by A. R. Torre
Her, aka JessReilly19, popular coed. Drinks Miller Lite with her fake ID. Likes live music and kegs.
Him, aka HackOffMyBigCock, fellow college student. Loves working out, football, and lap dances. Dabbles in hacking when he isn’t being the big man on campus.
We all live different lies.
CHAPTER 16
JEREMY KNOCKS ON my door at six, my smile not flinching, my game amping a bit, the back arch and finger play moving to level OhMyGodI’mGonnaCum. The client responds, and my coulda-been-fifteen-minute chat ends a hundred seconds later at seven minutes. I smile, wave, and hop off the bed when the END CHAT message fills the screen.
I yank open the door, casting a sympathetic glance at Jeremy. “Sorry, babe.”
“It’s fine. I know the drill.” He pushes off the opposite wall, tucking his phone in his pocket and bends down, lifting a box and ducking through the door behind me, his foot kicking it shut, his eyes sweeping over me appreciatively as he leans in for a kiss.
“Let me put something on.” I’m getting used to wearing clothes again. Feeling the warmth and friction of cotton, the cushion of one more layer when sitting on the hard concrete of my floor. The first time Jeremy came by after work, he couldn’t focus, his eyes tripping over my naked form, heels still on. He, in as few words as possible, politely told me to put some clothes on before he ate me alive. At the time it was really cute. Now, in the retelling of the story, it sounds creepy. I slip on sweatpants, shrug into a sweatshirt and peel off my heels, tossing them toward the bed. “I got another one? Who’s it from?”
He sets it on the table, one he built last weekend, if “to build” means assembling five pieces of wood, then using a hundred screws to hold it together. He insisted I needed one, and I’m embarrassed how often I’ve sat at it since. I still like leaning against the front door. Listening to the world outside, my secret perch, the peek into the other Sixers’ lives. But it is nice, especially when he’s here, to have a table. Room to spread out food. Something to lean on, put a laptop on. A sign that I am normal. That not everything has to have a base purpose for existence in this apartment. “Couldn’t tell. A random name, somewhere in New York. There’s more in the hall.”
The right side of my apartment holds a sea of boxes, 100 percent of them delivered by Jeremy. I’m not a FedEx girl; that relationship ended on its first delivery when the guy refused to leave a package without seeing my face. Jeremy’s with UPS, has been since our first interaction three years ago, when he left my thousand-dollar computer in the seedy hallway after only a brief argument. He’s since delivered countless more brown squares, the story of our courtship told in the mountain of boxes that fill my loft.
He heads back to the door, holding it open long enough to snag two more packages and haul them inside. The top box is small and square, the second one larger. The sight of it makes my feet pause, my mouth freezing in a half grin of tentative glee.
“Is that… for me?”
He says nothing, just gives me a wry grin, dropping the large package next to the fridge.
I can’t stop my smile. It turns into some kind of split-your-face-open expression, one that hurts my cheeks in its intensity. Not the brown box of a delivery, but a gift: plastic stretched tight over four cases of Dr Pepper. Four times eighteen equaled one shitload of fresh, never-been-opened carbonation. All for me, to fill my fridge and instantly satisfy every craving my body decides to conjure up. I knock him down with the force of my hug.
PART 2
“Please,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Deeper.”
CHAPTER 17
House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 2 Weeks
A QUIET HOUSE. Quiet, a luxury Marcus never recognized until he lived in a concrete block with seventy other men. A quick glance at the clock confirms the time. 11:14. No surprise his cock is awake. It’s used to a nighttime ritual of being jacked, the pitch black of his cell hiding the tight grip of his features, the twist and flex of his feet.
Now, he stands from his desk, free to move about, free to turn on every damn light in the house and fuck his way through every room should he choose to. Except there is no one here to fuck. A problem, especially given his pent-up need. His fingers twitch, reach for the cell that lies on his desk, a faithful companion that still worked upon his discharge. Funny—it’s been two weeks, and he’s still surprised by his ability to pick up a phone without waiting in line. His fingers scroll down and find the number for Patricia, a woman he has known for ten years. He hesitates over the number. Patricia is all that he knows, his only connection to expensive pussy. He can’t call an employee, a friend, everyone’s panties in a wad over the McLaughlin bullshit. He presses on her number and lifts the cell to his ear.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The steely voice immediately brings Patricia’s thin frame and sharp eyes to mind. The tone of her greeting leaves little doubt as to her current opinion of him.
“Pat…” he says warmly. “It’s been a long time.”
“Too short, Marcus. Don’t tell me you want a girl.” The arch of her voice makes it clear what the correct response to that accusation should be.
He sinks into his desk chair, forces his voice to remain light while his fingers reach for something to break, the snagged pencil snapping cleanly in half. “No, no. I’m just calling to touch base. Clear up any misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding?” The cold lilt of her calm voice chills him. A tone with more bite than he can provide with the buckle of his belt. Women shouldn’t speak to men in this manner, and he suddenly doesn’t want to hear the next words out of her mouth. “You dropped a girl in an alley in town I wouldn’t toss a used cigarette in. The fact that she was found is a miracle. Not to mention what you did to her. You listen to me, shithead.” Her sentence ends in a hiss and he can imagine her, leaning over her desk, her conservatively perfect nails biting into the phone as she snarls. “You think I’m gonna let you step within ten miles of my girls, you are crazy. As far as your sex life is concerned, you are dead to this town. Dead.” She punctuates the end of her sentence with a firm click of the phone.
“Jesus Christ,” Marcus swears, looking at the cell phone screen, confirming the snub before tossing it down, the plastic piece sliding across papers before coming to a slow stop. He stares at the phone, recounting the conversation. He had underestimated the reach of the trial coverage. The effects of his tarnished reputation. The fact that Katie McLaughlin is preventing him from getting a prostitute is fucking ridiculous. And he isn’t about to stoop to getting a street whore. Not, he reminds himself, jiggling his foot, that he has the ability to drive to one.
No matter. There have to be a hundred Patricias in this city of wealth and sex.
He powers on his computer, waiting for the machine to warm up. He clicks on the Internet icon, staring blankly at the search box before typing “escorts in Miami” into the field.
He selects the first link he sees, the screen quickly filling with a grid of videos, videos that appear to be live, all women, in various stages of undress, on beds, stages, one posing in the shower. Confused, he scrolls down then up, his eyes following the tabs on top, the word ESCORTS nowhere in sight. Is this an interview process for clients to meet the hookers? Or an online version of prostitution? For the hell of it, he follows the simplistic sign-up, deposits a few hundred bucks and, intrigued, settles back in his chair, clicking on one prominent face, a smiling brunette, the words JessReilly19 underneath her image.
CHAPTER 18
I RECLINE, RUN a hand lazily over the comforter while I read the chat streams in free chat. This is the waiting room, the place where I look tempting and smile and laugh and convince one of the waiting men to press the “Take to Private Chat” button, starting the clock ticking, starting the quick, steady drain on their credit card. $6.99 a minute. It has built my empire and put hundreds of men into debt.
BBQKing: damn ur hot
LSUfreshman: pls show your tits
JoeyBaby111
: are your breasts real?
I laugh, running a hand slowly down the dip of my bra, pulling slightly at the lace to show the boys a little more skin. “Joey, my breasts would be a lot bigger if they were fake. These girls are all mine. LSU, I can’t show my tits in free chat but would be happy to show them in private.”
LSUfreshman: im broke
---HungBlackCock enters room
MommasBoy: do u do family chat bb?
Divorced4646: take off your panties and turn around
---freebird71 enters room
“I’ll do family chat, MommasBoy.” I smile, let my hand wander lower, tug on the top hem of my panties. Family chat is easy, the boys typically spilling their load as soon as the word Mother, Sister, or Brother is uttered. The Internet brings out all types, including those men who want nothing more than to sniff their sister’s panties. Joy.
420allday: let me peek at ur pussy please
BBQKing: do u do anal in pvt?
MommasBoy: I want to do a roleplay with u as my Mom
HungBlackCock: that’s disgusting
MommasBoy: black cock is disgusting
Divorced4646: put on some stockings. Sheer ones.
HungBlackCock: u wouldn’t find your daddys black cock disgusting
---shavedandhard4u enters room
---jeff001972 enters room
MommasBoy: that doesn’t even make sense
I ignore the arguments, rolling my finger over the remote and zooming the cam into my cleavage, letting the high definition do the work for me. I’m surprised I’m still here. Normally I’d have been taken to private by now.
- FREE CHAT ENDED - freebird71 HAS STARTED A PRIVATE CHAT
I zoom out enough that he can see me smile. “Hey, free.”
freebird71: hey
“What are you looking for tonight?”
freebird71: cunt
I try not to frown, hide the struggle by rolling my body over, letting him see the curve of my ass, my face shielded. “I don’t like that word.”
freebird71: I’ve never done this before.
I hear the ding of the message and roll back forward. Read his message and note the complete lack of apology in the words. Try again for a smile. It is late. I am starting to get jittery. Needy. I hope he’s not a chatter. It’s easier to pretend to be normal when my fingers are shoved inside of me, the gasps and gritted teeth attributed to arousal, and not the thin containment of madness. “What’s your name?”
freebird71: marcus
“And Marcus, would you like me to keep my clothes on? Or get undressed?”
The good news with this guy is, time doesn’t seem to be a concern. The worst clients are the ones who want you to strip and dip in the first fifteen seconds. They pant through the words they type, rushrushrushing you like it is the final curve of the Kentucky Derby. At the rate this chat is going, I can stretch it out. Get a half hour and a couple hundred bucks out of him.
freebird71: keep them on for now. but pull up your shirt so I can see your tits
I’m wearing a tight tank, cut low in front, with no bra underneath. I drag it over my nipples, high enough that both of my breasts are revealed. I settle onto my side, zooming out the camera until I am fully in the frame, my panties bright pink against my skin, my hair down, framing my face. I look, in this position, in these clothes, like a naughty teenager, getting frisky on her webcam, willing to do anything for approval. It is a look the men go crazy for.
freebird71: small tits. They’re pretty.
“Thanks.” I let my hands trail, one pulling gently on my nipples, teasing the skin until they pout, like tight red berries against my skin, the other hand pulling on the edge of my panties, letting them tighten against the lines of my sex.
freebird71: what can I make u do?
Make me do? I consider the question. Newbies can be controlled in ways that seasoned cammers can’t. They believe what you tell them, not knowing any differently. But he’d eventually find out the rules, would know any lies I chose to spin. And… since I enjoy what I do, there is little reason, if any, to lie, at least about the actions allowed on the site. I wet my lips. “You can ask me to do almost anything. I can’t break the law, so anything illegal is off-limits.”
freebird71: whats illegal?
I grit my teeth. This guy is a real winner. “Defecation or urinary acts. Pretending to be younger than eighteen. Bestiality.”
freebird71: everything else goes.
There should have been a question mark at the end of his text. He’s either an unintelligent newbie, or… or I’m almost at the stage of ending this chat. Several things about him I’m not crazy about. “You can ask me to do anything,” I repeat. “Doesn’t mean I will do it.”
I end up doing everything he asks for. It isn’t hard. He isn’t creative, kinky, or illegal. He wants me, once he gets warmed up, naked. Then fucks me from behind, my ass in the air before the camera, bent over, gasping his name when I pretend to come. He wants to slap my ass and tell me what a nasty girl I was. Wants me to tell him it hurts, that it is too big, wants me to tell him how hot and wet I feel inside, then how big he feels in my mouth. When he is close, he asks for a facial and I kneel before the camera and look up into it. Beg for him to come on my face, then take his imaginary cum like a good slut.
It feels oddly restrained, he types slow as molasses, and I never warm to his brand of romance, but it is long. And long means money and distraction.
At the end, once the typing stops and there is a long moment of silence, I switch the cam to an overhead feed and lie back on the bed, my breath slowing, the exertion of faking it more intensive than you might expect. I breathe and stare at the blank screen. Wait for him to say something. It’s compliment time, the bits of space when words gush onto the screen, should the client wait around that long. Most have their finger poised over the “End Chat” button, wanting to jab it as soon as their orgasm starts, anxious not to spend a penny over what is physically required by their bodies. But freebird71 hasn’t been cheap so far, so I wait and look pretty. Let him think he has sated my voracious sexual appetite.
freebird71: I’d like to do that in person. Where do you live?
Ha. Right. I reach out quickly, hitting the “End Chat” button for him, setting the stage early for this newbie. If he really wants to know, he can piece together the false clues that Mike has sprinkled so creatively around. The University of Iowa sweatshirt that hangs over my desk chair. The Facebook account that is third on Google results when you search for Jess Reilly. The area code of my cell phone, my address which is forwarded here. We have worked hard at the illusion. Backed it up with social media accounts, fake friends, user profiles, and campus registrations. When clients dig, there is a slew of information for them to find. Easily. So easily that there is no need to dig any further. They find what they want and no more questions are needed. The system is set up specifically for this type of client, the kind that makes my skin crawl and who doesn’t seem quite right.
------RETURN TO FREE CHAT?
I pull on my tank top and underwear and reenter free chat.
CHAPTER 19
------END CHAT: JessReilly19 HAS LEFT THE ROOM.
------RETURN TO FREE CHAT?
MARCUS STARES AT the screen. That was it? The chat’s over? He moves the mouse, presses “YES”; the screen returning to the home page, a grid of moving bodies framed in usernames and prices. His cock softens against his hand, and he pulls back his sweatpants’ waist and stuffs it inside. He glances at the upper-left-hand corner of the screen, where his balance, which had previously lit bright green with the figure of three hundred dollars—now had yellow font. $76.32. Hmm. Not bad. Cheapest orgasm he’d had in two years. Cheapest female orgasm. The prison ones had all come from his hand or from men, the explosion slightly sour in its delivery. It was hard to come while staring at a male mouth wrapped around his cock. Even if they did suck better, did understand where to focus their attention and where to ignore. Josh had be
en his favorite. A young kid, twenty years old with a flop of hair that almost covered his green eyes. He had been taken early, Marcus shoving down on the boy’s shoulders while explaining clearly the way that the power structure in this prison worked. Better treatment. Full canteen balance. Protection from the thugs that roamed those halls. All in exchange for fifteen minutes of his mouth. The boy had complied, his eyes tightly squeezed shut, a skinny stream of liquid weakness running down his cheek as he had gagged on Marcus’s cock. But that was the first time. Eight months later, Josh had a taste for it. Was sucking off half of C block, and living the life of a king.
In there, with nothing but masculinity surrounding him for almost two years, the female guards worse than the men, Marcus had almost felt himself slip into fag territory. Had jacked off to the thought of a cock once or twice instead of a pussy. So it was good to know, well worth two hundred bucks, that pussy still turned him on. That girl, Jess Reilly, had more than done the trick. The high-def camera had told him exactly what he was missing, had made him feel like a man again, and he wanted more of it. To know how she breathed, to feel the pant of her around his cock, how tight her ass was and if it got hot when it was fucked.
But she had ended it, her expression changing slightly, becoming more guarded when he had asked the simple question of her location. She was a whore; surely it’d be good for business to leave the camera behind and really have the client. Money would convince her. It always did. He’d throw a few thousand on the table the next time, and she’d sing a different tune. They all fell for the allure of cash, whether it be physical bills or diamond earrings. Sluts are sluts, and when they’ve been fucked enough, giving it up one more time means nothing.
