But… I was aroused too.
Oh, god.
There, I said it. I admitted it. The sight of Caleb killing that man after he hurt me. How hard he was. How hard he came. How his come spurted out like a fucking eruption.
I came too.
It's so sick. So fucking sick. My fingers were between my legs as I watched and… I didn't even realize it.
I did exactly what Caleb did.
I am just like him.
I am sick.
Even now, lying here in these rumpled sheets at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling in the dark with absolutely zero sleep and my mind running this endless, spiraling speedrun through every horrific detail—I'm wet.
My pussy is throbbing.
Just like it always is when I remember.
Until now, though, I've been pushing away the truth.
That's why I didn't masturbate until this past week.
I couldn't get past the idea that I'm a sick fuck just like Caleb.
That's why he needs to go away.
It's not because I don't like him.
It's because I like him too much.
Ryan is… maybe not normal. But I'm not looking for normal. I'm looking for… well, his kind of freak flag is something I can deal with. Something I can get on board with.
Strapping me into gyno contraptions? Yes. Yes. I'm here for it. It's actually a common thread in my recent sex history.
Practically vanilla at this point.
I might even let him film me. With a mask on. Maybe. The thought sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through me—imagining strangers watching, their eyes glued to the screen, their hands working themselves into a frenzy overme. Over what I'm doing. What I'm letting Ryan do to me.
It's twisted and exhibitionistic and exactly the kind of thing that should make me feel ashamed, but instead I'm just… turned on. Picturing some faceless person on the other side of a computer screen, jerking off to footage of me strapped into that contraption, spread open and vulnerable andwantingit.
Using what they see as fuel for their own fantasies, their own future encounters. Planning out scenarios with their partners based on what they watched me experience with Ryan.
The idea shouldn't be hot.
But it is.
This is my justification—my permission, my excuse, whatever I need to call it to make it okay—when my hand slowly lowers, fingertips trailing down my stomach, hesitating at my hip bone before sliding further. Ryan. The cameras. The knowledge that someone might be watching this exact moment, cataloging it for later use. That's what I tell myself this is about.
I picture it. Ryan's hands on my ankles, lifting them, positioning them exactly where he wants them. The cold metal stirrups against my calves as he locks them in. That click. The finality of it.
I'm already touching myself, fingers sliding through the wetness that's been building all night.
In my mind, I'm spread wide on that table. Exposed. The cameras positioned at deliberate angles—one overhead, one between my legs, one capturing my face. Ryan stepping back to check the framing. Adjusting the ring lights so there's no shadow obscuring anything important.
He'd make me wait. Test me. Let me lie there with my pussy on display while he fucks around with settings and equipment, taking his time, letting the anticipation build until I'm squirming against the restraints.
