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Sleeping Beauty.
How is it a girl would want to be a fairytale character? Brought up on stories of happily ever after isn’t the right way to live. I should know. I tap my phone screen and see a message from my mother. My father would never contact me, but she does.
I know she misses me. She wants me to return home, but I can’t. After the darkness I brought on the family name, my father would sooner disown me than have me back in the house.
My computer dings from the bedroom, but I ignore it for a little while. My mind is on my folks for the moment, and I consider responding to my mother, but after a moment, I turn and head back to the bedroom with a bottle of beer.
I flop on the mattress and tug the laptop toward me. Waiting for me are two messages from the little princess. She’s not even seen what life can do, and she’s on this fucking website, talking to me—a stranger. At least, that’s what she thinks.
What the hell could’ve happened to her to push her into this life?
Onto this website?
SB: Normal is subjective. Perhaps you should just come right out and say it.
SB: But if you’d rather not, I won’t pursue it. I’m into . . . I need . . . I like being watched. Is that wrong? I mean, the fear that courses through my veins spark my arousal, and then I’m lost to it until I find release.
I stare at the screen. I read her words, then reread them. I try to make sense of her. In just that one confession, she’s given me more than I could ever have hoped to give anyone in my own damn life.
She deserves an answer. She should get one, but I can’t bring myself to do it. My fingers hover over the keys as I regard her name. I know it’s not real, but just the thought of her being able to accept my ache, to see her unconscious, to feel her limp body as I curl myself around her and rub my cock against her smooth, porcelain flesh, has me groaning.
SB: I like when a man . . . I enjoy a man to hunger for me. I crave attention, the need to feel his eyes eating me up. I know it’s dangerous, but this is how I find my fix. By roleplaying scenes online, so I don’t do it in person. Is that why you’re here too?
Fuck.
My fingers move without me thinking.
Logan: Yes. Your needs and my desires seem to tie into each other more than I could’ve hoped for. But this is all it will ever be, my beauty.
SB: I didn’t ask for more. Did I?
She’s right. She didn’t, and I’m assuming she’d ever want to see who I am. The moment her gaze landed on my face, she’d know why I’m hidden in the middle of nowhere. Why I’m living in a small town in the corner of the world where nobody will find me. Where nobody can recognize me.
I consider my next response. Do I tell her more? Can I tell her more? Of course, I can. But I’m still afraid. Being shunned for something I have no control over has put fear inside me, and every time I have a glimmer of hope that sparks within me, it’s extinguished before I have time to really and truly feel it.
Logan: Then why don’t we get to know each other? Tell me about your favorite role.
I wait.
Five minutes pass and nothing, yet her green light still shows she’s online. So, I haven’t scared her off just yet. That’s a good thing. But waiting for a response is like being hanged by the fucking balls—painful, excruciating.
SB: I’d like to feel like I’ve lost all control. Like I’m nothing more than a rag doll. Lying on a surface of your choosing. I want to have a video recorder on me, to show me what you’ve done to me after. I want to feel the ache of you inside me when I wake up. I want you to hold me down, keep me there until you’ve had your fill of me. And when you’re done, I want to wake up with the scent of you on my skin.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I have no response to that. My cock is throbbing so hard I can’t think straight. All I can envision is her, lying on that pretty pink bed while I enjoy her body just like she wants. While she sleeps, I can devour every inch of her and make her mine.
And in the morning, when I’m gone, she’ll awake to nothing but the phantom feeling of me inside her. Beside her. Touching and stroking her smooth skin.
I shake my head and tap out my last message before shutting the lid of my laptop. I can’t do this. Can I? No. It’s wrong. The more I fall down this rabbit hole, the more I’ll get lost in the fantasy. And when I do that, it becomes more than just some fun chat online—it becomes an obsession.
