hard drive
Part 2 | part 3 | ao3
pairing: joel in his 50s x OF/cam model f! reader
Lonely and with an empty nest, Joel seeks companionship through a beautiful woman on a screen. What begins as a nightly habit slowly unravels into something more blossoming.
word count - 7.5K
rating - E
chapter content - non outbreak au, ellie and sarah are in the picture, lonely empty-nester joel, age gap (reader is in her 20s-30s, joel is in his 50s), sex work, sex livestream, online relationship, sex toys, impure thoughts, digital intimacy, yearning, masturbation m! and f!, cyber sex, joel's savior complex comes out to play, two people just wanting to be seen
author's note - i'm hoping to write this in a few parts but i've just been so excited for this story. hope you enjoy!
Joel wakes before the sun. Not because he has somewhere to be—he never does—but because his body forgot how to sleep in. No alarm. No plan. Just muscle memory and stiff joints, trained by years of early mornings and long stretches of quiet.
He sits at the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees. The floor is cold. The kind of cold that climbs your spine and doesn’t let go. Eventually, habit wins out. It always does.
He makes his way to the kitchen by feel, not bothering with the overheads—just the little stove light, flickering once before settling. The cabinets groan when he opens them, like they haven’t been touched in days.
He moves slow. Measures out coffee with the kind of precision that has nothing to do with taste and everything to do with control.
One mug. Always just one.
The dog shuffles in, slower than he used to be, and leans his full weight into Joel’s leg with a soft thump. Joel reaches down, scratches behind his ears.
“Mornin’,” he mutters, like it’s routine. Because so little else is
The house is clean. Too clean. Not for anyone else. Just to keep the quiet from echoing. He wipes down counters that are already spotless. Folds laundry that doesn't need folding. It beats remembering what silence used to sound like, back when someone else filled it.
There’s a photo on the fridge. Sarah and her husband, hands cupped around the soft curve of her belly. Someone added a filter and printed it from one of those little Bluetooth machines, like it was meant to last longer that way.
Taped beneath it, Ellie’s postcard: a fox in the snow. The back a familiar scrawl.
“Dina and I met a guy playing slide guitar at a bar in Missoula. Thought of you. Hope the dog’s still kickin’. Miss you, old man.”
He rereads it while the coffee brews, even though he already knows it by heart. Smiles, faintly Thinks of the voicemail that followed—Ellie’s laugh, something loud and cluttered in the background, her voice getting swallowed up by joy.
Sarah sends updates every couple of weeks. Nursery paint swatches. Little socks lined up in a drawer. The secondhand glider they finally decided on. She asked if he wanted to visit. He said yes. Meant it. Told her not to worry when she said they were booked solid for the next month. Didn’t want her to feel bad for living. That’s what he wanted for both of them. What he’d fought for.
But pride doesn’t keep you warm when you reach for someone who isn’t there.
He drinks his coffee standing. Puts on a slow record—one of the scratched ones—and wipes down counters already clean.
The sponge squeaks across the surface, shrill in the quiet. He doesn’t stop until his fingers ache.
Phone in hand, he leans against the sink. One missed call from Sarah. A text from Ellie:
Found a bakery with bear claws the size of your head. You’d love it.
He huffs a soft laugh. Thumb hovering over the call button. Doesn’t press it. He taps Tommy’s name. It only rings twice.
“Hey, big brother,” Tommy says, too chipper for how early it is. It grates and comforts all at once.
Joel rubs his jaw. “You busy?”
“Nah. Maria’s out walking. Tryin’ to get the baby to drop, y’know? She’s been waddlin’ like a penguin for days.”
Joel huffs a quiet laugh. “She doin’ alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. Tired. Hormonal as hell. But good. Real good.” He pauses. “She said to tell you hi. Said if Uncle Grumpy doesn’t show soon, the baby’s first word’s gonna be disappointment.”
Joel smiles, caught off guard. “Tell her I said hi back.”
“You oughta come out. Just for the weekend. Guest room’s made up. Kids keep askin’ when you’re comin’.”
“Been busy,” Joel mutters, though he knows it ain’t true.
Tommy doesn’t bite. “What, reorganizin’ your record shelf for the fifth time?”
Joel doesn’t answer. Tommy’s voice softens. “You know you’re allowed to leave the house, right? Maybe even meet somebody.”
Joel snorts. “Ain’t lookin’ to complicate things.”
“Doesn’t have to be complicated,” Tommy says. “Could just be… nice.”
Joel leans against the counter, presses his thumb into the wood until the skin goes white. “House is quiet now. Sarah’s doin’ her own thing, Ellie’s off travelin’. Kinda get used to the stillness. Don’t know if I’ve got it in me to stir it all up again.”
“I gotta say, sometimes it feels like you’re the one doin’ the leavin’, even when you stay put. We got a lotta noise here. Kids laughin’, cryin’, fightin’ over cereal. It’s a mess. But it’s a good mess. And I just…I wish you wanted to be in it more.”
Joel swallows hard. His voice is low when he finally says, “I do. I just… I don’t always know how.”
Tommy waits a beat, then says gently, “You don’t gotta say nothin’ else. Just show up. That’s all we want.”
“Anyway, just think about it,” Tommy continues. “Ain’t sayin’ you gotta jump on some damn dating app or whatever Maria keeps tryin’ to push. Just… you still got time, Joel. Time to not feel so goddamn alone.”
Joel doesn’t answer right away.
His eyes flick to the fridge. To the photo of Sarah and her husband—her hand on the swell of her belly. To the postcard Ellie sent, taped just beneath it.
He thinks about how long it’s been since someone touched him and it didn’t come from memory. Since someone looked at him and saw something other than history.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, finally.
Tommy nods. “That’s all I’m askin’.”
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That night, Joel sat at his desk and stared at the screen like it might blink first.
He told himself he was just looking up chords for “Misery and Gin.” Something slow. Familiar. His hands hadn’t moved like they used to—not without protest—but some part of him still remembered. Some part wanted to remember.
He scrolled past blurry chord charts and out-of-tune covers, fingers hovering over the trackpad.
And that’s when he saw it. A sidebar. Bright blocks of color. Looping videos with no sound. Just motion. Skin. Suggestion.
He didn’t click. Not right away.
But he didn’t look away, either. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about sex. Nights got long. Bed felt colder when there wasn’t anyone pulling the covers off him. Desire and loneliness—he knew how to bury both. He had gotten good at it.
But tonight? Something about that link—those flickering, low-res previews—felt like it might break the silence for five minutes.
So he clicked.
The page came up fast. A grid of previews filled the screen. Women in soft lighting. Some posing, others laughing. A few trying too hard. Too much gloss. Too much noise. He was already moving to close the tab—
Then he saw you.
You were on the floor in a tank top and panties, legs crossed, holding a mug in both hands like you were trying to warm your fingers. Hair twisted up, a few loose strands framing your face. You were laughing at something off-screen, the kind that started low and cracked wide open.
Your stream title was simple:
Come keep me company 🤍
It felt...human. Not slick. Not cheap. Just lonely in a way that mirrored something in him.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he clicked again. The stream opened quietly. Music played in the background, something soft and hazy he didn’t recognize. You were mid-story, leaning forward a little, one hand tracing slow circles on your knee.
“…and I swear, the guy had no idea his mic was still on. Just kept ranting about almond milk like it had personally fucked him over.”
You laughed, bright and real, and Joel found himself smiling before he even realized it.
“Y’all are a great crowd tonight,” you said, eyes scanning the chat like you could actually see them. “So quiet. So well-behaved.”
Your gaze lingered a little longer on the lens, your voice softening just a touch. “Almost makes me wonder what you're all doing with your hands.”
Joel’s breath caught.
The shift wasn’t obvious. Barely there. But he felt it. Like a string pulled taut under the surface, low and steady and impossible to ignore.
When your hand moved down between your thighs, it wasn’t coy or careful. It was familiar. Confident. Like you’d done it a hundred times for yourself, and this just happened to be a night you left the door open. You didn’t angle for the camera. You didn’t make a show of it.
Joel felt it hit, sharp and sudden.
It was the kind of hunger he hadn’t known in years. The kind that snuck in low and hard, blooming through his abdomen and down his thighs until his whole body felt tight with it. His cock swelled thick against his sweats, already straining toward his waistband, the tip wet and sensitive in a way that made him flinch. He shifted in his seat, dragging a palm over his thigh like he could calm it down, but it didn’t help.
He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. The need to be seen. Touched. Pulled out of the quiet he’d settled into like a second skin.
The way you let yourself feel pleasure, without apology. Like you didn’t care who saw, or maybe forgot anyone was there at all. Your body tensed, lips parting, eyes fluttering shut, and Joel forgot how to breathe. He could feel it hit his chest like a fist, like your release had pulled something from him, too—left him clenching the mouse with one hand, straining in his sweats, the ache so sharp it almost felt like grief.
He wanted to touch himself. The urge was sharp, restless, pooling low in his stomach and pressing hard against his waistband. His cock was swollen, already leaking through the soft cotton of his sweats. Still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because watching you in the aftermath unraveled something in him. The way your chest rose and fell. The way your hand slipped away like it wasn’t needed anymore. You looked soft, dazed, like you’d chased what you needed and found it. There was no performance left in it. Just quiet satisfaction, the kind that came from doing it for yourself. And that wrecked him. Because it wasn’t about the camera. It wasn’t about who might be watching. You wanted it for you. And somehow, that made him want you more than anything else had in years.
You stretched, slow and sleepy, fingers brushing your collarbone before tucking your hair behind one ear. “Alright, lovers,” you murmured, voice low and lazy from the afterglow. “That’s it for me tonight. Be good to yourselves.”
Then you smiled—smaller this time, softer. Like you didn’t owe anyone anything.
The screen dimmed. The silence that followed hit harder than Joel expected.
He sat there in the dark, cock still aching, hand gone limp in his lap. His chest rose, then again—shaky. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, barely audible.
—--------------------------------------
Joel told himself he shouldn’t go back.
The first night had been a weak moment. Curiosity, loneliness, whatever excuse made it easier to swallow. He’d meant to leave it at that.
But the next night, he was there again.
A soft lamp glowed from your dresser, casting amber light across your skin. The bed was unmade. A blanket half-kicked to the side. You lay across the mattress, one leg bent, the other draped off the edge, body loose like you hadn’t thought twice about how it looked.
Music drifted low from a speaker—something slow, mostly rhythm and breath. Your laptop was propped up on a pillow. You scrolled through chat, smiling without speaking.
And then, without ceremony, your hand slid down.
Fingers skimmed your navel, lingered for a moment, then dipped lower. You eased your thighs apart, just enough to slip your hand between them. No warning. No shift in expression. Just movement. Fluid and natural. Like this was how your evenings ended—with your fingers between your legs and your head tipped back against the pillow.
Joel’s cock pulsed hard, already aching in his sweats. He adjusted slightly in his chair, trying not to grip the waistband, trying not to reach. But the pressure was relentless. Sharp and thick, the kind that settled low in his stomach and refused to fade.
On screen, your fingers moved slowly over the front of your panties. Rubbing yourself through the fabric at first, finding the rhythm like you’d done this a thousand times and didn’t need to think about it. Your hips shifted just a little, chasing the pressure. Then you slid the fabric aside.
His eyes were glued to the screen—completely still, breath shallow. You moved the fabric aside with practiced ease, revealing the slick pink of your pussy, soft and glistening in the low light. Folds delicate, lips plush and parted, the kind of sight that made Joel’s mouth go dry. He hadn’t seen something that pretty in years—maybe ever. Not like this. Not with someone so unabashed, so sure of herself it made his chest ache.
Joel sat frozen, the only movement the slow rock of his hips against the seat. His hand hovered, then rested low over his erection, thick and aching, tip already wet. He didn’t stroke. Just held. Let it throb in his grip, full of something he still wouldn’t take.
You came quietly, breath catching as your body arched, then folded in on itself. No theatrics. Just a soft, honest release. After, you stayed still, hand between your legs, chest rising slow, eyes fluttering open, dazed and distant.
It felt like you were alone. Like he shouldn’t be seeing this.
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His cock pressed against his palm, dampening the fabric, desperate for relief. He could’ve finished. Easily. But he didn’t.
Not while you looked like that. Unguarded. Untouched by anyone but yourself. He didn’t want to ruin it. He just wanted to stay with you.
—---------------------------------------------------------------
What brought Joel back night after night was your voice.
You talked easy and warm, like every stranger mattered. You laughed without trying to sound cute. You filled silence without making it heavy. And somehow, you didn’t feel far away.
You felt like something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want.
Some nights he barely watched, just let your stream play while he tuned his guitar or shuffled through things that didn’t need fixing. Other nights, like this one, he sat still and just... listened. Let your voice fill the room. Like keeping an eye on you made something in him settle.
Still, his body betrayed him. The arousal came fast and hard—sharp, familiar, and constant. It would’ve been easy to give in. Just a few strokes, one imagined moan, and he’d be gone.
But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.
Because this wasn’t just lust. Not anymore. It was habit. It was comfort. It was the only way he knew to make sure you were okay. And that felt more important than getting off.
But tonight, something shifted.
Some asshole in the chat wouldn’t stop spamming your name—asking for attention, pushing boundaries, demanding things like he was owed them. You ignored him once. Twice. But Joel saw it—the way your shoulders tensed, the flicker of strain in your smile.
Something in him lit up.
That old reflex. The one that used to kick in when Sarah got hurt or Tommy ran his mouth too far. Protective. Immediate. Automatic.
You weren’t his. He knew that. You’d probably seen worse. But he made an account anyway.
Didn’t think about the name. Just typed it out. LoneStar67. One message. Direct.
“Drop it.”
The guy didn’t stop right away. Of course not. But Joel kept at it. Quiet, steady. No threats. Just presence. Control. Something that said, enough.
Eventually, the chat went quiet.
And then you looked up. Read the name out loud. Smiled, soft and real.
“Thank you, LoneStar67.”
Joel felt it deep in his chest. Like he’d just been handed something he didn’t know he needed.
His cock still ached, worse now. He glanced down and found his hand already there, pressed firm through the fabric, knuckles white.
This time, he didn’t stop.
He slid his palm lower, fingers curling around the thick shape beneath his waistband. His breath caught. Head tilted back just slightly. Your voice still filled the room.
He didn’t move fast.
Didn’t stroke.
Just held.
Because right now, it wasn’t about getting off. It was about being here. About knowing you felt safe again. About the way your voice softened when the tension left your shoulders. The way you said his name.
Even if you didn’t know who he was.
—--------------------
You noticed him right away after that night.
LoneStar67.
It wasn’t just the way he shut that guy down—it was the way his name kept showing up after, quiet but constant. If someone in the chat got pushy or crude, there he was. A short message. Just enough to let them know someone was watching. Someone had your back.
You started seeing the pattern. He didn’t flood the chat or toss out tips to get your attention. He wasn’t flashy. But he was always there. Right when your stream started, right until the end. He didn’t say much—just enough to let you know he was watching.
Especially the night your setup gave you hell. The ring light kept shorting, the whole stream lagged, and someone was already mouthing off in the chat about the delay. You were two seconds from snapping when you caught it:
LoneStar67: “Take your time. We’re here.”
You smiled. Couldn’t help it. The timing, the tone—it calmed you instantly.
“I appreciate it, LoneStar,” you said, glancing at the screen. It wasn’t flirtatious. Not really. But your voice softened. Warmer than you meant.
His reply came a beat later.
LoneStar67: “Just looking out.”
You waited, eyes lingering on his name, expecting more. Hoping, maybe. But nothing else came. And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, that left you a little bummed.
The restraint was… curious. Maybe even a little frustrating. Your chat could be a mess—commands, crude asks, things no one would dare say face to face. But not him. Never him.
And that made you wonder. Why not? Was he older? Married? Just not interested? Or was it something else you couldn’t quite place?
You started testing it. Little things. Slower moves. Softer light. Holding eye contact with the lens a bit longer. Letting your voice drop, just enough.
Still nothing from him. No shift. No reaction.
Just that steady presence. Quiet. Watching. Always there.
So one night, you decided to make it obvious. Just for him.
You figured with his username this would grab his attention. You pulled on an old Texas Longhorns t-shirt before the stream—soft from years of wear, thin enough to cling, tight enough to tease. No bra. Your nipples pressed against the fabric, dark and visible in the low amber light. You didn’t mention it. Just let it sit on your skin, casual and deliberate.
Half an hour in, you straddled the toy, slow and steady. No theatrics. Just the grind of your hips, the quiet rhythm of need building under your skin. The hum of background music filled the silence, and you let yourself get lost in the feel of it—wet and aching, slick thighs tightening with every shift.
But what made you wetter wasn’t the toy. It was the idea of him. Watching. Wanting. Sitting in the dark somewhere, jaw tense, cock hard, hand still.
You scanned the chat, barely blinking. Waiting.
And then–
LoneStar67: "Look at you."
It hit you like a pulse. Low and hot. Straight between your legs.
You held eye contact with the camera a little longer after that. Slowed your hips. Let your hand drift lazily over your stomach, slipping just under the hem of the shirt like it meant nothing.
You didn’t say his name. Didn’t call him out.
But your smile turned knowing—small and secret, meant for someone.
“Thought you might be here,” you murmured, soft enough it could’ve been for anyone.
But it wasn’t. And you both knew it.
—--------------------------------------
Something in Joel cracked open.
His cock had been hard for minutes, straining against his sweats, aching for relief. His hand had just been resting there—like that meant it didn’t count.
But this time, he moved.
Fingers slipped under the waistband, wrapped around the heat of it. Thick. Leaking. He dragged his thumb up the length, breath catching, hips twitching forward.
And then—without thinking—he typed something.
He almost shut the tab. Almost backed out before it could matter.
But then you smiled.
Small. Soft. Like you knew.
“Thought you might be here,” you said.
That was all it took.
Joel gripped himself and stroked, slow and steady, matching your rhythm. One hand on the desk, holding still. Eyes locked on your body. Pretending it wasn’t a screen. Pretending it was real.
He came harder than he meant to.
Joel stayed even as the stream slowed to its quiet end.
You’d already come, already slipped into the soft hum of your wind-down voice, talking aimlessly about your day. Nothing special. Just the little things. But he listened. Still. Like always.
His body was loose, spent, but his mind hadn’t gone quiet. If anything, it felt clearer. Calmer. His shoulders had dropped without him noticing—more relaxed than they’d been in weeks. Maybe longer.
Then came the ping.
A soft sound. Barely there. He almost didn’t check.
But it was you.
Hey.
He blinked. Stared at the screen, like it might change. Like maybe it wasn’t meant for him.
Replies flooded his head. All wrong. Too eager. Too cold. Too much.
He typed what felt real.
Hey.
You answered fast. Said you couldn’t sleep. Said the stream had you wired. He told you he felt the same. Conversation unfolded slow from there—gentle, unhurried. The kind that made time slip by.
Then you said it.
Thanks for always showing up. For making the space feel a little safer.
Joel read it twice. Three times. His hand hovered over the keyboard.
Then he typed.
Didn’t mean to cross a line earlier. That comment—‘look at you.’ I just… I didn’t want you thinkin’ I’m some creepy old man.
A pause. He exhaled. Rubbed a hand over his jaw.
It had been a long time since a woman messaged him like this. Since he let someone see even a part of him.
Your reply came quick.
You didn’t. That’s why I liked it.
Joel froze.
It had been a long time since anyone flirted with him. Or really saw him at all—soft around the edges, a little unsure, worth noticing for more than what he could do. Most days, Joel didn’t feel like the kind of man someone teased. He felt useful. Reliable. The guy you called when something broke, not the one you stayed up thinking about.
He didn’t respond right away.
And just when he started to wonder if he’d let the moment slip, another message popped up. Like you’d waited for him, then stepped in to carry the silence.
Not gonna lie, I kinda liked that you couldn’t hold back… kinda surprised you’re even here, to be honest.
He stared at the screen for a long beat. Then:
Only reason I’m here’s you. Always has been.
You blinked. Stared longer than you meant to. You’re shocked at how it didn’t feel like a line to you. Just honest.
You blinked once, then typed:
This? Me in a Texas tee with a half-dead ring light and an anxiety twitch? This is the highlight of your night?
He didn’t answer right away. You figured maybe you’d overplayed it—too much snark—but then:
Well damn, you forgot the part where you made me lose my mind for fifteen minutes straight.
The rest came easy after that.
You asked what he did. He kept it vague—said he worked with his hands, mostly. Construction, repairs, whatever needed doing. You joked that he was a walking fantasy, and he told you to cut it out.
You asked what brought him to your stream in the first place.
You told him about your first stream—how awkward it felt, how long you spent picking an outfit no one cared about. Lit candles you didn’t even like.
“And now?” he asked.
A pause. Then:
“Now I care more about who’s watching.”
The hours passed without either of you noticing. Conversation drifted from music to bad dates. Joel laughed hard at a story about your ex and a botched roleplay scene. His dog was curled up at his feet. A low playlist hummed in the background. He wondered what you were listening to. What your room looked like. If you were sitting cross-legged or curled up in bed.
His clock ticked past 2 AM.
“I should probably get some sleep,” you typed. “My legs are killing me. Haven’t moved since nine.”
And Joel hated how much he didn’t want the night to end. Before Joel could figure out how to sign off, another message popped up.
“I don’t really do this…But you don’t seem like a creep. So if you want to… you could text me?”
“On one condition.” You continued.
He stared at that part.
“I get to know your real name.”
His thumb was already reaching for his phone. He opened a new message.
Hey. It’s Joel.
—-----------------------------------------
You started texting the next morning.
Just a quick “hey” from you, a dry “mornin” from him.
But it didn’t stop.
You talked all day. Every day.
You sent photos of your breakfast with dumb captions. He teased you about burnt toast. He learned your routine—when you streamed, when you went to the gym, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly three ice cubes. You loved little things. Old songs. Warm socks. Inside jokes.
You learned he liked quiet mornings. That he kept to himself. That he was always fixing something, even when no one asked. He told you about Texas, about music, about the old mutt curled up at his feet most nights.
Not everything, though.
He still hadn’t told you his age. You hadn’t asked—but he knew you could tell. In the way he spoke. In the quiet pauses. The wall wasn’t to push you away, just to protect whatever was left standing behind it.
But you still stayed. So when you went live a few nights later, Joel didn’t hesitate.
He was already logged in.
And there you were.
Hair down, soft light behind you, something low playing through your speaker, more atmosphere than music. You stretched across the bed, one knee bent, eyes locked on the camera with that look he was starting to recognize as you typed on your phone.
Coy. Quietly smug. Like you knew something he didn’t.
Like you were waiting for him to catch it.
His phone buzzed.
You: You watching, LoneStar?
His chest tightened. Fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Him: Course I am.
You smiled. Slow. Like you could feel him watching. Like you knew exactly who his eyes were on.
Then came another message.
You: Been thinking about doing a private stream soon… Not for just anyone, though.
Joel’s stomach tightened.
He shifted in his chair, legs spreading without thinking, cock aching hard against his sweats. His hand twitched at his thigh, wanting to move. Just a little.
But this time, he didn’t pull back.
Your message sat on the screen—innocent on its own, but with your voice, your gaze right into the lens like you were looking straight at him—it felt intimate. Intentional.
Joel exhaled slowly. Ran a hand over his face, then down to his phone.
Him: Not just anyone, huh? Then yeah. I’d love to.
You looked into the camera and smiled—bright, excited. The kind of smile that made something flutter deep in his chest.
Then his phone buzzed again.
You: Can’t wait to see the handsome man I’ve been talking to.
—----------------------------------------
The stream had ended twenty minutes ago.
Joel was still at his desk, hands curled loose in his lap, heart thudding like he was waiting for something he shouldn’t want.
The room was dark now, lit only by the low glow of his monitor. Your last words still echoed in his head. That smile. The way you said you couldn’t wait to see him.
He should’ve let it go. Signed off. Gone to bed like he always did. Instead, he sat there. Waiting.
Then it came.
Incoming Video Chat Request
His stomach dropped.
For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You were asking to see him. Not just hear his voice. And that terrified the hell out of him.
What if you saw him and changed your mind?
What if all the little things you liked, the quiet jokes, the steadiness, the care, what if none of that mattered once you saw the lines on his face? The gray in his beard? The years?
What if all you saw was a lonely old man?
Joel stood too fast, ran a hand through his hair. Wiped both palms down the front of his jeans like it might settle him. It didn’t.
He tapped out a quick reply:
One sec.
Then paused. Looked around his room like it might offer reassurance.
It didn’t.
He angled the webcam low, kept the frame tight—just his chest, his collarbone, his flannel. Just enough to ease into it. Just enough to hide the parts of himself he wasn’t ready to offer yet.
Then he hit accept. The screen lit up.
There you were.
Propped against the same pillow he recognized from your streams. Makeup still fresh. Hair mussed just enough to be real. Your lips were a little pink at the edges, like you’d been chewing on them out of nervousness.
And when you saw him, you smiled. Bright. Unfiltered. Not performative. Just you.
Joel’s breath caught. His throat went tight. But he kept his voice steady, even if the edges frayed a little.
“Fair warnin’,” he said, rough and low. “You ain’t gonna like what you see.”
“Joel, there’s not a single version of you I wouldn’t want to look at right now.” You smiled.
He didn’t move.
Just sat there, fingers curled around the edge of the desk, your words sinking slow and heavy into a part of him he’d kept quiet for years. He hesitated—then reached for the camera.
He adjusted it, tipped it and let you see the real Joel Miller.
—--------------------------------------
You weren’t sure what you expected.
But when the screen shifted and Joel’s face came into view, it knocked the air out of you.
He was handsome.
Not in some curated, filtered kind of way. Not like the men who filled your inbox with flexed arms and forced smiles. Joel looked real. Solid. The kind of man you could lean into without thinking twice.
There were lines around his eyes, a heaviness in the set of his mouth—worn in, not worn out. His hair was swept back, going gray at the edges. Stubble roughened his jaw like he’d tried to shave and changed his mind halfway through. His collar was loose, his shoulders broad, but he sat stiff like he didn’t quite believe he belonged here.
And still—he looked at you. Let you look back.
No mask. No pose.
“Holy shit, Joel. You’re hot, you know that?”
Joel looked up, caught off guard. A quiet huff left his chest as he shook his head. “You need your eyes checked.”
You grinned, settling your chin in your hand. “No, I don’t. I just finally get to say it to your face.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you. A little softer now. Like he wasn’t waiting for the joke to land or the punchline to come.
The conversation drifted after that. Nothing big. You told him about your day. He listened. You teased him once or twice, watched his mouth twitch like he might actually smile. He shifted in his chair, rubbed the back of his neck, but stayed right there.
At one point, you leaned in a little, voice quieter now. “I like the way you look at me.”
His gaze sharpened just enough to feel it. Then he said it. Low. Real.
“You’re somethin’ else.”
“You mind if I ask how old you are?” you asked, voice soft, almost careful.
Joel hesitated. His jaw flexed once. That old instinct to pull back, to guard what little he still kept close, flickered through him.
“Fifty-six,” he said finally, voice rough.
He waited for the shift. The flicker in your expression. The math behind your eyes. That quiet recalibration he’d seen before, where interest dulled just slightly.
But it didn’t come.
You smiled. “Good. I like knowing.”
And just like that, something in his chest let go. You weren’t trying to flatter him. You weren’t fishing.
Still, he didn’t relax all the way. Not when you leaned in a little more, voice dropping low.
“I don’t usually do this,” you said. Honest. No act. No script.
“I know.” Joel’s voice was quiet. “Didn’t figure you did.”
You looked at him then, really looked. “But I wanted you to see me.”
His pulse kicked up.
He’d been trying to be good. Careful. Not let this slide into something it wasn’t supposed to be. Because you weren’t just some girl on a screen. You were funny. Smart. Warm. And if he fucked this up by giving in too fast, by making it about his need instead of yours, he didn’t know if he’d forgive himself.
But the way you were looking at him now, there was no mistaking it.
“I been seein’ you,” he said. Soft. True.
That did something to you. He could see it, the way your body shifted, the way your mouth parted just slightly.
Then your fingers slipped to the hem of your shirt, slow and sure.
“Wanna keep looking?” you asked.
And Joel didn’t have a single good reason to say no.
You lifted your shirt slowly, letting it rise over your stomach, then higher. There was no act to it, no script. Just skin and intention. Your breasts were soft in the glow of the screen, nipples already tight, a flush blooming across your chest. You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. This was yours. And it was for him.
Joel watched like he’d never seen anything so real. Like he didn’t want to miss a second. His eyes followed every line of you, slow and careful, like he was trying to memorize all of it.
You heard a quiet shift on his end, the rustle of fabric. His chest rose quicker now. His hands stayed out of frame, knuckles flexed tight against the edge of the desk. But still, he didn’t move.
He was trying to be careful. Trying not to break something that already felt too good to be real.
You looked into the camera.
“Joel,” you said, soft but sure. “You don’t have to hold back.”
His breath hitched.
“I’m trying not to,” he said, voice low. “Just don’t wanna turn this into somethin’ it’s not. Don’t wanna turn you into that.”
“I know that,” you said gently. “And you’re not.”
Something in him loosened. Just slightly.
Then your hand moved lower, fingers slipping between your thighs. Not to perform. Just to let him see. To let him in.
Joel’s breath caught.
And this time, he didn’t fight it.
He let himself want. Let himself feel it—your trust, your body, your eyes on him like he was worth watching.
Like you’d chosen him.
You stayed like that for a moment, bare and open, your hand resting between your thighs, breath shallow. The silence between you wasn’t tense, it was thick with something else. Anticipation. Want. Trust.
Then you shifted back slightly on the bed, the movement slow, deliberate. Your legs parted just enough to let the shorts ride higher on your hips. The fabric was thin, soft, and now visibly damp, clinging to the heat between your thighs. You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
Joel’s eyes dropped.
His breath faltered.
He didn’t speak, but everything about him shifted. His grip on the desk tightened, jaw locked like he was holding back something feral. You could feel it through the screen, the way his want built like a storm in his chest.
Your fingers moved, just a light press, a soft rub through the cotton, and his reaction was instant. A sharp exhale. His eyes flicked up to your face, then down again, like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to burn into memory first.
He didn’t try to hide it anymore.
One arm moved out of frame, slow and controlled. His shoulder lifted, and you could picture it—his hand wrapping around his cock, thick and aching, slick at the tip, finally giving in to what he’d been holding back since the second you lifted your shirt.
He let himself have you now. All of you. Your flushed skin, your parted lips, your fingers slipping beneath your shorts, your breath catching every time your eyes locked on his.
You moved for him. He touched himself for you.
And in that moment, it didn’t feel like performance. It felt like confession.
“I can tell you take care of everybody else,” you said softly, your voice a slow pour of warmth. “Always carrying something for someone.”
It landed hard. Too real to dodge.
Your fingers moved between your thighs again, slow and wet, breath catching softly.
“So how about tonight,” you whispered, “you take care of yourself?”
Joel exhaled rough through his nose. One hand slid out of frame, slow like he still wasn’t sure he should.
“Don’t gotta be perfect,” you breathed. “You don’t have to prove anything. Just let go. You’re allowed to feel good.”
He wrapped his fingers around his cock, thick and flushed in his palm. He moved slow at first, like he didn’t trust the moment to stay. Like if he went too fast, it would vanish.
Then your voice hit him again.
Low. Sweet. Just a little wrecked.
“Jesus, Joel.”
His eyes stayed low, focused on the desk, breath dragging through clenched teeth. His thumb swept up the length, catching at the tip, already wet.
Then came the next part—softer, almost a hum.
“Of course you’d have a cock like that.”
Joel froze for half a second.
It unsettled him because it landed too deep. Like it carved a space in him. No one said shit like that to him. Not like they meant it.
He groaned low in his chest, the sound pulled from somewhere he hadn’t touched in years.
“Touch yourself, baby,” you murmured. “Don’t stop. I want to watch you feel good.”
His hand moved faster, strokes slick and tight. His legs were spread wide beneath the desk, his body tense, trembling with restraint. His jaw clenched, face flushed. Mouth slack now. Every part of him undone.
You whispered again, filthier this time, and that was it. “Cum for me, please.”
He came with a groan—raw, guttural. His body jolted forward as he spilled over his hand, across his stomach, soaking the band of his jeans. His eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving, hand still gripping tight around the base like he couldn’t let go yet.
And for once, he didn’t feel ashamed.
Because when he looked back at the screen, you were still there. Still watching. Still smiling.
He saw the way your body moved, how your thighs trembled, your hips rocking into your hand. You tipped your head back, mouth falling open, trying to stifle a moan that still made it through, low and needy.
Joel couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. He watched you unravel, cheeks flushed, lips parted, your fingers working tight between your legs like you couldn’t stop now, not with his eyes on you.
He should’ve been spent. Should’ve leaned back and let the moment settle.
But the sound of your orgasm wrecked him. The sight of you shaking, breathless and needy, pushed him past any thought of restraint. He imagined what you'd look like if it were his hands making you feel that way, his mouth, his fingers, his body over yours, pulling those sounds from you until you broke apart beneath him. The fantasy hit too hard, too fast, and it lit something up in him again.
His hand moved before he could stop it. Gripped the base, already half-hard again, his cock twitching in his fist. He stroked once, breath catching, the weight of it still hot and slick in his palm.
Then again.
He let out a moan, surprised by how quickly it built, how sharp the second release hit him. His cock throbbed, twitching hard as more cum spilled over his hand, thick and warm. His chest rose fast, jaw clenched as his body trembled through it.
He hadn’t expected to come again. Not like that.
But with you still spread out on the screen, flushed and wrecked and smiling just for him—there was no holding anything back.
You looked so goddamn beautiful like that. Skin flushed. Chest rising slow. Eyes lidded but still on him.
He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t find the words that fit.
He glanced around, hand sticky, breath still uneven, and realized he hadn’t thought this far ahead. No towel in reach. No plan for what came after.
He muttered something under his breath and stood, shifting the laptop with him out of habit. The camera wobbled a little, then tilted just enough to show you more than he probably meant to. A glimpse of worn floors, a shelf full of records, a lived-in couch draped with a throw blanket. The hallway behind him was dim but warm, the kind of space that looked like it held stories.
You perked up, chin resting on your arm. “Wait… are you giving me a tour now?”
Joel glanced at the screen, caught off guard. “Wasn’t tryin’ to.”
Your grin widened. “Too late. I’m already invested. Keep going.”
He shot you a look but didn’t argue. Kept the camera propped up on the counter while he grabbed a towel from a nearby drawer. You watched his shoulders roll as he cleaned himself off, muscles shifting under the soft fabric of his shirt, the flushed line of his stomach still visible.
“You always this prepared?” you teased.
“Usually just this messy,” he said, drying his hands. But his voice was light. More open than it had been minutes ago.
You kept watching. Not for the view—not just for that—but because this was him. Unfiltered. A little awkward. A little shy. You liked him like this.
He caught the way your eyes lingered on his body. The slow curl of your mouth. It made something settle low in his stomach again, not arousal, not exactly. Just the comfort of being seen. Of being wanted.
He sat back down, pulled the laptop closer, cleared his throat.
“Hope that was alright,” he said, voice low. Like it wasn’t the best thing he’d felt in years.
You smiled, soft and sure. “Joel, it was perfect.”
His stomach pulled tight again. Not with heat, but something deeper. Something that ached in a better way.
You were curled back on the bed now, one arm tucked beneath your head, the other resting lightly across your stomach. The screen lit your face in soft gold. You looked relaxed. Real. Still watching him.
Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence felt soft and settled, like a blanket pulled up after a long day.
Joel leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the desk. You asked if he always kept his place that clean. He chuckled, said no, not unless company was coming over, which earned a sleepy grin from you.
You shifted on the bed, asked about the records behind him. He told you about the stack he kept by the player. One was missing a sleeve. You teased him about that, said it gave character. He said he liked that word.
And just like that, you were back in it. Conversation easy again, like nothing had happened — or maybe like everything had, but it didn’t scare either of you off. Just made the air between you feel more certain.
Something had changed. Quietly. Without either of you naming it.
You broke it gently. Voice low, half-muffled by your pillow.
“I know I keep saying this, but I really don’t usually do this with other viewers. The texting, the private streams. Any of that.”
Joel laughed once, soft. “Me either.”
You looked at him again, more serious now. “But I’m glad it was with you.”
Joel didn’t know what to say to that. Just nodded. You yawned. Shifted a little deeper into your pillow.
“You gonna text me in the morning?”
His voice came quieter this time. “Yeah. I will.”
And he meant it. He stayed on the call long after you fell asleep, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest. The way your lips parted. The sound of your breathing, steady in his ears.
When he finally closed the laptop, the room felt too quiet.
But for the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel empty.
It felt full.
Like something had started.
And this time, he didn’t want to let it go.
