“Night, baby.” His voice holds trepidation in its sweetness.
“Night.”
I hang up the phone, wishing it were earlier. Wishing I could overcome his worry with physical contact. Wishing he could come over and pin me against the wall, put his mouth on my skin. But it’s late. This time of night? I’m as likely to kill him as kiss him. And that would be a tragedy. Because despite our issues and the cavernous void of my secrets, I think I’m falling in love with him too.
CHAPTER 26
FREEDOM CAN BE a drug. The more you get, the more you want. It was easier when I completely restricted myself. When I locked myself into my apartment for three years and forgot what freedom tasted like. Now, just a few days inside and I am starting to feel claustrophobic. I’m itching for the stolen moments of fresh air and stars, yearning for the smells of life being lived, the sounds of people laughing, couples fighting, the brush of someone’s hand against your own. Jeremy helps. His visits are the best part of my day, each package delivery a mini-visit. I’ll turn off the spotlights, put my computer to sleep, and we’ll eat lunch, cross-legged on the floor, our backs against the wall, or at the table, noisily slurping soda and eating. Eating typically leads to kissing, and we’ve had a few make-out sessions, there on the floor, food cartons pushed out of the way as he reminds me of the one thing better than takeout. But he doesn’t stay long. Not during the week, when we’re both on the clock and my horny clients are anxiously waiting. He’ll kiss me softly and leave, taking my mail and garbage down, his uniformed backside tugging temptingly at my psyche as I close the door.
Those visits hold me over. Get me through the rest of the day until Simon locks me in. I’m returning to the window more and more, my self-control grateful that I am on the sixth floor. Too high to contemplate jumping or climbing down the brick face. The click of my door’s lock is my nightly alarm clock—the reminder to my struggling subconscious that the witching hour is near, my own dark fantasies itching to take flight. On the bad nights, that’s when I turn off the cameras, bidding good-bye to the flushed faces and hungry demands of my clients. On the bad nights, I explore my own sick fantasies. I am like my clients—on the edge of danger, playing with the fire of fantasy and hoping I don’t slip. Hoping I don’t fall over that dangerous edge and act out on my desires.
I was there to stop Ralph, to save Annie before his fantasies become reality. But who is there to stop me? Who will keep me in check? Who will stop me before I kill another?
For now, it is Simon. Simon, who religiously turns the lock that keeps me in this apartment. The lock on the door that three inches of steel guarantees will keep me inside, will keep others safe.
Yes, even though I’ve allowed myself some freedoms, a few steps into the world of normalcy, I haven’t lost my awareness of the need for control. I still need assistance at certain times. Like night. Night is still the hardest. Night is still when the urge to kill is greatest.
Tonight is a bad night. I hear the lock turn and relax, the tension in my arms loosening as I shake out the limbs. Locked in. Others are safe. From me, at least.
CHAPTER 27
I AM BARELY in free chat when my speakers chime, indicating the start of a private chat. I straighten up out of my lazy, sloppy pose and into one that puts all of my assets on full display.
---freebird71 just entered into a private chat with you
freebird71: hey
I smile. “Hey. How’s it going?”
freebird71: good. I video chatted with you the other night. Remember?
His username doesn’t ring a bell. It takes something extreme to get me to remember someone. One guy chatted with me twenty-three times last month. I remember him. Though with the username ElephantCock4You—he was hard to forget. So was his eleven-inch dick. NuttyBuddy73, who painted his penis with peanut butter and then licked it off? I remember him too. But freebird71 doesn’t ring a bell, not that I’d ever admit that to him. “Of course I do!” I say brightly, flipping screens and opening the word document I keep in the background, type in his username with a few quick strokes. Two notes beside the resulting cell. Marcus. Asked where I lived. I lean back on the bed. Smile as I part my legs in a way that draws attention to my underwear’s hot-pink crotch. “It was…” I tilt my head to the side as if deep in thought. “Marcus, right?”
freebird71: right.
freebird71: good.
freebird71: get naked. I want to see you.
I get naked.
I arch.
I touch.
I pull open the toy drawer and get creative.
The eight-inch white dildo is declared to be his favorite. I pretend it’s my favorite too.
He finishes by putting me on my knees, having me look up into the camera. I lick my lips and open my mouth and beg. Lick imaginary cum off of my lips and tell him it tastes delicious.
Chat timer: 37:02. He wants more. A second round.
I hop off the bed. “I’m gonna grab some water.”
freebird71: ok
I glance at the wall clock. 3:15 p.m. Briefly wonder at this guy’s time zone, if he is in his office or his pajamas. It’s so hard to tell when they just type. When I can’t hear the tone or volume of their voice. I prefer the cammers who turn on their audio, whose voices travel through the lines and paint the pictures of the confessions of their souls. My favorite are the whisperers. Makes the entire thing feel clandestine, the idea that they are risking their jobs or their lives in order to virtually fuck me. I pull on a thong, open up the fridge, and grab a Voss. The fridge clicks shut as I uncap the bottle, swig the cool water, and walk back under the heat of the lamps.
He’s still there, the screen unchanged, the clock in the upper-right-hand corner letting me know that my stroll to the fridge just earned me somewhere around the neighborhood of two dollars. I take another sip, watching my video feed, seeing the flush of my cheeks, the tint of naked skin. I move the bottle down. Rub the cold plastic over the tops of my breasts, my nipples instantly responding, pebbling hard, the high-def camera catching every reaction, the wet path of the bottle leaving a smear of glisten across my skin.
freebird71: do that again
I ignore him for a moment, leaning my head back and taking another long pull of water, moving my free hand to the camera’s control and zooming in further.
The art of seduction is now second nature. The tease. Giving them what they don’t know they want, and then withholding long enough to make them pant.
freebird71: do it again
I move onto the bed, sit Indian-style, and frame the camera on my body, mattress to shoulder, putting the bottle in the hole between my ankles and my crotch, the cold plastic wet against the silk of my thong. It’ll leave a damp spot. He’ll like that. I set down the cam remote, run my hands across my breasts, dragging the moisture across, gently pulling the tips of nipples, squeezing the flesh of breasts, lowering my mouth and lifting a pink tip into my mouth.
freebird71: jesus I want to fuck you so badly.
freebird71: how much?
A danger zone but I don’t stop. For one, I’m enjoying this. For two, this is a potential whale, a man unconcerned with minute counts, who has apparently come back for a second chat in one week. At any given moment, I’ve got fifteen to twenty whales, and am always looking for more, always needing a fresh supply.
I choose to ignore the question, lifting the bottle and returning it to my breasts, my damp thong clinging to me where the bottle had been.
freebird71: how much would you charge if I flew you here for sex?
I let the camera see a smile and empty the bottle down my throat, tossing it to the side without looking. “I don’t do that, Marcus.”
freebird71: $1000
I fight back a laugh. A thousand bucks is an average offer, but that’s coming from six-minute chatters, ones who save up to drop fifty bucks on an orgasm. This current chat is running on fifty minutes, three hundred and fifty of his dollars spent without hesitation. A th
ousand-dollar offer from him is almost insulting.
“I’m a camgirl, Marcus, not a prostitute. Just drop it.” My smile paints the words with a brush of friendliness but my hand moves closer to the mouse. I tried, gave him a chance. The “End Chat” screen will do more to put across my stance than words. It always does, the clients coming back contrite and behaving.
His response flicks up in the moment of pause before my finger presses on the mouse.
freebird71: fucking tease.
------JessReilly19 HAS ENDED THE CHAT. RETURN TO FREE CHAT?
I reopen my client spreadsheet, add in his IP address and a note. Flag it for Mike to gather intel. He’s a potential whale, but he’s also a potential problem. It won’t hurt to know a little more about freebird71.
CHAPTER 28
House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 1 Week
MARCUS’S HAND STOPS its forward progress, his cock instantly weakening, the surge of anger doing nothing to revive its flaccid length. Two chats with this bitch, and she had hung up on him in both of them. The first one, whatever. He had already come, had just been making polite conversation. But this time? This one? His half-there cock amped up in his hand? Her bitchy little “just drop it” comment? That was something you said to a subservient. Not your employer. Not when he is Marcus Fucking Renza. A sound collects in his throat, one low and empty, the growl of a caged animal, his hand shaking slightly as he reaches forward, moves the mouse, and clicks on the button to return to the home page.
The fury builds. The disrespect. The dismissive look on her face. He closes his eyes, pictures her sweet naked body, and how much he can remember about life before. Thinks about the feel of her skin and the gasp of her breath. What he would do if he were with her. She would submit. She would beg. She would surrender. She would respect. He lets out a controlled breath, attempts to regain his focus, his hand jerking the soft skin of his cock as his eyes skim the available chat rooms.
Another girl. There would be another option. One better than her.
He clicks on a brunette with a similar body. The room behind her gray as opposed to pink. He watches the girl smile, flip her hair. Lean forward and type into her keyboard with long, electric-blue fake nails. Ugh. At least Jess Reilly had been clean. Wholesome. As clean and wholesome as a girl who swallows a fake cock could be. He watches her type and wonders what she is doing. Then a line of text appears in the window, a line that quickly moves as a hundred responses follow it. Why isn’t she talking? He can hear music softly playing in her room, so her microphone is working. He clicks on the “Take to Private” button, and the other participants disappear.
No change. The girl looks into the camera for a minute, a bored expression on her face. Then she reaches forward. Clicks a couple of keys.
HotSexxxyGirl4You: hi
He drops his cock. Reaches forward in response.
freebird71: why aren’t you talking?
The girl stares at the screen. Blinks. Blinks again. Then her lips move, and broken English comes out. “I can talk. Not much.”
Her accent is thick, an ugly foreign paint over the English words, her voice rough, as if it hasn’t had much practice with the syllables. This is what he is paying seven bucks a minute for? With Jess Reilly, he’d felt the rate was a deal. Now, he feels like a poor man visiting a street hooker, an interaction guaranteed to end with an STD and a stolen wallet.
He types.
freebird71: don’t talk. What do you do?
Another long blink. Like she doesn’t understand the question.
HotSexxxyGirl4You: I do everything for you. You turn me on.
He sighs. Contemplates returning to free chat and finding another girl. Instead he returns his hand to his cock and decides to test out what “everything” means.
Fifty minutes later, the chat interrupted at one point with an automated request for more funds, he ends the chat, pulling a tissue from the box on his desk and wiping the length of his cock. “Everything” had been plenty. The girl had put in a ball gag. Spread her legs and fisted her pussy. Slapped herself across the face with the metal end of her handcuffs till her lip was busted and tears came. She got on all fours and barked like a dog when he told her to. Gagged on anal beads after having had them inside of her. Had brought herself to the point of tears by the time he had come. Seven dollars a minute had bought her self-respect and let him rip it to shreds.
He kept waiting for her hand to move, to push the button that Jess Reilly had wielded so easily. But she didn’t. She listened, she performed, she didn’t give him any lip. She was motherfucking boring, even when her lips were bleeding and her ass was being violated. He felt like he was at a donkey show, not the high-class pussy he was accustomed to. Jess Reilly, despite the stick up her ass, is quality. Is American, for God’s sake. Is what his cock, even now, post-orgasm, wants.
Shutting down his computer, he stands and heads to the shower to wash off the virtual feel of slut.
CHAPTER 29
CaliCouple111: hey
I LEAN FORWARD, wave to the camera, and call out an enthusiastic hello.
CaliCouple111: can we turn on our cam?
I don’t know why clients ask. It’s not an act that requires permission, and considering that my rate goes up when they share their cam… I can’t imagine why any cammer would respond with anything other than an enthusiastic YES! But their question reveals two things. One, there is more than one of them. Two, they are polite, unsure. New. I grin. “Of course! Send it! I can’t wait to see you guys.”
A window appears on my screen, showing me a bedroom, two figures perched on the edge of a bed, hands clasped. Fully dressed. Fully. Like, shoes and socks, the man wearing a tie, the woman wearing three layers of clothing and jewels. I smile broadly but examine every piece of the image, my mind working overtime.
Expensive backdrop.
Heavy wood, professionally decorated room, floor-to-ceiling drapes, paneled walls, the edge of a fireplace along the left side of the frame.
A high-quality camera, one that doesn’t lose focus, crisp, clean, and high-def.
Attractive couple. Late forties.
The woman’s cardigan hides an impossibly busty chest.
The man’s suit hangs well over a body that seems in shape. They look plucked from a Tommy Hilfiger ad, and seem a little too proper to be on a cam. I feel underdressed in my thin T-shirt and hot-pink thong.
The man speaks, a dark tone with words that roll out, laced with bits of prep school diplomas and breeding. I imagine he went to Dartmouth, works in a firm, drives a Mercedes. “Good evening, Jessica. My name is Ted, and this is Susannah.”
The woman smiles, and I return the gesture, sliding onto my side into a comfortable position. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. What are you guys interested in tonight?”
“Susannah would like to see me with another woman. We thought you might be a baby step to that goal.” I like his voice. It drags fingertips of sexuality up my skin and causes my thighs to tighten.
“Sounds fun,” I say softly. “Did you have a specific scenario in mind or would you like me to start?”
“I’ll start.” He stands, pulls off his jacket, and tosses it onto the bed. Starts the casual and sexy process of loosening his tie. I sit up, onto my knees, and take advantage of their distraction to move a toy into the eye-level attachment that affixes to my stand. “Susannah, kneel down before me.”
I fight a smile, his words matching my thoughts. I wait, his tone telling me enough. He is in control.
She kneels, her dress pants tight, and looks up into his face as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it. Nice. Muscular, trim. He works out but doesn’t obsess over it.
“Can you move the camera in a bit?” I move closer to the end of the bed and switch camera inputs, to a higher one that sits above the toy, one that looks down on me, much as he would.
She hops to her feet, moves offscreen, and then I see the camera pan in, see him turn to face me, the camera framin
g him in perfect clarity. He flips the leather of his belt out and yanks the clasp of his pants. A burst of arousal comes at the anticipation, as his wife kneels before him, a smile curving over his mouth as he palms the back of her head softly. Reaching forward, she places a tentative hand on his zipper and turns to me, looks into the camera and I stare a little bit into her soul.
We may be a hundred or two thousand miles apart, but it is amazing the connections that can occur on camera. I understand why the clients think they know me, have a right, a claim to me. I feel it too. But they are one of thousands to me, and I am—for many of them—the only one. It is a dangerous seesaw of inequality, one I balance on with no clear understanding of its butterfly effects.
CHAPTER 30
House Arrest Countdown: 1 Month, 3 Weeks
MARCUS ISN’T THE only one who prefers Jess Reilly. He realizes that quickly, his first two chats lucky in his easy snag of her attention. She is one of the most popular women on the site, her window constantly grayed out in a private session. He spent a few nights refreshing his screen, hoping to grab her the minute she returned to free chat—only to be bested by another user doing the same thing. It was infuriating, to wait like a lackey, begging for a chance to pay a whore.
Then, after trying for two weeks, he got her.
“I know you.” She smiles into the camera, and he feels the juvenile warmth of importance. He reaches forward to type but is stopped by her voice. “We’ve chatted before, right?”
I was aided. Returning clients’ names are shown in blue versus red. One time out of a hundred the system glitches, and I give a warm welcome to a person who has never seen me before, but this time I am rewarded by a quick line of text.
freebird71: Yes. I’ve been trying to chat with you but you are always in private.
I frown in a manner that conveys regret and wish I were somewhere else. Somewhere with people, living, breathing organisms that have blood in their veins and who scream when injured. Tonight is a bad night. One where my mind won’t stay on camming, and my hands want to squeeze a throat until it cracks. “I’m sorry. The site’s been busy lately. If you sign up for my fan club it can send you a text or pop-up when I enter free chat.”