by A. R. Torre
He spins in his chair, turning away from the computer, and stares out the large window that comprises the back wall of his office, at the far-off twinkle of city lights. The dark break between them hiding the fruit trees. Half a grove of Florida’s finest, fifty of the most valuable acres in the state displayed before him in a dark sea of green. The hours of the night stretch before him, empty hours with nothing but time to think. It is always the empty hours in which the devil lies. He had raped his first girl during empty hours—an eighteen-hour bus trip, the maddening minutes stacking upon each other, each stop bringing aboard fresh trash and making him only more aware of the teenager beside him. He’d spent the first six hours fighting it. The seventh hour devising a plan. The eighth, ninth, and tenth hours gaining her trust. The twelfth hour muffling her screams as he took her virginity in the fifteen minutes of a stop. He’d left her, bloody and crying, on the ground behind the convenience store and had boarded the bus with barely a minute to spare. Had relaxed with the success of his endeavor as the bus jerked its way back to the interstate.
That was twenty years ago. Back when he was a poor kid from Philly heading south, hoping for pussy and fortune. Willing to do whatever it took to get either. He’d gotten off the bus six hours after taking the girl, the scent of her still on his hands, his feet hitting the dirt of Miami at an hour of night when only trouble walked. He’d had eighty bucks in his pocket and he’d felt unstoppable.
Marcus lets out a breath and closes his eyes, remembering the feeling. Wishing it to return. Now, back in his life, he feels incomplete—he needs that amp. Needs the affirmation that he is in control. That he can bend wills and take what isn’t meant to be given. He needs that high from twenty years ago and can’t get it inside this house. Can’t get it with the police watching his every move. Two more months and some change. Then he’ll be free. Then he’ll find a girl and take the final piece of his life back.
CHAPTER 20
WHILE JEREMY KNOWS the feel of my lips, the curves of my naked body, Dr. Derek knows my soul. He’s seen the black pit of it, knows the things I think, things I can’t imagine confessing to Jeremy. Things that would make teenage boys plug in a night-light. Things that scare me more than anyone, since I hold the keys to their containment.
Derek has never made me feel ashamed of my sickness. He has, out of everyone, judged me the least. He has always been supremely unaffected by the dark confessions that come from my lips, has not flinched. And while, in some ways, he knows me better than anyone… in other ways he is ignorant. He doesn’t know what I spend my days doing. Doesn’t know about the bed, the cameras, the toys. He doesn’t know about the men who whisper through my speakers, about the graphic way I can describe a sexual act. He thinks I design websites, spend all day with plug-ins, shopping carts, and graphic design. I initially lied to control the conversation, to steer our talks away from my daily activities and to focus them on what mattered. Stopping my fantasies, fixing my brain. Making it possible for me to reenter the world.
Now? Now that we have talked my sickness to pieces, looked at it from every possible angle, made little progress in two years of appointments—I could bring my job up. But why? For what purpose? I think, when I turn the psychoanalysis on myself, it is because I am embarrassed. Embarrassed to be both sexual and insane. He knows so much about my brain, yet still—in some crazy way—treats me like I’m innocent. I don’t want to ruin that side of our relationship. And I’m pretty sure stuffy straitlaced Derek will not approve. Of the words I say, the actions I perform. He’ll turn it into something dirty, stack a psychological sentence on top of it, give all sorts of clinical reasons for my motivation. Make me feel guilty for it.
So I haven’t told him. And I most likely won’t.
CHAPTER 21
“HOW’S WORK?”
The question makes me pause, a spoon heaped with mint-chocolate-chip ice cream halfway to my mouth. It’s Edy’s, Jeremy’s beautiful ass bringing me an entire half gallon of it. My fridge, which has never held more than bottled water, is suddenly being used in ways it probably forgot it could. I finish—no use wasting a spoonful of deliciousness—and wonder about the calories as the cool ice slips down my throat. I need to be careful. I’ve lived off diet meals for the past three years. Probably couldn’t have gained weight if I’d tried. Now, with Jeremy showing up with bags full of carbs, calories, and desserts, I might pack on a few. Join the group of girls who mark the “generous proportions” checkbox on their cam profile.
He waits, unhurried, his steady look indicating I’m not going to mint-chocolate-chip-swallow this away. I shrug, the sharp pain in my head announcing with gusto the arrival of a brain freeze. I wince and wait for it to pass. Wow. Have forgotten what that feels like. “Fine. Busy day.”
“Any new clients?”
I glance over, the deliberately casual forming of his words raising a red flag in some part of my brain not concerned with ice cream. “Yep. I have new clients every day.”
“Anything interesting?”
I raise a brow. “I feel like you’re hinting at something.”
He sits back, glances at the framework that covers my bed. “Not really. Just curious what goes on. I know you told me you do cybersex, and I’ve seen your setup, but I guess I don’t really know what that is.”
“Cybersex?” I scrape the spoon along the bottom of the bowl, getting a generous amount of green, and raise a hypothetical middle finger to the risk of brain freeze with one big-ass spoonful. Ouch. Splinters through my skull, ones that dig deep and twist on their painful way down. I recover, making a face that no one would consider sexy, and vow allegiance to some bit of restraint. “It’s not that complicated. Want to watch a couple of chats? Before you leave?” It’s his third visit of this sort. A drop-in. I have a boyfriend, and he has “stopped by” after work. I feel so normal. And the thought of killing him hasn’t even crossed my mind. The previous two visits, we were lazy. Stretched out on my bed, his hand running through my hair. A few times his fingers took the slow and delicate path up my shirt, or under the hem of my shorts. The last visit, I didn’t even get back online. We just kept talking, his hand rolling me over and tugging my body into his, his hand tracing patterns on my skin as he spoke against my neck. About his family. About his childhood. Neither topics that included death or blood.
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
I set down the pint. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to feel uncomfortable at this point. Just watch one or two.”
His jaw sets, a new look—one I haven’t seen before. It is cute, in a stubborn sort of way. “No, I’m fine. I don’t want to see it. Just explain what happens. I’d feel awkward watching. Like I’m invading your space. That’s a personal thing you do. Just tell me how it works.”
I tilt my head, trying to think about the best way to describe my chats. How each one is different. Orchestrated by the client and traveling whatever direction that mind might wander in. “I’ve.… got a better idea.”
CHAPTER 22
I SMILE INTO the camera and wait for a command. I am in lingerie, a red lace set sheer enough to tease but modest enough that he’ll want it off. I wet my lips and listen to the shake of his breath.
“I don’t know what to say. I’ve never done this before.”
I smile. “Tell me what you would do if you were here. Would you want me to come closer? Or would you want to come to me?” I zoom the camera in, using the remote in my hand, letting it pan over my breasts, down my lace-covered stomach, and to the bit of silk between my closed thighs.
He groans softly, and I feel my own breath quicken. “God, the picture is so clear. Can I—Can I tell you what to do?”
I smile. “Yes. This is about you. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Open your legs a bit. I want to see… yeah. Zoom in on that spot. Please.” The please is an afterthought, stuck awkwardly to the end of the sentence, as if he is unsure if what he has
asked for is appropriate. I smile, my face out of frame, amused at his hesitancy. This will be fun. He has no idea what I am capable of. For once, I feel confident in our physical exchange, as if I have the upper hand.
I recline on my side, zooming the camera in until it is centered on the spot between my thighs, a side angle, one that shows the detailed cut of my panties. I draw one leg up, bending it at the knee, and run my hand softly down my leg, until he can see the edge of my fingers. “What would you do, if you were here? Would you move this aside?” I dip my fingers underneath the lace and tug slightly, just a hint of movement, enough to show him that I am shaved, enough to tease him, to cause his words to come quicker, and to flow without thought.
“Yes.” A rough whisper.
“Yes, what?”
“I would move that aside. Slide them over—all the way. Slide them over and let me see your pussy.”
The word is so strange, coming from his voice—so unexpected that I break character for a moment, look up in surprise, and have to find my bearings, my composure. I tug on the silk, harder than is needed, and grind my hips slightly, wanting to regain the lead, wanting the shake and uncertainty back in his voice. I pull the panties fully to the side, exposing my most private area to the high-def camera’s eye. Slick. Shaved. Wet. I run a finger down, traveling to the lips of my sex, the slit that is already ready and wanting, begging for attention, this experience catching it off guard, and it is raring to play.
“I want you to pull out your cock, Jeremy. Pull out your cock and stroke it for me.”
My arm, the one that was supporting me, collapses, and I relax on the bed, turning my face and angling my body so that my upper body is in the background of the shot, him able to see when I lick my lips and stare into his camera. I picture his face before me, the intense look in his eyes when he is aroused. I have seen that look before, seen the thin control when Jeremy’s kissed my lips while his erection raged against his pants. And right now, imagining that look in his eyes, I want him here, before me. I want him to yank down his pants and fully thrust, let me feel every thick inch until—
“God, I want to fuck you so badly.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—”
“Tell me.” I pant, sliding two fingers inside of me, my legs spread wide for his eyes, my cunt needing more than the weak assault of my fingers. I need him, rigid and hard, without a condom, nothing but the heat of his skin inside of me, thrusting, filling, taking me and breathing life, lust, experience inside of me. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want to make love to you. I want—”
“More!” I gasp, pushing myself up and spreading my fingers, letting the camera see the throb of muscles inside of me, staring into the camera with need, letting him see every bit of truth in the words I am about to say. “I need you. I want you. Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. This is about honest need, want. Tell. Me. What. You. Want.”
CHAPTER 23
JEREMY THOUGHT HE knew the sides to her. The complex, twisted sides of this woman. The woman who tentatively responds to his kiss, as if she is afraid of breaking if pushed too far. The woman whose eyes light with fire, and who carries a dark thread of insanity, one that should make him run but only draws him closer. One who should cling to him, given the amount of her solitude, but instead is strong, independent, even dismissive at times when he expects her to be needy. Jeremy thought he knew the sides to her, but he was wrong.
This girl on the screen is all woman. Her legs spread, beautiful body unashamedly before him, she has not one trace of insecurity, does not need to be coddled or respected. She wants one thing, one thing that is thick and hard beneath his palm, straining for attention so hard it hurts, begging for release. Deanna stares through the screen with eyes that burn, complex and confident, and challenges him for more. He stands, facing the computer, and wishes like hell that he had his own cam, not just this headpiece, a way for her to not just hear but see the level of his need. He takes off the kid gloves.
“I want to take you on your back, with your legs wrapped around my waist, your heels digging into me as I hold down your wrists and thrust inside of that body. I want to fuck you deep. Slow, hard thrusts that have your muscles squeezing my cock. I want you to feel every bit of me as I move. I want to watch your tits bounce as I speed up, as I lose control and fuck you without thought. I want to release your hands and have you dig into my back. Pull you to me and feel your soft breasts against my chest as I pound into you.” His breath runs out, his cock releasing a clear stream of prearousal, his hand fisting up and down the shaft, watching as this beautiful woman plunges her fingers inside, her body contracting and moving, rolling in time with her fucks. He growls, feeling a surge of ownership overtake him, an animalistic urge millions of years old pushing him. He wants every bit of this woman. He wants to protect her, reassure her, hold her in his hands and make her his with his cock. “Fuck, Dee. You are too perfect, too right for me. I want you in ways that are bad for me. I want to pick you up and fuck you against every surface in your apartment. I want you to fall apart in my hands and come with my cock inside you, fucking you through it. I want to be yours. I want to be the best and the only man you ever take. I want you wrapped around my cock as I come inside of you. And I want to kiss your mouth and take your breath and fill you with every bit of myself.”
She stiffens, her back arches, her fingers a blur of pink moisture on his screen, and she moans, a bit of her hand shown gripping the sheets, her body lifting a bit off the bed, the beautiful sounds of her orgasm breaking any last hold Jeremy has left.
He can’t stop, his hand gripping the shaft tightly, and he whispers her name, his body freezing as his head drops back and his orgasm arrives.
CHAPTER 24
A MAN NEEDS a release from time to time. Needs to feel the full brute force of his power. Needs to untap all his potential and see the result. In Marcus’s younger days, it was done in a fight, leaning over a younger opponent. Punching then kicking, till the boy was a broken mess of a coward. Life changes as you grow up. As everyone else keeps growing and you stay the same, a five-foot-seven midget. Forced to look up. A man’s head shouldn’t turn up. Not a real man. And his fists could no longer win respect—not against a larger man. So Marcus found new weapons. Clawed his way to new heights. Gained power. Money. Money can create all manner of intimidation. And in that intimidation, he regained his footing. His confidence. But he still needed confirmation. That was where the girls had come in. The girls had given him the feeling of power and masculinity he missed from his youth.
On November 11, three years prior, he had finished in four hours. Turned away from the girl, zipping his pants as he walked to the cottage’s round table, gathering his keys and wallet and returning them to his pocket. He examined the front of his pants for blood. Nothing. Lifting the white dress shirt from the far chair, he shrugged into it.
Silence in the space. He glanced back. The whimpering had been good while it lasted, her gasps and screams silenced, first by his belt, then by his cock. But total silence was a problem. He walked to the bed, pulling up her head, her eyes closed, the muscles of her face slack. He swung the back of his hand and slapped her, the snap of her face satisfying, the brief start of her eyes reassuring. Still breathing. Good. He wasn’t an animal for Christ’s sake. Killing was for animals. He was a man of control.
He left her tied, his eyes sweeping appreciably over her outstretched arms, the marks of his fingers visible in the bruising. Her legs, still spread open, the twitch of his cock affirming his virility.
Shutting and locking the door behind him, he dialed his phone as he walked to the car, his lungs expanding and contracting, the axis of the world righted, his confidence regained, masculinity intact.
“Thorat. I’m done. Get her back.”
It had been November 11. Less than twenty-four hours before Katie McLaughlin had ruined his life.
CHAPTER 25
THE “END CHAT” message ding
s, and I press the button on my remote, my lights shutting down with one quiet sigh. I relax against the mattress, not surprised in the least when my phone vibrates, muffled by sheets, my hands fumbling across the fabric before finding and unveiling the phone. I answer it with a smile.
“Hey, baby.”
Jeremy’s voice is throaty, as if he has just woken up and is flexing his throat muscles back into action. “Hey.” I grin at the thickness in his voice, and imagine him stretched out on his bed, chest heaving, cock heavy in his hand. Sated.
“Well?” I wait.
“I think I just fell in love with you.”
I think? It is close, close enough that my heart races and chest tightens. Do I want that? Am I ready? I laugh the statement off, rolling onto my back. “That’s what they all say.”
“I want to see you. Now.”
My smile widens, and I prop myself up, glance at the top. “It’s too late. It’s almost ten.”
“Tomorrow?”
I blush. “Tomorrow.”
“Is that how they all are? Your chats?”
My smile drops at the vulnerability in his tone. Suddenly, every bit of my cybersex prowess is a potential negative, his thoughts quite possibly running through a wood chipper of what-ifs. “No,” I say softly. “None of them have been like that.”
It is, in some ways, true. It is, in other ways, one of the most harmful lies I have ever told him. I’ve been that aroused before. Have come to the sound of a man’s voice plenty of times. I enjoy my job. I enjoy the escape it gives me. I understand that a boyfriend might have an issue with what goes on under the lights of my set. It’s more than understandable. It is expected. And I wonder, my high fading, how much of an issue this will turn into. I wonder if my budding love is worth the extinguishing of my online life. I can’t stay in 6E without the cyber interaction. I will go crazy. Crazier.
