#question mark...

Steam curled around your wet limbs like ghostly ribbons as you stood under the shower head, fogging up the corners of the mirror like a hazy breath and dampening the air like a mist. Hot water cascaded down your body as you leaned back against the moist tiled walls, hair sticking to your shoulders and face. The air was thick with lavender after you'd lathered your body with it, rubbing it into your legs, arms and torso with gentle, languid circles, the floral, slightly herbal scent emanating off of you as it sunk into your skin.

You ran your hand through your hair while the spray of the hot water hissed above you, rinsing out the last remnants of your conditioner before turning to face away from the water, letting it run smoothly down your back as you exhaled through parted lips. You let your hands wander over your body, from the back of your neck to your shoulders, to your boobs and then down your torso and your arms before letting them rest crossed loosely over your belly. It was intimate, in a way. Just feeling free in your body. You weren't aroused, at least, not yet, just alive in your skin, comfortable and secure in the quiet.

You idly rolled your shoulder back and stretched your neck from side to side, letting yourself revel in the quiet, indulgent space before you had to become her. Become the girl your viewers paid for, the girl who whispered filth into the camera and gave up any ounce of dignity in exchange for bigger tips.

Eventually, you reached for the dial and twisted it off before stepping out over the edge of the ceramic tub onto the soft mat on the floor, the soft fabric dampening beneath your feet as the water from your hair dripped down your shoulders, small rivulets traveling over the curves of your body until they soaked into the towel under you.

You leaned your head over the rim of the bath and curled your fingers tightly around the length of your hair before squeezing, wringing the water out as it splashed down into the tub with a sharp, wet sound that resembled a crack.

You straightened yourself up, running your hands through your hair one more time before reaching for the towel you'd hung on the rack before getting in, your damp strands clinging to your shoulders and back like glue. You patted the towel along your arms, absorbing the moisture as the fabric travelled down your body. You'd learned ages ago that patting was better than rubbing, at least for you. Dragging the scratchy fabric along your skin made it turn an angry red.

You gently dried off your legs and lifted one foot at a time, brushing off the little pieces of fluffy towel that had stuck to your soles, before wrapping the towel around you and drawing it tight at your chest before reaching for a second, smaller towel to dry your hair with.

You squeezed the towel around the lengths of your hair, getting just enough of the excess moisture out of the strands so it wouldn't drip, before padding out of the fog-filled bathroom and crossing the hallway to your bedroom.

The door creaked open as you stepped in, draping both of the towels, from your hair and from your torso, over the foot of your bed.

The room was warmly lit, illuminated softly by the glowing fairy lights twirled and interlaced around your bed frame and the subtle orange gleam from your Himalayan salt lamp perched to the side of your desk. Your curtains were drawn, blocking out the early evening light, leaving you to relax and bask in the dim, comforting light of your room.

You stood in front of your full-length mirror, your reflection staring back at you with your hair hanging in damp tendrils, framing your face like it was a renaissance painting, and your skin flushed a subtle pink from being kissed by the heat of the shower, a fuchsia blush dusted over your body like pollen.

You tilted your head slightly, assessing the curves and the angles in your mind, your figure like a blank canvas waiting to be decorated, whether it be with a dark, midnight blue or a light, rosy pink, silky satin and lace or tough leather.

You looked over yourself with a critical eye, less out of insecurity but more out of habit. You knew how to look at yourself the way others would, what your viewers liked and didn't like, how best to present yourself to appeal to the men curled up at desk chairs in dark rooms, fucking their fists into oblivion. You knew which colours got you the most tips, which hairstyle, which fabric, which toys, you'd worked it all out not long after you'd started your page.

You turned on your heel towards your chest of drawers before kneeling down and tugging open the bottom drawer, which was stuffed full of countless different sets of lingerie you'd long given up on trying to sort out. They always ended up back like this anyway; a tangled, overflowing and disorganised jumbled rainbow of silk, lace and velvet.

You dug your hand into the drawer with a manor that resembled dipping one's hand into a tank with a ferocious shark. You had something purple in mind, a change to the usual captivating, crimson red or enchanting, ebony black you often dolled yourself up in, but still a sultry enough piece that you knew would have your devoted viewers excited.

You considered something with velvet, a plush, fuzzy set draped over your skin like a kitten's fur, inviting, intriguing, but just when you thought your fingers had sought out a piece, a dreary lilac night dress with a small slit on the thigh and a low-cut front, your fingernail caught on the fabric, a tiny little chip in your polish that you hadn't even noticed had come off. Your tongue licked over the backs of your top teeth, your lips pursing outwards a little, before you decided to drop it back into the drawer, not wanting to have to worry about your nail catching on it.

You continued to rifle through the colourful, scratchy jungle of lace underwear, mesh stockings, sparkly bodysuits and strappy bras, before finding the first piece of the matching set you initially had your mind set on, a dark, brooding purple sheer babydoll dress trimmed with an even darker shade of lace, with sequins and gems sewn into the intricate patterns.

You folded it gently, the soft fabric swaying loosely beneath your movements like a ghost before you set it aside and delved back in, searching for the matching underwear, bra and stockings.

You fished out one thigh-high sock at a time as you found them, each embellished with a subtle glitter on the see-through mesh length, and the same embroidered trim on the dress stitched around the hem.

Next came the deep plum panties, with four thin silk straps attached to the front and back, two on each side, with a small clip on the end of them to allow them to hold up the stockings. The pattern of the lace was floral and labyrinthine in the way the rows of the design wound in and out of each other, twirling and spiraling into complex flowery arrangements.

Lastly, you then pulled out the matching bra, the gentle silk of the straps soft against your fingers and the identical lace slightly scratchy as you set it aside with the little growing pile beside you, each piece the colour of a bleeding blueberry.

You pushed yourself up off of the floor, pushing the drawer shut and picking up the short stack of soft materials before perching on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath you, and you rolled one of the stockings slowly up your leg, smoothing it over your calf and up to your thigh, the elastic band hugging your flesh tight. The fabric shimmered subtly in the soft light as you adjusted the seam, before repeating it with the other leg.

It felt like stepping into someone else's skin. Into hers. She was your alter ego, almost. Exuding more confidence, power and sex appeal than you ever did in your day-to-day life.

You stepped into the underwear next, sliding them up your legs with a slow roll of your hips, the fabric clinging to your skin and the lace framing your ass just right, the floral pattern replicating the look of dried flowers pressed on your skin. The silk suspenders hung off of your panties dangled loosely in front of and behind your thighs before you clipped them onto the lace tops of your socks, holding them up in place.

You fed your arms through the straps of the bra before reaching behind you to fasten it, the soft padding whispering over your nipples as you adjusted the cups, lifting and shaping them just right until your cleavage was framed like a luxury art piece. The swell of your tits threatened to spill over the top, but they didn't, at least, not yet.

You pulled the twists out of your bra straps before reaching for the babydoll, slipping it over your head with one quick, weightless pull, the sheer mesh outlined by the darker, opaque lace dancing around your torso like a ghostly mist. The gauzy material left your midriff completely visible, the hem brushing over the tops of your thighs and your bra peeking through, waiting to be unveiled like a gift on Christmas morning.

You wandered back over to your mirror, admiring your reflection, doused in bruised violets and a quiet shimmer, adjusting the collar of your barely-there dress once more and letting it fall back into place with a delicate flutter.

You dusted over your eyes with a dark black shadow using your old but reliable little brush, the bristles stained dark from how often you used it, and you danced it over your lids, corners, and crease to create the smokey effect you usually went for. You combed through your lashes with mascara and added a swipe of gloss over your lips before you tossed each product back down into your jumbled makeup box with a dull, plasticky clatter, already having to resist the urge to itch your eye.

You then knelt before your dresser again, sliding open the middle drawer this time, and inside was in a similar state to your lingerie drawer, but instead, it was a mess of plastic, stainless steel and wires instead.

You liked to match the toys to the colour of your lingerie, it was part of the fun to you. You liked consistency. Your fingertips skimmed over the layers of cool metal and smooth silicone before selecting a plug first, slim and gleaming with a deep purple gem at the base.

You then pulled out a long, sleek wand, more magenta in hue but in line with your colour scheme nonetheless. The rounded head's vibrations could fluctuate between constant and strong, mild and slow, and a choreographed pulse meticulously designed to drive you mad.

You next picked a dildo, one that could be attached to your machine, and you settled on a pale lilac one. It was thick with long, winding artificial veins running through it, and a length that made you gasp like it was the first time, every single time.

After a final quick skim through, you pushed the drawer shut with a bit more force than intended, hearing the rattle and clatter of protest from the toys inside, before setting your sights on the machine tucked beside your chest of drawers. It wasn't bulky, not that bulky, anyway, but it wasn't exactly sleek either.

You picked it up, maneuvering it over to your bed before bringing the three toys over as well, your babydoll dress swaying like smoke around your thighs as you glided, before planting your laptop in front of you as you lay on your mattress, the soft sheets rustling gently beneath you.

The screen sleepily blinked to life before it casted a soft light on your skin as you logged into your streaming site. You double-checked the lighting, the angles, the position of the machine and the toys on the bed, making sure everything was how you wanted it, that it would be visible but left enticing in the dim light of your bedroom.

Alex sat hunched at his desk in his dark, messy bedroom, his back curved into a position that he knew would ache once he uncurled himself, but he didn't care enough to straighten up.

His chair creaked underneath him as he shifted, the old faux leather stuck to the backs of his thighs from sweat. One hand rested over the top of his computer mouse on the desk while the other lay limply across his bare lap, his trousers and boxers crumpled around his ankles before he decided to kick them off completely, scrunching his face as he heard the sharp, metallic clatter beneath his table as they collided with some old beer cans down there.

His bedroom stunk of stale sweat and something old festering on the pile of stacked up plates on the corner of his desk. His t-shirt clung to the back of his neck from hours of sitting there, doing nothing but wallowing in the hollow humidity of his room. He hadn't eaten anything “proper” since around 11AM that morning, excluding a cereal bar he'd scoffed in a rush just moments before, hadn't shaved in months, couldn't remember the last time he did something other than sit at his table and jerk off.

His curtains were drawn and his windows shut, as always, as if he was scared of someone seeing him like this despite him living on the third floor. His lamp buzzed weakly in the corner behind his computer, throwing pale shadows that bled into the ridges of clutter on his desk. Empty, stained cups, three lighters he kept losing and rediscovering, and a wad of tangled USB cables.

His cock was embarrassingly hard between his legs, just from looking at your profile picture as he waited impatiently for you to go live. It always got him hard within seconds.

He'd been refreshing your page for the past half an hour, his fingers jittery, his chest tight and his hair a greasy mop around his face. He thought about clicking on an old stream on your profile to tide him over until 8PM, but he'd already watched all of them at least ten times each.

He'd bought every special clip you uploaded, purchased custom videos whenever you offered them. He had them all stored in folders on his computer, categorised by outfit colour, and he knew the time stamps off by heart.

He knew your schedule better than he knew the back of his hand. It was his only way of working out what day it was. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, 8PM. He got worried if you were even so much as thirty seconds later than the scheduled time. It was a sad situation.

He also knew you sometimes liked to do unscheduled, random streams, sometimes in the morning or afternoon. Those were his favourite. He always had your profile open on his ancient, slow computer anyway, either stroking himself blind to your old videos or just staring longingly and aimlessly at your account.

His dick pulsed heavily against his palm, but he didn't stroke. Not yet, despite how much he ached for it. He wanted to save that for you, even though he was throbbing, leaking and twitching in anticipation.

He looked down at the small clock in the corner of his screen, watching the numbers tick by slowly. Five minutes until you were meant to go live.

He'd already booked a private video call for the next day, Sunday, just to keep him going until the next stream on Tuesday. He never turned his camera on for these video chats, or if he did, he had it faced up at his ceiling, the plaster up there dusty and cobwebbed. He was almost certain that you knew your demographic: sweaty, single and self-destructive, but he never wanted you to actually have the misfortune of seeing him.

His tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips before bringing his hand up to his face, his fingertips finding his mouth before he started to chew on his raw nails, nibbling at them until his nail bed screamed at him to stop,  until he tasted blood on his tongue, until they were so sore it hurt to even move his knuckles.

Two minutes until you went live. His throbbing cock twitched helplessly, excitedly, and he wondered what colour you'd be wearing today. His favourite to see you in was deep navy blue, like the colour of the ocean at midnight, whether it was a bra and panties, a tiny night dress or a bodysuit, it always turned him on to no end.

One minute until you went live. He started refreshing the page, clicking the small circular arrow in the corner repeatedly until that glowing button appeared on your profile. Join Live. He clicked it within milliseconds, the loading circle spinning once, twice, before the feed bloomed to life, and there you were.

You lay delicately on your side, resting your face in your hand as you watched the viewers pile in, flooding the chat as more people joined.

Dark purple.

It was the first thing he registered, your body wrapped up in a deep wine colour. Thigh-highs clinging to your legs suspended by taut little silk straps connected to your thin lace panties, your bra barely containing your tits, and that sheer little dress wisped over your frame.

His lips parted slightly and he slid his hand up his cock, rubbing his palm over his flushed tip in slow, continuous circles, leaking precum all over it.

There was the slightest delay in the audio on his computer, the sound coming just half a second later than the video. You smiled to yourself as you pretended to read some of the messages infiltrating the chat like a tsunami, your eyes scanning over the screen, and you murmured a soft, “Hi, babies…”

Alex swallowed hard, forcing himself to take his eyes off of you for a moment to skim over the messages rushing through the little chat box on the side.

He hated the other men watching the stream. He felt his blood boil whenever someone else sent a tip, felt a scowl crease across his face whenever he read the messages from the desperate men in the chat. In fact, he despised the chat so much, he usually opted to hiding it completely.

He hated how they typed, how they demanded things, how they acted like they owned you. You weren't theirs. You were his. His girl. Even if you didn't know it yet, even if you never would.

He always made sure to one-up the tips others gave you, giving five, ten, twenty pounds more than what the other person sent. He couldn't stand others taking your attention away from him, even if you weren't really focused on him in the first place.

He wanted to be the only one watching, the only one sending you money. He wanted to be the only one you saw, wanted you to care about him, crave him, want him the way he wanted you.

He clicked the little ‘x’ in the corner of the chat box, closing it off so he could just focus on you, and his fingers clacked across his keyboard that had definitely seen better days as he sent a £50 tip before you'd even started taking your clothes off. A handful of the keys were missing from the board, while some of them he just had to press down extra hard for them to work. He liked to tip early, before anyone else, so he could win this imaginary battle in his mind between him and all of the other viewers for you.

He brought his hand back to his cock right after sending the money, planting his palm back on his scorching hot tip and rubbing in torturous circles, smearing his precum along his slit.

His back remained curled up taut in his hunch as he played with himself, his dick jumping in his hand as the little notification appeared on screen thanking him for the tip.

His username was just the word ‘user’ followed by a jumble of numbers, something you'd come to remember off by heart like your phone number or your pin on your debit card, just from how often you saw him watching your streams.

He watched as your lips curled up into a sly smile as you purred, “Did you miss me?”

He stared intently as you dragged your fingers lightly over your thighs, toying with the lace trim of your stockings, and he moved his hand down his shaft and wrapped his fingers tightly around the base, trying to stop himself from losing it too soon.

You slowly sat forward on your knees, letting your babydoll dress ride up a little, pulling it up to let it bunch at your waist before peeling it off entirely, slow, teasing, taunting.

Your bra came next, reaching behind you to unfasten it and letting it fall loose over your shoulders, exposing your tits to the camera. He felt a dribble of drool drip out of the corner of his lips as he sat with his jaw slack before wiping it with his spare hand, biting his cheeks and pursing his lips.

He let out the quietest moan as he watched you start to play with them, cupping them in your palms and running your thumbs over your tight nipples as your voice, soft like honey but sticky with seduction, hummed, “You've already got your cocks out, don't you? Mm, bet you couldn't even wait…”

He pressed his lips together as his fingertips creeped up the underside of his shaft, stroking half-heartedly to tease himself, keep himself on the edge, not letting himself jerk off properly yet.

Finally, you unclipped the small suspenders on your panties from your stockings next before hooking your fingers beneath the lace waistband and pulling them down your legs, inch by inch, agonisingly slow, and he bit his dry lower lip, chewing on it to stifle his desperate, humiliating whimpers as his eyes landed on your glistening cunt.

He'd memorised it long ago, the colour and the shape permanently imprinted in his mind from the sheer amount of time he'd spent just staring at it. He'd imagined licking it, touching it, being inside it, worshipping it like gospel.

He let out a quiet little groan as you turned on your knees, the barely audible sound of your bed sheets rustling under your movements sifted through his computer's tinny speakers just a moment later than the video feed.

You leaned forward slightly, your ass now the main focus in the frame, and you reached for the plug you set aside before going live. Cool, smooth metal with a gleaming violet jewel at the end.

You brought it to your mouth first, looking over your shoulder into the camera as you wrapped your lips around it, licking a stripe from the bottom to the top, wetting it, making it easier to slip in, and he let out another whine at the filthy sight.

He spat on his palm, a string of saliva stretching like glue from his lower lip as he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock once more, squeezing tightly as he watched you arch your back before reaching behind you and teasing the tip of the plug around your hole before slowly pushing it in.

He scrunched up his face with concentration as he poured all of his effort into not yanking his wrist into movement and jerking off, wanting to last as long as possible. At least, as long as he can while watching you.

You let out a soft, partially fabricated moan as you eased the plug inside with a soft sound before it settled, rubbing one hand over your ass as you showcased the purple gem nestled between your cheeks and pressed flush against your skin.

Even though he'd come to be familiar with when your moans were fake and performative, they always made him leak nonetheless. He tore his palm away from his cock just for a moment to send another tip, this one slightly less at £30, but still enough to satisfy the craving for him. The craving to give everything up to you, like leaving offerings to a deity.

His hand came back to his sweltering tip like gravity, resuming the slow palming over the throbbing, angry red head of his dick as the notification popped up on the screen, the precum drizzling from his slit making his hand grow slicker with each tormenting movement.

You shifted on his screen once more, reaching behind you and dragging the machine forward into frame, and the camera caught the gentle light reflecting off of the steel rods and the slight glisten on the toy already mounted on the tip. “Mm, I've been waiting for this all day…” you drawled, and he hung onto every word.

You positioned it beside you with a calm, confident ease, and his fingers snaked down his cock and coiled around his shaft, squeezing and constricting it tightly as his hand trembled a little. He poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek as you angled the toy between your legs, lying on your side while holding one leg up.

You ran your hand up and down along the soft, smooth skin of your leg before settling it between them, your fingers sprawling across your inner thigh. “You've all been so patient tonight…” your soft, teasing voice came through his speakers like a siren's call.

You looked into the camera as you brought your hand to your mouth, slipping two fingers between your lips and sucking gently, and he met your eyes on his monitor, pretending you were looking straight at him. Your hand came back down between your legs and his gaze followed it as you rubbed your wettened fingers over your clit.

His breath came in quicker, heavier pants as he rubbed his thumb over his oozing tip in time with your movements, and he moaned as you began to guide the toy in, the silicone head pressing between your folds. His legs were spread wide beneath his desk, his toes curling into the stained carpet, one of his mismatched socks half-peeled from where he'd stepped in something that had since dried and crusted that he never dealt with.

You rocked your hips a little against the bed, nudging the toy against your hole, and he mirrored your movements in his squeaky chair, rutting his hips against his palm.

The machine came to life with a mechanical whir, the sound humming through his speakers, and it started slow with steady, rhythmic thrusts, your body accommodating with a soft, breathy moan spilling from your lips. The plug remained tucked snugly in place, stretching you as the second toy entered your slick warmth.

Alex moaned, high-pitched and desperate as he finally let himself have more than a palm, more than a squeeze, allowing himself to stroke himself properly. His hand moved fast up and down his shaft, the wet, obscene sounds echoing in his dingy bedroom, the only other noise being the hum from his computer.

You groaned, the sound morphing into a gasp as the dildo filled you up. “Oh, fuck… I forgot how big this one was…” you said breathlessly, shifting on your bed sheets to take it deeper and holding your leg up higher. “It's so fucking good…”

His pupils were blown wide as he stared, his hand a blur on his cock and his wrist aching from the rapid pace already. He peeled his palm off of his velvety length for just a moment to spit a wad of saliva into it, trying to replicate what he imagined your pussy would feel like, to try and remember what a real pussy felt like.

His mouth went dry at the sight of the toy pumping in and out of you, the way your cunt greedily sucked it in, how you moaned with every other thrust. Fabricated or not, they never failed to make him twitch, never failed to make his hand move a little faster and his brain to get a little mushier.

He pretended that it was him inside you, him making you moan and writhe and grip the sheets, and he hated that machine for being the one to do that to you instead.

He pumped his dick in time with it nonetheless, his sticky, sweaty thighs tensing and trembling, his chest flushed and nipples hardened into points, and his cock so sensitive he could barely take it. He pulled his foreskin back to tease his frenulum, the sensation making his shaft spasm in his grip.

He licked his lips and his eyes met your smokey gaze on the screen, his knuckles twitching involuntarily as you reached up to play with your tits. The rhythm of the machine was steady, the bounce of your chest with each mechanical thrust hypnotic, but his speed faltered the second he saw that notification pop up.

The little chime and the bold text flashing up in the corner of the screen, it made his stomach churn. Someone had tipped £30. His breath caught in his throat as it tightened, and his face scrunched up in disgust, like it had personally offended him, and in a way, it had.

His nose wrinkled and his jaw clenched, his hand stalling mid-motion on his cock for a moment, that awful, fiery jealousy sparking in his stomach and coiling its way up until it suffocated him.

He angrily smacked his slick fingers over the keys, almost breaking yet another one with the force as he sent a tip, making sure to send more than the other person. £45. Big enough to beat the other man, but little enough so that in case another faceless idiot who deemed themselves worthy of giving you their money came along, he could one-up their tip with no problem.

The soft ding rang through his low-quality speakers, and the text in the corner was replaced with his tip. Just how it should be.

He threw his hand back on his cock, resuming his previous pace, and he watched as your eyes flickered over the screen. Your lips curled up into a slow smile, bringing your hand back down between your legs and rubbing slow circles over your clit. “God, I love when my boys spoil me…” you breathed, shifting your position to angle the dildo deeper as the machine continued its thrusts.

He stared at the corner of his computer screen with still mildly angered eyes and a furrowed brow for a moment longer, daring the other person to even try and match his tip.

You were his. Not theirs. They didn't understand you like he did, nor did they watch you like he did. They didn't know the exact shade of your stockings, or buy the same pair for themselves just to sniff and hold, and pretend that they were the ones you actually wore. They didn't catch the way your voice or breath changed, higher or lower, shallow and quick or heavy and deep, depending on where your fingers were. They didn't watch the replays at 3AM, slowing them down just to see your mouth shape each gasp. They didn't write down their favourite time stamps of each video, just so they could watch them over and over and over again. They probably watched and jerked off to other camgirls in the meantime, in between your streams, but he could never do that to you. They didn't see the real you. Not like he did.

And that kept the rage from spilling over for now.

You moaned softly, high and sweet, humming in pleasure through pressed-together lips as your fingers continued to trace delicate circles over your clit like silk, the heavenly sound rattling through his speakers as he thrusted up into his fist.

He knew he wasn't going to be able to last much longer, but he wanted to do his best to wait, to hold on, at least until you said you said he could cum. He never managed to last the full hour without cumming, though he'd always tried his best.

His pupils were blown wider than his iris, every breath that escaped his throat tinged with a whine, and he gawked as you reached to the side without a word, breathless and panting, and his body tensed and quivered as you picked up the vibrator, that dull magenta wand.

He bit down on his lower lip, forcing his hand on his cock to slow down, wanting to cum to you using that toy. He knew it made your thighs shake, and made the filthiest things stutter out of your mouth in the haze of the pleasure.

You ran the wand along your thigh first, rolling your hips subtly against the dildo before you murmured a soft, “Someone speed this up for me…”

He didn't need to be told twice. His fingers flew across the keyboard, frantically typing a tip to make the machine thrust faster, needing to be the first one. To be the only one.

He could hardly sit still, his hips twitching, bucking and rutting as precum soaked his belly, and he moaned as he heard your voice through his speakers as the speed kicked in, the metallic rods spinning faster. “Ah, fuck-” you whined, your thighs clenching as the machine surged deeper before you flicked the vibrator on with a soft hum. “Shit…”

You pressed the rounded end of the wand to your clit and gasped, and the sound shot straight through his veins like a drug. Your lips parted as you moaned, your free hand coming up to grope your chest again.

He allowed his hand to speed up again, an aching pain constricting his whole forearm from his rapid stroking, and he aggressively shoved his greasy strands out of his face, not wanting anything to obstruct his vision of you.

“You want me to cum, don't you?” you asked sweetly, and he nodded so hard it felt like his head was going to fall off, as if you could see him. “Mmh, you're all such good boys for me… stroking those cocks so fast…”

His brain morphed and twisted your words, tricking his fogged brain into thinking you were just talking to him, only feeding his ears what they yearned to hear.

He groaned, deep and hoarse, jerking his cock even faster while his other hand held onto the edge of his desk for dear life, his knuckles bleaching white from the force of his grip.

Your words were starting to slur from the sensations, breath hitching with each pulse of the vibrator as the machine fucked into you at his command.

He was panting now, shallow, uneven breaths that barely filled his lungs as he watched you writhe, your eyes half-lidded and your body coated with a thin sheen of sweat that faintly glistened in the low light of your bedroom.

His body was crammed full of a jumbled mess of contradictions, tense and slack all at once, and his skin prickling with heat. Everything else in the room faded as he felt his balls tighten with the need to release. The stale coffee by his elbow, the jar of dead flies floating in murky water in his windowsill, and the persistent ache in his back from sitting at his desk all day long. None of it mattered.

Not the fact that he hadn't spoken to another person face to face in weeks, not the way he winced at his own reflection in the black of the monitor when the stream lagged for a heartbeat and he saw himself staring, gawking.

All he saw was you. All he needed was you.

Your parted lips, trembling thighs, that toy inside you and the vibrator against your clit. The slick, wet sound of lust pulsing through his speakers. The flush that blossomed across your chest and neck like fresh roses in the spring. The sticky mess between your legs.

It had been years since he'd touched someone warm, since he'd been touched. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been held, kissed, touched like he mattered.

He remembered the heat, the wet, the pulsing of what it felt like to be inside of a pussy. The way her nails scraped down his back, legs slung around his waist and hands in his hair.

But not like you. You would moan his name, he was sure of it. You'd arch up into him, take him deep, and kiss him until his lips bled.

He swallowed hard, just tightening his fingers around his cock to try and recreate that sensation, as he imagined your cunt taking him in, stretching around him.

He wanted heat. He wanted muscle and tremble and your legs around his hips, locking him in, as if he'd want to be anywhere else. He wanted friction that fought him back, held him in even when he tried to pull out.

He spat down onto his cock and kept pumping, a string of drool landing on his chin as he kept his eyes locked on you on his screen. You'd ruined him for anyone else. No one else would ever compare. No one else even existed to him.

You were moaning louder now, head lolled to one side and hand fisting in the sheets. Your hips stuttered and thighs quivered as the machine drove into you over and over again, your face scrunched up in the same sweet way it always did when you were right on the cusp, and he was right there with you.

His vision was dazed in a similar way to when he was drunk, and he grunted, teeth clenched and grinding tightly as he fumbled blindly for a tissue before yanking a few from the crumpled,, torn box on his desk.

He barely managed to hold them in place over the wide, flushed tip of his cock before his orgasm slammed into him with the force of a ten-tonne truck, making his hips jerk and thighs stiffen.

Hot, thick ribbons spurted into the tissue with sharp pulses as he panted, soaking through the thin paper almost immediately, and he didn't look away from the screen. Not once.

He jerked himself through it, moaning in loud, broken stutters, hissing your name through gritted teeth, his back arching and muscles seizing.

His breath came in slow gasps, his fist remaining wrapped around himself but loosening slowly as the pressure that was packed inside of him drained, but he didn't let go. He just cradled himself, lazily palming over his deflating length before cupping his twitching balls in his palm, not wanting to end the contact yet.

On his monitor, your body was coming down too. The machine had gradually slowed to a stop not long after you'd came, your thighs parted lazily with your hair a mess over your shoulder, a few stray strands glued to your forehead from sweat. You let the vibrator buzz you through it for a few moments longer before clicking it off with a quiet tick.

He lifted his weak, aching arm to his keyboard to type a final tip of £80, a goodbye and a thank you in one, and he sent it, pressing his lips together as he carelessly tossed his cum-filled tissue in the general direction of his overflowing bin in the corner of his room.

You smiled weakly at the camera, and the spent look on your devastatingly beautiful face made his heart stutter. You blew a kiss to the camera before saying, your voice sweet and airy, “Thank you for tonight, my babies… see you soon.”

And with that, the stream ended, his screen going black, and he was stranded again. The static hum of his computer fan filled the void, his chest sticky and thighs damp, his jaw aching and his wrist sore.

The sticky sheen of his precum began to dry on his belly, leaving an itchy discomfort behind, and he shifted in his chair, the cracked leather creaking and squeaking as he slowly dragged himself up.

He had a video call with you tomorrow. Just him and you, alone, like it should be. That thought gave him a flicker of something that resembled hope, gave him motivation to just make it until tomorrow. No tip notifications, no chat cluttered with usernames from the other men he despised so much. In his world, it was peaceful.

He forced himself up like a puppet on frayed strings as his stomach gave a low, hollow growl, nagging him for something more than a stale cheese sandwich that he'd eaten around ten hours ago at that point, and he remembered his dinner that he'd left in the microwave.

It was some pasta dish he'd found in the ‘quick and easy’ meal section at the shop, discounted as it approached its use-by date. He'd tossed it into the microwave at around quarter to eight, figuring he'd have enough time to eat it before you went live, but as the minutes ticked by and 8PM dragged nearer, he'd resorted to scarfing down half of a cereal bar as he rushed from the kitchen back to his room, leaving the pasta in the microwave.

He couldn't miss the stream. He couldn't even be late. He had to be on time, had to be the first.

The overpowering, closing odour of something stale left in his sink invaded his nostrils as he slowly stepped over to it, flicking on the tap and rinsing his slick, sticky hands underneath it.

He didn't bother to reheat the pasta, just opened the door of the microwave and pulled the plastic container out, the edges cold and the centre lukewarm, and he shuffled into the other room to his couch.

He sunk into the stained cushions as the old springs whined in protest beneath him. He chewed like a robot, able to complete the programmed motion, but that was about it. Every mouthful tasted like cardboard, and it didn't help that he didn't even like this kind of pasta. It was cheap, easy, and wouldn't take too much effort out of his drained stamina. It wasn't like he could afford much better, anyway. Any money he had, he spent it on you, whether it was buying you new lingerie, purchasing video calls and custom videos, or just sending tips.

He only managed to eat half of it before his appetite shrunk, the congealed pasta sitting heavy in his gut. He placed the plastic atop the mountain of clutter piled on his coffee table before he stood awkwardly, his bones creaking and clacking under his movements. He padded barefoot back to his bedroom, back to his desk, already half-erect again, like a pavlovian reflex at just the thought of coming back to you.

The dim, darkened glow of his screen on your profile that he hadn't clicked off welcomed him, the screen blinking back to brightness as he nudged his mouse. He sat back in his chair, letting it cradle him like always as his cursor hovered on his screen before he dragged it over to his files with a quiet shuffle of his mouse.

He clicked open his folders, scrolling through the dozens of file names before opening the one titled ‘favourites’.

He scrolled through with a whir of his mouse, before finding what he wanted. The feet. It made him feel weird. Not ashamed, and not entirely embarrassed, just exposed. He didn’t like admitting that he liked it. When he asked for it the first time, he buried it beneath a long paragraph about just being curious and experimenting with different and new kinks, as if it hadn't been the only thing he'd jerked to for the past few weeks.

You hadn't judged him for it, instead, you said he was cute for asking. He hated that word. It had no business being a connotation of him. He'd rewatched that video a dozen times the same night you sent it back to him, his breathing shallow and laboured, one hand gripped desperately around himself while the other stroked up and down the arch of your foot on his screen like it was real.

He clicked on a random video, and there you were. Perched on your bed as gorgeous as ever with your legs stretched and toes pointed, and his eyes fell onto your soles and the soft pads of your toes and how they flexed when you shifted a little. “I know you like this, Al… bet you'd love to suck them, hm?” your voice seeped through like honey.

He'd always asked you to just call him Alex or Al. He didn't like when you called him ‘baby’ too often, he liked when it felt personal.

He felt a slow stirring in his lower belly, like waving a hand through a fog of smoke, but he didn't touch himself again that night, just sat in his chair, silent, staring at the thumbnail long after the clip had come to an end.

He powered down his monitor with a slow sigh, and the room felt hollow, empty, as if it hadn't been the whole time. The slow whir of his computer shutting off filled the silence before he willed himself to get up, joints creaking and popping, his bare thighs peeling from the artificial leather on his seat.

He turned to his bed, which was an old mattress pushed up against the wall, his bedsheets crumpled and discoloured. They were grey, not by design but instead by age. Once white, pristine and soft, now dull, torn and worn thin, with stains and marks he didn't want to identify, and made no effort to.

The duvet was perpetually twisted beneath the cover, and one of the pillows had no case at all, the yellowing fabric on full display.

He was still nude, still sweaty, still greasy, but he crawled into his bed like a mole returning to its burrow. He shuffled into the slight dent in his mattress, formed from sleeping in the same spot every night, and he turned on his side, curling in on himself like a woodlouse.

His sheets were stiff with old sweat, and a faint ring of grease lingered on his pillow where his head had been for far too many nights without washing either it or himself.

He woke up the next morning, groggy and blinking away the sleep that had crusted in the corners of his eyes, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the morning light infiltrating the room from underneath his drawn curtains. He tossed his head to the side, his eyes blurry as he managed to make out what the clock on his “bedside” table read. 11:13AM. His video call was scheduled for 12PM.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, his breath tasting sour against his teeth and a layer of sweat clung to his skin, but he was awake and had something to look forward to.

He got up with a long, low groan as his back adjusted to being straightened, his joints aching from how little he'd been moving, and he wandered into his kitchen, making his way over rogue piles of laundry and discarded rubbish.

He opened his fridge, the hinges whining, and he grabbed the milk, twisting the cap open to give it a sniff, and he wrinkled his nose and winced before putting it back.

He assessed his mostly empty fridge before deciding to settle on another cereal bar, tearing the wrapper open and tossing it aside before trudging back to his room, chewing on a mouthful of the stale oats.

He sat on his chair, the peeling cushion huffing beneath him, and he logged onto his computer before opening your page. He glanced down at the corner of his screen to check the time, 11:24AM.

He opened a new tab and began to scroll aimlessly to fill the time. Twitter, PornHub, Reddit, just trying to make the time go by faster. His body didn't yearn for release the way it had the day before, but his nerves buzzed low in his groin, along with his anticipation and hunger.

He checked the time again, 11:43AM, and he stood up with no real aim, wandering around his small room in circles like an animal in a cage. He paused by the window, peeking through a gap in his curtains, and he looked down on the citizens and cars below. They all had places to go, people to see, things to do. They all had a life. He didn't want to think about that.

He turned and crossed his room to the drawers tucked into one side of his desk, and he opened the middle one. It was crammed full of miscellaneous items that he was too embarrassed to have out, even though no one came by anymore. Lube, wet wipes, hand lotion, and a purple t-shirt.

It was yours, or at least, he liked to think so. He liked to pretend. He'd ordered it for himself after seeing you wear it in a custom video months ago.

He closed his eyes and held it up to his face, breathing in deeply. There was a faint scent of lavender interlaced into the fabric from an air freshener he'd bought in a half-hearted attempt at kickstarting sorting his life out. Or at least, that's what he remembered. He had trouble with his memory as of late.

He sat back down, draping the shirt over his bare lap just to imagine, to feel closer to you.

His eyes flicked down to the small clock in the corner again. 11:56AM. His fingers hovered over the mouse once more, watching the seconds tick by, growing into minutes, then at 12PM on the dot, his screen blinked, and a soft chime echoed through his speakers. Words popped up on his screen about an incoming private video call, but he barely registered them before clicking the enticing green button that would let him connect. The loading circle spun slowly, taunting him, until the video feed blossomed to life.

You appeared on his screen, dressed in a deep blue satin mini dress, trimmed with a sheer lace of the same colour, and he let out a quiet, mildly embarrassing gasp. You smiled, just a small curl of the corners of your mouth, and you purred, “Hi, Alex… I've been waiting for this one.”

His camera was off, like always, just a black screen where his camera would be, but you didn't mind. His microphone was on, but he didn't speak, not trusting the sound that would come out of his tight throat. Instead, he typed, the clack of his keyboard audible to you, Hello, followed by, I love that set.

You adjusted your position, leaning forward in a way that accentuated your cleavage deliciously, looking into the camera in a way that made him want to cry. Or cum. Or both. “Mmh, you bought this one for me, didn't you?”

He watched, his body entirely still save for the involuntary twitch of his fingers as he rested one hand on his thigh. “Are you hard for me already, Al?” you asked, your voice like sugar as it filled his ears.

He let out a soft, shaky and shallow breath, his mic just barely picking it up, before he typed, Very, then, I've been thinking about this for days.

You trailed your fingers down your collarbone. “I know, my baby… I love when I see your name on the schedule. It always makes me wet, Alex.”

He exhaled at that, his chest tightening and his skin prickling with a wave of goosebumps ebbing over his body. His fingers idly played with the hem of the shirt draped over his lap, and just as he was about to type another message, you spoke again.

“What do you want today, sweetheart?”

He bit his lower lip. He knew exactly what he wanted, what wound him up and made him cum harder than anything else, but it was always a little humiliating asking for it, despite how many times you'd enabled him by now. You heard his heavy breathing before he typed slowly before sending, Feet pls.

You let out a small breath of laughter, but not to mock or tease him. You curled one leg over the other, angling your body just right before you brought your foot up into frame, and he let out a quiet moan.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock, already leaking, and he stroked slowly but steadily, the soft, wet squelch obscene in his otherwise quiet flat.

You rubbed your hand along the arch of your sole like an art form, moaning something about how he makes you so horny, and he gasped, ugly and breathless, his legs trembling as his hand moved faster.

He typed slowly, one-handedly, They look so soft.

You smiled, pressing your arches together and curling your toes before running your fingertips along the delicate sides. You looked into the camera as you repositioned yourself, murmuring, “Wish I could touch you with these, Al… you want that, baby?”

He whined, bucking his hips up into his fist, and he knew he wasn't going to last nearly as long as he had the day before. He typed a quick, So bad, before pressing his lips together, trying to stifle the moans that just kept pouring out of his mouth.

His chair squeaked beneath his bare skin as he rocked into his palm, and you stretched both of your legs out, both of your feet now in the frame, and he let out a choked whine, unable to control the noises spilling out of his lips.

His shaft twitched and spasmed uncontrollably in his palm, and he whimpered, the sound making him cringe internally, even in his pleasure-oriented haze. He knew he must've sounded revolting, so wheezy and desperate, but he didn't care.

You bit your lower lip, your feet filling his monitor screen, and he babbled, unable to control himself, “Gonna… fuck- gonna cum-”

“Good boy…” you whispered, curling your toes in front of the camera, “Come on, right now… for me, Al.”

He couldn't take it anymore. He came with a broken grunt, splattering all over the shirt he'd draped over his lap, his thighs twitching and stiffening beneath the soft fabric as his orgasm ripped through him like a detonation. He moaned your name as he jerked himself through the waves, and you smiled softly, not cruel, nor mocking or judgemental, just warm. Sweet.

His eyes fluttered shut as he wrung the final droplets of his cum out of his tip, panting heavily as he brought himself down. He didn't want to open his eyes. He knew that when he did, he'd look down at the little clock, see that it's only a few minutes until the end of his session, and he just wanted to save himself the harrowing disappointment.

Your voice cut through his orgasm-induced haze softly, like a hot knife through butter, as you murmured, “You've been such a good boy for me today, Aly…”

He reluctantly peeled his eyes open at the sound of your soft voice, his eyes darting down to the small clock in the corner. 12:19PM. He frowned, his chest tightening, and he peeled his hand off of his cock to type a quick, Love you, in the chat box.

You smiled and blew a kiss to the camera. “See you next time, love.”

And just like that, the window closed, and he was left alone again, staring blankly at his desktop background, a wide, empty field with a bright blue sky.

He looked down at his lap, the fan from his computer filling the dull silence, and he saw the mess he'd made of the t-shirt. He sighed and reached for a tissue from his bashed-up box to wipe up the worst of it with slow, lazy, mechanical movements.

He let the shirt fall from his knees, crumpling on the floor around his feet, and then he just sat there, staring at nothing, letting the loneliness roll in like a tide at dawn.

His chair groaned beneath him like a rusty hinge as he leaned back as far as his achy back allowed him to, his cock soft and deflated against his thigh, and he opened up your page again, scrolling through old streams, and he sighed, a stiff throb settling heavy in his chest, curled up behind his ribs as he held onto your last soft words, that kiss you blew, and he let himself believe that you really wanted him, just as much as he needed you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽