I've been hard since the ninety-minute mark.
I wrap my hand around myself through the fabric. Hold there. Breathing.
On screen she laughs. I can’t see her face properly because of the filter, but I bet she’s beautiful when she laughs. Her chat loses its mind. She leans back and her throat moves into frame for two seconds and I feel those two seconds in my grip. I get my fly down and take myself in hand properly and my imagination needs nothing else.
Her voice with nothing between us. No camera. No platform. No filter. That voice in a dark room aimed at one person.
The sound she makes in the private content when she's close. I know it by heart. The escalation. The way her breath changes. The specific hitch before she lets go. I've watched her come apart on a screen more times than I'll admit to anyone including myself, and I know what she sounds like when it's real. When it's just her and a camera and whatever toy she's holding. I think about those sounds while my hand moves.
I think about getting her underneath me.
Those sounds in my ear instead of through speakers. My hand between her thighs, finding her wet, staying there. Unhurried. Learning what she needs. I would learn it the way I've been paying attention for seven months. She would know I'd been paying attention before she had words for what she was feeling. Two fingers inside her, my thumb on her clit, feeling exactly how she responds. Feeling her get wetter. Feeling her clench around me when she gets close. Her saying my name when she comes.
Replacing my hand with my cock and going slow enough that she feels every inch.
I think about the sound she'd make when I bottomed out. The full, wrecked sound. Not the one she performs for three hundred people. The one underneath it. I think about pulling almost all the way out and making her wait. Making her feel the absenceof me before I gave it back. I think about her thighs around my waist and my hand in her hair tilting her head back so I could watch her face while I fucked her. Slow. Then not slow.
I think about her voice going ragged. Breaking on my name. The real version of that sound. The one that belongs to a person, not a camera.
I think about her face.
I don't know her face or her real voice.
I know her body and the way her shoulders look when she stretches and the laugh she does when she's genuinely delighted versus the one she does for chat. Never her face. The public stream has a filter that softens and smooths everything into anonymity. The private content is worse — she shoots dark, close, deliberate. Collarbone down. She built the frame to keep her face out of it and she built it well.
What I know: her throat when she tips her head back. Her hands on the controller. The curve of her wrist.
The sounds she makes alone in the dark.
My hand works faster. I let my head fall back. Breathe through it. Drawing it out, because I have nowhere to be and I have been thinking about her since last Tuesday and I am not rushing it.
She says something on screen. Quick, dry. I don't catch the words but the tone of it moves through me and my grip tightens. That voice. Low and certain and pointed. Seven months and I still can't prepare for it.
Her making that sound directly into my ear. Close enough that I'd feel her breath. Close enough that I could put my mouth over hers and swallow it.
My jaw locks. My hips push up into my fist.
I stay there. Her voice coming through the speakers, talking to her chat, wrapping the round. Entirely unaware. I keep my eyes open until my body makes the decision for me.
I come hard and hot.
The study. The dark. The screen still lit.
I sit in the aftermath. Look at the ceiling. Don't think.
The monitor on the left. Email, work, the screen I was supposed to be looking at tonight. The glass is dark enough to catch my reflection. Silver at the temples. A man who runs a security firm. Who has memorised a streamer's schedule the way he memorises threat assessments. Sitting in his study at two in the morning with the blinds closed.
The phone lights up.
1:49am. Ronan's name.
Still up. Billie says hi btw
I read it once.
His daughter. Twenty-one years old. The girl I've known since before she could form sentences. Sunday dinners, Christmas Eve, every version of her growing up. The girl whose mother died and whose father called me first. I've known her through every version of herself. I've been someone she trusts without thinking about it, the way you trust furniture, the way you trust things that have always been there.
I have a specific, detailed understanding of what I'd do if I found out some man was doing this.
