HAZEL
27 YEARS OLD
Runningmy hands down my body, I tease the viewers with my sensual movements. Comments flood in, telling me what they’d like to do to me. Blocking it out, I focus on how I feel. I know what they want from me. I know what keeps my bills paid and food on my table.
My nipples are taut against the lace top I’ve wrapped myself in. I let my fingers linger across the hem, teasing their sensitive peaks. The viewer count goes up the instant the fabric drops, exposing my breasts to thousands of strangers. Comments speed up so fast I couldn’t read them even if I wanted to. My vision blurs, and a screeching thrums in my ears as I perform for the camera. The pills and alcohol take the wheel, playing me like a puppet on a string, letting me release this pent-up anxiety invading my body. A permanent parasite leeching the joy from my bones.
Working my way down my body, I take my time, enjoying this moment of reprieve as I go. The constant thrumming in my head quiets, letting me focus in on this sliver of pleasure. Knowing I’m being watched as I bring myself blissful satisfaction makes me feel powerful. I love knowing I’m gettingrandom people off with how I touch myself. Lonely people just like me, sharing this moment.
Taking out my favorite toy, I imagine someone else’s hands on me as I shove my manicured fingers inside my tight pussy. A blur of a figure emerges in my mind. Someone masculine and shadowed but more than capable of bringing me an orgasm.
In my imagination, his face is covered by a mask, but I don’t care. I welcome the mystery, wondering what this stranger would do to me, Picturing myself tied up and at their mercy, with nowhere to run to.
No one but me has been given the privilege of touching my body in years. I’ve been too shut away from society to have someone to fuck me the way I crave. The way I need. Everyone I’ve opened up to about my secret fantasies has scoffed at me. Shook their heads and told me to get help.
Positioning my toy against my clit, I let the viewers see the way my legs drop open, the way my breathing stutters with each jolt of elation. My lids are heavy with lust as I stare directly into the camera, biting my lower lip as I work myself into a climax. I’m picturing that blurred figure holding me down. How they’d force themselves inside of me until I’m full and aching. I want it to hurt. I want it to be rough and frantic. I want him to need me so fucking bad that he can’t help himself.
I picture him gripping a strong hand around my throat, my hands unable to stop him. He’d have a deep, desperate, gravelly tone demanding that I come on his cock like a good girl.
Moaning, I come hard, taking extra care to remove my fingers ever so slowly, then bringing them up to my mouth and sucking them clean. An explosion of subscribers and gifts flood the screen before I sign off with my signature wink.
The moment the camera goes dark, I crumple onto the floor and tuck my legs into my chest. Weight from the extra Xanax floods my system, making me feel heavy and light all at the sametime. I could fall asleep right here. Ripping the wig and mask off my head, I press my cheek into the cold hardwood panels.
Coming down, reality smacks into my thoughts, reminding me of what brought me here in the first place. Hot breaths flutter out of my mouth, and a small sob wrecks through my chest.
Ten fucking years.
Ten whole fucking years.
I wonder what Sarah would look like now. Hell, I wonder what any of the group looks like now. We lost touch when I skipped town. And I’ve been too search for them. Keeping tabs on them would just remind me of that night. And I’m constantly trying to forget it.
I couldn’t handle the press anymore. The whispers. The way I was looked at with heavy suspicion everywhere I went. A tear streams down my face and puddles in the small space between my skin and the floor.
Fuck. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this today.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text. Frowning, I pick myself off the floor.Who the hell would be messaging me at this time of night?Not many people even have this number. I pluck my cell from the stand and stare down at the unknown number flashing across my screen. Wiping at my eyes, I attempt to focus on what it says.
The message reads,
Let’s play a little game, Hazel.
Truth or Dare . . .
I stare down at the crudely cut missing person’s picture attached to the message, zooming in on the grainy detail. Her distorted blue eyes stare back at me. Her crooked smile forever slashed across her face. A moment of happiness frozen in time, asking to be seen. To be found.
My blood runs cold, and my vision becomes hazy. I blink hard, willing the text to be a sick prank.
I debate responding. If it’s some stupid prank, I’ll be able to tell with what they message next, I guess.
My fingers shakily type out a reply.
Who is this . . . ?
I hold my breath when three jumping dots appear as the person types. Who the hell is messaging me with this? Who even knows my number? I change it with each move.
That doesn’t matter. Just answer the question and I’ll keep your secret.
My secret. My stomach drops to my feet as a chill runs down my spine. I’m sweating, my body fighting against the pull of the Xanax and the threat of this moment. It’s just some troll, right? Some bored person looking to stir up drama. But then how do they know me? My name. My real name. Not Mallory, which is what I’ve put on all my documents.
