She sobs harder. “I’ll be a good girl. I’ll be a good fake girlfriend. I’ll smile and do everything you say. I won’t be sarcastic. I’ll convince people that we’re in love. So can you please delete the videos and stop recording me when I’m trying to get off? That’s the only time I can be myself, and I don’t want to be paranoid and have to act all the time.”
Her words hit me deep in the chest. The vulnerability in her voice, the raw pain—it’s more than I can bear. When she said she wanted to be a good girl for me, it hit my cock like a firestorm, enveloping my dick in heat. But this isn’t about sex. It’s about her pain, her need for acceptance, her desperation to be seen and understood.
“Callista,” I say, my voice gentle. “I’m not trying to scare you or make you stop doing what you’ve been doing.”
“You don’t understand,” she sobs. “I can’t have anyone finding out. Everyone will judge me. I didn’t even want you to find out.”
“I’ve seen worse,” I tell her, trying to reassure her. “And don’t you feel better knowing someone knows your secret? You don’t have to carry all your burdens alone.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re always a bad girl because your mother was sex-crazed. It’s fucked up to want to be a good girl in bed to compensate for that.”
“It doesn’t matter why you want what you want,” I say firmly. “All needs are valid.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then whispers, “You don’t think that.”
“I do. You’re allowed to want what you want. You’re allowed to be who you are.”
She sighs, a soft, shaky sound. “I wish I could believe that.”
“You can.”
“How?” she asks, her voice small. “My whole life will crumble if I act like myself for one day.”
“Then act like yourself for one night. Let me see you.”
“I can’t.” She moans. “Not with you. You’re the worst person to be myself around.”
“I’m theonlyperson you’ve ever been yourself around,” I remind her. “So can you stop lying to yourself?”
She’s silent for a long moment, then whispers, “I wish you were here. In my room. I want to claw your eyes out. I want to bite your annoying mouth and shut you up.”
My heart twists. I need to be there, to hold her, to soothe her. I need to see her, to touch her, to make her believe that she’s worthy of love and acceptance.
“I’ll be there soon,” I promise. “Don’t move.”
“Wait, you want to get your eyes clawed out?” She inhales a surprised breath.
“Yes. I want you to do whatever you want, whatever it takes to make you stop crying.”
I hang up and grab my keys, my heart pounding in my chest. I need to get to her, to hold her, to make her understand that she’s not alone.
As I stepinto Callista’s room, the first thing that hits me is the scent—a mix of floral and something distinctly feminine. The lights are on, casting a warm glow over everything. Her room is a reflection of her—elegant, controlled, but with hints of chaos peeking through. Clothes are strewn over a chair, textbooks stacked haphazardly on the desk, and a vanity covered with makeup and hair tools. The bed is unmade, the sheets rumpled, and I can’t help but imagine her tangled in them, her body warm and inviting.
Callista stands with her arms crossed over her chest, pushing her breasts up in a way that makes my mouth water. She’s dressed in a lacy camisole top, her hard nipples visible through the thin fabric. I want to suck on them, to feel their hardness against my tongue. Her tiny shorts reveal creamy thighs, and the material clings to her perky ass. She’s a vision, and I’m already hungry for her.
She advances toward me, her eyes flashing with anger. Without a word, she slaps me across the face. The sting is sharp but brief, and I barely feel it. Her hand trembles as she retrieves it, her eyes wide with uncertainty.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, my voice steady. “I deserved it.”
She looks at me, fear replacing the anger in her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I told you I would.”
“Why do you have a key to my room?” she asks, her voice shaking.
“I’ve been here before,” I admit. “Many times.”
