#doecore

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Some guy™️ x GN Reader

{Prologue} “5-4-3-2-1” ~5.2K words

Summary: You didn’t know who you were. Doe was going to make you see yourself as they did, and maybe that’s who you needed to be.

Note: ambiguous genitalia for reader if you squint but internal sex organs/AFAB for the most part. (Author is open to writing for different bits in the future!/gen)

This is for 18+ audiences so minors DNI! This is my first fic so sorry if there’s any grammatical or continuity errors. Also if you know the creator of the photo lmk so I can give credz!

Warnings: verse!reader, religious themes, religious guilt, blasphemy k!nk, stalking (eventual meeting), self-harm, exhibiti0nism, degradation, mast3rbaiting, self-penetration, pstar!reader, panic attack, general anxiety, mild scopophobia, mild body horror, more freaky tags to come.

Hot rivulets streamed down your cheeks. Powerless, you couldn't hold them back as your thoughts became too much to bear. Knuckles moved with resolve and dug in your sockets, willing more tears not to fall. You were in public, for gods sake, the sunny disposition of the lively park nearby was embarrassing enough. The rigid press of the public bench against your back didn't make this any more comfortable.

Boisterous crowds were enjoying their time outside. Why couldn't you?

You came out here to clear your mind, but being around others only made you spiral. You felt unfulfilled and concluded that you’d felt this way for a long time. You started to question if you even knew what it was you were missing. If you even knew yourself outside of who you were told to be. A sob wracked over you. Pathetic. If this was going to happen, the least you could do is ensure it didn't end up on some shade room page with the caption "sellout seeking attention." You shot up from where you were seated and set yourself on a familiar path, knuckles now wiping away stray tears. You wanted to hide yourself in your hands the whole way home.

then—

Your face collided with a firm chest, and you stumbled back. Startled, you uncovered your eyes to see who it was you bumped into. First, your eyes landed on a shirt with a wet patch perfectly aligned with a saline dribbling nose. shit. Hoping the stranger didn't see, you craned your head up and were met with a pair of dark chrysoberyl orbs staring back at you.

Their eyes were huge or...was it just their iris that made it seem that way…? Twin voids sucked you in the longer you stared. unblinking. It unsettled and equally stirred something in you.

You looked down, cheeks hot, unsure if it was because of your little breakdown. Hand's shielded your face as they had once before.

"My bad, I—hic—I should've been looking where I was going—I-I'll just.”

You stepped to your left, they did as well.

your right, they followed.

This was one of those funny social interactions where both parties were reading off of the same script, a polite standstill, but you could've sworn their mirrored steps were beat behind.

You gazed back up, smiled, and let out a humored huff as if to say, 'whats your next move?'

It was then you noticed how divine this strangers owly-eyes were. There was a cute mole on both of their lower eyelids. Soft sunlight revealed a ring of alluring deep hickory that had a sort of reverent regard…the blown pupils within gave you pause. Now that you got a better look at them, you noticed their build. sturdy and soft. Did they wrestle perhaps? You mused over how they'd fare in a bear fight, imagining sleeves pulled taut over flexing muscles. If anyone had even an iota of a shot, it'd be them.

"Are you alright?” they said, concern woven into each word.

"I…" tears fell anew in remembering.

Immediately, they rubbed your shoulders and walked you back to the bench you just fled, encouraging you to sit. You found solace in the contact…god you were touch-starved.

"H-hey hey it's okay…"

They knelt before you and gingerly rested a hand on your thigh in an attempt to soothe. A small tingle shot straight to your core from that spot.

You couldn’t bring yourself to get a single word out.

If the verbal struggle hadn’t distracted you, you’d notice the faintest pressure in their fingertips, like a suppressed attempt at digging their hand into the plump flesh there—possessive. Their mind said one thing, but their mouth said another.

"There's an ice cream shop nearby…would you want something from there to cheer you up? w-we could go together s-so you don't think I poisoned it or anything. I can pay—or not!…if that'll make you feel more comfortable…o-or—"

You were freaking them out. You needed to give them something—anything— other than silent sobs. Maybe it was the earnestness you sensed or the overwhelming emotions, but they disarmed you. In a broken voice, you agreed, and their stammering yielded.

As you walked to the ice cream shop, the pair of you exchanged pleasantries over the weather once you calmed down, avoiding the elephant walking with you. When there was nothing else to say, you kept quiet, mind wandering. Who just buys stuff for strangers? Did you really look that pitiful?? Your mind wandered too far because you blinked, and suddenly you were facing the double doors of your destination. They weren't lying; the creamery really was close by. In five minutes, a cone was held comfortably in your hand, free of charge. They seemed happy—giddy even, more so than you. Like the purchase was the treat itself.

The pair of you quietly stepped back outside, awkwardly lingering. It didn’t quite feel like the time to say goodbye. With a sigh, you gave in and lamented over why you were caught crying on such a beautiful day. You noticed how your benefactor gave you the conversational space to say as much or as little as you desired; you never felt pressured to lie or spare their feelings. They were a stranger after all.

This whole encounter felt vaguely intimate, so it came as a shock when they had to leave. You hadn't even exchanged numbers. Life was funny like that. This wasn't some meet-cute. You weren't clutching your heart, declaring "journeys end in lovers meeting." This was just some guy who took pity on a crying stranger. That's all it was going to be.

𓁹 𓁹

You grew up with unrestricted access to the internet, stranger danger wasn’t a foreign concept. That’s why you always went by an alias, careful in your own way. You never posted photos of your home, or loved ones, god forbid an aesthetically pleasing shop nearby, god forbid something you actually gave a fuck about. You had to admit you couldn't see yourself being a fan of your own content. You really only posted what you figured anyone would enjoy. Palatable.

In the past, you talked to strangers online over topics that truly engrossed your every thought. You’d hope to somehow find a kindred spirit or something similar. It was fruitless in the end. You can recall a few incidents where late Amegle chats left you misaligned. Like crooked teeth fighting the conformity of the brace—only to be yanked out, leaving gaping congealed gums behind. You dare not think about it now.

Now you regret not taking even more precautions. Keeping your account status private on social media. Not confiding in strangers whose eyes lingered a bit too long. And taking the same. route. home. Digital footprints lead to real ones.

Now you stare blankly at a direct message you received just minutes after reaching your home, contemplating whether putting yourself out there was ever worth it.

It was a photo of you. A bit blurry, but you know it’s you.

Sent from an account you have no connection to. That no one would. No followed celebrity or mind-numbing content farms for passive entertainment. No mutual contact. No profile photo…no posts. Nothing.

You wouldn’t call yourself a celebrity, but you wouldn’t not say that either. You just posted stuff in hopes of 15 seconds of fame. Was this the end of your pseudo-career-hobby-thing? Sure, you’ve had your share of unwanted comments and unsolicited photos, but you were never doxxed. Never sent pictures anywhere close to where you lived. You didn’t think anyone cared enough to find you anyway. The rollercoaster, which was your engagement insights, told you that.

The latent worry over an omniscient Santa Claus watching your every move, or some omnipresent God, had bubbled inside you. Like all those ungrateful frowns or self-indulgent deeds counted for something now. Like you unknowingly accrued a debt your fading innocence could never repay. Like deep inside, you knew you’d always be damned.

In childhood, you learned to keep your mouth shut when there was nothing nice to say. Learned to be obedient —pliable—when you should’ve pushed. Softness and perfection were offerings left at an altar, an attempt to appease something divine that’d never share it's verdict on your soul. This habit never went away and yet...

Regrettably—

It did seem like there was someone always watching. Perhaps even mild popularity had its repercussions!

𓁹 𓁹

Frightened, you tried to rack your mind of who this could be—and why such an old photo? With no context either??? It couldn’t be your ‘friends’. Desolate chats only comprised of obligatory holiday greetings, though.

The photo was taken at night and depicted a wide stretch of concrete—a parking lot—you surmised from its hatched white-lined patterns. Closer, huge dumpsters caked in years-old garbage juice stood beside a familiar building. The camera was at an odd angle, high up but pointedly shot at a figure emerging from heavy doors, a lanyard hung solemnly round its neck. Its sunken features were unmistakably yours. From what you could make out, it was at your last place of employment—retail, admittedly. shit pay, but you needed the money. Shit environment, customers, and coworkers too. It drained you.

Was that really how you looked? How people saw you? You fought back a bout of juvenile insecurity.

Even if it was a friend, this would be a fucked up opener for some joke. “Haha gotchuuu I made a burner account just to freak u the fuck out!! also I noticed you haven’t had a genuine connection with a real human being for years, sooo how ya beeeen.”

For a split second. Only a second. You suppressed a thrill of hope.

Just as swift, you mentally kicked yourself for it.

This was some pervert with their hand halfway down their pants, getting off on the fear they instill.

…

Could they see you now…?

A sobering shiver ran down your spine, rattling your discs. Suddenly, you were more aware. An ache in your back signaled a slow-going hunch. Perhaps an unconscious attempt at hiding yourself from this creep. The chilled air goaded goosebumps along exposed skin. Your turned back was still at the door. Your breathing—h-how did it go again? In. Out. In. Out. In. In. In.

Think. Straight. What about that exercise? Two things I can see, five things I feel touching me? Fuck. Was quiet always this loud?

Once coherent thoughts were being quickly clouded by hurried panic.

You could almost taste the iron-rich liquid being pumped from your fibrillating heart to a straw-thin windpipe.

The room started spinning, encouraging bile to escape its fleshy chambers, and you began to taste it's burn instead, mouth involuntarily watering.

What should you do?

Trying to readjust your focus on the object cradled in violently rocking digits, one clear thought pushed to the forefront. Respond.

“HAII, you should’ve gotten my good side :(“

Or

“Awuh yew gwunnuh axe mwuduh me, tehee?”

Now wasn’t the time for feckless behavior. Let’s start with a ‘who are you’, and get the authorities involved from there. Who knows. This gooner may have no backbone, send you their life savings, and turn themselves in.

Or they’re at the edge of their seat, emboldened. Plan already set in motion, blade sharpened.

Perhaps some feeble part of you hoped it was the latter.

Stupid rabbit brain.

Trembling thumbs typed up the message. You braved for something corny like, ‘You like scary movies?’ Or ‘you wanna play a game?’ as a reply. You huffed out a laugh. Maybe it was a misplaced fear response, or maybe some perverse joy.

Taking in a deep breath, you hit send. And waited.

Waited

Did you take too long? Hell no. This photo was taken months ago, maybe even years! The creep could wait a few minutes.

Five seconds go by

Thirty…

Sixty-two..

You release the breath you forgot to let go.

Fuck this.

Prying your eyes away from the screen and a little lightheaded, you shut your phone off and shoved it in your pocket.

This account was undoubtedly created to contact you and you alone. The least they could do is respond to a question you had the right to ask.

Rage crept up on you, its jeer would lead to an outburst you don’t think you could control. You needed a distraction.

Making way for the most eye-catching area of your home free from clutter and the bareness of an undecorated space. The area that didn't just look lived in but attended to and full. You turned on a ring light. Your makeup bag at your side, ready to aid in touch-up. You went through a mental script of things you’d talk about. blood chocolate, creepy critter stuffies, teddit stories, what else? Ah! The popular ‘haunted’ church miles away from home. You’d visit if engagement was high enough.

It was muscle memory; you slipped your phone out of your pocket and into a new one on the ring light’s stand. Preparing to hit record, anticipating the number of views, you then paused.

What were you doing?

Did a few years of playing jester scramble your mind up that bad? Your s— they could be one of those views. This bad attention-seeking habit came to bite you in the arse; you were sure of it.

“At least it wasn’t my phone number” you said, only to regret it as the words tumbled out.

It was a failed, while absent-minded, attempt at comforting yourself.

Why would you speak it into existence?

Decidedly, you turned notifications on silent so your heart wouldn’t drop every time you heard a familiar chime. Pivoting to a new distraction, one sure to calm you down, you went to your special room. It had been months, but anonymity was no worry with this activity. You quickly put on some music, getting a better use of your otherwise quiet phone. You hadn’t intended on singing along. You just needed something loud you could feel. You locked the door tight and got to work.

𓁹 𓁹

They never did respond and wouldn’t reply for weeks.

You stopped going out. Stopped getting a sweet treat after a stressful day at work. Stopped planning trips for content. And when you absolutely had to leave, you didn’t take the same route home.

It frustrated, comforted, and scared you all the same. There was a chance they didn’t know where you lived, so a little change in the routine might’ve given you a fighting chance. As the days went on, your feet unconsciously fell into a familiar rhythm. You looked over your shoulder a bunch…at first. You couldn’t deny that, as time went on, you rebuilt trust in your environment again. Old habits became more of an effort to fight off.

Eventually, you got tired of waiting. You knew you didn’t have much to go on, but the days were peaceful again, and you wanted full reassurance. So, you took to the internet as your first line of action.

‘What counts as stalking?’

It felt silly, of course. You had an idea of what it was, but in hindsight, you should've done this sooner. Your face was online, sent to you even, unsolicited. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you should’ve known what would legally count as stalking long before.

The words in the search bar seemed to almost stretch and expand on the luminous screen. Were you trying to get your creepers’ attention? …Could they even access your search history?

There was a brisk click of a key—backspacing—then more clicks joined in chorus. The word ‘incognito’ only barely humored you. You knew the level of protection was that of a veil between two newlyweds. But a level of protection nonetheless.

You reread the words in the search bar until they lost all established meaning. Until they weren’t just words anymore. They were vows. And you were going to officiate the hushed promise. Your arial-shaped quiry provided thin little holes through a screen for your ever-present fiancé to peer at you through. Stalker and victim, official now, but where were your church bells? And when was the dreaded honeymoon?

You sent the ask out to the World Wide Web. The results only left you with more questions. The first link led you to a quote from an advocacy group:

“A pattern of behavior directed at a specific person that would cause a reasonable person to fear for the person’s safety or the safety of others; or suffer substantial emotional distress.”

Well, you were a person. Maybe a reasonable one at that? But they only contacted you once. You supposed that meant the authorities wouldn’t be of help at the moment. Bitterly, you assumed that was it. Your second line of action would be averted for now.

So you went back to greeting clients happily at work, wariness melting. You even went back to posting and found numerous requests urging you to visit the popular abandoned house of worship. You never stopped changing up the path home every now and then.

One day, you’d learn how useless of an attempt it was.

𓁹 𓁹

You were waiting in line for a sugar high, scrolling through your digital feed aimlessly. It was a particularly bad day at work. Your boss chewed you out for fumbling a request from a very important client. You could never really handle disappointing others, so you lied about the mess up for as long as you could. Just long enough to correct it, but then a superior found out and went straight to mommy.

You’d been eyeing this cafe-bakery for a while and felt today gave you the perfect opportunity to shamelessly get a few sucrose-laden treats. Its hype was calming down, but that didn’t mean the crowds always reflected it. It’d be a wait, but you needed this.

During the wait, you scrolled through chat logs on your account, just to see if there were any requests to visit the haunted church soon.

Your heart nearly stopped.

one quick, fleeting swipe, and on instinct, your brain fully locked onto the account handle. You blinked.

There they were.

your could be stalker.

It had been so long, but they still loomed over your conscience without ever needing to formally contact you.

Curiosity got the best of you. You opened the chat log.

Painfully, you grimaced at your photo and just as much your response.

What else could you've said to make them respond? There wasn't exactly a script for situations like capturing a stalker!

Then, as though a higher power heard your cry, you saw animated ellipses at the bottom of your screen—they were typing.

Immediately, you threw the phone across the building in a panic. Weeks of pent-up anxiety rearing its ugly head.

Shit.

It’s clacking made a loud enough noise to cut through all the conversations around you. It went quiet in the sweet-smelling building. Some people winced at the damage, while others looked in the direction it flew from.

“Whoops, haha…”

Humor. An offering to ease the thick tension your outburst caused. Just like that, people went back to their own worlds. Quieter than before, you noted. Ears at attention now.

You stepped out of the queue to collect the offending object.

Suddenly remembering, you sent your heels spinning to face whomever it was behind you. It was a mother and her child. She had a kind of mousiness to her features, permanently carved wrinkles between knitted brows, big amber eyes, and purple lips indicating years of worry at dead skin. The kid, a boy, seemed to exude a kind of naive confidence only earned from reaching your ‘double digits.’ Where his mother’s eyebrows were pinched, his were low, stern.

You’d been in line for nearly 30 minutes, and the wait had to be at least 30 more.

“Hey, you don’t think you could save my…” You spoke, giving them the warmest smile possible, smoothing over any external dread that roared internally.

It was then that you noticed the protective way the son stood in front of his mother and the tight grip she had on his narrow arm. Two pairs of eyes averted your gaze.

Nail dug into palm as you courteously made your way to where the phone had crash landed on tiled floor. There were sticky holes where the screen protector should’ve been. You didn’t know what was dust or finely shattered glass.

The first thing you noticed when you reopened the log was that the photo was gone. When had they unsent it? You went to uncover the missing image and—

“Ah!” You hissed quietly, sucking in a single breath. There were multiple cuts, only now noticed, the slight hint of red smearing the screen.

turning back in contemplation, you looked past all the witnesses of your social faux pas, sparing one last glance at the desserts on display.

They glistened.

A cold handle met palm, and what followed wasn’t the slamming of a door but a trivial whine of overused hinges and a smooth click. A sigh escaped tight lips, cheeks sore from a smile never dropped.

Decision already made, enough was enough. You were going straight to the authorities. Determined, you stepped out of the store and searched for the closest thing to a cop you could find on foot. You were in a shopping center, so it couldn’t be that hard. This would be the last day you’d have to worry. The last day, you’d find some convoluted way to get to where you needed to go. The last day you’d feel eyes. Those damn eyes.

Hot cheeks burned, the furnace of your mind seared through any logical thought.

A stout figure in yellow stood idle by an exit. You caught the glint of what had to be a badge, so you made a beeline.

You showed him everything.

.…Which was nothing aside from a single text message on your end…to an anonymous account that didn’t connect at all to a real person…This couldn’t have been a bad idea…right?

Right??

He gingerly examined your fragmented screen. You told him all you could, the fear you felt, the photo which mysteriously disappeared, your isolating behavior, and— why was he looking at you like that?

You watched him use the tippy top of his left index finger on one intact corner of the phone, free of biohazard.

…the blood, oh no.

A group of kids whispering passed, and you swore you heard a giggle. One of them looked like the boy from inside the cafe-bakery, his mother likely nearby. You surveyed your surroundings and regretted it. There was nowhere to rest your eyes without another pair catching them. You felt crazed and found purchase in new cuts with a determined nail.

“Sorry, kid, you sure this isn’t some friends playing a prank? Maybe a secret admirer? You said you were… popular online, right?”

You didn’t wanna admit how sad your social life was. Especially since he falsely deduced you were someone people actually kept up with…and the incredulous way he put it. You just gave him a tight, pitiful smile. He all but raised a brow.

“You could go to the station downtown, but I’ll let you know right now, we’d only respond to cases with more—ahem…backing.”

Did he just snicker?? Did he even hear anything you just said? You were sent a photo! From your job that was years ago!

“We’d check things out if they were more persistent or even tried something in person, but it’s probably just some online troll. We’re only supposed to classify this as stalking if…”

You tuned him out. You’d read it before anyway.

He handed your phone back and made a comment about how you should probably find someone to talk to, which was laughable. You couldn’t stand to be here any longer, and you needed some air. Life goes on, you suppose. Que sera.

You thanked the Paul Blart wannabe curtly and headed for the exit, oh-so conveniently nearby, empty-handed.

𓁹 𓁹

You had an inkling that going back home was going to seal your fate, but maybe the mall cop was on to something. Maybe it was just an online troll. It could be that the photo was taken from a CCTV by a weird coworker, its strange angle would prove that. At least you thought so; you had no way of checking now. On the slim chance it was true, you were going to take a much-needed nap.

Getting into bed was abrupt. You’d basically stripped to your underwear and flopped on, too tired to care, whittled down by the day—no, at least a month. Dreamland could finally take you,

a place where there’d be no death, no sorrow, no crying…

You felt a dull throb in your fingers.

…no pain. Eyelids heavy, breathing slowed, movements suppressed, you drifted. You could hear the bleating of sheep hopping by, taking your consciousness with them.

One

Two

Three…

You flipped your pillow.

Four

Five

Six…

You flipped your pillow again, kicking off the duvet.

Seven

Eight—

100 wouldn’t even be enough. You turned your pillow one final time, but your eyes wouldn’t close. They gravitated to the bedside table, and you huffed exaggeratedly.

You slapped your hand on the wooden surface in an effort to anchor and subsequently pull yourself up closer to the treasure trove hidden inside. You propped yourself on your elbows and dipped a hand down, swiftly tugging. Inside were ‘sleep aids’ you used many nights before. First, you picked up a small bottle and turned it above your head. Several tablespoons of a viscous liquid inside, just enough for tonight. You then grabbed your favorite object amongst the bunch, perfectly shaped for your hole.

You played with the top of the small bottle, snap-click, snap-click, snap—

What were you contemplating? Surely you were over any latent guilt now? Plus, some groups like to call these “Chastity aides,” you could still fit the perfect image of a holy man after.

No. That wasn’t the issue tonight.

For all these weeks, you left yourself needy. There was an underlying fear of performing for a silent audience. You told yourself that you’d let off some steam as soon as the creep responded, and by then they’d be as good as gone. Nighttime activities, yours again. But they hadn’t. …Something in you fluttered as you left that establishment. Something you’ve been pushing down this entire time.

You liked it. You knew it was wrong, truly toeing the line of want and caution, but truthfully, you had a history of explicit relations with strangers online.

You wouldn’t call yourself a cam star, no. But…you wouldn’t not call yourself that. That world excited you, and so did the anonymity. You didn’t have to be anyone. It'd been a while, you had a corporate job, now you had to make sure it wouldn't bite you in the proverbial ass.

Silent audience or not…you proceeded. Pent up in more ways than one, you’d keep this little sin for yourself.

Prone, you tucked a hand under yourself. Slowly, you rubbed your fingers around your heated sex, the sting of the cuts only spurring you on. Petting yourself ever so lightly over clothed sex. Slipping the hand out, you wet its digits with an excited tongue and flipped over. An excited hand slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, caressing velvety flesh. Dipping and dragging along the expanse of yourself, top to bottom, your nerves sparked alight.

You bent your knees and spread your thighs for better purchase of your aching hole, circling it as you played with yourself. Occasionally brushing over, occasionally slipping in while adding lubricant as needed, coating your sex as you tease yourself. The pillows caught every moan.

Finally, closing in, you applied pressure to the needy hole, opposing hand rubbing your sex vigorously. You stayed on it for a while, letting your mind go dizzy, getting close enough to the edge until you halted. A frustrated sigh left your throat, self-inflicted, but for good reason. This was only a warm-up before the great finale; tonight, you had to drag it out.

Lust-driven, you chased the high, easing another knuckle into slick hole, you worked your way up until you got barely two fingers in. Obscene wet noises filled the room as digits harshly curled and scissored you open while you rutted into your palm. You pulled out and brought them to your face. Still dripping with arousal, you sucked, raw essence coating your tongue. You cleaned them off with a concluding pop, imagining yourself as a past lover, intoxicated off your arousal. Heady pheromones filled your nostrils as you delved back in, mind wandering. Once you felt you were ready, it was time for the toy.

With a click your phallic-shaped partner in crime was prepped for you, undergarment now discarded somewhere on your bed. Leaning back on your knees, thighs as wide as possible, you shivered. The anticipated bite of pain in your neglected hole excited you. An idea struck like lightning, your mind the rod.

You didn’t think twice.

Grabbing a pillow and your phone, you propped it up on the cotton-stuffed surface just so. Legs, a frame, bringing into focus the star of the show for the perfect scene. You lined up the supposed “Chasity aid” to tight muscle and pushed in deliberate pulses with a squelch. Inch by agonizing inch, you cried, the intruding thick object nearly too much to bear. It forced space for itself in your clenched walls, a torturous harmony of pain and pleasure. Arousal oozed out of you and collected around your grip on the object. When its full length was finally burrowed in, you made eye contact with the camera.

You hit record. The mere thought of being seen like this—by them—was pushing you closer to the edge, sparking a new kind of desire. Each stroke of your toy earned another reverberated wail—if only walls could talk. You’d take it all the way out until only the tip remained, shoving it back in. With a free hand, you touched yourself in tandem, slowly increasing speed.

As you chased sweet release, you realized there needed to be a grand finale. 

“Am I— mmm— am I everything you ever dreamed of?”

You chuckled darkly, ministrations increasing in speed.

“Ahnnn— tell me! Aren’t I your picture-perfect damsel in distress?”

You felt…naughty. All you did was talk to a dimming screen. This felt way better than usual. Better than it should. You threw your head back and imagined what they would say. What they would do if they ever found this recording.

Your mind and body aligned with that single thought, ruining you completely. An explosion of an orgasm rocked you. As though sucker punched, you folded in on yourself, face involuntarily pressed into a springy mattress. Pure ecstasy possessed every cell of your being. Your hips never stilled, jerking up into your hand, milking each ounce of pleasure until it became too much. Eventually, your arms fell limp at your sides, hands now stiff from exertion, you all but pressed aching thighs together.

Nearly forgetting it was there, you hit stop on your phone and ended the film.

You could feel the chill of perspiration dotting your brows and temples as shockwaves washed over you. You slumped to your side, eyelids now truly heavy. You slept like that. Clean up could wait until you woke.

🦌 ° . * : ･

𐂂 ࿔ * : ･

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