JimsCuntDestroyer:I want to see that cock stretching you open.
AdamsLadder:Warming you up for us.
CometoDaddy:Christ, I need to see that cunt gape.
FuckMePlease:Strip for us, slut.
BegForMe:You heard them.
That cool, clipped phrasing slices through the noise. Just enough edge to make me freeze. Just enough heat to make my pussy throb.
I can see him, even now—suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened but still hanging like a noose around his neck. His jaw tight, watching me from his flat, one eye on the stream, the otheron his phone lighting up with messages he can’t ignore, and a drink in hand.
From the moment I met him, it’s been clear he’s torn in a thousand directions. It used to make me feel so stupidly special when he’d drop everything to come to me when I needed him.
He always knew how to cut through the noise. How to say just a few words that could make my body go soft and molten. No matter how many times I try to forget, my body remembers every fucking thing he ever did to me, and worse, everything I wish he’d do again.
And I’m going to make him fucking suffer for it.
The next half hour dissolves into slow, exquisite torture. I don’t rush it. I let the tension build, coaxing it higher and higher, until it hangs heavy in the air—thick with sweat and want. Every moan, every sigh is deliberate, an arrow aimed right at his control.
Because it’s him I’m really performing for.
BegForMe goes quiet for long stretches, but I can feel him there anyway, tucked into the dark corners of the chat. Holding himself rigid, pretending—desperately—that he doesn’t still want me.
And yet, I don’t let on I know who’s behind the account. Not yet.
He wants to watch? He wants to hide behind anonymity? Fine. I’ll give him a show that’ll haunt his dreams and make him ache for what he threw away. I’ll play into every filthy fantasy so well, he’ll wonder if I know it’s him behind the screen. Let him stew in that delicious tension until he cracks. It’s the least he deserves.
Maybe that’s the real thrill of this—the pretending. Pretending I don’t see through the mask. Pretending I haven’tmemorised the taste of his skin, the burn of his stubble against my inner thighs, the way his voice would deepen right before he fucked me so hard I forgot my own name.
I shift, draping one arm beneath my breasts, pressing them together to deepen the curve. Every inch of soft skin, every stretch mark, on display as I give the camera a languid, sinful smile.
“Look at how wet I am for you,” I moan, sliding the dildo slowly between my thighs, dragging out the motion until my back arches and my hair spills over my pillows like dark silk. “You really do know how to get me wet, don’t you? Do you think you can help me come, hmm?”
The chat goes wild, but it barely registers.
Because my mind is in London. In the alley near his father’s house, where Matt used to pin me against the wall every chance he got. Where he’d undress me without saying a word. Where I once cried into his neck after trying on my bridesmaid dress for his future wedding.
Cora and Abbie think it was all about sex. About sneaking around and having a bit of fun until the fun turned ugly. But the truth is we’ve always been tethered together in ways they’ll never understand.
When I had no one, I had him.
When no one was in his corner, I was there, ready to do anything it took to get him out of that stupid fucking contract.
And when his private request flashes across my screen, my pulse kicks.
Game on.
I accept without hesitation, my body already trembling and slick from riding the edge for thirty torturous minutes. Thescreen switches over to a private session, and in seconds, it’s just us.
Me and my stepbrother.
My number one fan.
“Miss me?” I coo, sinking onto my knees with a lazy kind of grace, fingertips gliding over the curve of my breasts. I lean closer to the lens, letting my voice drop—silky, laced with heat, like a secret meant for no one but him.
“I’ve been thinking about you all night…”
