Page 5 of Wells

I reach for the cigarette burning in the ashtray, take a drag, and exhale toward the ceiling. The modulator hums low beneath my voice when I answer.

"Just watching you."

The pitch drops, flattens, and smooths the edges, making it my voice, but sounding nothing like me. I built it myself for total anonymity. I'm not much of a public speaker, so I doubt she would hear me on CNN or something. But you can never be too careful.

She tilts her head, a small smile pulling at her mouth.

"You can watch me all you want, Sugar."

"I'll take that. I like when you call me Midnight, though," I tell her. There's nothing sugary about me.

"Okay, Midnight."

"That's right."

"You want to watch me do something for you, then, Midnight?"

The air conditioning kicks on, and a steady mechanical whir fills the silence between us. My penthouse is dark except for the monitors and the muted river light shifting beyond the glass. Thirty stories below, the Mississippi moves like a black muscle through the city. A horn sounds somewhere distant on the water. Farther off, the Quarter leaks bass and laughter into the night, softened by height, sealed windows, and money. It all stays out there.

In here, it's just the two of us.

She runs a hand through her blonde hair, pulling a strand free, stuck in her red lipstick. When she shifts on the bed, I catch the glint of silver at her navel. I noticed it the first time we did this, almost two months ago, and it's one of the things I look forward to most during our chats. That and her red lips.

It started as a transaction. I paid, she performed, and I logged off the moment it was finished, the way I keep everything. Somewhere along the line, it stopped being that. Now I block out my nights to sit behind a black screen for a woman whose name I will not let myself learn, and I wait for it. I have decided not to look too closely at when that changed.

I put the cigarette in the ashtray and settle back in the chair. My body is already engaged, heat low and steady, the kind of focus that tightens everything else down to background noise.

"Touch yourself. Go slow. I want to watch you enjoy it for me. I want to hear you enjoy it."

Her breath catches, just barely, and her hand moves. Her black lace fingerless gloves trail down her collarbone, over the curve of her breast, and keep going lower.

She knows my pace, knows when I want her to stop, when I want her to keep going. She knows when I'm close without me having to say it. The rhythm between us is practiced, precise, built over weeks of late nights that bleed into mornings.

Her breathing shifts and then deepens.

"Like this, Midnight? You want me to tell you how wet I am for you?"

"Exactly like that."

The modulator flattens the command.

Her hand moves lower, palm flat against her stomach, fingers splayed. The muscles there tighten when she inhales, and I track the rise and fall, the shift in tension as she waits for the next instruction.

My hand drops to my lap. I palm myself through the fabric of my suit pants, pressure building. My breathing stays controlled and measured, nothing that the microphone will pick up.

"Stop," I command.

She freezes. Her chest rises harder now, faster. The mask stays perfectly still, but her mouth parts, and I watch the flush spread down her throat.

"Now go back up a little, touch your tits. Don't make it gentle. I want you to pinch them hard for me."

Her hand lifts, cups her breast, and her thumb drags across her nipple. She gasps, a small broken sound, and my cock hardens in response. I unzip my pants and spring my cock free, dragging my palm up the length. The friction makes my balls tighten, lighting up my entire body.

I rub my thumb over the tip, spreading the precum.

She's good at this. Better than good. She knows when to hesitate, when to lean into it, when to let her eyes close behind the mask. She performs like she's reading my mind, and maybe she is. Seven weeks of this have taught her how I breathe, how I shift in the chair, what silences mean which thing.

"Harder."