in me, I guess. Just not made for that kind of thing.
The next audio’s a little gentler—insomniac, and apparently me getting her off helps her get to sleep—so I try to make it a little more…loving, for lack of a better word. Easy five minutes, fully improv. I hit send, and as I do, another message pops up.
No preview this time. Not a reply to a thread or even a message from a regular. Just getting in the fucking way, again.
I move to dismiss it, but don’t. For some reason.
Some off feeling I can’t ignore.
Instead, I click it open.
YOU’RE BEING WATCHED, BIKER BOY
Typing dots, then:
AND NOT THE WAY YOU LIKE IT, EITHER
Spam. Scam. A weak-ass blackmail attempt—something like that. Never should have bothered reading.
Cute, I write back.Thanks for the heads up.
The typing dots barely flicker this time.
THEY’RE GONNA FIND YOU
THEY’RE GONNA FIND YOU AND THE RATS NEST YOU CALL HOME
YOU THINK YOUR LITTLE FRIENDS WILL STICK AROUND?
YOU THINK YOU CAN TRUST THEM?
My blood surges. Rage, fury, a need to move. I slam my laptop shut, but not in time to miss the last message:
NO ONE LOVES A WHORE, BLUE
CHAPTER 25
KIT
