Page 22 of Wells

My pulse jumps. The heat between my legs spreads higher, deeper, until my whole body hums with it. I move faster, and my breath comes short. The mask sticks to my damp skin.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

The question catches me off guard, and my hand stills. What I'm thinking is that the apartment is less hollow when he is in it, that I arrange my evenings around a man I couldn't pick out of a photograph. I don't even know where in the entire world he lives.

I'm thinking that this stopped being work somewhere in the last few weeks and became the thing I wait for, and that wanting it this much is its own kind of risk.

I don't say any of that.

"I'm thinking about you watching me, how hot it is, how wet I am for you. I'm thinking about your big cock inside of me."

It isn't a lie. That's the worst part.

"Good girl." His zipper comes down, and then he inhales deeply. It makes me so horny, and I'm wetter, if that's even possible.

My hips lift off the chair, and I gasp. The pleasure coils tight in my belly, and I chase it without holding back. My thighs shake, and my free hand grips the armrest until my knuckles ache.

"Come for me, Peoria. I'm going to come for you, too. Oh, yeah. You are so good."

The orgasm rolls through me in hot waves. I cry out, breathless and open and completely unguarded. My body arches and the wig slips a tiny bit, but I don't care. For a few dangerous seconds, I forget the camera is on. I forget the mask. I forget everything except the warmth in his voice and the way he nudges me over the cliff.

When I come down, my chest heaves and sweat slides between my breasts. I blink hard, and the room comes back into focus.

The screen, the light, and the distance I built this entire setup to maintain come back into focus.

I straighten the wig and compose myself, pulling the robe back over me. I don't tie it, leaving it draped over my body. I hear him rustling behind the black screen. I always wonder what he's doing when he doesn't talk, but I can tell he's moving around.

Midnight's breathing comes through the speakers. He settles whatever he was doing, but he doesn't speak right away. I let the silence stretch, enjoying the coming down.

A shiver runs up my spine as the cool air finds my still wet and throbbing center.

"Thank you." His voice is quieter now, almost careful. Something in my chest twists.

"Thank you. You're good and always deliver," I compliment him. I've never been able to come so hard with anyone, in person or otherwise.

The minutes sit easily between us, and that is its own kind of strange. This morphed somewhere along the way, straying from our original setup. He pays, I perform, and the screen should go dark. That was the plan when we started, before he asked me to be only his, and I said yes. Now the screen stays lit, and I don't want our calls to end, even now with a job to wake up to tomorrow.

"Can I ask you something that isn't about specifics?" I say.

"You can always ask." The command has gone out of his voice. He sounds almost tired, almost human. "I reserve the right not to answer."

"What do you do when you can't sleep?"

A pause, long enough that I think he is going to leave me hanging.

"I work," he says. "There is always something to take apart and put back together. It is more productive than lying there staring into a black void."

Something about that makes me sad. I understand that emptiness at night, and I don't want that for him.

"That sounds lonely."

"Being productive never feels lonely to me. Lying in a black room, unable to sleep, is much more solitary."

"That's an interesting take. I can see what you're saying, but do you ever think you fill space with work because you're afraid of letting someone else do it?” I pull my knees up under the robe.

"Going deep on me, Peoria?"

"When I was a kid, I used to climb out my window onto the roof and count the cars on the road behind the house as they drove by. I decided if I got to a hundred before I fell asleep, the next day would be a good one."