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tarabyte3 · 1 year ago

Text

The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 4/? (12.8k words)

->start at chapter 1<-

<- Chapter 3

AO3 Link

Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

Warnings: Explicit rating, smut, stalking, spying, blackmail, manipulation, dubcon, dubious consent, Dom/sub, sadism, masochism, unprotected sex, oral sex, masturbation, mutual masturbation, choking, dirty talk, praise, humiliation, possessive love, yandere, minor description of gore, minor description of violence, murder, discussion of murder, shame involving sex work, light shaming of sex work, emotionally abusive mother, troubled mother/daughter relationship, sexual harassment, workplace sexual harassment, alcohol consumption, religious trauma

A/N: To all of my fellow readers with mother issues, this chapter is for us 💖 Because those troubled mother/daughter relationship and emotionally abusive mother tags hit real hard this chapter (I'm not projecting, you're projecting). But I eventually make it up to you, I promise. (As a reminder from my notes last chapter, David uses voice to text when they're chatting 😏) Also, I changed the formatting for texting conversations because eventually there will be texting while there is external dialogue, and I don't want it to be confusing. So his texts continue to be in italics and Reader's are in italics AND quotes.

Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from Tanaka Mhishi's poem in Literary Sexts II. Text divider 1 is from Francisco de Goya's Witches Flight. Text divider 2 is from Caravaggio's Sacrifice of Isaac.

Chapter 4 - I am fragile and unholy. Open. Ravage. Eat.

That night, after calming down from your conversation with David, you finally do the thing that you've been putting off for far too long. The thing that causes panic to swell in your chest and your mind to recoil whenever you start to examine it.

You think about your mother.

So you pour a glass of wine, set your phone off to the side, flop down on your couch, and you begin to metaphorically unpack.

You've always prided yourself on being an intelligent woman. You know, logically, this will help you feel better in the long run. It will help you heal. Help you grow. And right now that's what you yearn for—to know and embrace yourself as you truly are, not who you pretended to be for so long that you almost believed it. Not your mask.

The mask that you built because of her, you think. One crafted out of fear and shame. Other people may have honed it, but she laid the foundation.

You also know she's the reason you have so many hang ups and difficulties forming connections with people. You know it's part of the reason you've been miserable for so long. You know this needs to be done. You know that.

It still…well, it hurts.

You learned at a young age to be fiercely independent because you couldn't count on her for support. Or encouragement. Or warmth. Her answer was always the same: "Pray or go to confession." As if all of your problems were your own fault or stemmed from a lack of faith.

And the message was clear—The only love you'll ever get is God's love. Maybe he can fix you.

You wanted it, though. God, did you want her to gather you in her arms and tell you, just once, that she was proud of you. That she truly loved you. You did everything you could to please and placate and impress her, hoping if you were good enough or hid well enough, you might finally get all of that. You got good grades, you were well-behaved, and you went to church, even when you stopped believing. You gave up your dream of being an artist for her, for christsake!

Sure, a part of that was because she tainted the piece of yourself you turned to for expression and escape. But since you're already unpacking every horrible bit of this, you can finally admit to yourself that you also gave it up for her.

For nothing.

Because it didn't work. Getting a business degree and an office job didn't make her proud, it only created a new direction in which you were lacking. You lost a part of yourself and got nothing in return. The thought of it makes you so angry that hot tears prick your eyes.

You get up to pour yourself another glass of wine.

You don't even know why your mother treated you the way she did. You think that if you could at least know why it might be easier to stomach. Then you wouldn't feel so confused and lost. Sure, it would hurt, but it would be something solid you could sit with.

Perhaps she saw that you weren't what she would call normal, and she hated it—wanted to spurn you into changing and hiding. It's ironic, then, that her disgust just fueled that darkness within you. Gave it the sustenance it needed to grow, devoid of warmth, in the corners of your heart and mind.

Maybe all of this would have turned out differently, if only she had loved you.

Or perhaps that's just who she is, and, even if you had been everything she wanted, it still wouldn't have made a difference. Still wouldn't have been good enough. You got it from somewhere, after all.

You'll never know either way.

What you do know is this: If you couldn't count on your own mother, then why would you ever think you could count on or trust anyone else?

Why wouldn't they brush you aside eventually as well? Why bother getting close to anyone—assuming they didn't bore you in the first place? Why wouldn't they see the real you and look just as disgusted as the one person that should have loved you unconditionally?

And people continuously proved you right by walking away when you didn't thaw under their attention or they caught a glimpse of that darkness—until David. Until he looked and saw the real you, and it only made him want you more.

Well, you're thawing now.

No.

You're melting.

You wonder what your mother would think of you if she could see you at this very moment. On one hand, you've laid waste to the life you built for yourself for a man that stalked you. She'd have a few choice words for you there, such as disappointment and embarrassment. "What will people think?" But on the other hand, you finally have someone and he's rich, which would go a long way towards forgiveness. Because, even though she prides herself on her piety, pride is her greatest sin. She would tell everyone she knew, as if it were her achievement, while conveniently leaving out the rest of it. Like the fact that you're happy.

As you're pouring your third glass of wine, you debate calling her. It's not too late. She should still be awake. You can finally ask her why. Why nothing you've done has ever been good enough. Why she cared about God and what everyone else thought more than her own daughter.

You can ask her why you can't remember the last time she hugged you or told you she loved you. Because a daughter should be able to recall that, shouldn't she? Oh, she said it plenty in front of other people. She gave you scraps with no meaning behind the words or warmth in her eyes. But in private, where no one else was watching her performance? You got nothing. You starved for affection. Maybe you can ask her why.

But you know that's the alcohol talking.

And it wouldn't do any good anyway. You won't get the answers you seek or the apology you need. You won't get promises to do better. You won't get a mom.

This was all for nothing.

Instead, you pick up your phone and block her number.

No contact. A clean cut. Never again.

You expect that to hurt, too, but for the first time since you started this, you feel lighter. Because you're finally done looking for hope where there isn't any to be found. You're also finally acknowledging that you deserved everything she never gave you. And that isn't a failing on your part—it never was. It's her failure. Another one of her sins. Now it's her loss.

Maybe you should have done that years ago, but you're doing it now. You're moving forward and letting go, and that's what's important.

While your phone is in your hand, you check your messages to confirm that David hasn't sent you anything. You aren't surprised. You hadn't expected him to. But that doesn't mean you didn't want him to.

You want it all the time now, you realize. It's only been a couple of hours since you ended the call, but you'd still love nothing more than to get back on and talk to him again until the early hours of the morning.

You may have been able to stop yourself from angrily calling your mother, but the combination of wine and your already weakening grasp on your self-control when it comes to him means you're typing before you even realize it.

"Thank you. For everything. I can never say it enough, David, because you've done more for me than any person in my life EVER has. I mean it. Truly. I'm so grateful."

"Also, for the record, I'm certain I could pick you out of a crowd now."

You're welcome. Always.

And I'll keep that in mind the next time I need coffee.

You smile at your phone. Your eyes are watery, your cheeks are warm, and your lips are lopsided and trembling. You can blame all of that on the wine, but the way your heart is battering against your ribcage?

You've got it bad for some words on a screen, a hand, a pair of shoes, and a ghost.

The next morning, you sleep in until a gloriously late hour. Just because you can. And because last night was emotionally exhausting—you're certain the wine didn't help either. Even when you're no longer tired, you lie in bed, wrapped in the warmth of your blankets, and bask in the knowledge that you never have to go back to that office ever again.

Or speak to your mother, you think with a contented sigh.

You feel untethered, but not adrift. No, you know exactly which direction you're headed, and now you have the freedom to do so.

Eventually you resume your search for a new bed on your phone as well because you start to think about how blissful this lounging would have been on a comfortable mattress. With silk sheets. And a new nightgown... Oh, now there's an interesting thought. You could get something new and sexy. Maybe something with lace. Or more silk. Or, even better, something sheer that barely covers your ass.

You also think about how much David would enjoy all of those things.

You start off looking at sleepwear that leans more sensible than sexy, but as you begin to wonder what he would think of each one, you quickly find yourself clicking on more and more revealing pieces.

It's when you're looking at a see through, drapey number that comes off with only a clasp between your breasts that your phone buzzes with a new text message.

You grin. You wondered how long it would be before he reached out to you. Now you're absolutely certain he's keeping tabs on you and saw how racy your searches were getting. Part of you was doing it on purpose—baiting him until he couldn't resist any longer. Even if it gave him away. You know better than to trust a coincidence.

Are you enjoying your first day of freedom?

"Immensely. I haven't even gotten out of bed yet." You're smug as you hit send because now you've added the thought of you in bed to his mental image of the lingerie.

Is that so? Sounds as though you're having a lovely morning.

Any other exciting plans for the day?

"Not unless you count a date with a book on my nightstand."

Depends on what kind of book.

"Well, there are two of them for me to choose from. One is a murder mystery. The other is a steamy romance novel." It's a lie. You have two art history books and an Amedeo Modigliani biography on your nightstand.

I see. Two very different types of thrilling.

"Exactly. On one hand, the murder mystery would stimulate my brain."

It takes a minute longer for you to get a response to that.

And what would the romance novel stimulate?

"My heart, David. What else?" You bite your lip in excitement as you continue to type.

"Now tell me which one you would like best."

If I had to choose between the two, I would prefer the murder mystery.

"Of course you would. But I meant which of the lingerie you would like best. Because I know you were watching me."

There's another pause.

All of them.

"All of them?! But there were so many!"

I'm certain. I liked all of them.

Especially since you'd be the one wearing them.

A pleasant heat unfurls in your chest and creeps up your neck at the thought of him sitting there, watching you browse, picturing you in every outfit…and maybe even saving a few of the links for later.

"Well then. I'll keep that in mind. I really liked the maroon silk one, personally. I bet it would feel nice on my skin."

I agree, it would feel very nice on your skin.

Fuck.

The mental image of his hand trailing up your thigh—pushing the hem of the nightgown higher and higher while the fabric and his palm slide over your quivering flesh—flashes vividly through your mind.

You had been enjoying a morning of relaxation and contentment just a few minutes ago. Even with a bit of light teasing about the lingerie, it had been peaceful. Now? Now that feeling has been reshaped and is nothing more than a memory. Now a slick heat has ignited in your core, and you're left nearly panting and writhing in your blankets from the intensity of it.

How quickly he can send you reeling.

God, you're definitely buying that one. Later. Right now, however, you finally have the chance to flirt with him—really flirt—and you're going to take it. Because you know where this is headed. You know where it could have resolved yesterday but didn't because you were at work.

And you're so glad you're not at work right now, stuck squirming and struggling at your desk as you try to ignore the swollen ache between your legs. Instead, you're squirming in the privacy of your bed, and you no longer have to ignore anything. Now you have no intention of stopping.

This is how you want to respond to him.

You're also really enjoying feigning innocence, and you're curious to see how much longer he'll play along. Because you have no illusions that he's buying a second of it.

"I don't think I'll be getting the black one with the sheer lace top, though. It didn't look very comfortable. I wouldn't be able to wear it for long."

Before he can reply, you quickly type out, "Wait. You're not busy, are you? I should have asked first before carrying on about my online shopping. That was rude of me."

I'm not anymore.

"Just get out of a meeting?"

I just canceled my last meeting because I've suddenly found something much better to do.

"Is helping me pick out pajamas really that thrilling?"

You can stop playing dumb now. You and I both know exactly what you're doing.

"What am I doing?" You straighten up and hold your breath in anticipation. You must be getting to him. You expected him to hold out just a little bit longer. Not that you're complaining. Not when you know you have his full attention.

You're trying to get me bothered as payback for yesterday.

"Is it working?"

You know it is.

"And just how bothered are you?"

Very.

You let out a shaky breath as you sink back into your pillows and begin to settle in. "Good. But that's not the only reason I'm doing this, David."

Is that so? What other reason do you have?

"Because I want to. Because I'm enjoying having the freedom to respond to you the way that I want."

Intriguing. And how are you doing that?

"I'm sure you'll find out soon enough." You shift your phone to your dominant hand to keep it steady. Then your other hand disappears beneath your covers and continues traveling down to the waistband of your panties.

Will I?

"You will. As long as you continue to please me." You nudge the fabric out of the way to give yourself the access you need and eagerly slip your hand inside. When your fingers finally brush over your arousal, you groan with relief.

There's nothing I want more than to please you.

"Is that so? How are you going to do that?" You repeat his words back to him as you rub a little harder along your damp folds. The added pressure makes your eyelids go heavy with lust. You spread your legs wider, seeking even more of that friction.

By giving you what you need.

God, you want that. From him. The thought of it makes you ache. Your fingers move to circle over your clit, dragging some of your wetness with them, and you moan into your empty bedroom. You shakily type out, "And what do I need?"

Me.

Shit. You had planned to go slow and tease yourself. You wanted to draw out the banter so you could savor your first time touching yourself to him. Because, despite the fact that he's turned you into a horny wreck several times already, you've held off until now. But as you read his text—that single word—it's as if your body has been doused in kerosene and lit on fire. Your hand speeds up.

"You seem awfully sure of that."

I'm very sure.

Are you going to tell me that I'm wrong? Or are you going to be honest?

You quickly debate finding a way to deny it. To get him to push harder because his arrogant confidence is stoking the flame in your belly and you want more. But every response you come up with sounds so flimsy. You know it won't work. He'll just call out the lie. He knows exactly how you're responding to him now, and he won't let it go, like a shark sensing blood in the water.

Well, if he wants to circle, then you'll give him prey instead—something he can't resist.

"Honest."

There's a good girl. Then be honest for me. Tell me what you need.

You cry out and your hips roll to meet the rhythm of your fingers. Your other hand is still gripping your cell phone, holding onto it for dear life so you don't drop it and miss a single word. "You."

That's right. And are you thinking about me right now?

"Yes." You are. You're thinking about his hands all over you, driving you wild and breathless and working needy little whimpers from your throat.

Very good. I hope you're thinking about all of the things I plan to do to you when I finally get my hands on you.

"Tell me. Please." More, you think. God, you need more.

And spoil the surprise? You'll have to use your imagination for now.

You grunt in frustration. "That's a little difficult when I don't know what you look like."

That is unfortunate, isn't it?

He's so god-damned smug! Jesus, it's infuriating!

There's a responding surge of wetness beneath your fingers, and the slick sound becomes obscene in your quiet bedroom.

"I've told you, it's unfair."

Nothing about this is supposed to be fair.

Your grip weakens and your phone nearly slips from your grasp, but you frantically right it. You're getting so close… "David, please!"

I promise when we move forward, you'll find out for yourself. But only when you're ready.

Unless you're done hesitating?

You know he's dangling that in front of you, tempting you with what you want so you'll say yes. You want to say yes. You want to call him right now and let him hear you say it as you moan and beg into the phone.

But that's giving him too much.

You're done hesitating. Of course you are. But when you take that step, it's going to be on your terms. You know, instinctively, that you should never give up too much power to him. Both because it would be so easy to lose yourself in him—which you don't want to do now that you've finally found yourself—and because he would delight in never giving it back.

"I suppose we'll see, won't we? I would hate to ruin the surprise."

Now who's being unfair?

"I'm only playing by your rules."

Clever.

My clever, beautiful girl. I can't wait to see you like this. I bet you look so good for me right now. Don't you?

"Yes!"

That's right. So fucking good and needy for me. God, I want you so much.

Your grip goes slack again, and this time you do drop your phone onto the bed. But you don't stop to pick it up. You're too far gone now, and you couldn't type even if you wanted to. Instead, you redouble your effort and greedily chase your orgasm, your hand moving in rapid strokes against your clit.

It's fast and messy and desperate. You haven't masturbated like this in years, but the tension has been building inside of you. It's grown under all of his teasing, his suggestive comments, his perceptive observations, and his unrevealing photos until you couldn't ignore it any longer. Now you need to release it at last—to immolate yourself in your desire.

For him.

"David," you moan. His name rolls off your tongue for the first time in ecstasy. It happens so naturally, as if you've said it that way a hundred times before. As if your mouth knows the way to give shape to your longing.

Hearing his name, when you're already poised on that edge, is your undoing.

You throw your head back into the pillow and arch off the bed with a cry as that tension finally snaps, sending a white hot fission through your veins in its place. Your toes curl and your newly freed hand bunches a fistful of your sheets, pulling them taut while your whole body shudders with every violent swell of pleasure.

As you come, all you can think about is him. "Fuck!" The movement of your fingers over your clit becomes jerky, but never slows. You're determined to make every second of this feel so fucking good. "David!" It rolls and rolls and rolls through you, weakening and yet seemingly without end as you work every last bit of rapture from your sensitive flesh—

Until, finally, you collapse against the bed with a whimper, and your hand flops weakly down onto the mattress next to you. You lay there, gasping for breath, your eyes closed, and your limbs and your brain and your belly humming in the heady afterglow of your release.

By all accounts, this should bring you a bone deep satisfaction. It should have quelled the fire that burns for him, even if only temporarily.

But as your mind clears, you feel quite the opposite. As if something has awakened inside of you, stirring from a deep slumber in that same way he roused your darkness.

And it's ravenous.

You grope along the bedspread for your phone.

When you pick it back up, your hands are still trembling from the intensity of your orgasm.

"I think I'm rather enjoying my new freedom."

So am I.

A groan is wrenched from your chest as you glance up at his previous messages and wonder just how much he was enjoying it. You have a pretty good guess.

"God, David. I miss you."

I miss you, too. But not for much longer.

"Would you like to chat now?" There's a renewed flutter of interest from your swollen sex as you think about doing this again, but for him.

There's nothing I want more. Unfortunately, I have some important personal matters to take care of this afternoon, but I promise the evening is yours. How does 6 o'clock sound?

There's a pang of disappointment in your chest. That's hours from now! But before you can pout, you remind yourself that you're an adult. You can control and entertain yourself until then, for christsake. Besides, he said the evening was yours. You'll have plenty of time to talk to him later.

You also really want to ask what sort of personal matters because you're curious about what they could be, and about him in general, but he would have elaborated if he wanted you to know. The word personal also denotes a certain level of privacy. So you leave it be. For now.

"That sounds lovely. I'm looking forward to it."

Me too. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your date with the book on your nightstand.

"I've changed my mind there, actually. I have a lot more shopping to do instead." You give your phone a little grin.

Oh?

"Yes. It's been so productive and satisfying thus far. Who knows what other wonderful things might result from it?"

I see.

"I hope you enjoy your afternoon."

I'm certain I will. Enjoy your shopping.

You end up purchasing some of the lingerie that gets you particularly worked up whenever you think about him—especially the maroon one. Then you spend the rest of your day purging your wardrobe of your boring work clothes and whatever else reminds you too much of your old life. The result is a sparse apartment and an even barer closet, but you like it. It's a reflection of where you are in life and of all the room you have to grow and rebuild the way you want.

You may occasionally take breaks from downsizing to browse for new outfits and dresses, but it's to figure out what you like so you can eventually replace what you're getting rid of. It's definitely not to keep David intrigued throughout the day and looking forward to talking to you again. Not when he's so busy. That would be cruel.

You can't remember ever smiling this much.

You log on several minutes early. You don't care that it's probably a little pathetic. You don't even care if it lets him know exactly how eager you are for this. You've been checking the clock since five and you were getting impatient. You can only pace so many circles in your living room before you lose your mind. Not that sitting there and staring at your own face is any better, but at least it gets you closer to him.

To your relief, he logs on a few minutes early, too. Possibly because he knows you're already here, but you hope it’s because he was impatient as well. The electronic chime makes your heart swell in your chest.

"Hello, David."

Hello, darling.

The image of you on the screen practically swoons at his greeting. There's no other way to describe the gentle tilting of your head, your dreamy smile, or how your eyes soften with affection.

You barely recognize this woman.

You're not sure you've ever made that face before now. Or if you have, it was when the National Gallery rotated Cornelius van Haarlem's Two Followers of Cadmus devoured by a Dragon back into display after you hadn't seen it in a while. Never for another person. Certainly not for a black square not even three centimeters wide.

This man is dangerous.

Getting impatient, were you?

"I knew you were going to say something," you grumble as you fight off a sudden wave of embarrassment.

How could I not? You have no idea how lovely this feeling is. It's gratifying to have such a beautiful woman wanting to talk to you.

You lean in close and lower your voice. "In that case, I was very impatient."

Hmm. I'm so very pleased to hear it.

Did you have a productive afternoon?

"I did, actually. I accomplished quite a bit."

Good. And did you have fun shopping?

"You know I did." You give the camera a heated smile. While it wasn't as risque as the lingerie, the clothes you were looking at—low cut silky blouses, high slit skirts, backless tops, skin tight pants—were still sexy, just in a more subtle way.

Do I?

You roll your eyes and ignore the obvious bait—something that would have irritated a response from you just a few days ago. "How was your afternoon?"

Also productive, despite the circumstances.

"Circumstances?" You cock an eyebrow, no longer able to ignore it. He really does know how to push your buttons, after all, much to your chagrin. "Do you mean with your personal matters or do you mean spying on me?"

Both, but I wouldn't call it spying.

"Well, I would! So it serves you right." Despite your fake outrage, you're thrilled he was still paying attention, even when he was busy.

Do you want me to stop?

You pause to consider your answer. You think you should probably be unsettled that he's monitoring all of your activity. If any other man did that, you would be furious and horrified, but he's not any other man. He's also not holding it over you, making you feel bad, or controlling what you're doing. So far—your answer would change if he were. He's simply looking.

And you enjoy knowing that he's looking. In a strange way, it makes you feel connected to him, even when you aren't chatting, as if it's just another aspect of your relationship. It also makes you feel like you're the most important and interesting thing in his life—you'll admit that particular feeling has become quite addictive. You enjoy being able to take advantage of it as well, like you did this afternoon.

However, there may be times when you do want privacy for a specific reason. He certainly doesn't need to know every detail about your hygiene purchases or your embarrassing Google searches. Well, future embarrassing searches, anyway. It also makes it very difficult to surprise him if he can see what you're up to.

"No, I don't want you to stop." Your lips curl into a seductive smile. "I like it quite a bit, in fact. I just have one condition."

What's that?

"If I do ever ask for privacy, you give it to me. No questions asked and no looking."

Of course. Then you'll have it.

"I mean it," you say seriously. "I need to trust you'll respect my wishes."

You have my word that I will give you privacy whenever you request it. You only ever need to ask.

"Alright." You relax in your chair, mollified by his response. Because you believe him. "Thank you, David."

You're welcome.

Now tell me about your productivity.

"That's not a very exciting topic of conversation, I'm afraid. In fact, most of it was quite boring."

Tell me anyway.

"Well, I went through my flat and got rid of everything that felt like it belonged to the person I was pretending to be and not me."

I see. That doesn't sound boring. You shed another one of your layers.

I bet it felt good.

"It did! It felt freeing. I didn't realize before how much my place felt like a stage. As if the performance didn't stop, even when I was alone. And when I had a roommate? God, no wonder I was always so miserable."

It's also probably why you grew to resent every roommate you've ever had, no matter how much you didn't mind or tolerated them when they moved in. It didn't matter if they were quiet or cleaned up after themselves. Their presence meant the only place you could truly let your guard down was your bedroom. It was exhausting.

"But now the set dressings are gone. No more calf length pencil skirts or tacky lingerie. No more gifted kitchen gadgets and holiday candles. No more cheap art prints of pieces that I don't even like.” Then you grumble, “God, I swear I had like, half a dozen versions of Irises.”

No more mask.

"No more mask," you repeat out loud with a sigh of relief. Even saying it feels incredible. "Speaking of, you'll be pleased to hear I've also been doing some reflecting since we talked yesterday." You can't help the smug grin that creeps onto your face.

Oh?

"Yes. I've figured out where my reflex to apologize when I think I've upset or inconvenienced someone comes from."

Have you? Does that mean you're ready to talk about your mother?

You huff out a laugh and shake your head. Of course. You should have seen that coming. "You're frighteningly good at that."

It's a gift.

You can feel his smirk through your screen. "So it is. And I'm glad to know that I'm predictable."

I never used that word.

"It's true, though." You shrug, unbothered by your own statement. "It's a behavior that's usually learned in childhood. In this instance, I'm not particularly unique."

I disagree.

"I just meant that a lot of people have troubled relationships with their parents." A lot of them developed the same issues from it as well, you think to yourself. Granted, the cliche is that women in the sex work industry have daddy issues, not mommy issues. So perhaps you're not entirely predictable.

And yet, they're not you. They didn't become what you are.

"And just what am I?" That's another thing you haven't looked at too closely. You've been so consumed with the "who," you haven't really considered the "what."

You're something entirely different. Something more like me.

"That's not an answer."

I assure you, it is.

"It's not, David," you insist. "I still don't fully know what that means!"

If you're expecting me to pathologize you instead, I'm not going to.

"Why not?" You tilt your head curiously. You weren't actually expecting him to, but now you're intrigued as to why he won't.

Because that's not an answer to your question either. Those terms and labels are just more costumes that don't suit you. You're far more than that.

Before you can object that you disagree and that it might actually help you understand yourself better, he continues on. As if he anticipated what you were going to say.

It would also imply there's something wrong with you. But there's nothing wrong with you, despite what anyone may have told you in the past.

"You really do have me all figured out, don't you?" There's more affection in your voice than you intended.

I told you. I see you.

"You do. And I'm guessing you see my text message history, too." You raise an eyebrow at the camera in challenge, daring him to deny it.

You thought a lot about what else he would have access to after he blindsided you with the knowledge of your side bank account. Reading your texts would be absurdly easy in comparison, so of course he knows about your relationship with your mother. It's also how he knew that threatening to tell her your secret would be so effective.

That as well.

"I think that's the first thing I know you've seen that I feel embarrassed about."

Why?

"Because it means you've seen the worst of my mask," you say quietly.

I wouldn't say that. I saw a daughter desperate for her mother's affection and approval.

"Oh, god," you groan as you rub a hand over your face, completely mortified by his phrasing, but unable to find fault in it. "That's exactly what I mean!"

You're not the one who should be embarrassed by those messages.

"I'm the only one that is. Or will be. Trust me, she thinks everything she's ever said to me was righteous and justified, and you can't get blood from a stone." You flop your hand back onto the desk—a little harder than you meant to—and it makes your webcam shake.

You can already feel that mixture of hurt and anger rising in your throat and threatening to spill out. You quickly swallow it down and take a deep breath to regain control over your emotions. You're not going to have a breakdown on camera because of her. You're done letting her hurt you.

It's not righteous or justified, but I'm guessing you know that already.

"I do, but I appreciate the reassurance anyway." You give him a soft, grateful smile. Then your face falls as you glance back down to your keyboard. "What else did you see?"

Most of your text conversations with her are arguments. I suspect your phone conversations are similar.

"They are," you confirm without hesitation. "I don't think we know how to communicate any other way."

But you're not the instigator, are you?

"No," you sigh heavily. "I do everything I can to avoid an argument because I'm just so tired of it, but it usually doesn't matter. She can always find fault with my tone or something I've said. And of course there's also the fact that I don't go to church, don't have an important career, haven't gotten married, and don't have or want children. You can imagine her disappointment."

I shudder to think.

What an exhausting, horrible woman.

"That she is," you can't help but laugh. Despite the heavy topic of conversation, his irritation on your behalf is endearing. "I hate calling her or answering the phone. And God forbid I need something! You'll note that when I needed money to keep my flat, I became a camgirl before I even thought about asking her for help."

I had noticed you never considered doing anything else. Then I read your messages and it wasn't difficult to understand why.

You try not to feel mortified once again at the reminder that he's seen those. Instead, you tell yourself that he saw them and he kept looking. They didn't disgust him or scare him off—from you anyway. Even after reading them, he still wanted you.

You truly understand now what he's always meant when he says he sees you. It's a very assuring, lovely thought.

"It turned out to be a wonderful decision, at least." You give the camera a coy smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

I would have to agree. A very wonderful decision.

"She wouldn't have helped me anyway, so I knew it was pointless. The few times she did, she lorded it over me constantly. As if I should be forever in her debt because she paid for my university textbooks years ago."

Is that another reason you were so afraid to take my money? Or why you were worried about feeling as though you owed me?

"Huh…" You lean back in your chair as you mull THAT one over. You hadn't quite connected those dots yet, but now that he's pointed it out, you have always been bad at accepting any help or gifts. Every single one felt like it came with an unspoken expectation or debt of some kind that would be called upon later. Now you know why.

You briefly wonder what other sort of connections you'll make in the future. Because you're starting to realize there are still plenty of them left to be uncovered.

"I think that was part of it, certainly, but you have to admit, the circumstances were also a very big factor as to why I didn't want your money."

Of course. You thought I was trying to buy you.

"I absolutely did! And in a way, you were," you tease. "It was just my attention you were paying for."

I made no attempt to hide that what I wanted was you, but it really was a gift. I knew the money would give you the freedom to think about everything I said, and once you did, you could no longer ignore your mask. Then maybe you would finally rid yourself of it. I wanted that for you.

And I wanted to see what would become of you when your strings were cut.

"Well, are you pleased with your handiwork?"

Quite pleased. I'm enjoying seeing the real you and how beautifully you've flourished in the light, now that you're no longer hiding.

"I have flourished, haven't I? I feel at home in my own skin for the first time in my life." You arch your shoulders, stretching lazily as if to savor the truth of your statement, before resting your forearms on the desk. You look quite pleased with yourself as well. "For so long I've been afraid to peel back all those layers and confront what's underneath, but now that I'm finally realizing who I am and what I want, I can't stop picking. I like what's underneath."

So do I.

You deserve to be proud. You've been working very hard to find your truth.

A warmth radiates through your chest at his praise.

"I have." Then you smile sadly. "Unfortunately, the truth hasn't always been painless."

No. It's never that.

"But every second has been worth it to have this." You glance up at the camera and let the double meaning hang in the air.

I'm glad. And I would have to agree. Wholeheartedly.

After a hesitation, you say, "One of those painful truths was realizing that my mother probably had a big hand in making me what I am."

Darling, NO.

The only thing she had a hand in was making you feel ashamed of yourself or like you had to hide what you are. She tried to destroy something exquisite and she failed. You are what you are despite her.

Do you know why? It's because you're better than her. You always have been and she knows it. Why do you think she treats you the way she does? That woman is a monster and she doesn't deserve any part of you.

Your eyes immediately fill with tears as you read the chat box. No one's ever told you that before. You may have come to the same conclusion last night, but you had no idea how much you needed to hear it from someone else, so to speak. Now hearing it from him?

"God, David. I've never…" you trail off, your voice choked with emotion. It takes you a second to get control over yourself enough to continue. "Thank you. And you're right." You sniffle and quickly try to blink away the tears. Then with more force, you say, "I've endured her for too long. Thankfully, I never have to again. I blocked her number last night and I'm cutting her out of my life."

You did?

"I did. Once I realized there was nothing good there to hold onto, even the idea of removing her from my life brought me more peace and happiness than having her in it ever did."

Good. I hope it does.

"So far, so good." You give him a teary smile.

I'm sure that couldn't have been easy.

"It wasn't. Or at least the process of coming to that conclusion wasn't, but it was all far more anticlimactic than I thought it would be."

Is that why you sent me that message?

"Oh, god." Your face begins to burn with embarrassment as you remember texting him while more than a little tipsy. "Yes," you finally answer sheepishly while you glance up at the ceiling.

Why are you embarrassed by that?

"Because, if I'm being honest, I was two and a half glasses of wine in when I sent that."

Were you now?

"I was. I knew it was the only way I would be able to cope with that whole process."

And did it help?

"I think it did. I got through it, anyway. I'm just glad that I didn't call or text her. God, that would have been a trainwreck." You glance suggestively up at the camera and lower your voice. "I have far less self-control when it comes to you, apparently."

You have no idea how much I enjoy hearing that.

"But we should both be grateful that I didn't send you anything messier than I already did."

I don't know, sounds intriguing.

"See, you're thinking about me sending you something sexy, but I'm worried about sending you something frantic and emotional," you laugh. "Which would have been far more likely given the circumstances."

Hmm. I see your point.

"So anticlimactic really was for the best all around. And it's done now."

Good riddance.

"Do you want to know the worst part, though?" This time there's a bitterness to your smile, and it doesn't meet your eyes. "Through all of this, I never stopped wanting her to love me. I tried so hard. I never stopped trying, but she did. A long time ago. She'll never be the mom that I want, just like I was never the daughter she wanted. I know that now and I've finally made peace with that reality. Plus, realizing I would never understand or get any sort of closure was another big catalyst for me to finally pull that trigger the way I did." Your face finally softens. "But I never would have confronted any of that if not for you."

You would have gotten there on your own. Eventually.

“Possibly. I was getting exhausted from it. To the point that everytime my phone rang, I considered tossing it out the window rather than answer it.”

I could make her life miserable, you know.

If you asked it of me.

"Tempting." You let out a chuckle and wipe away the remnants of a tear drying on your cheek. "But I'd rather her not be in my life at all, even through you. I'm making a clean cut so she can no longer use me to build herself up, and for her that will be a worse punishment than anything you could think of."

I don't know. I have a very vivid imagination.

But I will leave it be unless you change your mind.

"I do appreciate the offer." You smile gratefully. "That's twice now you've given me the opportunity for vengeance."

It won't be the last, should you ever feel the need for it.

"Is it strange that I find the thought of you wanting to make someone miserable for hurting me sweet and endearing?"

No.

I would hurt anyone you asked me to, even if all they did was annoy you.

"You would?"

I would. Without hesitation. For you.

"Fuck," you gasp as you squirm in your seat, suddenly very turned on. "I really like the thought of that."

Do you?

"I do."

How much?

"This much." You bite your lip as you bring your hands to your top. Then you begin to slowly unbutton your blouse. The heat that started between your thighs rises to your belly. This is finally happening.

There's a pause.

You're sure?

"Yes. I'm so sure you didn't even have to ask." Your fingers continue to methodically work each loop as you speak, driven on by determination. "I'm done hesitating. I want this, David. I wanted it last night before I got interrupted, and I wanted it this afternoon."

You’ve found closure for so much of your past—all the ties to your old life, your social media, your friends, your job, your mother—and you're done looking back. All you want now is to move forward. After all the emotional turmoil you went through to get to this point, all you want is to fall into him.

Once you’ve finished, your top spills open, revealing the cups of your bra and your bare stomach on the screen. The chat box sits, unmoving, and you realize he must be watching very carefully. So you slide the fabric down your arms, seductively arching your chest towards the camera to make a show of it, until it comes free. You toss it to the side without looking. Then you're left in nothing but your bra and skirt.

"I want you to see me. All of me. I want to show you what you're missing, hiding from me behind that screen. You could be here with your hands and your mouth on me, instead, you know. I want you to think about that, and I want you to touch yourself while you do." You look directly into the webcam with all of the desire, need, and heat that has been building up inside of you for the past week. "Because I plan to as well. Again."

You have no idea how much I’ve resisted doing all of that. It's taken every ounce of my self-control to resist you.

"Why can't we just give in then?" You beg for the camera. "Why can't we just skip this part? Come here now. Tonight. Touch me instead."

You aren't ready for that yet.

"I strongly disagree!" You scoff, almost offended at the implication that you don't know what you want.

Besides, I get to see you like this first, remember? I get to see you in a way no one else ever has. I've earned it.

"You have," you sigh in acceptance. You knew it was a long shot, but it was worth a try. "Don't worry, I'll give it to you. Not just because I'm too fucking horny to argue with you properly right now, but also because I said I would, and I'm still going to enjoy letting go for you. Just know that it's a poor substitute for you. Because what I really want is to hear your voice as you tell me how good it feels to fuck me. I want to hear the way you moan and gasp when you lose control of yourself inside of me. I want to know your face when you do. Because I want you, David."

It takes a moment for him to reply. You're aware you'll never get to know exactly how he responded to you. You'll never get to see the look on his face or hear the sounds he made as you said those things to him. But, you think with no small amount of smugness, you can take a very good guess.

Then you'll have me. Soon.

Until then, show me what I'll have.

Take off the rest of your clothes. I want to see you.

You stand up from your chair to do as he instructed. The angle of the camera means your face is no longer in view, and it reminds you so much of your streams that it's momentarily jarring. But once you unzip your skirt, you bend forward to push it down your hips, and the sight of your own face brings you back to the moment.

The one where you're stripping for your stalker slash blackmailer, and it's the sexiest, most romantic thing that's ever happened to you.

Your skirt hits the floor with a soft thump, and you step out of it as you nudge it to the side with your foot. If you remove one more thing, it will be the most he's ever seen of you. Now each step forward is not only new, but is one step closer to getting what you really want: Him.

The thought is thrilling.

So thrilling that you waste no time. You hook your thumbs into the thin elastic of your panties and slip them—slowly, inch by inch to continue teasing him—to your knees, baring your lower half to him.

You stand there for a few seconds, letting him take it all in. That's what he wanted, after all. To see all of you. For you to show him all of you. Every moment between you has been leading to this, and you won't deny him now.

When you sit back down, you slide your panties the rest of the way off. They get thoughtlessly added to the growing, scattered pile. Then you stay there on your repurposed dining room chair, bare skin on wood, and you wait.

As you do, you're very careful to keep your legs closed. It wouldn't do to rush this and give everything away all at once. Especially not when you currently hold all of the power. He may have earned this, but so have you. And you’re going to relish it for as long as you can.

Except there's still nothing new in the chat box. You tell yourself he's probably just settling in and enjoying the view, but the silence is unnerving. You have no way of knowing what he's thinking right now, if he's even enjoying it, and that makes you feel exposed. You’ve gotten so comfortable with the back and forth—of getting some feedback—that not getting it is a sobering reminder that you can't read his expressions or hear the tone of his voice. All he really is to you is text on a screen.

“David?” You call out hesitantly.

Another minute passes and you start to wonder if he's intentionally trying to make you squirm. He does enjoy it, after all. Or perhaps he recognizes how the balance of power has shifted, and he's trying to take some back for himself. It does seem like a very David thing to do.

Then, without warning, your mind offers up the possibility that he's disappointed. That you aren't what he was expecting and now he’s—

God, you’re beautiful. I knew you would be.

Relief courses through you, alleviating the weight that was settling in your chest.

Or maybe he was just taking his pants off, too.

I want to see the rest of you.

That's all the reassurance you need to banish that momentary doubt completely.

You reach behind yourself to undo the clasp of your bra. Rather than remove it, you hug the material loosely to your chest and give the camera a coy glance.

“You mean like this?” You tease as your fingers play with the straps.

Yes.

Take it off.

You slowly lower your arms, letting it fall away from your breasts. And just like that, you're naked on screen—something you never thought would happen. Something you swore would never happen. But there you are, running the tips of your fingers enticingly up the tops of your thighs and over your bare hips. For him.

Seeing you like this was worth every second of waiting. You're stunning. Just perfect.

“Thank you, David,” you say softly, touched by his compliments. It’s sweet, but if he keeps this up, you’ll be feeling more affectionate than horny.

You have no idea how much I want to be the one touching you right now.

That's better.

"Oh, but I think I know exactly what it's like to want you to be the one touching me. Do you have any idea how much I've fantasized about your hands on me since you sent me that picture? God, if I hadn't been at work, I would have made myself come so many times."

That's why I didn't want you distracted.

"I wasn't distracted this afternoon," you say in a husky voice.

No you weren't.

Did it feel good to finally give in?

"Yes." You bite your lip as you remember the way that growing tension in your belly finally gave when you moaned his name. "It felt so good to respond to you."

Did you think about me touching you like you wanted?

"God, yes. In every way I could think of."

Where did you imagine me touching you? Show me where you like to be touched.

You run a finger from your jaw, down the column of your neck, and then trace along your collarbone. "If you kiss me here, I'll be weak in your arms. But if I feel your tongue here, you'll have me begging."

Then I'll have you weak and begging.

Is that all?

"I was getting there." You smile playfully. “So impatient.”

You continue to run your fingers down your sternum, letting your knuckles skim against the swell of your breasts. You stop and move to cup the soft flesh with your hands.

“I want your lips and your hands here,” you moan as you start to gently massage yourself. Your nipples harden under your palms as you rub over them, causing a pleasant shiver to snake its way through you. Then you arch into your own hands as you think about what it would be like to have his hands here instead. Whether his touch would be gentle like this, or harsh as he wrenches a shudder from the sensitive peaks.

I'm going to enjoy doing just that. Especially if you'll be this responsive for me.

“More so,” you vow, breathlessly, "because it would be you. Are you touching yourself now?"

Yes.

“Fuck,” you hiss. "Are you imagining that it's me instead?"

You know I am.

"Good because I want it to be me. I'm aching to put my hands on you, too.” Your hands lower from your breasts to brush across your stomach. “Where do you like to be touched, David?"

By you? There's nowhere I wouldn't want your hands.

Intriguing, but you know he can give you more than that. "Then where should I start?"

There’s a brief pause that almost feels like hesitation.

My face.

"Your face?” You blink in mild surprise. You weren't expecting that answer, but now you understand the hesitation. He was preparing to admit something vulnerable to you. “That's very intimate."

Is it? Maybe that's why I've never liked it before, but I think I will if you do it.

Despite how sexy all of this is, your heart flutters at the sweetness of that line. He wants intimacy with you, not just the sex. You're reminded of what he said to you yesterday: ‘I want you to be mine in every way it's possible to want someone.’

“I like the thought of that.” You lean in towards the camera, letting your eyelids go heavy as you lower your voice to something both seductive and tender. "Do you want me to cup your cheeks and stroke my fingers over you as we kiss?"

Yes.

"Then maybe I could…” You drop to a half whisper, “kiss along your jaw as well."

It's like you read my mind.

There's a pleased flush in your chest that creeps onto your face as the hint of a smile. "Do you have facial hair?"

No.

"Good to know." You imagine your lips moving over smooth, tanned skin. You wonder if it will be soft, or a little rough with age.

Do you prefer beards?

"I don't have a preference. What looks good depends on the person." You tilt your head curiously. “Have you ever tried growing a beard?”

Once. It didn't suit me.

“Then I'd prefer you without one.”

You're assembling these new, small pieces together with your existing mental image of him. It's like staring at a magic eye puzzle—if you look hard enough, you can almost swear you see the shape of him. But then you blink and it's gone.

You need more.

“Where would I touch you next?”

My chest.

"Is that so?"

Yes.

"Please tell me you don't shave your chest, too. Promise me you have chest hair."

I promise I have chest hair.

"Oh, thank god,” you sigh with relief. “Because you have hair on the backs of your hands and wrists and it's so fucking sexy. I can only imagine how sexy the rest of it is."

You like that, do you?

“Yes.”

Then I think you’ll be pleased.

"Christ, I like the sound of that.” You squirm a bit in your seat. “Where else do you like to be touched?"

My cock.

You nearly choke on a whimper.

Up till now, this felt like an exploration—or as much as it could be with only you on the screen. You were expecting a buildup of teasing and touching and sharing before you both truly let go. Instead, he sent you reeling. Again. He must be getting impatient.

As you stare at that line, there's a painful ache of arousal between your legs. You unconsciously grind yourself down onto your chair to alleviate some of it. The seat is going to be a mess by the time you're done, you think.

"I plan to touch you there a lot."

Yes you will.

"Are you circumcised?" You can't help the curiosity that seeps into your voice.

I'm not going to describe my cock to you.

"David!" You pout at your screen. "I'm not asking for numbers, here. I just want to know what it would be like to stroke you."

And you'll find out eventually.

“That's not fair.” You are completely naked, after all.

I already told you it's not supposed to be fair.

“Yes, yes, you’re very mysterious,” you huff in disappointment.

Like I said, you’ll find out eventually.

“Soon, I hope.”

Soon.

Now I want you to go back to showing me where you want my hands.

“Do you?” You lean back in your chair. “You want more to think about while you're touching yourself?”

That's exactly what I want.

“Hmm, how can I ever say no to that?” Then you lean even further back so you can caress over the curve of your hips. “You can run your hands along here as you feel your way over my body. It will feel lovely, but I'll enjoy it even more if you grab me instead. Because I want to feel how much you need me.”

That's good because I want to grab you by the hips to hold you still as I slam my cock into you.

“Fuck, David!” You cry out. Your hands reflexively grip and squeeze your own hips at the mental image, your fingers digging almost painfully into the bone. Your sex clenches in anticipation, hoping you’ll get what he said would come next.

If he was there with you and not still on the other end of the call. God, you wish he was there.

After that, you also know the teasing and buildup has come to an end. You can't hold back any longer, and he's made it very clear that neither can he.

"Do you know where else I liked to be touched?" Before he can reply, you finally tilt your hips and spread your legs wide, exposing your sex for the camera. You settle your knees on either side of the seat of the chair with your calves tucked against the wooden legs.

You like to think, if he were there in person, he would have been opening his mouth to answer as the words died on his lips. Instead, you imagine his fingers frozen over his keyboard as he gets to see the part of you he's been waiting for. You're certain he's been going slow—stroking himself enough for it to feel good, but not so much that he loses control. Not until he gets what he wants. Not until he's gotten this.

You end the exploration of your body by reaching between your thighs. Then you cup your mound and begin teasing your fingers along your folds. God, you're already so wet. "Right here. Especially by a hand that knows what I need."

Show me what you need.

You plunge a finger into your entrance and moan at the intrusion. You can't remember the last time you did this. Usually you focus on just your clit with your fingers or your vibrator, eager for the release and not caring much about indulging in the process. You didn't have a reason for it other than getting off to relieve some tension.

Now, as you slide your finger out and draw it over that sensitive nub, you want it back inside of you. You want to be full as you think of him. So you press two inside of you instead.

"I want to know what you look like so badly," you gasp as your fingers begin to work your cunt.

Do you?

"I do. And I want to know what you feel like."

You will, that I promise you.

"God," you whine and slip a third finger into your opening. "This feels so good. I haven't fingered myself in a while."

Why not?

"I haven't wanted to. I just wanted a quick orgasm."

Then I continue to keep my promise, don't I? I made you want to.

"Yes! Christ, I want to," you gasp and rock your hips up to meet your hand. "I want to touch myself like this for you. I love knowing that you're watching me, David, and that you're getting off to it. But more than that, I love pretending that it's you."

If you're pretending that it's me, you need to go deeper because I intend to fuck you properly.

You slam your fingers into yourself as far as they will go, and your head falls back with a cry. “God, I want you to fuck me. Please!”

While I grab your pretty hips and make you take every bit of me?

“Fuck! Yes, exactly like that!” You whine. “I can't believe you're going to make us wait for this! Because you don't have to. You could have me now."

I could.

I could have you however I wanted, couldn't I?

You glance down at the camera, your eyes heavy with lust. "Would you like that?"

You're not answering the question.

"That's because I know better than to say yes," you pant. Your fingers are still working inside of you, stretching you in a way that is both satisfying and not nearly enough. It's driving you crazy.

What does that mean?

"We both know that if I bare my throat to you, you won't be able to resist ripping it out."

I would never hurt you unless you wanted it.

"I believe that you would never want to, but I see you, too. You couldn't help it.” Your hand slows, and you tilt your head as you consider your computer screen. “Could you?"

There's a moment of stillness from the chat box, and you briefly wonder if you've upset him, even though you know you're right. You know there's something about him that’s dangerous and predatory. He admitted as much himself. And it’s not like you feel the need to be overly careful or afraid of him. The thought doesn't bother you. You simply know that you can never tempt him by actually offering yourself up as helpless prey. Or he might just get a taste for it.

Because you can love a predator as long as you never forget, for even a second, that it's still a predator—no matter how much it shows you its belly and loves you back.

You know all of that. Instinctively. Logically.

And yet.

You do so love being his favorite little prey.

"It doesn't scare me, David," you say quietly to break the silence.

No?

"No. Quite the opposite." You draw your fingers out of yourself to rub over your clit with a moan. "It intrigues me."

I know it does.

Why do you think I’ve done all of this? I knew, from the moment I saw you, that you could want what I am.

“And what are you, David?”

Darling, did you really think I would answer that question? Where's the fun in that?

“But I want to know.” Your fingers speed back up against your bundle of nerves. “I want to know everything about you.”

You will.

“And I want to know every secret you keep from the rest of the world.”

Don't worry, you’ll know me completely.

Eventually.

His words feel like a promise and a threat. You shiver with pleasure.

You shift down far enough in your chair to get a better angle. Then you bring your knees up and plant your feet wide against the edge of your desk. You know this has the added bonus of giving him an even better view of your opening. It also gives him a hint of what it might look like when you finally lay back and spread your legs for him.

"Can you see how wet I am?" You drag your fingers over your clit with a gasp. “Can you see how much I want you?”

Yes. I can see exactly how eager you are.

"Good. As you're stroking yourself, I want you to think about burying your cock right here.” You move your other hand between your thighs. Without hesitation, you plunge your fingers into your entrance again. Now you’re pleasuring your clit while also getting that enticing fullness you ache for, and it feels fucking incredible. The sight of both of your hands moving on your screen only adds to the indulgence.

As if I could think about anything else.

"I wish I was watching you right now instead of myself."

You want to watch me stroke my cock to you?

Your whole body shudders, and you bite your lip to stifle a whimper. "Yes! I want to watch the way your hand slides over your cock and how it throbs and twitches in your fist. I want to see what I do to you."

What you do to me…

You drive me insane. I've never needed to fuck someone like I need to fuck you.

"Jesus!" You wail as your hips jerk forward, and your knees start to shake. “David!”

That's right. I'm going to make you sob my name.

"If you keep talking like that, I'm not going to last long,” you pant.

Good. I want to see you let go for me.

“But I want you to enjoy this!”

You think I'm not enjoying this?

I finally got to see how responsive you are to my words and hear the sounds you make when you're like this. This is everything I wanted. Better, even. Now I can't imagine how much better it will be in person.

When you're full of my cock instead of your fingers.

“Fuck!” You’re driving those fingers in and out of your cunt with purpose now. You're no longer giving him a show. This is you feeling your orgasm closing in on you and scrambling for it, desperate and needy.

Fuck, that's good. Look at you. You're so god-damned beautiful as you fuck yourself for me.

"God, yes!" You gasp as you arch in your chair. "For you."

Only me. Only I can see you like this.

Say it.

"Only you, David."

That's my girl.

Now you're going to come for me.

“I'm so close,” you whine.

And I'm going to come as I imagine your tight little cunt.

“David,” you gasp, barely able to speak now through your ragged breathing. “Please.”

It's all I've been able to think about for months. It's going to feel so fucking good to finally get to fuck you and come with my cock buried inside of you. And I'm going to do it over and over again until I physically can't anymore.

Do you understand? I NEED you. Fuck!

“Yes,” you barely whisper. You're not even sure the microphone picked it up, but you have nothing more to give. The tension building inside of you is becoming nearly suffocating as you read every word. You feel you might drown in it before you ever find release.

As you continue seeking your own satisfaction, a photo pops up in the chat.

At the top of the photo, there’s the edge of a laptop keyboard, which is sat on top of a very ornate and expensive looking wooden desk. But that's not the point of the photo. No. That's not what strangles your breath in your throat or sets a flame in your chest that licks at your cheeks.

The polished surface of the desk is streaked and splattered with come. His come.

You imagine him standing in front of his computer, urgently stroking himself until he's shuddering out his orgasm and spending himself across the surface. All while his eyes never leave you on the screen.

You made him do that.

Your hand speeds up—the circles your fingers are rubbing over your clit are becoming almost brutal and painful, even as pleasure rakes up your belly and your whole body starts to tense. You're so close. So fucking close. You didn't know it was possible to balance on that edge for so long without falling in either direction.

You can't tear your eyes away from that ruined surface or get the thought of him fucking his own fist out of your head as you keep chasing oblivion and—

This is what you do to me.

Oh.

You bury your fingers into your cunt just as your walls clench down around them, and you come undone for the second time that day. To him.

You open your mouth to cry out, to wail his name as part of your release, but it gets choked to nothing more than a thought as your climax slams into you so hard that it knocks the wind out of you. You throw your head back from the force of it. As you try to ride each pulse of ecstasy out against your fingers, the muscles in your legs tense. Then you're involuntarily pushing against your desk with your feet.

The front two legs of the chair lift off the floor.

For a brief moment, your stomach lurches and you think you're going to topple backwards. Instead, you stay like that, hovering between stability and free fall, letting a wave of fear and adrenaline wash over you. Perhaps that should have ruined this, but the additional sensations only heighten and sharpen every breathless shudder until all of your nerve endings thrum. You’ve never felt so painfully, blissfully, alive.

Once you're fully spent, you carefully let the chair fall forward, returning to its proper position on all four legs. Then you bring one of your own legs down to plant a foot onto the carpet to ground yourself and stop that feeling of weightlessness still lingering within you.

God, you're stunning. The most exquisite thing I've ever seen. You were wonderful for me.

You sit there, bonelessly draped back in your seat, sweaty, your arms hanging at your sides, with your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. And you try to smile for him anyway because, between his praise and your orgasm, you swear you’re glowing.

But you didn't scream my name.

You let out a breathless sound of protest. “Couldn't. I tried. Seeing what I do to you…it was too good, holy shit." You swallow hard and shift forward into a more comfortable position in the chair. "But I thought it, David. You were the only thing I knew while I came for you."

Mmmm, that's very good. But you're still going to do better next time. I’ll make sure of it.

"With you?" You ask hopefully.

With me.

FOR me.

Your face burns, and there's a weak twinge of arousal between your legs. Even though it's a mere shadow of what you’ve already experienced today, you’re amazed it's even possible after that.

…You still don't even know what he looks like, you think.

God, he's dangerous.

Won't you?

"Yes," you moan. "I promise I will scream your name until my voice gives out, as long as you're the one coaxing it out of me."

Yes you will.

You whimper. "When?"

Soon.

There are some things I need to take care of first. Then I will send for you.

Your heart begins to pound with nerves and anticipation. This is really happening. "How long?"

Only a few days.

A grunt of shock is ripped from your throat. "Days?!"

Now who's eager?

"I can't help it," you purr, softening at his teasing as you run your hand along your still trembling inner thigh. "I want to see you. And I want you inside of me."

You'll have that.

I'LL have that.

"How many days?" You're almost afraid to ask.

I'll have a car pick you up Monday evening.

There's a heavy drop of disappointment in your stomach. "That's three days…"

Enough time to have all of my obligations done and taken care of. I want to be able to focus entirely on you once I have you. Like you deserve.

“But that's so long!” It's taking everything in you not to pout. You realize now you’ve been interpreting “soon” to mean you might finally get to see him, say, tomorrow. Or maybe even still tonight. It never occurred to you that it might be longer and that you’d have to wait for him.

I know, darling. I don't like it anymore than you do. And I would never make you wait if it wasn't important, but I have promises to keep.

“Alright,” you sigh. You find that you're, once again, reminding yourself that you're an adult. You can be patient.

And now that you're thinking about it, this gives you plenty of time to prepare as well. You don't have promises to keep, but you can certainly think of a few appointments you should make. When the time comes, you want everything to be perfect.

Besides, after that you’ll never have to wait again. Will you?

“No, David.” You lean forward as you stare into the camera. “Once I have you, I intend to never wait again. Because once I have you, you’re mine.”

That's my girl.

Later that night, when you go to sleep, you take your laptop with you and leave it open on your dresser, facing the bed. On your side table, you prop your phone up into its charging stand and make sure it's positioned just right as well. You want to give him two angles to enjoy this time. Then you sprawl out on top of your covers, still completely naked.

On your phone, you carefully type out, “I hope you didn't think the show was over. Because I still have more I can give you, and it would be such a shame to waste it. Enjoy, David. X”

As you hit send, you reach into the top drawer of your nightstand and pull out your vibrator. Then you settle back, and—with a desire that feels nearly insatiable now—you work several more orgasms from your clit while you gasp and moan and scream his name.

All while you know he's watching.

A/N: See? Who needs therapy when you have fanfiction?? 😌 (Christine please ignore the 🚩💕) I debated about whether or not to write a phone call with her mom, but I realized I don't actually want to give her a voice. Because this story isn't about her or even the reader's past. It's about healing from trauma, moving forward as the worst version of yourself, and falling in fucked up love with a stalker/serial killer. 😌

#the devil makes us sin fic #david robey #david robey x reader #david robey x f!reader #x reader #luther the fallen sun #luther the fallen sun fanfiction #luther #luther fanfiction #andy serkis

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tarrenterror25 · 1 year ago

Note

First: I just want to say that I think you're awesome and wonderful, and this Halloween/horror themed event is SO COOL. 🖤 Such a brilliant idea.

Second:

💀 Spooky Scary Skeletons - David Robey going apple picking 🥺

🕸️ Caught - You were in Liam Black's taxi when a zombie outbreak hit. Could take place in the beginning or a few weeks/months after and you're still together (😏). Dealer's choice, I just want to put that man in a Situation. 😌

📼 Scary Movie - 😁💕

💀 Spooky Scary Skeletons - Send in a character with a prompt/theme and I will make you a moodboard! 🕸️ Caught! - Send in a character with a prompt/theme and I will write a drabble for you! (Less than 500 words) 📼 Scary Movie - I'll tell you what horror/Halloween/fall movie I'd watch with you!

Fear Lounge

Thank you, Tara 😭🥹💕💕 I think you're just amazing as well!!

Ok, I've actually never been apple picking and now I want to go!! I won't lie, I was listening to a lot of Lana Del Rey while making this, specifically "Chemtrails Over the Country Club" and "Say Yes to Heaven". I wanted this dreamy romantic vibe especially since David might be so reluctant to be affectionate 🥹🥰

For a movie, I am nervous because I feel like you're such a horror connoisseur 😂 I want something I know we both can deep dive and analyze because I know we both would.

OF COURSE we'd watch Luther and I want to rewatch the Menu with you because I know we can swap details throughout the film 🥰💕

The movie I'd watch with you is-!

A psychological horror that I feel you appreciate/would appreciate! This movie scared me the first time I saw it, it was so creepy and eerie, I thought about it for a few days! Again, I can see us both offering our own commentary on the film and theories!

Now for the last bit!

Zombie Outbreak with Liam Black

Tags: mentions of gore, stalking, allusions to p in v, f!reader

---

Steam from the heat of your bodies fills the car. You rest on top of Liam in the backseat of his vehicle, his hand on the small of your back holding you to him while the two of you catch your breath. The flimsy throw blanket covering you two.

The world went to shit so fast and when it did you were in the backseat of Liam’s taxi.

It’s been about a month now and it was only a matter of time before you discovered the truth about Liam; about how he had been following you in the days leading up to the outbreak. He watched you, managed to steal from your purse when you weren’t looking, and found out intimate details of your life. You learned he was using these to get close to you and yet, in the midst of your anger, frustration, and hurt after finding out, you still slept with him.

In the backseat of his taxi.

Not like you had anything better to do.

“They’re coming again,” Liam says with a sigh.

The growls and gurgles of the undead shambling in your direction can be heard in the distance.

Clumsily, you two maneuver in the backseat to redress and then climb into the front seats. Liam starts the car and drives off to get you two away from the horde of trudging corpses. You look behind you and through the rear windshield; a few strays can be seen, some without arms, others with internals spilling from their bodies, and some that are…just unrecognizable.

You and Liam make it to the countryside where you locate a few abandoned vehicles. The two of you make quick work of siphoning the fuel from them.

You lean up against his car as he fills it up with the fuel gathered. “So what was the goal?”

“What?” he asks.

“Were you going to sleep with me and then dip?”

He sighs. He understands that you’re upset with what he’s done and doesn’t expect you to forgive him. He isn’t sure if he forgives himself. “No, it wasn’t like that,” he explains. “I just…I knew you wouldn’t have liked me if…you knew who I was.”

“And who were you? Hm??” You give him a pointed glare.

“Nobody,” he replies softly.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment before Liam packs up the supplies for the fuel. “That should last us awhile,” he says.

The two of you get back into the car and resume driving.

“I wish you had given me a chance,” you say as you turn to Liam. “To know you, the real you, not the person you pretended to be.”

“Let’s be honest, you wouldn’t have given me that chance,” he replies.

“You don’t know that,” you quip. “Stop being afraid. Not like we have anything better to do so you might as well drop the act.”

There’s the hint of a smile on his face.

“….you don’t actually like Turkish Delight do you?” you ask, referring to one of the things he learned about you.

Liam sighs. “Does anyone?”

You chuckle. “Not many people do, I suppose.”

“You may very well be the only person left alive that enjoys it,” he chuckles. “More for you.”

You laugh.

The two of you continue the drive getting to know each other; no lies and no more subterfuge. Only the truth.

I hope you liked it!!

#fear lounge 2023 #liam black #liam black x reader #liam black smut #david robey x reader #david robey #andy serkis fanfiction

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stargirlfics · 1 year ago

Text

works in progress

a little peek into some pieces i’m working on lately, hoping to share them with you all soon! 🌟

Ultraviolence (dark!lloyd hansen x black f!reader)

Pushing Lloyd’s buttons like the sweet angel you are (dark fic)

És Lo Qué Quiero (alfred pennyworth x black latina reader)

Love confessions by the fireplace

Slow Dancing In The Dark (alfred pennyworth x black f!reader)

Trying not to fall for the older man you can’t have

Sweat (alfred pennyworth x black f!reader)

You’ve been taking things slow but now your desires boil over

Fade Into You (joel miller x black f!reader)

The one where you get Joel to be vulnerable

Cat Got Your Tongue? (bruce wayne x selina kyle)

Stolen diamonds and a little game of chase on Halloween night

Hunger of the Pine (vampire!alfred pennyworth x black f!reader)

A wintery walk through the gardens of Wayne Manor

Fright Night (slasher!frank castle x black f!reader)

The sweet next door neighbor comes over to keep a very bad man company

Soft Pink Matter (alfred pennyworth x black f!reader)

Sharing an edible turns into an earth shattering experience

Worthy is the Lamb (david robey x black f!reader)

He spots you and decides he wants you all for himself (dark fic)

The Gentleman Chapter 7: This Heart of Mine (alfred pennyworth x black dancer!reader)

Directly after the events of Scarecrow’s fear toxin attack much hangs in an uncertain balance while other things become very clear for you and Alfred

I’m In The Mood For Love (alfred pennyworth x black f!reader)

Fake Dating AU - “Won’t you help me? Please?” (for @/targaryenvampireslayer’s Blind Date Writing Challenge)

Imagine Being Loved By Me (carmy x sydney) The Bear fanfic

#amalia writes #works in progress #txt. 💌

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tarrensbookmarks · 1 year ago

Text

The Gentleman by @stargirlfics Alfred Pennyworth x Black!Female!Dancer!Reader

I Want You To Show Me Weak by @tarabyte3 Kino Loy x Female!Reader

The Devil Makes Us Sin by @tarabyte3 David Robey x Female!Reader

Salvation is a Deep Dark Well by @citrus-moonlight Ulysses Klaue x Female!Reader

Dream Within A Dream Week by @moonlight-prose Works based on F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hozier sentence starters

Twelve Days of Amymas by @amywritesthings Holiday event with twelve one shots

Into the Fire by @eupheme Cooper Howard x Female!Reader

#cooper howard x reader #tarren's bookmarks #fic recs #tarren reads #alfred pennyworth x reader #kino loy x reader #david robey x reader #ulysses klaue x reader

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tarabyte3 · 8 months ago

Note

Bestieeee all your WIP titles have me so intrigued! They’re so poetic! I’m really interested in “And Your Heart, Love, Has Such Darkness” 👀 do I detect some angst?!

Amalia!! Thank you 🥺 And I'm so happy you asked about that one. And Your Heart, Love, Has Such Darkness is the David Robey x Reader smutty, romantic oneshot that I've been working on for over a year! Here's a little snippet 💖

David doesn't hug you back. He keeps his arms out to either side of you and continues working on his phone, which is being held high behind you now to give him an unobstructed view. You know he isn't ignoring you, though. If he were, you wouldn't be in his lap at all.

This is all you intend for it to be because you just wanted to snuggle into him and enjoy the intimacy for a little while, like a cat seeking affection.

Except…under your silk robe, your bare core is directly over him. And god, he smells good. The cologne he wears is, surprisingly, far less ostentatious than he is. Clean linen, musk, and something deep and rich that reminds you of a storm.

You nuzzle further into his neck, seeking more of his scent. His warmth. How solid he feels in your arms. The way his chest presses into yours as he inhales, and the tickle of his breath along your shoulder as he lets it out—each sensation leaves you nearly full of him.

Nearly.

Suddenly it's not nearly enough.

Gently, slowly, your hips start to rock over his lap. All the while, you kiss and nip and gasp along his skin. It doesn't take long until there's a twitch of interest against your arousal.

"Needy, are we?" He finally mumbles, distracted.

"For you?" You smile into his neck. "Always."

"Well, you're going to have to wait just one more minute, darling. I'm working.”

"But David," you protest. Then you lean in close, lowering your voice and letting your lips graze the shell of his ear, "I'm wet for you now."

There's a low growl in his chest that you feel more than you hear.

"Is that so?” You can picture the mocking grin without even seeing his face, and a shiver rolls through you. “You and I both know you can do better than that. Tell me when you're drenched."

#asks #ask game #fanfiction #my wips #david robey x reader #divider by saradika-graphics #amalia #thank you so much beloved! 💖

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tarabyte3 · 8 months ago

Note

If no one else has asked yet I was also curious about “I Didn't Want to Hurt You, but You're Pretty When You Cry” because ohh that title caught my eye and I’m imagining so many possibilities! 🧠💕

Aaahhhh Amalia, thank you! 💖🥰 You managed to pick my other David WIP this time!! Apparently he calls to you. 😂😏 This is the dark fic where Reader is kidnapped by David, discovers he's been stalking her, and that he has no plans to ever let her go.

Hiding the snippet behind a cut. CW for horror themes, stalking, potential home invasion, kidnapping, and feelings of dread and fear.

In the movies, people always come to consciousness slowly. They're groggy, too, as if the drug or their wound is still waving the allure of oblivion over them. As if it's an embrace they need to slip out of.

Not you, though. You come to violently, knowing something is wrong, and that the last thing you remember had been wrong as well.

It’d been late. Middle of the night late. You've always been a terrible sleeper, though, so you were still awake, mindlessly scrolling through your phone in your bedroom.

Then you’d heard a noise.

It sounded like the cover of your record player being lowered with a thump. Which was odd because you always keep it closed when you're not using it.

You should have called the cops then. You’ve seen so many horror movies and watched so much true crime. You know better. Hell, you always thought you would do better. But you were so confused that you didn't think. You pulled your covers back, got out of bed, walked to the door, and headed down the hall.

You're starting to understand how all of those documentaries get made in the first place.

#asks #ask game #fanfiction #david robey x reader #divider by saradika graphics #amalia #i appreciate you so much my dear 💕

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tarabyte3 · 1 year ago

Text

‼️ All fics have an explicit rating ‼️ 18+ only

Bold = Completed | Italics = In Progress

Reprieve

Kino Loy finds reprieve in his memories every night while lying in his prison cell.

Wake Up, Look Me in the Eyes Again | 3.2k | Kino Loy x M!Reader

Alone in your cell, you have to do something to get Kino Loy out of your head. Unfortunately, he catches you. Or rather, very fortunately, as luck would have it.

Wants, Needs, and Clerical Errors | 22.9k | Kino Loy x F!Reader

Playlist

You're only on Narkina 5 due to a mistake on your transfer paperwork and no one in charge seems to care. The work is horrific and being the only woman there is a nightmare, but Kino Loy is... intriguing. Okay, he's hot. He's very hot.

I Want You to Show Me Weak | 104k | Kino Loy x F!Reader

Chapter 25 | Playlist

You're pretty sure Kino Loy hates you. He screams at you, grabs you, and shoves you against the wall, and it's becoming a problem because, well...it shouldn't fluster you as much as it does.

Remember You Are Half Water | 7.3k | Kino Loy x F!Reader

Drowning is easy. It's surviving that's hard. Or: After the prison break, you and Kino hide out on Narkina 5.

Untitled Series | Trainer!Kino Loy x F!Reader

[Coming soon!]

The Devil Makes Us Sin | 38.2k | David Robey x F!Reader

Chapter 4 | Playlist

Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and at least it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content. At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

And Your Heart, Love, Has Such Darkness | David Robey x F!Reader

[Coming Soon!]

The Fear Has Gripped Me, but Here I Go | 13.4k | F!Reader x Liam Black

Playlist

It was so easy to develop a crush on Liam Black. He's sweet, handsome, funny, and all of your conversations feel effortless. How could you not? Maybe it was too easy because you're starting to fall a little deeper and you can't stop calling him whenever you need a taxi.

#masterlist #fic masterlist #fanfiction #kino loy #kino loy x reader #david robey #david robey x reader #liam black #liam black x reader #reprieve #wake up look me in the eyes again #wants needs and clerical errors #i want you to show me weak #the devil makes us sin #the fear has gripped me but here i go #andy serkis #x reader

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tarabyte3 · 2 years ago

Text

The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 3/? (10.1k words)

->start at chapter 1<-

<- Chapter 2

AO3 Link

Playlist

Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

A/N: First: New warnings in the tags! There are details about previous workplace sexual harassment discussed in this chapter. Those details include unwanted touching of the arm and back, as well as unwanted comments from a superior (no specific comments are listed). Second: HI, I'VE MISSED YOU ALL. And I've been writing! 😏

Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from "I Await the Devil's Coming" by Mary MacLane. Text divider 1 is from Alessandro Magnasco's Interrogations in Jail. Text divider 2 is from Clément-Auguste Andrieux's Allegory of Death.

Also I've done some improvements on the way I'm handling chapter collages from now on.

Chapter 3 - My Life is Longing for the Sight of You

The next day, you show up to work in black heeled boots, tight black pants, and a silky black camisole. You had a black blazer as well, but it's currently hanging on the back of your chair. The removal of it is what tied the statement of your outfit together, in your opinion. Which is, "I don't want to be here."

However, the temperature inside the building is surprisingly chilly and your arms have gooseflesh. Part of you suspects someone turned down the heat to force you to put the jacket back on because they were too cowardly to approach you directly. It's amazing how effective a simple no is to people that aren't used to hearing the word no. It makes them afraid of hearing it again. So you're toughing it out just in case you're correct. Because you're enjoying seeing how far you can push them and you aren't about to give in now.

It's later in the afternoon, when you're feeling bored and scrolling absentmindedly on your work computer, that David sends you a photo.

There's no message and it isn't a selfie. But it is a picture. One taken from a balcony seating area—likely for a fancy restaurant or bar based on a table in the background—looking out over the city. In the bottom of the photo is a pair of crossed legs and feet propped up on a small footrest, as if the person taking the photo was leaning back slightly and relaxing when they snapped it. They're wearing fitted navy pants and very expensive looking brown oxford dress shoes. You stare at in confusion for a moment until—

It's him, you realize.

Those are his legs.

Which means he took a photo in the middle of his day, from his current point of view, and sent it to you. Unprompted. And he let you see a part of him. Only from the knees down, but it's still more than you had before.

You stare at the photo greedily, barely taking in the lovely view, as if his shins and feet might reveal something about him. Other than the fact that his shoes alone probably cost as much as your entire wardrobe.

You wonder if he's watching your face as you look at it. If he can see the shock and delight in your expression. You wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to see your reaction, so you smile into the camera. Just in case.

You send him a selfie back of you leaning your elbow on your desk with your chin in your hand and staring at your work computer in boredom.

Then you text him, "Your view is much better than mine."

Arguable. Mine doesn't have you in it.

Fascinating search results, by the way. Any particular reason you're looking at beds?

You flush with embarrassment as you read his message and remember what you'd been doing before he messaged you. Which is finally looking into replacing your old bed. You'd been so distracted by the photo, you'd completely forgotten. But of course he noticed.

"Yeah, my mattress is ancient and uncomfortable, and now I can afford a new one. It's called research."

I see. A king is awfully large for just one person.

The blush deepens, stoking to embers, and begins to radiate through your chest. There's a corresponding quiver of interest in your core. "I'm spoiling myself because I deserve it. Though I see your point. It might feel terribly lonely lying there all by myself."

You should get a big teddy bear to keep you company :)

You stare in indignation at your phone. He…he did not. Well so much for trying to flirt! And a smiley face of all things? God, he's infuriating.

"Maybe I will!"

You angrily toss your phone face down onto your desk and go back to scrolling. You're just as unfocused as before, but you're much more alert with irritation now. You'd think he'd want to flirt with you, but apparently he can't help himself when he sees an opportunity to get a rise out of you. And you gave him exactly what he wanted, you think to yourself.

It only takes a few minutes before you're glancing down at your phone again. He hasn't texted you first since he…well, since he blackmailed and threatened you. So that makes this new and interesting. It also expands whatever this is beyond just your computer. Makes it feel more real. It also means he was going about his day, thought about you, and wanted to share. It's almost sweet.

But was that his intention? To be sweet? Is he trying to woo you now rather than just make you a horny wreck? Or was there a reason? Something in the background you should have noticed that you were too distracted to see? Because you recognized one of the buildings just from having lived here so long, but it's nowhere near your apartment or work. It's a much nicer section of town that you rarely frequent—on your salary? Please. So there doesn't seem to be anything of importance about the area. Which means maybe he was just thinking about you.

Or—and this one seems most likely—he wanted to make sure you were thinking about him. And what better way to get your attention than including something as harmless as his feet in the photo. 'Well, it worked, didn't it?' You think.

With a frustrated sigh you pick your phone back up. There haven't been any new messages from him, which means he's probably very pleased with himself.

"You seem like you're having a relaxing afternoon."

I finished a meeting and now I'm enjoying myself.

"Business or pleasure?"

Business. My pleasurable meetings look much different.

"Do you have many pleasurable meetings?"

FAR fewer than I would like.

As you're trying to figure out a saucy reply he can't be an ass about, he sends you another photo. This one's of an elegant tumbler—likely made of crystal by the look of it—with a bit of dark amber liquid at the bottom. And it's being tilted and held by a hand for the camera.

His hand.

It's a photo of his hand.

You nearly drop your phone as your grip weakens from the shock, but you quickly regain control of it. Then you practically shove the screen to your nose to look, eagerly devouring another breadcrumb he's given you. And if you also zoom in to examine it more closely, who could really blame you?

He has lightly tanned skin, well groomed nails, and thick fingers, all of which are intriguing enough on their own. But what really catches your eye is the masculine swath of hair on the back of his hand that disappears up his wrist and into the edge of the photo. You also can't help but notice that it's definitely the hand of an older man. Which, for you, is not a deal breaker. In fact, it only intrigues you further. And god, the way he's holding that glass—gripping the sides with his pointer finger resting on the rim—is so casual and erotic.

You imagine those hands typing out every single thing he's ever said to you, moving expertly over his keyboard or the touchscreen of his phone. You imagine him looking at your picture as that hand unzips his pants, seeking to find release at the sight of you.

The thought of him in motion causes the dam within you to finally burst. Now you're very fucking turned on and left squirming and fantasizing about it in your cubicle.

You can't deny you want that hand on you. You want to discover how strong it is, to feel his touch along your face, and see just how gentle or rough he would be. You want to learn all the pain and pleasure that hand has caused while it's between your legs and drawing moans out of you.

Jesus, if this is what seeing just his hand does to you, what would seeing the rest of him do?!

"Whiskey?"

Close. Scotch.

"Looks satisfying. I bet it would warm me up nicely right now." You send the text with a very self satisfied, if a little sweaty, smile on your face. Because though you had been freezing before, you're practically radiating heat now.

It would.

"Yeah? I would love to get my lips on it and savor it on my tongue."

I would share if you were here with me.

"Oh, I don't know if that would be such a good idea. I make a lot of noise when I'm enjoying something."

Hmm. We can't have that, now, can we? And I certainly wouldn't want you to hold back. I suppose it's something better enjoyed with some privacy, then.

"I would like that."

Would you?

You stare at your phone.

You know what he's asking under the layers of flirting and innuendo. And it's not if you would enjoy a drink with him. It's if you've made up your mind about whether or not you would enjoy him. If your answer has changed since last night.

You also know you only have seconds to respond before he takes the break between messages as hesitation. And isn't that exactly what this is? You're absolutely hesitating. Because you still have so many questions to ask him first!

But you've seen something physical now. Tangible pieces of him that are coming together to wrap themselves around the frame of a personality that you've gotten better at reading, even through text. It's not a whole picture—of course it's not—but it's like seeing a figure take shape as it's being sculpted from a block of marble.

"Soon, I should think. I'm starting to find a lot of reasons to say yes."

In that case, I'm looking forward to our chat tonight.

"So am I. I should be home in about 2 hours."

I'll be waiting.

Also, if you're already spoiling yourself, I'm a big fan of silk sheets, personally.

You let out a distressed noise and do your best to steady your hands long enough to type out, "I'll keep that in mind."

Before the end of the day, you head into your boss's office to let him know you're using the last of your vacation days next week, so you'll only be in on Monday. Which would make that your last day instead. Which also means you only have two more days left in that hellhole before you're truly free.

You can tell he wants to say no to you—is actively working up the courage to do just that—so you fix him with an unimpressed stare.

"I am still entitled to those days, and I have no other time to schedule them. I'm also giving you more than the company's required forty eight hours notice. I'm not seeing the conflict."

"That sounds like poor planning on your part and therefore not my problem," he says, dismissively, barely sparing you a glance. "No."

"Would you prefer if I involved HR in the discussion? For your comfort, of course." To your delight, he finally looks up at you. "After all, I did have some emails I've been meaning to forward them before I leave anyway. It would save me so much time!" There's a cheerful, false innocence to your tone that makes him flinch.

"There's no need," he replies curtly. "The matter is settled."

"Of course." You shift on your feet. "How's your wife, by the way? I haven't spoken to her since the company holiday party. Such a delightful woman. It might be lovely to catch up with her some day." You let the threat hang in the air.

You can see the moment he relents. The way his shoulders sag with defeat and acceptance. You're going to vividly remember that moment for a very long time. "Fine. You may have your days off. Anything else?"

"Nope!" You smirk at him in triumph as he glowers back at you. You're almost sad that the conversation is over so you can't push him further. However, as you move to leave, you get an idea of how to do exactly that. You stop and turn back to him, trying to keep the excitement from creeping onto your face. "Actually, if you prefer, tomorrow could be my last day instead."

He stares at you with all the anger and irritation that has been building up inside of him the past several days. The exact vitriol you've been deliberately fueling. The sight of it makes your heart pound, but not in fear like it might have once. You're elated. You wanted this confrontation—to meet him on even ground for the first time. You don't have to put up with his bullshit and his creepy attention. You don't have to walk on eggshells, straddling that line between rejecting his advances and not pissing him off for fear that he might fire you. And he hates that you aren't that person anymore. Because that person he could control and take advantage of. But you? That he cannot touch. And, as you stare, bold and unbowed back at him, you can tell he knows it.

"I can do you one better. You're free to go and not return at all, if you'd like. Your time here is done," he says through gritted teeth.

"I do like! Thank you!" You grin at him. "But one more thing before I go." The smile falls from your face, as if hadn't been there at all. You fix him with a thin lipped, hate filled glare as you take three controlled steps forward so you're towering over his desk. Even though he's on the other side of it, he leans away in surprise. When you speak again, your voice comes out pure venom—harsh and dangerous.

"You are a small, pathetic man. You hide how weak you are by flexing your power over the people beneath you because it brings you joy to feel in control. But you aren't, no matter how much you pretend to be. You're still weak. You should be ashamed of your behavior. I'll be glad to go the rest of my life never having your offensive hands on me again. I should have ripped them off for your audacity. You're not worthy of touching me so how dare you ever think you had the privilege, let alone the right." You lean in closer. "You disgust me. Someday you will fall from the grace you exploit, and my only regret is that I won't be here to see you hit the ground when you do." Then you straighten up and casually brush out your blazer. He stares up at you, pale and speechless, with his mouth agape in shock. "No need for an escort. I can see my own way out."

You leave his office feeling high and weightless from the pleasure of finally getting to tell him the truth about what you truly think of him. You haven't felt like this since one of your streams, but this is that feeling magnified. Because, despite your similar disdain for them, in a way those men had been stand-ins. Now you got to say all of it directly to him and without hiding. It seeps, distilled into your belly and your chest and spreads to your fingertips and down to your toes.

It's intoxicating.

When you walk through the door to your flat, you only stop to lock it behind you. Then you scurry towards the bedroom, tossing your purse to the floor, shedding your blazer, and pulling your boots off one at a time as you go, leaving a discarded trail behind you. You head straight for the chair.

You aren't nervous about clicking the link this time. You're excited. The anticipation has been building up inside of you all day, and it only got worse after his texts. You're looking forward to learning more about him and seeing what he has to say. To you, about you—all of it. You don't even stop to consider whether or not you feel ashamed or concerned or scared this time. Or whether or not you should be.

Why should you be? You're capable. Smart. Perceptive—you've even caught him off guard a few times already, and you're confident he liked it. That it's part of what drew him to you in the first place. So if he is luring you into some kind of trap, you're looking for the wires and watching where you step. You don't think he is, though. Or at the very least, you believe him when he said the thing he wanted out of it was you.

Is it still a trap if you walk into it willingly and give him what he wants? If you offer yourself up in consecration? Because you plan on doing just that—the sacrificial lamb yearning for the wolf's jaws. You're prepared to receive his sacrament, just to see how much you might enjoy it.

Really, now the only question left is when.

As the site loads, you hold your breath until you see that black box waiting there for you in the corner of the screen. Then the air and tension bleed out of you in a sigh, leaving an eager thrill behind.

You smile into the camera. "Hello, David."

I could get used to that.

"Used to what?" You notice he changed his username to his name, rather than the ridiculous one he had before.

You, pleased to see me.

"I suppose you should continue to please me, then." You let slip a small grin.

I plan to.

"Oh? Then I'm even further pleased to hear it."

How pleased?

"Ah, but that would be telling. Where's the fun in that?"

I see I'm creating a monster.

"You really have no one to blame for this but yourself," you laugh. "But don't pretend you aren't enjoying it immensely."

I am. Immensely.

Did you miss me?

"I did a bit, yeah." Your cheeks grow warm at the admission. One which is actually an understatement.

You're not usually the sentimental or mushy type. In fact, you usually find that part of dating—if that's what you can even call this—to be frustrating. You kept your partners at arm's length in the past. To the point they inevitably accused you of being cold and distant. 'Another form of survival,' you realize. You couldn't let any of them close enough to see, otherwise they might accuse you of being worse. Now it's mortifying to know how much you really did miss him, and how quickly you've ended up here. Because all of this is new.

Good.

"Hearing from you this afternoon helped, though."

I'll have to remember that.

"I hope you do. And for the record," you glance up at the camera through your eyelashes as you lean in closer, "I was never talking about the Scotch."

Neither was I.

It WAS good Scotch, though.

"It wasn't nice to send me those photos while I was at work, but it was nice to get them." In a lower voice you add, "I liked seeing glimpses of you."

Did you?

"I did." Your blush runs hot as you remember every dirty fantasy you had about his hands on you for nearly an hour afterwards. How you had to stop looking at beds and silk sheets because it only made your affliction worse.

That's exactly why I sent them. I enjoyed the thought of you bothered at your desk.

"How do you know I was bothered?" You asked pointedly.

Are you denying it?

"Not at all. And you're not answering the question."

I told you. I like pressing your buttons. I've worked very hard to figure out what they are so I can do just that.

"I'm sure. And here I thought you just missed me, too." You give the camera a fake pout. "Cruel."

I never said I was a nice man.

"I suppose you haven't. And I suppose I wouldn't be so intrigued if you were."

This is also why I didn't want you distracted. Imagine if you'd had the freedom to respond to me.

Like you wanted to.

You suck in a breath and your eyes become heavy lidded at the implication. How would you have responded if you'd been at home? Well, you certainly would have flirted a lot harder. Or you would have sent a spicy selfie back to regain some power with the hope he might have given you just a little bit more of himself in return.

But you remember how worked up you got simply sitting there, thinking about him—and occasionally looking back at the photo. How you had crossed your legs and shifted uncomfortably while you tried not to squirm into your chair. Would you have…touched yourself? To the thought of him? The fantasy of his hands forces its way to the front of your mind. Of that casual pointer finger tracing along your jaw, and your body immediately responds with a slick, fluttering heat between your legs. You decide that, yes, you absolutely would have.

Wait…

Shit.

You suddenly realize that's what he actually means by responding to him. It's not texting back or being able to chat with him. He wants you to allow yourself to react to him. To get so worked up, so overcome with need, that you get off to the thought of him. Which you can't do at work. God, that's… 'tempting,' your mind offers.

"Well, I have some excellent news there." You try to tuck that realization away so you can regather your composure. For now. "Today was my last day at that shitty job. I don't have to go back to finish out the two weeks." Then, with a full understanding now of what it means, you add, "So no more distractions."

Is that so? That is excellent news.

How did you manage it? Or did you get bored of scrolling?

"No, I'm just very persuasive." You give the camera a smug look.

You are that.

"I also told my boss he was disgusting before I left. That felt fucking incredible," you nearly moan. "I've wanted to do that for years."

Then you've had a very good day so far.

"I really have," you say with a wistful smile.

However, as you think about why it felt incredible, the expression slowly falls from your face until it's replaced with a scowl. "He deserved far worse than what I gave him, though. That asshole used to stand behind me at my computer and touch my arm and back, or lean against me when he bent over to look at my screen. God, and he would try to get his face really close to mine, as if I might find it erotic or kiss him or something. I'd have to lean away in my chair for him to finally stop. He would also proposition me in his office and say suggestive things whenever he sent me an email because he was that confident in his ability to never face consequences. And he was right. He never did." You let out a disgusted sigh.

"When I was new, a couple of my coworkers complained to HR, and do you know what happened?" You don't wait for an answer. "All he had to do was watch a short video on sexual harassment. He never got a warning or written up. There was no follow up. Then they got fired for it. Not right away, but eventually the company found a bullshit reason to let them go, and soon there was someone new at their desk. We all knew the truth, though. That's why I never reported him. I knew it was pointless. It wasn't just him, either. It was several of the men that worked there. It's like they attracted men like him while the rest of them did nothing to stop it. We all learned quickly who to stay away from to avoid being easy prey."

By the time you're done talking, you're tense and clenching with anger. That place was a miserable, violating hellhole, and he was scum. You can't believe you put up with it for so long. You should have quit years ago! Why didn't you? Oh, right. Because men like that are easier to fool and distract so you didn't have to work as hard to blend in. Why would they care about your mask when your tits are right there?

You come out of your sudden rant and momentary introspection only to notice the chat box hasn't updated since his last message.

"David?" You call out. "Are you there?"

Nothing.

You wonder if your connection went bad as you were talking. Or if you've upset him by telling him all of those things and now he doesn't know what to say. If so, you can't really blame him. Once you started talking and finally got the chance to let it all out, you didn't hold back. Maybe you should have. How is anyone supposed to respond to that?

"Sorry, I didn't mean to dump all of that on you without warning. I know it's fucking horrible."

Not at all. I was just looking into something.

"Oh." There's a flicker of hurt in your chest. He'd been multitasking while you were talking? You know he never promised you his full attention, you just kind of assumed you would have it. Especially when you were opening up. Maybe…maybe that assumption was a miscalculation on your part. Maybe some truths are more important to him than others.

I'm sure walking out of there after all of that felt liberating.

"It did."

That's good.

"Indeed." You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes because he seems…off. Or at least not prepared with a response or comment like he usually is, which sets off alarm bells in your mind. "Is everything alright?"

No.

"Oh. I—" You cut yourself off when you see another response pop up on screen.

I'm furious.

"About my job?" You ask, both hopeful and uncertain after thinking he was distracted. Maybe he had been paying some attention after all.

Yes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to ruin the—"

Stop apologizing.

You don't have to apologize to me for what he did.

"S—" You start and then stop yourself with a huff of frustration. "Damn. I suppose I still have a few bad habits to work through."

Would you like to know what I was looking up?

"Sure," you say, a bit wary. Because you assumed he was looking up something that had nothing to do with you. Now you aren't so sure.

Dirt.

"Dirt?" You furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

Everyone has a secret, don't they? Something they keep hidden from everyone else that they're ashamed of getting out.

You feel a wave of involuntary shame about your secret before you remind yourself you have nothing to be ashamed of. You never did. Just another form of survival. And one you chose at that. There's a certain kind of power in that knowledge. Besides, it led you to him, didn't it?

I'm looking for theirs. The truth that will hurt them back.

"Oh." You're left staring at your screen in shock. You aren't sure how to respond to that because you hadn't even considered retaliation to be an option. Nor had you stopped to consider that he could dig into other people the same way he dug into your life. But now, after the way he phrased it, you're suddenly confident you were far from his first time doing so. "Why?"

For doing that to you.

Your heart skips a beat. He's angry on your behalf. No one has ever been angry enough on your behalf to do something about it. Especially not something like…this. Between his willingness to dig up dirt on someone else, and everything else he's done, you realize now that he's not one for comforting words or condolences. He acts.

For you.

Okay, he might not be a nice man, but he is sweet. Sweet, of course, being a relative term, considering what he actually plans to do. Which should be objectively horrifying, but you only find yourself touched by his anger.

But this is for you, so I will only use it if you tell me to.

"Alright," you whisper, still stunned and overwhelmed by what he's offering you. It feels like you're being handed a loaded weapon, and it's pointed at someone you loathe. How easy it would be to pull that trigger. How easy it would be to let it happen. How tempting…

Would you like me to?

Would you? You're not sure. It depends on what he digs up and the collateral damage it would cause. Would it be something that forces the company to shut down? Would your coworkers lose their jobs? All because of you?

Or…wait. Do you even care if they do? Your instinct was to worry and feel guilty, almost like a reflex. But if you push past that and dig deeper, to the core of yourself, do you actually care?

While they weren't your boss, they didn't make your experience there good by any means. You couldn't grab lunch or a coffee without having to listen to them talk about something pointless. Or worse, they cornered you and talked at you when all you wanted was to be left alone. And you know it wasn't because they wanted to talk to you or because they cared about you. They cared about having an audience.

Besides, it's not your fault they were also victims. It's not on you to feel guilty. All you should be worrying about right now is yourself. So if you do care at all, it certainly doesn't outweigh the yearning for vengeance. You're certain they would retaliate if they weren't afraid. They would unleash that deep anger, too. You just happen to be the one that got lucky enough to actually do so.

"Do it," you growl out. "Make them pay."

That's my girl.

His girl. A pleasant flush spreads up your neck. That's the first time he's ever tried to lay claim to you, and he did it in a way that was easy and confident. Almost unassuming. If you were a less perceptive woman, the implication of it might have escaped your notice. Maybe he was hoping it would.

Now the question becomes: Are you going to let him have that claim? Are you going to let him think of you as his? The idea sends desire coiling through your belly, and you know you're not only going to let him, you're going to embrace it. Because you like it. You want it.

Look at yourself right now. Look at how beautiful you are.

You stare at yourself on the screen. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips are parted in a pant, and your eyes are wide with hunger and excitement. There's a cruel, satisfied curl to your mouth. It almost looks like a snarl trying to blossom on your face.

You look beautiful and terrible.

What are you feeling?

"I feel…" Your gaze wanders around the room as you try to find a way to put the immensity of it into words. "I feel powerful. As though everything I once feared can no longer touch me. And I feel ravenous, like I want more of that." You close your eyes to help you focus deeper inward. "I feel almost high off of it. I got the same feeling on camera and when I towered over my boss and made him feel small. It's a rush. A euphoria. And...I feel pleased. Grateful." You open your eyes and glance seductively into the camera. "A little turned on."

It feels good, doesn't it?

"Good?!" There's a note of hysteria to the laughter that bubbles out of you. "David, it feels fucking amazing! I've never felt like this before."

I told you I planned to continue pleasing you.

"God, yes you did. And you certainly have." You let out a sigh and your expression softens. "I don't know how to convey my gratitude. You've done so much for me, I…"

No, none of that. I assure you, doing so is my pleasure. And you have my word that I'll go back to digging later. But right now, I have you here on my screen and I'm not about to waste another moment of it.

Especially not when you look so lovely.

"Thank you." You give the camera a coy smile. "I enjoy your flattery."

It's not flattery, it's the truth.

"Well, I enjoy it, nonetheless."

Speaking of the truth, I have a question for you.

"What's that?" You lean forward, suddenly interested.

Were you upset when I told you I'd been looking into something?

'Shit,' you think as you bite at your bottom lip in hesitation. You hoped he hadn't noticed, but of course he fucking noticed. "I was."

Why?

"I got emotional talking about my job, that's all." You shrug in an attempt to brush it off as nothing, hoping he'll accept that.

You're side stepping the question.

But of course he didn't. "That's because it's silly and not worth bringing up."

I beg to differ.

"Fine," you sigh in defeat. "I just…I thought you had been working on something unrelated while I was talking, and I guess it hurt my feelings. But like I said, it wasn't a rational response. I was already upset."

Did you think I wasn't paying attention while you were being honest?

"Yes. I know now you were, obviously. That's why it was ridiculous."

And why would the thought that I wasn't paying attention hurt your feelings?

"Because…" You trail off and your hands begin to fidget in your lap. You know he's asking you to be vulnerable again and that makes you uncomfortable. There are some truths that are still difficult to say out loud. But you also know now he's going to get you to admit it anyway, so you may as well get it over with. "Because I wanted you to listen. I wanted you to...want to listen. But I realized you never promised me your full attention and I shouldn't just expect it. That was unfair of me."

Hmm. I think there's been some miscommunication and it's my fault. Because you're making assumptions about me and what I want, which means I haven't been clear enough.

Your heart sinks. "No, some of that is my fault for making those assumptions in the first place."

Let me finish.

"Alright." There's tension in your shoulders and ice in your veins as you brace yourself for him to confirm that you shouldn't expect it.

I want you to be honest with me.

"I have been," you protest softly.

No. I don't mean tell me the truth.

I want you to be honest WITH me. Do you understand?

You blink in confusion as you try to process the difference between those two, almost identical statements. "I...don't quite think I do."

I realize now that I've made it seem as though I wanted to see you without your mask just because your complexity makes you more physically attractive. I won't deny that it does. You know that I want you. I want to see your naked body right here on my screen. I want to watch you pleasure yourself for me while I get off to it. Then I want to run my hands along every inch of you. I want to kiss you, and I want to fuck you so hard and so deep neither of us can speak. I want that. I want to take you and claim you as mine.

"Jesus, David," you whimper. As you read all the things he wants from you—your mind supplying you with the corresponding images and phantom sensations of each one—you can feel the responding heat and lust swelling urgently between your thighs. It leaves your sex throbbing painfully against the crotch of your tight pants, which had seemed like such a good idea that morning. You shift your hips, both needing to ease the pressure and seeking more of it against the damp cloth.

By the time you're done reading, the need is radiating up your torso, causing a violent fluttering in your belly. And there's a new paragraph for you to read.

You swallow hard, unsure how you can endure more.

But it's not all I want. I told you I see something in you that mirrors something in me. What I didn't say is that I've never seen that reflection before. I've never found the possibility of understanding or of being seen back. That's why you intrigue me so much.

People bore and disgust me, too, but you? God, you are something entirely different. I desire the truth of you because I desire what I see inside of you just as much as what I see on the outside.

It's not butterflies in your stomach. It's a flock of starlings—a twisting mass, swirling and diving through your guts on a thousand sets of wings. It aches just as much as your arousal does.

So I'll state it now so you never doubt me again.

You will always have my full attention because I can't look away from you. The more you shed your mask and grow into your own skin, the harder it's getting to remember anything else matters. I also want to listen to you. Every word, but especially when you're being honest. And I didn't say it earlier, but I missed you today, too. Because I missed you before you even spoke to me. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I found you. My obsession with you has driven me nearly mad. You've ruined me for anything that isn't you. That's how much I want all of you.

Now do you understand? I want you to be mine in every way it's possible to want someone. I want you completely.

"Yes," you breathe out automatically, your voice barely audible. "I understand now."

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel your sternum pulse and flex with every beat. You wonder if he can see it. You hope he can. You hope he can see the way he's left you breathless—your shoulders heaving as you desperately try to fill your lungs. The way your bottom lip trembles with every inhale.

You hope he can see all of that so he knows how affected and enraptured you are by him because you don't know what the fuck to say. That was the hottest and most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you. And it was said by a man that stalked you. A man you've never even seen before. It's as if he exists in your periphery and you can never turn your head fast enough to catch him.

"God, David. I'm…" You trail off helplessly.

You're what?

"Overwhelmed," you blurt out.

I won't apologize for it because that was my intention. Now you won't forget a word of it.

Will you?

"No. I don't think I could. No one's ever said even half of those things to me before."

That's a pity. You deserve to hear it.

But I won't deny that I'm also glad no one has. That the privilege has been mine and mine alone.

"Will you turn your camera on? Please," you beg, uncaring about how desperate you sound. "I need to see you."

No.

You let out a noise of frustration. "Why not? After everything you just said to me, I still don't get to see your face?"

I want to be able to look into your eyes the first time you see me.

"Fuck," you whimper. Now you can't even be angry anymore because he somehow made it even more romantic and devastatingly sexy. You take in a deep calming breath, which helps your nerves somewhat, but there's still a quiver in your voice when you continue. "If I'm being honest, the thought of that terrifies me at the moment."

Why?

"Because it makes me feel vulnerable in a way I've never felt before. Like no matter how much clothing I'm wearing, I'm still naked because you strip me bare. And that's just through text." You shake your head in disbelief. "Everything you've said to me, every light you've shone on my dark corners, it's as if the whole of me is being seen for the first time. Even though that part of me is this…unused, wretched thing, I can't stay in the dark anymore. I can't stand it. So I can't help but wonder how much more overwhelming it would be to stand in front of you and have your full attention."

Does that mean you're done hesitating?

"Am I?" You wonder out loud, as much to yourself as to him. "You're still such a mystery to me, but after that, I realize I don't care. I want to know you. Though," a puff of laughter leaves your lips, "in a strange way I feel like I already do. It's as if I'm living with a ghost. I can see you without seeing you. I'm always aware of you now no matter what I'm doing. You haunt me, David, and I can't stop thinking about you either. So, even though it scares me, for the first time in my life I actually want to be vulnerable. With you. For you."

You reach for the strap of your cami, intending to slide it off your shoulder—wanting to push it off and let the shirt pool around your waist. You want to bare more of yourself to him. You want him to see. Because, god help you, you realize you want all of that, too. In a way you've never felt before. Like a constant yearning clawing its way from your belly, up into your throat, choking you with it. And you don't know what that means, but you want it.

However, before your hand can even touch the fabric, your phone buzzes loudly on the desk next to you, causing the whole surface to vibrate.

You'd been so focused—so entirely consumed by him, that the sudden noise startles you. You look at it, baffled by the interruption, as it continues to rattle the desk. Then you realize: Someone's calling you. No, not someone. Your stomach sinks as you stare down at your screen in horror.

It's your mother.

"Fuck," you hiss. You scramble to pick up the phone and mute the ringer. At the very least, you need the vibrating to stop so you can have a second to fucking think.

As you hold it, your hands tremble. You're full of adrenaline from being startled and from seeing the caller ID. You're also fraught with violent emotion from the conversation you were having, as well as nerves from what you had been moments away from doing. You were going to take that next leap. You wanted to take it. With him. Instead you'd been interrupted.

You don't believe in fate, but you certainly believe in your mother's ability to ruin something, even unknowingly.

But why is she calling you? She can't possibly know what happened today, you tell yourself. How would she even find out? So she isn't calling to scold you or berate you. Probably. About this, anyway. There's still the likelihood of some perceived slight. What does she want then? After only half a second's hesitation, you send her to voicemail. Because you really don't fucking care either way. Let her stew. You mute your ringer for good measure.

Is something wrong?

"No, nothing." In your distraction, the lie comes—involuntary—out of your mouth.

I wouldn't even need to hear your voice to know that you're lying.

You wince and look back up at the camera. "You're right, I realized the moment I said it. I apologize, that wasn't intentional. It's just…" You struggle to find the words to make him understand. Then you realize you don't have any to convey what you're feeling or why you're feeling it, so you settle for blunt honesty instead. "It was my mother."

Do you need to leave?

"No!" You immediately protest. "Absolutely not!"

Alright.

Then is that something else you would want to talk about?

"It—" You cut yourself off before you can say anything more. Because god, that's a whole different can of worms you haven't looked at too closely yet. It's the mess in the corner you've been trying to pretend doesn't exist because you know sorting through it will be exhausting. Now you're running out of excuses to continue leaving it, and, in doing so, are letting the fear of it win.

"I think that's something I still have to work through somewhat on my own and come back to later. Besides, right now I get to talk to you and I'm not about to waste a moment of it." You smile softly as you echo his words back to him.

I'm glad to hear that.

Your heart is still pounding and your fingers still itch to take your shirt off. Instead you sit there and try to pretend none of that is happening.

What would you like to talk about now then? Any new revelations?

Or perhaps any new decisions?

You blush at the question. You suspect he could tell exactly what you were about to do because he sees you so clearly—and you still want to. Fuck, do you still want to. However, after the emotional turbulence you just went through, your mind is in turmoil despite what your body wants. And when you take that next step, you want to be deep in that moment again. You want your mind and body focused entirely on him.

"I think you were just privy to my biggest revelation. Which is that I rather like the thought of vengeance." You try to give the camera a playful grin to lighten the mood.

It's a very human response to pain.

Relief washes over you as he decides to play along rather than push, even though you know it's likely a calculated move on his part rather than for your comfort. "So is guilt, but I don't feel any of that."

Did you when I first suggested it?

"I did."

Why?

"I'm not sure. Another habit, I suppose." You shrug. "I felt like I should feel guilty because other people could get hurt. Then I realized those assholes getting what they deserve would always have collateral damage. Being afraid of it has probably stilled too many hands already. And I realized I simply don't care. It's not my fault, and I don't owe them anything." Saying it out loud causes you to wince. "That's probably terrible, isn't it?"

No. I think you may be surprised by how often the guilt many people feel is actually just shame for the absence of guilt. Once again, the only difference is honesty.

"Well, I'm currently feeling neither."

That's good. There's no reason you should. Our sense of morality is a societal concept. Shame is taught, but it can be unlearned.

"Once I realized that, it was an easy decision to make."

What do you hope happens with all of it? What outcome do you want most of all?

You glance up to stare directly into the camera, your expression vengeful and determined. "I want that place to burn, and I want every moment of it to hurt."

God, you're incredible.

Then I'll do my best to give you that.

"I have every confidence you will. I can attest to how thorough you are." You raise an eyebrow in challenge.

You can, can't you?

You can feel his smirk through the screen. "You've done this before." It's not a question.

I have.

"Many times."

Yes. Does that bother you?

"Not really. It answers a few questions and raises a few more, though."

Such as?

"What is it that you do? You're rich, you're good with technology, and you…what, dig into and stalk people in your free time?"

Not exactly.

"What, then? Are you some sort of entrepreneur?"

You could say that, in a way. I used to work in the financial sector. It paid incredibly well, but didn't give me what I wanted. It did give me my start and teach me to be very talented with money, however. Now I invest in things that pique my interest. Sometimes that's new technology. Sometimes it's my own personal amusement.

Does that satisfy your curiosity?

"It does a bit, actually." It doesn't answer how he found you, but it's a start. You tilt your head as you consider the screen and lean in closer. "Is that why you were in a meeting?"

Yes. I was getting an update on a business proposal.

"What for?"

Are you actually curious or are you just being polite? Because I would hate to bore you.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know or if I thought I might get bored," you say honestly. Because you find that you actually do want to hear about it when it's coming from him. "I'm just trying to figure out who you are."

It was for an online security company.

And yes, I'm aware of the irony.

"I didn't say anything!" You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling. "I did think it immediately, however."

Investing in something like that has its uses. It opens up a lot of opportunities for me to do what I do. But I meant it when I said I don't want to bore you. It's not as interesting as it might seem, and I truly don't make a habit of discussing work. It's a means to an end and nothing more.

"Alright, then no work talk." You relax back into your chair.

I suppose we've both reached our quota for the evening, haven't we?

"That we most certainly have. Although…" Excitement washes over you as you remember something specific you wanted to ask him from earlier today. "I did think of a few more questions after you texted me at work."

Did you?

"I did. Because I'm still so very curious about you, David."

Then by all means, ask away.

You don't hesitate or stop to think. "How old are you?"

Ah, these kinds of questions.

"Indeed, these kinds of questions. I can't see you or hear your voice, so this is all I have to build my mental image of you until I can."

How old do you think I am?

"Based on your hands, I would guess in your fifties. No younger than late forties."

Because of my hands?

"Yes. I can tell the difference between a boy and a man. Prominent veins, slight wrinkles, variations in your skin tone."

Perhaps I should be self conscious.

"Don't be. I rather like your hands. They're just…very telling." You squirm slightly in your seat as you think about them again. And what exactly they might tell you in the future.

Then I'll be pleased instead.

Anything else you could tell from just photos?

"Your nails are very well groomed and your shoes are well polished, so I suspect you put the same amount of care into the rest of your appearance. And you have nice, but expensive tastes. Particularly in shoes." Then with a hint of a smile, you add, "Likely in alcohol as well."

Correct on all accounts. You're very astute.

"I am." You grin while trying not to think about how those observations were likely due to the amount of times you looked at the photos rather than due to being particularly astute. "In fact, I can't help but notice you haven't actually answered my question."

Clever.

I'm 58.

"Hmm, a little older than I would have guessed."

Does that bother you?

"Not even a little. I find older men to be far more attractive, and their experience more rewarding."

Is that so? How much experience do you imagine I have?

"Enough." You give the camera a flirty smile. "You're too charming not to have lived a little."

I've been called many things, but charming is rarely one of them.

"Perhaps they didn't deserve it. Or were too dull to notice." The expression on your face softens with affection. "I find you to be quite charming."

Do you find it odd that you find the man that blackmailed you charming?

"No," you reply without hesitation. "Should I?"

I'm sure most people would say yes. They may even call it alarming.

"I think we've established that we're not most people."

No. We're not.

"Besides, we both know it was more than blackmail."

Oh? What would you call it then?

Your lips curl in amusement. "Flirting."

How could threatening you possibly be considered flirting?

"You wanted to get my attention. To intrigue and seduce me. Sounds like flirting to me."

Well, when you put it that way.

There's a pause.

It worked, didn't it?

"It did. I'm very intrigued."

And what about seduced?

Your eyes flicker up to the camera lens. "I'm feeling rather seduced as well."

That's a relief. For a second I was worried that I may have to try harder.

You swallow as you wonder what that might look like. Your voice comes out sounding more distracted than you intend. "I certainly wouldn't protest if you did."

You wouldn't? Well, I'll have to keep that in mind.

Oh god. A small part of you can't help but wonder if you've just made a mistake. The rest of you, however, is practically writhing with anticipation in your chair.

But first I believe you had more questions for me.

"Oh." You blink. "Right. I did." Your mind races to think of any of them.

Perhaps more questions about my appearance?

You know he's smirking again behind his screen.

"There might have been a few more of those," you say defensively. "Can you blame me? I don't know what you look like. Makes it difficult to think about you."

We both know "think" isn't the correct word there, don't we? You can think about me all day long.

You want to fantasize about me.

Your face burns with embarrassment and thrill. "Fine. That's exactly what I want. It's hardly fair you have that luxury, but I don't. You get to see me and know what I look like. In fact, you've probably seen more of me than I realize."

Oh, I don't blame you one bit. I just want you to be honest with yourself about what you're asking.

And why.

You're flustered by his response, of course. How could you not be? He knows that you want to have explicit, dirty thoughts about him. And he wants you to admit to it out loud.

But there was something you said that's giving you pause: 'You've probably seen more of me than I realize.'

"David," You say calmly as you tilt your head in curiosity. "Have you only watched me through video? Or have you followed me as well?"

It takes several very long seconds for you to get a reply.

Well now, you are a very clever girl.

Your heart begins to pound as the realization settles over you. "You have, haven't you?"

I once sat in that coffee shop you visit. I watched you order a coffee. Then you stared out the window to watch the rain as you waited, not two meters from me.

Your mind races to examine every memory you have of waiting for your coffee on a rainy day, combing through any detail you can recall. But it's useless. You visit that coffee shop several times a week, and you always go on rainy days for a bit of comfort because walking in the rain is miserable. Even some of the baristas you see regularly are faceless in your memories. None of it seemed important at the time. Not important enough to commit to memory, anyway.

"Did I look at you?" You're nearly breathless at the thought that you may have laid eyes on him before. "Did I see you?"

No.

There's a pang in your chest. An inexplicable loss, like you missed something important. A thread of what might have been. "Did you want me to?"

Are you asking if I had hoped we might lock eyes across the shop and it would be love at first sight?

"I don't know! Not that, necessarily, but something. A lingering glance. A polite nod of acknowledgement, perhaps."

No. I didn't hope for anything. I only wanted to see you.

"God, David. You were right there and I just…"

Now are you bothered?

"Yes!" There's a mania in your voice you can't control that's bordering on hysteria. All of this is overwhelming. Not because it scares you, but because you know now there was a chance this could have happened months ago and didn't. All because you didn't look. "I'm bothered I didn't notice you."

It wouldn't have changed anything.

You know he's right. Even if you had looked at him and thought he was attractive, you wouldn't have approached him. You never do. It usually ruins the illusion. "I suppose not."

Still, you can't help but wonder if he would have been different. If you would've felt pulled to him somehow, as though a part of you would have just known what he could awaken in you simply by looking at him.

"Did you think I was beautiful?" You ask quietly.

You were stunning. I could hardly take my eyes off of you.

You let out a pained sob as you read his response.

"Was it thrilling?" You're leaning in now, eager to read more, even if it hurts. "Being that close to me while I had no idea you were watching?"

Yes.

"Did you want to touch me?"

Desperately.

"This is torture," you groan.

How do you think it felt to see you?

And not touch you.

You imagine him chasing you out into the rain. Him, grabbing your arm as you turn in surprise, ready to yell at him to let go until you see his face. Him, pushing you against the brick building and capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss as water drips from your nose and runs down your cheeks. Him, slipping a hand into your jacket to grope along your waist. You, digging your fingers into his hair so he can never pull away from you.

Except you can't visualize any of it because he's still just a shadow of ideas and feelings in your mind. You want to fill in those blanks so badly now. You ache for it. Not knowing is maddening.

"What color is your hair?" You ask breathlessly.

Blond.

Your fingers, tangled through blond hair.

You let out a whimper as your face falls into your hands. You stay like that for several moments, trying to calm yourself down. Trying to will the fantasy out of your mind because the 'what if' is driving you mad. When you finally look up, there's a message waiting for you.

Perhaps we should call it here for tonight. You've had a very eventful and emotional day. And while I am thoroughly enjoying our conversation and your reactions, I want you to sit with them. I want you to understand why you're having them.

"I know why I'm having them!" You protest as your heart sinks. You're having them because you want him, you think. You want to be done hesitating. You want to be done with all of this so there's nothing but you and him—a tangle of limbs and lips.

And I want you to be sure. Do you understand?

"I understand." He wants there to be no hesitation. No doubts. No regrets. "But I don't want to go."

I know, darling. I don't want you to go, either.

But you're free to come back to me whenever now. Aren't you?

"I am," you reluctantly agree. You know you could log on first thing in the morning if you really wanted to, and you have no doubt he would be there within a few minutes.

Tomorrow we can pick up where we left off. Whenever you would like.

Whenever you're ready.

"I think being ready for you is starting to become my default state of being, David."

Is that so?

"Yes. In fact, I'm feeling quite eager."

Are you?

"I am." You squirm for the camera, seeking friction over your arousal. Only this time you make no attempt to hide it underneath a casual shifting in your chair.

So I see.

"But you're right. I have a lot of thinking to do tonight. And I'm going to be thinking very hard about what I want." Before he can respond, you whisper seductively, "Enjoy the rest of your evening, David."

Then you close the window.

While you miss him already, you've truly never felt so alive.

Chapter 4->

A/N: David is such a hypocrite. And he's a manipulative twat. (I desire him carnally)

Also now that we're 3 chapters in, I suppose I should tell you: Every scene where Reader is talking to the camera and he's been typing? David is using a speech to text program. So on the other end of the line, he's actually been talking back to her the entire time. 😇

#david robey #david robey x reader #david robey x f!reader #the devil makes us sin fic #luther the fallen sun #luther the fallen sun fanfiction #luther #luther fanfiction #andy serkis #x reader

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tarabyte3 · 1 year ago

Note

I don't want to pressure you!! But I'm so excited for the next chapter of TDMUS 😫😫Please give us a sneak peek--or a hint about what's coming? I would appreciate it so much!!!

First, I'm SO glad you're enjoying The Devil Makes Us Sin! 💕 I'm ecstatic that people like this slow descent into corruption and debauchery. Second, you'll be pleased to know I'm over 3.5k words into the next chapter and it's all plotted out. I can't promise when it will be done, but I have been working on it! (Though perhaps not as quickly as I would like.)

So just for you Anon, here's a snippet from Chapter 4 (without final edits so it may change slightly in the final draft). Enjoy ��😏

The next morning, you sleep in until a gloriously late hour. Just because you can. And because last night was emotionally exhausting—you're certain the wine didn't help. Even when you're no longer tired, you lie in bed, wrapped in the warmth of your blankets, and bask in the knowledge that you never have to go back to that office ever again.

Or speak to your mother.

You feel untethered, but not adrift. No, you know exactly which direction you're headed and now you have the freedom to do so.

Eventually you resume your search for a new bed on your phone as well because you start to think about how blissful this would have been on a comfortable mattress. With silk sheets. And a new nightgown. Oh, maybe something with lace. Or silk. Or, even better, something sheer that barely covers your ass.

You also think about how much David would enjoy all of those things.

You start off looking at sleepwear that leans more sensible than sexy, but as you begin to wonder what David would think of each one, you quickly find yourself clicking on more and more revealing pieces.

It's when you're looking at a see through, drapey number that comes off with only a clasp between your breasts that your phone buzzes with a new text message.

You grin because you wondered how long it would be before he reached out to you. Now you're absolutely certain he's keeping tabs on you and saw how racy your searches were getting. Part of you was doing it on purpose—baiting him until he couldn't resist any longer. Even if it gave him away.

Are you enjoying your first day of freedom?

"Immensely. I haven't even gotten out of bed yet." You feel very smug as you hit send because now you've added the thought of you in bed to his mental image of the lingerie.

Is that so? Sounds as though you're having a lovely morning.

Any other exciting plans for the day?

"Not unless you count a date with a book on my nightstand."

Depends on what kind of book.

I see. Two very different types of thrilling.

"Exactly. On one hand, the murder mystery would stimulate my brain."

It takes a minute longer for you to get a response to that.

And what would the romance novel stimulate?

"My heart, David. What else?" You grin at your phone.

"Now tell me which one you would like best."

If I had to choose between the two, I would prefer the murder mystery.

"Of course you would. But I meant which of the lingerie you would like best. Because I know you were watching."

There's another pause.

All of them.

#asks #the devil makes us sin update #a little sneak peek #david robey #david robey x reader #x reader

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tarabyte3 · 2 years ago

Text

The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 1/? (5.2k words)

Chapter 2 ->

AO3 Link

Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

A/N: Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from the poem "Saint Joan" by Louise Glück, The Seven Ages

(There's a more indepth note below the cut)

A/N pt 2: I know those warnings seem like a lot! I try to tag everything, no matter how small, because I want to make sure no one is blindsided by anything in my fics.

But remember, David Robey is not a good man. He's a murderous psychopath, he's cruel, and he feels no remorse (though I do REALLY flex the boundaries of all that because this is fantasy and fanfiction after all.) This reader character is also NOT a good person, just to a lesser extent than he is. Therefore this is going to get quite dark on occasion. Though if you're here because you want David Robey smut, I suspect you're well aware of what you're in for. Still! Heed all tags and warnings. I will continue to expand them as they come up in the story and try to point them out as I add them, but always check the end of the list for anything new.

If you're worried, know that I have personal boundaries I will not cross in my fics. No gratuitous descriptions of violence, murder, gore, or torture in my smut fics unless specifically and clearly warned. No noncon or SA. No physical or domestic abuse. And though it is a smut fic about a fictional serial killer, any mental or emotional manipulation will be in line with what exists in canon, so no wild cards there either.

Pregnancy scares, worrying about or fear of getting pregnant, taking steps to avoid pregnancy through the use of contraception or other means, or having my reader character get pregnant—all as the result of unprotected sex between the characters—will also never come up in anything I write. They won't even think about it. I want my fics to be a fun escape for myself and for you all so I say no thank you.

Finally, there is some shame from the main character and problematic language used about sex work in this and I want to be clear: We respect sex workers in this house 👏😤 Sex work is work. Anything that suggests otherwise in this fic is because the characters are assholes.

Chapter 1 - I heard a dark prediction rising in my own body

You're always very careful not to show your face on camera. It's not what's for sale. Certainly not for fifteen pounds per monthly subscription. These men watching aren't paying you enough to risk your career.

Or worse, to risk your mother finding out.

She's always harping on you to settle down, get married, and have children. You don't have the stomach to tell her how absolutely horrible all of that sounds. Most men bore you with their undeserved egos, horrible ties, and inane chatter about sports clubs. Or the way they smother the spark that drew them to you in the first place because afterwards they want a good little wife instead. And you definitely don't want children.

So no, you don't want to marry any of them. Instead you'll gladly take advantage of their desperation to escape their dull lives and their tired, jaded spouses. Likely women who thought marriage would be different, only to find out what you already know: most men can never give you what you truly need.

Now you've been doing this for over a year. For an hour a night, you sit in front of your webcam in low cut blouses and secretary skirts and undress down to your lingerie and panties. You run your fingers between your breasts and whisper lies into your microphone.

At first it was out of desperation.

Your flatmate had moved out with little warning and left you scrambling to make rent. Your job didn't pay enough for you to afford the entire sum by yourself until you found someone else to take her place. Sure, you could have moved or downsized, but you didn't want to. The location was perfect and to get the same rate, you'd have to move further to the edge of the city. Your morning commute would be longer, and you didn't want to spend so much time on the tube with the smell of sweat, crying babies, and creeps brushing up against you.

It was a pop-up ad that gave you the idea. "Live women on camera. Watch now! Get your first month at a reduced rate!" It declared over a scantily clad young woman who was pushing her cleavage together with her arms and fluttering her eyelashes.

If only it were that easy, you had scoffed.

Then you opened your laptop and did some research. Because what if it was? Which is how you ended up making an account on a smaller camgirl website and sitting uncomfortably with your webcam pointed at your torso and nothing but a white wall behind you.

After a few days of no activity, you unbuttoned your blouse a bit, wore a push-up bra, and finally got your first viewer. So you unbuttoned it further and further, and, as your numbers rose, your top came off completely.

You learned to tease them after that.

And degrade them.

"BigDaddy47 wants to know if I'm wearing panties. Mmm, what do you all think? Should I take off my skirt and let you find out? If you were all very good, I could show you what's underneath, but you don't deserve it, do you? I know how filthy you all are, asking me to take my clothes off. You disgust me."

Oh, but then you apologize and beg for forgiveness for being so mean to those poor, overworked men that no one else appreciates while bashfully covering your body with your hands and telling them you're just a little shy. That's what really boosted your numbers. They ate it up. Because more than seeing a pair of tits, they love being told exactly what they want to hear. And they especially love believing it.

That's why they're really there. To forget. To pretend.

You made enough extra money to keep your flat. Barely at first, and it completely wiped your savings, but with each new paycheck there was more leftover. Eventually you also bought better lingerie. More strappy numbers to hide under your office girl persona. More ways to hint at your bare breasts without showing them. Because you will never get naked on camera. Ever. The thought of all those men seeing your full body repulses you. They repulse you. That part, at least, is never a lie.

Then the empty second bedroom became your recording studio. You put a feminine, silky comforter and fancy pillows on the bed so you could pose in different, carefully pre-selected positions. You draped a blanket over the back of the chair so you could cover yourself while you pretended to be shy and repentant, and they all begged you to take it back off.

It was almost too easy. It took less than seven months for your stream to be featured on the front page of the site as a hot new account, and another two for you to make the top fifty. Now you're making as much in seven hours of streaming a week as you do in a week and a half of full-time work at your day job. And you keep nudging your way closer to the top twenty.

So you could say things are going well.

At least, they were.

The first time you got a strange text message from a number you didn't recognize, you shrugged it off. All it said was: How are you doing? Which could be anything. A wrong number, a phishing attempt, or an old friend you deleted the contact information for ages ago. Of course you ignored it.

But a few days later you got another one from the same number.

You don't want to chat?

That one had made you a little uncomfortable, but you could still tell yourself it was a mistake. Maybe even a guy you gave your number to for a hookup during a rare night out that you never followed through on. You set your phone down, went about your day, and managed to forget about it quickly.

Then today it buzzs again.

You're not even this shy on camera.

As you read it—and reread it to be sure you're not seeing things—your heart leaps to your throat with your first rush of fear. How had they gotten your number? You never entered a phone number into the website. You've been so careful. You even set up a separate bank account.

"Who is this?" You finally text back.

A fan.

You quickly fumble with your phone to block them, but a new message appears on the screen before your trembling thumbs can manage to tap the correct buttons.

I wouldn't do that.

And then there's a video.

You hesitate.

You know you should just block them anyway, but something about the blurry still of the preview seems familiar. Naggingly familiar. So you tap play.

There's a figure standing right in front of the camera. They're so close, all you can see at first is a plain black shirt and a bare arm. Then they move away, further into the room. It's your spare room, you quickly realize with horror. You can see the familiar layout and the blush colored comforter on the bed. After a few more seconds, you also realize the person in the video is you. You're folding the blanket you use during your stream and setting it on the chair. Except it wasn't taken from your stream because there's daylight coming through the lacy drapes covering the window. You only stream at night. And your face is visible as you bend over to pick up a pillow from the floor.

It's you in your pajamas, tidying up the room the morning after a stream. When your camera isn't supposed to be on. When you aren't being careful.

You feel sick.

Now would you like to chat?

"What do you want?" You type out with shaking hands.

I want a private show.

"If you don't stop harassing me, I'll call the police."

Now now. No need for that.

Because if you do, I'll have to send a few videos to your mum. This is her contact information, isn't it?

Then you're staring down at your mother's phone number and home address. You let out a sob.

"Why are you doing this?"

I told you. I want a private show.

"I don't have a private stream."

Your phone buzzes with another notification, but this time for a new email. In your personal inbox.

You have fifteen minutes.

You reluctantly open the message. It's an invite with a link to a private chat room.

Wear the black nightie with the same bra and panties you wore two nights ago.

You don't respond. Instead you throw your phone down onto the couch and you pace.

What do you do? Do you block the number and call the police anyway? Do you call your mother and tell her not to check her messages or answer the door? But then she'll ask why. And what do you tell her? That you have a stalker? That they're threatening her, too? God, she's so stubborn and nosey! She'd look at her phone anyway to tell them off and then it'll be over. She'll see. You were raised Catholic! She'll disown you.

You stop pacing.

Would that be such a terrible thing? You're very much an adult. You're not dependent on her for anything. You have every right to do what you want. It's not like you're doing anything that bad! Not really. You're just trying to survive! If she can't handle that, then that's her problem. You're doing just fine. You can live without her nagging and berating you all the time. Making you feel small or as though you're wasting your life by not doing what she expects. Asking you, "What will people think?" after everything you do. Plus, it's her religion, not yours. It stopped being yours when you were very young, even though the guilt still rears its ugly head every once in a while. Usually because of her forcing it on you. No more.

With renewed determination, you pick your phone back up and go to block the number.

The buzzing of a new message startles you.

Did I mention that I also have the contact information for your boss and the passwords to all of your social media accounts?

Fuck.

Ten minutes left.

You start to cry. Because you feel truly helpless now. You think for a brief moment that maybe this person is bluffing. Surely he's just counting on you to obey immediately and doesn't plan on doing anything. But he filmed you without your knowledge and he had your mother's personal information. Finding where you work would be even easier than that. Plus, are you willing to risk your whole life and your career to find out?

No, you realize. You aren't.

With tears streaming down your face, you run to your bedroom. You have to upend your hamper to find the specific bra and panties he requested since you hadn't washed them yet, but you manage to get changed faster than you ever have before.

Are you supposed to put on make-up? He didn't say. You check your phone for the time. Four minutes. And you still have to boot up your laptop. So you grab your eyeliner and a tinted lip gloss off of your vanity and sprint towards the other bedroom.

While your computer is starting, you use your reflection in the screen to hastily put on the eyeliner. It probably looks horrible and uneven thanks to your puffy eyelids and lack of mirror, but if he wanted something better, then he should have been more specific or given you more time. Or not harassed you at all. So fuck him.

You click over to your inbox with one hand and dab the rouge color onto your lips with the other. Then you're staring at the link with a minute left. No use stalling, you think. It won't make this go away.

You take a deep breath and click it.

The chat window pops up and then, after a brief second of loading while your heart pounds in your chest, your own scantily clad breasts and lace covered torso are displayed onto the screen. In the corner, there's a black square icon. Both the video and audio indicators have Xs through them.

He's here, then. Of course he is.

There's a chat window along the side, and, as you're looking at it, a message pops up from the username YourBiggestFan.

Fix your camera. There's no reason to hide your face any longer. Not from me.

You swallow and reach forward to tilt the camera a little higher. The video is shaky for a moment, and then you're staring at your own image on the screen. Your full image. It's unnerving.

There's your lovely face.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Your voice waivers. "There are millions of women on the internet. Thousands that do what I do."

They aren't you.

"I'm not that special."

You don't do nudity on your stream. Why is that?

"Because…" You hesitate. You really don't want to talk to this man, but not doing so feels risky, too. He does have all the power here, after all. "Because I don't need to."

You would make more money if you did. Or if you moved to a better site.

"I'm getting by just fine." You glance up to glare into the camera.

You could quit your job.

"I don't want to quit my job."

You want to be a glorified secretary for the rest of your life?

"Fuck you," you hiss.

Answer the question.

"Of course I don't! But I don't want hundreds of men seeing my tits every night, either! So if that's the trade off, I'd rather keep being a glorified secretary, as you so kindly put it." You start to roll your eyes, but stop yourself from reacting this time. You may already be pushing your luck as it is and there's no need to piss him off. "I don't do either of them because I enjoy it. I do what I have to so I don't have to worry about money."

You certainly seem like you're enjoying yourself every night.

"It's called pretending," you sigh irritably. "Surely you've heard of it. Do you think all of those men would tune in otherwise? Tell me, would you? You're one of them, after all."

I'm not one of them.

"Aren't you? Mr. Your Biggest Fan," you scoff. "Sure you aren't."

No. Because I see you.

"That is rather the point."

You're very clever. You know exactly how to manipulate all of them into staying without giving them what they want.

"I have to be. All of the women that do this learn how to keep the audience interested."

But yours comes from a place of hatred.

You blink in mild surprise, but quickly school your features. You don't want him to know he's caught you off guard.

Your stream is the only one in the top 50 that doesn't show their face and the top 100 that doesn't include nudity. Did you know that?

You shift in your seat. "I…I didn't, actually. I knew I was the only one with my numbers, but not that many."

You're an anomaly.

"I'm good at my job," you correct him.

Yes, you are. You know how to manipulate all of them because you find them rather predictable, don't you? Predictable. Pathetic. Dull. Beneath you. They make it easy for you.

You aren't able to hide the shock on your face this time as you stare at the chat. He doesn't wait for you to respond.

You don't take your underwear off because you and I both know that's beneath you, too. And you're right, you don't have to. It's quite impressive.

"Is that so?" You don't sound as dismissive as you hoped.

I told you. I see you. And you intrigue me.

"Fine, you can see through my bullshit. And?" You cross your arms. "Am I supposed to be impressed? What's the point of all this?"

I wanted you to show me the real you.

"And me angry at you is the real me, is it?"

Yes. Because you aren't lying to me.

He has a point there. This is arguably the most honest you've ever been sitting in this chair. Sure, you're being guarded considering the circumstances, but otherwise you haven't lied to him.

Tell me, have I gotten anything wrong?

You bite at your lip as you consider whether or not to continue being honest. But if you change tactics now, he'll sense it. You know, instinctively, that he will. Because you would in his place. So you finally look into the camera and say, "No. You haven't."

More honesty. There's a good girl.

Your heart skips a beat while there's a brief flutter of interest in your stomach, and you're disgusted with yourself for your body's reaction to that. He's a creep just like the rest of them, you tell yourself. Worse because at least the rest of them are harmless. To you, anyway.

He doesn't type anything else and his silence feels almost smug. Like he knows exactly the inner turmoil he's caused you and he wants you to stew in it. The flutter spreads lower.

"Now it's your turn to tell me how you guessed at any of that since I don't even show my face," you blurt out, desperate to think of anything else and not wanting to give him the satisfaction of thinking he's won somehow.

It wasn't a guess. I can hear the difference in your voice. The only time you mean what you say is when you berate them.

You think back to all the times you've snarled into the microphone and called them despicable. Disgusting. Useless. The one slip in your act.

You enjoy it. You enjoy getting to tell them exactly what you think of them while you take their money. You enjoy it so much, you have to stop yourself from pushing it one step further. But you want to. I can hear how much you want to. It feels good, doesn't it? To not have to hide, even for a moment. To treat them the way they deserve.

"Yes," you breathe out before you can stop yourself. Because it does. It feels incredible. The fluttering between your legs has grown into a slick heat now from his words alone.

How could he know that, though? How could he know that you've dreamed of telling them their only worth to you was their wallets because there at least they had a use. That having to read every horrible thing they said through the veil of anonymity made your skin crawl. That they're the reason their own lives are so miserable. Sexless bedrooms. Loveless marriages. Endless failed relationships. The inability to find someone to look twice at them. And you're glad they came slithering to you rather than have the self-awareness or brain cells to look in a goddamned mirror. Pathetic.

You've never even admitted that out loud to yourself. Only in your darkest thoughts. Now this man is typing out those inner thoughts as though they were written plainly on your face.

"You enjoy it."

"It feels good, doesn't it?"

Like he understands.

You both sit in silence for a minute that stretches out for far too long while you read his message over and over again, until your sex starts to ache.

You should feel ashamed, you realize. This is the moment you should feel horrible for thinking those things. And for being turned on by the way he told you that you enjoyed it. Only you don't.

"I don't know what you expect me to say," you whisper.

You've said enough. That was all I needed.

He knows, you think. You've given this man too much. "So what now? You still haven't said where all of this goes."

Yes I have.

"Right. A private show. How could I forget?" You mean for it to sound sarcastic, but it comes out confused because you're a little dazed from all of this. "You really still want me to flutter my eyelashes at you, push my cleavage at the camera, and say some insipid bullshit, even though it's all lies?"

No. I want to see ALL of you.

Your face flushes in embarrassment and anger, and you have to squeeze your thighs together to quell the want that is continuing to build in your core. "You're blackmailing me just to see my tits?"

You're going to talk to me as well.

"And say what?"

More of how you really feel. I want to hear more of the truth from your lips. As I said, I want to see all of you.

"Well, right now I'm feeling quite pissed off."

And as you're talking, you're going to touch yourself for me.

There's a swell of panic in your chest and it's as though you've been dunked in ice water because you've gone from hot to bone chilled. "Fuck you. I'm not doing that."

Why not?

"Because it's a violation! I'm not consenting to any of this. You're not giving me a choice."

You have a choice.

"Oh, choosing between masturbating on camera for you or you ruining my life? My mistake! Nothing dubious about that."

You're beautiful when you're angry.

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths to stop yourself from throwing your laptop across the room. You will still need it after this, after all.

When you open your eyes, you look up into the camera with a serious, pleading expression on your face. "I don't want to do that. Please don't make me. I'll get undressed for you. I'll let you see all of me. But don't make me do that."

You shift your attention to watch the text box. There's a pause.

A long pause.

You start to think maybe you've finally angered him by saying no and he's in the process of messaging your mom and your boss. Just when you begin nervously shifting in your seat, a new message pops up.

What if you wanted to touch yourself for me? Then would you?

You stare at the message in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Answer the question.

"If I wanted to, then…" You hesitate as you consider how to tell the truth. "I guess, yes I would. But that's different. I don't want to."

You don't want to yet.

"So you won't make me?"

No. I won't make you.

You exhale in relief. "Thank you," you whimper.

But I will make you want to touch yourself for me, that I promise.

"I highly doubt that. You've given me plenty of reasons to want literally anything else, the most important of which is that I'm still here because you're blackmailing me."

There is that.

I could delete all of it. If you ask nicely.

You furrow your brows in confusion. "What do you mean?"

I could delete it. Then there would be nothing forcing you to stay.

"And I'm supposed to just trust you?"

Yes.

You scoff. "Yeah, right. Besides, if you delete it, I'll just leave."

And go back to lying on camera?

"Surprisingly, I do still have to pay my rent after this."

What if you didn't have to?

"Didn't have to pay rent?"

No. Go back on camera or back to that laughable firm you work for. What if you didn't need the money?

"I already said I'm not doing either of those things because I enjoy them. Of course I wouldn't go back if I didn't have to."

Check your bank account.

The OTHER bank account.

You sit there and stare at your screen in horror. Because you've only just now realized that, in your panic, you'd been thinking too small before. You were worried about phone numbers and addresses. Such little things to keep you distracted and focused so you didn't have clarity of mind to stop to wonder at what else he could find and hold hostage.

"Why?" You whisper.

Just look. No reason to be afraid.

You frantically pick up your phone and swipe until you find the banking app. The last time you checked, you had over eight thousand pounds in that account after paying rent. Nothing extravagant. But it's reassuring knowing the savings is there if you need it. That you're relatively safe and comfortable. Because it's yours. You earned it.

The balance reads £308,218.72.

Three hundred thousand pounds more than should be in there. It's more money than you've ever seen in your life. It's more than you could ever hope to have at one time in your life.

"What is this?" Your voice sounds small from the shock.

A gift.

"I can't accept this." You look up into the camera. "I won't accept this."

Why not?

"Because I'm not a whore!" You snap at the lense. "And I refuse to be beholden to you. I won't let you own me."

No strings. You can take the money and run if you like. But we both know you're not going to.

"Won't I?"

No.

"And why not? Are you going to say something ridiculous like, 'There's more where that came from?'"

No.

"Why then?"

Because whatever you run off to do will bore you just as much as what you're doing now since the money doesn't change what's making you miserable. But you're starting to understand that I could offer you so much more. And I don't mean the money.

You clench your jaw in frustration and rage. You want to yell. To protest and deny it. You wish you could. But deep down you know he's right. Your world has been upended and laid bare in the span of, what, half an hour? From the moment he forced his way into your life, it has been many things, but boring is not one of them. Because, you realize, he does see you.

"I still…" you start helplessly. "I don't understand."

I told you. You intrigue me. No one intrigues me.

"For some reason that doesn't feel like a compliment."

I know I intrigue you, now, too.

"What do you really want from me?" You say quietly. "I know this isn't about getting a private show. It never was, was it?"

You.

I want you.

"Then why the money?"

I don't want you distracted.

You know nothing about this man. You don't know what he looks like and you can't hear his voice. But there's something about the way he referred to your entire life as a distraction that sends a shiver of fear up your spine. And something else rekindling inside of you that you now refuse to acknowledge.

"So I'm not giving you a show."

Oh, you'll give me one. Eventually. And I'm going to enjoy myself knowing I'm the only one who's ever seen you like that.

"How do you know I've never stripped on camera for anyone else before?"

It's beneath you. Because there's never been anyone on the other end deserving of it.

"You think you are?"

Am I?

"You seem like the kind of man that thinks he is."

That's not an answer.

You mentally curse because he's so damn perceptive. Your usual tactics don't work on him and that throws you off balance.

Am I?

"I don't know yet," you finally admit.

You really are so beautiful without the mask. Honesty suits you much more than the lie.

"My honesty suits you, you mean."

I'll never deny that I'm enjoying it. But you deserve to know that what's underneath isn't hideous like you fear. You can always take it off in front of me.

"And you'll enjoy it whenever I do," you murmur, almost entranced by the thought.

I will. Immensely.

"How do I know you're not just some creepy slob in a basement somewhere that's really good at hacking?"

You would have seen through me if I were.

He's right. Something about him seems sophisticated, but effortlessly so. Too effortless to be an act. Which leaves, what, bored rich guy? Well, at least you have one thing in common.

"Who are you then? And don't just say a fan. The only way you'll get me to even consider not running the second I close this window is by giving me something that isn't money or text on a screen."

I'm a man that knows what it's like to live with the mask. How do you think I saw through yours? I also know how good it feels to take it off. But even better than that is to be seen and embraced for what's underneath.

Does that satisfy you?

"Not nearly enough."

You'll learn more next time. The link will stay active. When you come back here, I'll know.

"When," you huff in disbelief under your breath.

When.

"We'll see, won't we?"

Before I go, is there something you're forgetting? Something to ask me maybe?

"Something to ask…?" You trail off in thought because you have no idea what he's talking about. But as you replay parts of the conversation in your head, you remember that he said he would delete everything if you asked. Nicely.

You clench your fists and take a deep breath to prepare yourself. Because you know he added the "nicely" specifically to see you squirm and you refuse to give it to him. Then you look up into the webcam, and, with all the sincerity you can muster, you ask. Nicely.

"Please delete it. All of it. I want you to. I won't promise you anything in return because I don't know if I'll come back, and I won't lie to you or myself with a false promise. But it would prove to me that you mean what you say. That you want me. Because if you have all of that to hold over me, if I can't make this choice on my own, you'll never truly have me, will you? There will always be parts of myself that I keep back and I'll never look at you or talk to you as a man. Only as my captor. So please, I am begging you. Delete it."

You look down to the text box and wait.

His video comes to life then, surprising you and splitting the screen in half. But what's there isn't his face. It's a computer screen with a desktop so basic, it almost looks unused. There's also an open folder, and it's full of video, image, and text files—far more of them than you would have guessed. He's been observing you for a while and you had no idea he was there. You can see your own face and your lingerie in a couple of the video and photo thumbnails. Then you watch as he highlights all of it and, without fanfare or hesitation, deletes it. The folder—which you now realize is titled after you—sits empty.

You open your mouth to protest because you aren't an idiot, but as though he anticipated that, he shifts over to the trash can and empties that as well.

It's done.

"How do I know there aren't backups?"

I guess you'll just have to trust me, won't you?

Then he leaves the chat and you're left staring at your own face on the screen.

Before you close the window, you have to wonder if you aren't truly seeing yourself for the very first time.

Chapter 2 ->

A/N: I hope you enjoyed and are now properly buckled in for this trainwreck of a gratuitously smutty and fucked up romance. Please keep your arms inside the vehicle at all times because I have already lost complete control of this. But I promise it's gonna be a lot of fun. 😌😏

#david robey #david robey x reader #david robey x f!reader #the devil makes us sin fic #luther the fallen sun #luther the fallen sun fanfiction #luther #luther fanfiction #fanfiction #andy serkis #x reader

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tarabyte3 · 2 years ago

Text

The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 2/? (9.9k words)

->start at chapter 1<-

AO3 Link

Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

A/N: I am having more fun than I probably should be writing this fic. New minor warning in the tags, but note that the troubled mother/daughter relationship and emotionally abusive mother tags are more prominent in this chapter!

Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from "Go to the Limits of Your Longing" by Rainer Maria Rilke. Text divider 1 is from William Blake's Pity. Text divider 2 is from Hans Melming's Earthly Vanity and Divine Salvation. Collage quote is from NBC's Hannibal (2013).

Chapter 2 - Let everything happen to you: Beauty and terror

You spend the rest of the day, and the next day after calling into work, pacing a circle in your living room and thinking about all the things he said to you—about you.

First and foremost: What would you do if you quit and ran?

Move? Get another office job?

No. Absolutely not. That's what the shitty voice in your head that sounds like your mother says you should do. But what do you want to do?

You can't remember the last time you really wanted anything. God, have you really become so miserable? You hadn't even noticed. You thought you were fine. Maybe your life hasn't turned out the way you'd expected, but it isn't horrible and you get by. Now, standing on the outside of yourself and looking in, you realize the only real joy you've had in years is insulting men on the internet. While you sit in your panties.

So what do you want?

You wanted to go to art school when you were younger, but your mother had put an end to that dream when you told her.

"Very few artists ever make it big or earn a living for themselves," she'd said, "and you aren't talented enough to be one of them."

So you'd gotten a business degree at university instead and hated every moment of it. For a salary that isn't even that impressive, especially for living in London. All so you could work for entitled, boring men that make inappropriate comments, take passes at all the women, and never face any consequences for it because it's a good ol' boys' club. Bunch of pricks. You hope that place burns. In fact, you're going to walk in and quit tomorrow. And it's going to feel so fucking good.

Unfortunately, you also stopped painting. After your own mother's repeated dismissal of your eighteen-year-old self's dreams and passion, whenever you picked up a paintbrush or a pencil, you felt horrible. Nothing you painted felt right again. Your confidence was gone. That spark. So now you don't even own any art supplies. You don't like the reminder.

You do still go to art museums and galleries and shows in the city, though. Walking through them as a child is what made you fall in love with it in the first place. She may have taken away your desire to create any yourself, but she could never destroy that love, try as she may.

Art has always been something you've connected with better than you ever have with people. It's effortless. Even parsing through the depths of the most complex and visually abstract piece is less complicated than trying to navigate personal relationships. Because art asks nothing more of you than what you are willing to give.

Maybe you could try painting again for fun. The second bedroom could be a studio now that you no longer need it for filming. And you could get a job at a gallery because that, at least, would be something you enjoy, and you wouldn't have to worry as much about the pay. Or—

You could go to art school.

The thought makes you stop pacing.

Loads of people go back to school later in life nowadays. Especially for the arts because, after years of experience out in the world, they realize they want to follow their dreams instead. You wouldn't even have to be successful, but you could be happy.

For once in your goddamned life, you could be fucking happy.

Because of him.

You go back to pacing.

Is that what he meant when he said he could offer you more than just money? He could give you the opportunity to finally live—though that circles back around to the money, too. It creates the opportunity, after all.

Except you know it was more than that. He was offering you the opportunity to be seen. Something you don't have because there's no one that knows the real you. Not really. They would think you were horrible. You know from experience.

Sometimes you think you're horrible.

But he saw you. Maybe not all of you, but a surprising amount from such a small glimpse. What would he see if he could look deeper?

Would he still want to look? Or would he eventually be repulsed, too?

You go to stand in front of your laptop, which you keep powered down and closed now. You also unplugged your webcam, closed your blinds, and put little pieces of tape over both of your phone's cameras because you're convinced that's how he knew every time you were ready to block him. He was watching.

You don't think it can stop him from finding some way to keep tabs on you, but it'll slow him down. You wonder if that will amuse him or annoy him. Probably amuse him.

And why the fuck do you care? Why are you thinking about him at all? You don't even know who he is. Plus, he blackmailed and threatened you, for fuck's sake! You should be phoning the police! At the very least, you should never think about him again.

But you do. You think about him a lot. Because he could be almost anyone behind that anonymity, and the mystery and possibility are…interesting.

He clearly has money. He's smart and irritatingly perceptive. 'Don't forget he has a talent with technology apparently,' you think wryly—which is a massive understatement. He has to be some kind of tech guy, right? Who else can hack into all of your personal devices, track down phone numbers and addresses, uncover your passwords—which you've now changed as well, and poke around your bank records? So through the most basic deduction, you know that much at least.

But is he attractive? Funny? How old is he? Does he have hobbies that aren't stalking you? And can he carry on a conversation when he isn't hiding behind a screen? God, if he turned out to be just like other men and you had to listen to him prattle on, you might give up and join a convent for the vow of celibacy alone.

And, though you shouldn't even be having this thought, you can't help but wonder if he's good in bed. Would he get you off, or does he last thirty seconds and then roll over and fall asleep? You think that's a fair thing to be particular about. You're not about to waste your time only to never have an orgasm. You've done that plenty of times in your life already.

You should be worried that he's a serial killer and you're his next victim or that he's planning to keep you chained up in his basement or sell your organs on the black market. But if he wanted to do that, you'd already be dead because he's been watching you for months and you hadn't a clue. He's had plenty of opportunities.

Unless this is part of a game.

You could always find out. He told you the link would stay active. You aren't sure if you want to click on it again, but you don't not want to.

No. It's too soon. Before you make any decisions, you should get your affairs in order because you have a former life to wrap up first. And you should give yourself time to process. To work through the fear, the anger, the curiosity, and, most of all, why it aroused you. Not just physically, you acknowledge, but mentally as well. There was something in your verbal sparring that appealed to you as much as it appealed to him.

You want to know why. You want to understand the part of yourself that feels almost neglected now. Withered from disuse—from hiding behind the lie, as he might put it. And you can't face him again until you do because going back to him with your eyes wide open feels important. There can be no half measures.

What if you dive in and realize you've made a terrible mistake? That seems far more complicated than just walking away now while you have the chance. So if you click that link again, you want to be sure.

Then why do you keep finding yourself standing in your spare room and staring at your computer?

You close your camgirl account without any warning or final stream. Once you realize you never have to do it again, the thought of doing it even one last time is nauseating. There aren't many hoops to jump through, which surprises you. And hitting that confirmation button feels so amazing, you almost text the mystery number to say thank you. Almost.

Unfortunately, the month isn't even half over yet so you're immediately flooded with refund requests. They paid for a full month, after all. You roll your eyes as your phone starts vibrating with email notifications. Too bad for them that you read through the terms and service and know the website's refund policy. So you take one last pleasure in hitting decline on every single one.

You also quit your day job.

You walk in two days after your experience with the mystery man—late, holding a takeout coffee, and wearing jeans and sunglasses—and hand your notice to your boss. He uncomfortably asks why you're leaving the company, and you smile and tell him you found a different opportunity. When he asks where, you take more pleasure in declining to answer and taking a noisy sip from your cup.

You plan to spend the rest of your time there doing absolutely nothing except scrolling through your phone or looking up art schools on your work computer. Hopefully they'll tell you that you don't have to finish up your two weeks just to get you to leave. You could've simply walked out without giving them notice at all if you really wanted. But after a single day of watching your boss squirm as he tries to figure out how to handle you, you know you made the right decision.

Now you need to make a few more.

You also learn something about yourself. You learn the thing that's been missing and why you enjoyed being so openly cruel on camera. You have been hiding behind a lie.

More specifically, you've been denying a simple truth to them and to yourself: You're better than all of them, and you take extraordinary pleasure in reminding them.

It feels good to finally be yourself. To stop pretending to care about all of the bullshit you've never cared about. Office politics, your so-called friends' newest drama, news that someone is getting married or having children, the latest show people are watching, sports, the weather, or the endless updates about small changes in people's lives. God, last week your coworker got a new car and would not shut up about all of the features. Oh, does it connect to Bluetooth, Sharon? Can you make phone calls from your steering wheel? How fascinating, please tell me more about how difficult it was to choose between a slate grey or tan interior, I'm sure I still have some will to live tucked away that you haven't drained yet.

Up until now, you've made yourself small. Palatable. You pretended to be normal. To want some of the same things everyone else wants so you fit in because you could hear your mother's voice in your head saying, "What would people think?" You bit your tongue so you didn't tell them to please just shut up. So when you finally got the chance to be honest on stream, you relished it.

Because before you were afraid that if you gave in to your darker impulses, you would take it too far. That it would turn you into a monster. You realize now they're the ones that are afraid. They can't wait to tear a woman down. To insult her, call her names, or to degrade her in hopes that will allow them to keep power over her. You were only worried about becoming a monster because you were told it was monstrous to be yourself. To know what you want and to take it. Especially when it's something you shouldn't want in the first place. Something improper.

Well, you're finally starting to figure out exactly what you want.

That evening after work, you sit in front of your laptop.

You haven't opened it yet. You're just sitting there, contemplating doing so because you want to know how it feels to consider taking the next step. If even doing that feels wrong, then you have an answer. That would make your decision easy.

But it doesn't. You reach out to rest your hand on top of the lid and have to stop yourself from opening it. One step at a time. To be sure.

You do that several more times throughout the evening before giving up.

You wake the next morning almost two hours before your alarm—because you had planned on sleeping in since you no longer care if you're late for work—and head straight to the other room. You slept like shit. All night you tossed and turned and fought getting up to pace more circles or to stare at your computer. Because you wanted to see how it felt to go further.

You frantically wrench open your laptop, desperate to finally know, and then you're staring at the black screen. There are smudge marks and some dust visible on it in the morning light filtering through your window. They mar your reflection as it peers, manic and disheveled, back out at you.

It still doesn't feel wrong.

How far can you go before it does? You press the power button.

It takes forever to boot up. Or at least it seems as if it does because your computer isn't that old. You're reminded of how it felt the last time you did this. How your heart had pounded out of fear. It's pounding now, but out of anticipation and impatience. When the login screen finally pops up, you have to retype your password because you hit the keys too quickly and make a mistake.

The sight of your desktop is a relief first because at last you'll have more of an answer to sit with. Then you feel…nothing. Well, no, not nothing. Just an absence of the fear and revulsion you had been looking for. There is definitely something there—nameless and building in your stomach, and crawling its way into your chest.

You move the mouse pointer around the screen. Out of habit, you open Instagram. You manage to scroll for about thirty seconds before you sigh in disgust and take the steps to fully delete your account. Then you go through the rest of your social media and delete or deactivate all of those as well. There isn't a single thing on any of them you care about enough to save. It's freeing in a way you hadn't expected.

You find yourself moving to open your inbox before you finally tell yourself no, that's plenty far for now. You've pushed this enough for one go. Besides, it's six thirty in the morning. You don't even know if he's awake, and you still have work—as much as you don't care about that part. It puts an expiration on doing it now and you don't want to feel rushed.

Instead you get up, go take a long shower where you sing to yourself for the first time in years, and take your time getting ready. You're going to wear a low cut top and a high slit skirt today, which are against the dress code like the jeans were, just to really get under their skin.

You leave your computer on and open. You also plug your webcam back in. You know it's going to send a message, and you want him thinking about what that could be.

Day two of work is just as satisfying as day one. More so because so many of them are flustered by a bit of cleavage and thigh. As if they've never seen either before. You briefly imagine wearing a high collared Victorian dress and scandalously baring your ankle while they gasp and clutch at their chests.

They still don't say anything, but you catch your boss and a few of the other various managers watching you resentfully from across the open floor over the half walls of the cubicles—you didn't even have a full cubicle for an office. How depressing is that? You give them a little wave and a wink back, and it sends them scurrying off.

On your way home, you get a takeout because you think you've earned a curry, and you grab a beer from your fridge. Then you kick off your heels and flop onto the couch. You don't turn on the TV because there's nothing that will entertain you as much as reminiscing about the last few days.

Well. Almost nothing.

You set the half empty takeout container down on your coffee table, the distraction and enjoyment of it suddenly gone. Because now you're thinking about him and your laptop again. You know it's still turned on in the other room, not twenty feet from you. All you would have to do is go in there, open your email, and click the link. It would be that simple.

You made sure it was that simple this morning, you realize.

You get up from the couch, but instead of heading to the spare room, you go to the bathroom. Then you examine yourself in the mirror to make sure you don't have curry stains on your lips or chin. Your makeup is still fine because, well, you did basically nothing at work all day so there's no need to mess with it. Plus, if you have a fresh face of makeup, he'll know you touched it up beforehand. For him. And you can't have that.

You have your hair pinned up, though, so you take that down for something more casual and less office professional. You also undo the top button on your already low dipped blouse. If you move a certain way or lean forward too far, the cup of your bra is visible. It's a wine color that stands out against the champagne of your shirt. You hope it'll be enough of a distraction to throw him off, even for a moment.

Once you're satisfied with your appearance, you make your way to the bedroom. But before you sit down, you toss the annoying, frilly pillows off the bed and into the hallway—you have to resist tossing them out the window—and you throw the blanket on there instead. It looks less ridiculous that way and more like an actual bed someone might sleep in. It also helps you feel like you're truly moving on from that chapter of your life.

Finally, you're in front of your computer. You've been looking forward to this part all day because it's a crucial step. If you can do this and still be okay, you know you're ready.

It takes one click to pull up your inbox.

You pause and wait for some kind of revelation or sign, but none come. There's only the same eager curiosity you've been struck with the past few days. The familiar anticipation of knowing. You want to sit with it a minute, just in case it takes a bit to creep up on you. So you clear out the spam and gleefully deny a few more refund requests in your second account first to tidy everything up. Then, with nothing left to distract you and no more excuses to put it off, you open the email.

The address it was sent from is a random series of letters and numbers. You hadn't noticed that before, you only wanted to know what the message said. You wonder if it's even a real email address. Whether he took the time to make it, carefully crafting each step as he set the snare for his trap. And here you are, stepping right back into it—assuming you had escaped it at all.

The link stares back at you.

You hover over it, only to find that you're nervous. How can you be nervous? You weren't even nervous the first time. Scared and angry, yes, but not this. This is something else. But is it enough to stop?

Absolutely not.

What's wrong with you? Why are you second-guessing yourself now? You want this. At the very least, you want to know more. So why deny yourself? You said you were done doing that. No more letting other people's standards and expectations control you. You take what you want. Who cares why?

'Because he did see you, that's why,' your mind supplies before you can stop it. That flutter in your stomach returns. With a strange rush of confidence, and before you can second guess yourself again, you click the link.

When the site loads, you half expect him to already be there. But he isn't. So you sit there, alone in the chatroom, staring at your own face. After a few moments, you check—and recheck—your hair and makeup. Then you berate yourself for fretting. You're better than this, even though you know your appearance is one of the few weapons in your arsenal that you can use against him.

Eleven minutes pass. Each one feels longer than the last. You want to get up and pace some more to let off your nervous energy, but you don't want him to show up and see you panicking. It would start this whole thing off on the wrong foot. Namely, with you at a disadvantage.

Just when you start to think you've made a mistake and a complete fool of yourself because he's not going to even show up, that black square appears in the corner with an electronic chime.

You stare at it, wide-eyed.

You hadn't really thought past this part. You were too focused on simply preparing yourself to click the link. Now you aren't sure what to say. So you wait again, only to be accompanied by silence. The chat box sits empty.

He's waiting for you, you realize.

No. He's trying to force you to give in and speak first so he has the upper hand.

So, he likes to be in control, then. Makes sense, given how all of this started in the first place. Now the only question is how in control he likes to be. Because the thought isn't necessarily unappealing.

"Hello," you finally say quietly.

I wasn't expecting you back so soon.

You can feel his smirk through the text. Oh right, he's infuriating. You scowl at your screen. "First message and you're already making me regret this."

Come now, I think I'm allowed to savor an I told you so, given the circumstances.

"Yep, this was a mistake." You move to grab your mouse and close the window.

I can make it up to you.

That makes you stop.

"And how are you going to do that?" You ask with suspicion.

Ask me a question.

"Any question?" You lean forward and rest your folded arms on the desk, intrigued and not bothering to hide it. That's why you're here, after all. To learn more about him. You can see your bra peeking out on the screen, and you hope now he's feeling something other than smug.

Within reason.

"Aha, there's the catch. Can't have me getting too clever, can you?" You tap your finger on the edge of your keyboard as you consider what you want to ask. You know he won't do something like turn on his camera or show you his face, and most of your other questions about him will require more trust first. So what will he give you?

"What's your name? It seems only fair I know that at the very least since you know so much about me."

Interesting question.

My name is David.

"David?" You repeat out loud, surprised.

Yes.

"Hmm. I wasn't expecting David."

What were you expecting?

"I don't know. Something unbearable like Reginald or Bertram. David is so…" You wave your hand in the air as you search for the word.

So what?

"Unassuming." You tilt your head. "Are you unassuming, David? Someone that everyone looks at, but no one ever sees?"

See, you are very clever.

"It's one of my better qualities, David."

I enjoy hearing my name on your lips.

"Oh, do you?" You cock an eyebrow.

If I were there with you, I would like to see what else I might enjoy from your lips.

You surprise yourself by blushing.

Clearly you might enjoy it, too.

"Is this how you think you're going to win me over? Saying filthy things to me? Because I can get back onto my stream for that." You try to sound unimpressed rather than flustered.

Not at all. Saying filthy things to you is just a bonus. Especially when you blush so nicely for me.

"You caught me off guard, that's all."

I'm sure. Not that I want to seem ungrateful, but why are you here?

"Well, my life didn't implode, which means you kept your word."

I did.

"Not that it would have mattered anyway because I quit both of my jobs, deleted all of my social media accounts, and, frankly, I realized I don't give a shit what my mother thinks." In a lower voice you add, "In fact, you might actually be doing me a favor there."

Did it feel good?

"It really did." You want to groan and relish in it because you've never felt this free before. It was marvelous. You just don't want to do so in front of him.

I'm glad. Do you trust me now?

"Absolutely not," you laugh. "But I suppose I'm…"

I intrigue you.

"I wouldn't go that far, but you have my attention. Now I want to figure you out."

Not because of the money?

You bite the inside of your lip as you consider how to respond. "I thought about that a lot, actually. And the answer is no, not because of the money. If it had been a factor in my decision at all, I wouldn't be here."

So you're here to satisfy your curiosity.

"Among other things." You give the camera a heavy lidded glance.

Sounds promising.

Will you leave when you're satisfied?

"I suppose that depends on how satisfied I am." A coy grin tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Then maybe I shouldn't satisfy you at all.

"Oh no, you'll definitely want to avoid doing that. Or else I might get bored and leave anyway."

Ah. We can't have that, now, can we?

"No we cannot." Then you grimace and ask, "You don't talk about things like sports or politics by way of conversation, do you?"

No.

"No interest in keeping up with the lives of acquaintances or the royal family?"

No.

"Thank god," you sigh in relief. "I'm done politely listening to people blather on so that would have been a deal breaker."

Lucky for me, then.

You really have had an exciting few days. I must say, this new confidence suits you. You look lovely.

"Thank you." You let out a genuine smile. "I feel like I can breathe for the first time in…well, a while. I suppose I have you to thank for that."

You do, but I must admit it was not a selfless act. I wanted to see you like this and I am enjoying the fruits of my labor.

"Only like this?" You intend for it to sound teasing, but anticipation bleeds into your voice.

For now.

Your heartbeat stutters in your chest. "Can I ask you more questions?"

Of course. As long as you understand I may not answer them yet.

"That's fine." You shrug. "What you choose not to answer will be telling enough."

Very clever girl.

"Okay, next question," you blurt out to avoid blushing again, only to realize you didn't have a question ready. So you ask the first thing that comes to mind. "Are you rich?"

Yes.

"Yeah, that one seemed fairly obvious." You glance up at the camera. "How rich?"

I thought you weren't here because of the money.

"I'm not! I'm simply curious. And just because I don't care about it doesn't mean it's not a part of who you are."

Be honest. You're a little bit interested in the money.

"Fine," you say begrudgingly. "It's on the list of perks, but it's at the end. It wasn't a factor in why I'm here, and it won't affect how this turns out. How's that?"

Better. You know I enjoy your honesty.

So what's at the top of the list?

"Well, it was whether or not you would eventually bore me to death, but that doesn't seem to be a pressing concern."

I'll take that as a compliment.

What about now?

"I suppose now it's figuring out what you look like. Though I should be asking whether or not you're a dangerous man since you stalked and blackmailed me."

Now there's a question.

Well, go on. Ask me.

"Alright," you laugh. "Are you a dangerous man, David?"

Yes.

You blink in surprise because you weren't expecting him to just say yes. "How so?"

Where's the fun in that? I thought you were going to figure me out.

"It was worth a shot," you mumble to yourself. You adjust in your seat as you think of how to rephrase the question. "Are you dangerous to me?"

There's no response for several, very long, concerning seconds.

Would you like me to be?

You blush again, your face growing warm as it creeps over your cheeks. "I can't answer that."

Why not?

"Because I don't know what dangerous means."

Then I guess you'll have to find that out, too, won't you?

"It might be a little difficult when you're just text on a screen."

I don't have to be.

"Does that mean you'll turn your camera on?" You perk up in your chair.

No.

"What about your microphone?" You add hopefully.

Not yet.

You sag back into your chair, disappointed, but not surprised. "Then we continue to be at an impasse, don't we, David?"

You're still saying my name.

"I'm getting used to it. Would you like me to stop?"

No.

You lean in towards the camera, pouting your lips, and let your eyelids go heavy as you stare into the lense. "Is it getting you hard, David?"

Don't do that.

"Do what?" You ask innocently.

Talk to me like I'm just some man watching your stream.

"I thought you might like it."

I don't. I only want to hear those things when you mean it.

"How do you know I don't mean it now?" You flutter your eyelashes.

Remember, I can hear the difference.

"Fine," you sigh, your expression and body language immediately returning to normal. "Then I don't know what else to do here."

Ask me another question.

"Alright." You tap your chin in thought. You know you need to regain some power here because so far you've been doing more reacting to him than you intended. How can you throw him off balance? "Have you ever touched yourself while watching any of my streams?"

No.

"I find that surprising," you say with a hint of skepticism.

Why's that?

"Because you went to all this trouble of stalking me and blackmailing me. I assumed that meant you really enjoyed my streams."

I did enjoy your streams.

"But not in the way most men do." The disbelief is still evident in your voice.

It wouldn't have been to you, would it have? It would have been to the lie and, therefore, not particularly satisfying.

"True. But I thought you saw me anyway."

Seeing past it and seeing you without your mask are two very different things.

"Okay. So you don't get off to me."

I didn't say that.

"Oh," you breathe out. As if this is a shock to you. But as he said, suspecting and seeing him confirm it are two very different things. "What do you think about when you do?" You purr as you lean in close again, suddenly very interested in his answer.

Do you really want to know?

"I'm curious, remember?"

I think about you when you were angry and begging.

You lick your lips before you can stop yourself.

Only on your knees for me.

Then you swallow hard. Because that paints a descriptive picture of what he likes. You can see it clearly, and you would be lying if you said there wasn't a responding swell of dampness in your panties at the thought of it.

"Are you touching yourself right now?"

Would you like me to be?

Would you? Is that something you want? Because it occurs to you that you could have it if you want it. You could have him sliding his fist around his erection and moaning for you if you so choose.

"Not really." You give a dismissive shrug, both for him and yourself. And it's not a lie. The thought is appealing and you think it's something you want eventually. But you aren't ready for it yet. Not until you know more about him first. After all, he could be anyone behind that screen. It's both a blessing and a curse. "I don't think you would anyway. Not yet."

Why not?

"Because if you did all of this just for a wank, that would be so very boring. And you aren't that, are you?"

No. I'm not.

But you had to think about it.

"I did," you admit. "When I don't have to think about it first, then I'll give you your show. And my answer will be much different."

I look forward to stripping you of your hesitation.

You notice the word play and give the camera a quick, amused smirk. "You'll be wanting to answer more questions for me then."

Ask.

"Speaking of shows. Do you make a habit of watching cam girls?"

No.

"So just occasionally, then?"

No.

You stare at his responses in confusion. "How did you find me if you weren't scrolling through the website?"

Call it luck.

"They used me in an ad, didn't they?" You scowl.

If I said yes, would that satisfy your curiosity?

"You know it wouldn't."

Then we'll stick with luck.

"Infuriating," you huff. "Will you at least tell me eventually?"

Someday. But not today.

"Alright," you relent. "Because I'll be honest, I really am terribly curious. And I want to know what it was that gave me away."

That second part I can answer.

The first stream I saw, you told your audience that they were lucky to even see you on camera because in person you would never give any of them the time of day. Then you took a deep breath. To everyone else it may have seemed like you were gasping in horror at your own words, but I saw the shudder. The roll of your shoulders. The pleasure. You weren't horrified, you were delighted. That was the moment you had my attention.

You remember that stream. You remember the exact feeling he's describing. How you fought to seem contrite afterwards and arched your breasts towards the camera in hopes no one noticed.

But he noticed. He was there.

"And what was the moment you decided you wanted me?" You whisper, unsure whether your microphone even picked it up.

When you did the same thing the next night.

I thought you were very attractive, of course, but you were never more attractive than in that moment of truth. I wanted more of it.

So I looked.

"You didn't just look. You watched me," you say accusingly.

I did.

"When I was vulnerable and didn't know I was being watched."

Yes.

"Doesn't that make you feel…bad?" You finish lamely. "Or guilty? Even a little?"

Do YOU feel bad now knowing that I did?

"I…" You trail off. You did feel awful in the beginning. It made you sick with fear. How could it not? But now? After the last few days—after talking to him—do you still feel bad? "I'm not sure."

Because I don't.

"You should."

And you should probably still be angry and afraid, yet here we are.

Annoyingly, he has a point there. So both of you are a little fucked up then.

"I have another question." You consider the camera. "Why didn't you just approach me or hit on me in the usual way? Why blackmail me to get my attention?"

You've already said yourself that you find the usual things boring.

"I didn't mean stalking!"

Didn't you? You like the attention, even if you only learned about it afterwards.

'He's right again,' you think. You do like knowing that he was looking. That you've finally been seen by someone that likes what they see. Someone that understands. Which also gives you the answer to his earlier question: You don't feel bad about it, either. Not anymore.

God, so maybe more than a little fucked up.

"Okay, maybe I do. But I think this is more than that. Perhaps you feel confident through the screen in a way you aren't in person."

That's a good guess.

"Am I right?"

No. I simply enjoyed doing it this way and watching you squirm.

"Asshole," you mutter. "It had a very high potential to blow up in your face."

I disagree.

"What if I didn't watch that video of myself? What if I'd just blocked you?"

I would have sent it from a different number with additional threats.

"And if I still refused? Would you have gone through with it?"

I knew I wouldn't have to.

"That," you cross your arms, "is not an answer."

And yet it's my answer. I knew you wouldn't deny me.

You scoff in disbelief. "Are you unaccustomed to hearing the word no?"

People say no to me all the time.

"You really don't like it, though, do you?"

No. Do you?

"Of course not," you laugh. And you're surprised to hear that it's genuine rather than sarcastic.

I can't imagine people telling you no very often.

You laugh a little harder. "You need a better imagination, then."

Even men?

"Well," the laughter trails off and you glance down at your desk, "I'd have to ask something of them first. I don't often. It's usually not worth it." You look back up. "You've told me no several times already."

For now.

There's a flush of heat in your belly that works its way between your legs and up to your neck. How does he keep doing that? No face. No voice. Yet somehow you keep ending up moments away from rubbing yourself against the seat of your chair.

"What about you? Do women tell you no, or are you so rich and handsome that they throw themselves at you?" You tease.

You wait, but there's no answer and you start to regret the question. You wonder if he's self-conscious about his looks and that's another reason he's doing this, or if you were right about his confidence when he isn't behind a screen.

"You don't have to answer that." You straighten up and your expression turns apologetic. "It was a clumsy attempt at flirting and to learn more about you."

No, they don't.

"Oh." You fidget uncomfortably for a moment. "If I'm being honest, that's actually a relief."

Why a relief?

"Because the type of men that would say yes to that question are usually intolerable. Besides," you shrug, "there are other important qualities to have that aren't looks. Like being intriguing, for example."

I can hear when you're lying.

"How am I lying?"

Looks are important to you.

"Of course they are. I never said they weren't! Only that there is more to attraction than just looks."

Would you still consider me if I were unattractive?

"Well." You stop to think about your response. You know you have to choose your words carefully in case this is a sensitive topic. "I can't promise anything because I don't know what you look like, but I will say if good looks were all I cared about, I would have an actual dating life."

I believe you.

"Does that mean you don't think you're attractive?" You tentatively ask.

Oh, I never said that. I just said women don't throw themselves at me. I'm far too busy.

"You…" You snap your mouth shut in anger. He was fucking with you. To see how you would react, and you actually felt bad for a moment! "God, you're infuriating."

You like it.

You do. There's a slick heat inside of your underwear that betrays exactly how much you like it.

"And you seem to be trying awfully hard to find the limit of that statement." You scowl.

I happen to like pressing your buttons.

"I noticed." You give a small, irritated huff through your nose. "You know, I also can't help but notice I've been doing most of the talking here. It's your turn to ask me a question."

That seems like fair retaliation.

There's a brief pause while he, presumably, thinks of something to ask you.

What was the source of your hesitation earlier? When I asked if you wanted me to touch myself.

"I want to know more about you first," you answer matter of factly.

Why?

"For several reasons. It's a very vulnerable position for me to be in since you can see me and I can't see you, so I want to trust you before this turns into that."

What are the other reasons?

"The more I get to know you, the more interested I might be. And the more interested I am, the more I'll want to take my clothes off. Just for you. Doesn't that sound so much better than a halfhearted strip tease?" You give the camera your best enticing look. "I think it does."

I agree. It does.

"Besides, didn't you promise me that you would make me want to touch myself for you? So make me, David. Give me more to work with."

You should be careful with what you say. Or you may accidentally ask for something you haven't thought through.

You blush and shift in your chair. "How do you know I'm not completely aware of what I'm asking?"

Because you wouldn't ask me to make you if you were.

You have to bite your lip to stop a whimper that nearly makes its way out of your mouth. You also have to fight back your initial instinct of looking into the camera and repeating, 'Make me, David.' You know that's pushing it, though. For now. But god, do you want to.

"Point taken," you force out through the tension. "Why do you ask, anyway?"

I wanted to know how I can remove that hesitation. Now I know.

"Eager, are we?" You tease.

Yes.

Can you blame me? The thing I'm impatient for is you.

"God, David," you gasp. "I think it's you that needs to be careful with what you're saying."

I know what I'm saying. But for your sake I will.

"Thank you," you exhale in relief. Your control and conviction can only take so much, and your grasp on them is weakening. And he knows it.

Does it bother you that I want you?

"Not really. A lot of men want me."

No they don't. They want your body. I want you.

"I still don't understand why."

I see something in you that mirrors something in me.

"You see yourself in me, do you?" You give the camera a teasing, seductive smile.

You're very good at that.

"At what?" You ask innocently.

Using flirtation as a means of misdirection when you're uncomfortable.

"How am I uncomfortable?"

Because you want to know what I see and that scares you.

"You think you could tell me truths about myself that I don't already know?" You raise an eyebrow.

No, it's not that.

"What would scare me then?"

That you want to hear it from me.

You mentally shake off the immediate denial because you know he's right. You want to know exactly what he sees. You want to hear your own truths from him because it's thrilling. And because if he knows and he's still here…

"Fine. Maybe I do because I'm curious just how much you really see."

I've seen quite a lot.

"Try me," you challenge.

Do you have many friends?

You frown and glance down at the top of your desk. "Not many."

Why not?

"Because...I find it difficult to get along with most people, I suppose. What does this have to do with anything?"

I'm getting there.

Would you like to know why you don't?

"This should be good." You lean back in your chair. "Go on."

You've always felt different, and it makes connecting with other people almost impossible. You try, of course, because you get lonely. Humans are social creatures, after all. Either you feel nothing towards them and they annoy you, or they keep you at arm's length once they start to see the real you.

How old were you when you started faking it, I wonder? When you realized they don't like who you are when you aren't wearing the mask. I bet you were young when you learned to never take it off. That's why you found it so easy to lie on camera and why you were so good at what you were doing. You've been doing it most of your life.

You sit with that for a moment.

You expect it to hurt because, objectively, what he said should be painful and it is lonely. But you're already fully aware of the truth, and you know he wasn't just saying it to be cruel. You asked. That's like being upset with a mirror for showing you your reflection.

Though you suspect he still hoped you would squirm when faced with it because he likes making you squirm.

"I found it easy to lie to those men because I don't care about them or their feelings." You sneer at the thought. "They were a means to an end. And I can't connect with people because I find the things they care about to be mind numbingly dull. Unfortunately that usually means themselves."

And in the beginning you said you weren't that interesting.

"Is that how you feel then?" Your voice softens. "Lonely."

Yes.

"I guess we're both in excellent company." You mean for your accompanying smile to be lighthearted, but you can tell that it doesn't meet your eyes, and a hint of your own loneliness weighs down the corners of your mouth.

I certainly think so.

Do you want to know what else I see?

"Yes," you reply without hesitation.

It's not just that those men were on the other end of the camera, is it? Or that they're men. You've always felt a deep disgust for everyone around you, and the camera gave you an outlet. The money may have been the reason you started, but that was the reason you kept going.

You raise your eyebrows, impressed. "Interesting. And devastatingly accurate, as usual. But do you want to know a secret?" You lean in close and stage whisper, "I already figured all of this out."

Did you now?

"I did." You give the camera a smug smile and lean back in your chair. "I've been doing some self reflection since our last chat. Couldn't have you catching me off guard all the time."

Clearly.

"Now, that doesn't mean I don't want to read what you have to say. I still like knowing just how much you see."

I'll keep that in mind.

Did you figure anything else out about yourself? Because if you did, I want to hear it.

"I figured out that I've been denying myself the things that I want because I felt bad for wanting them. And the only reason I felt bad is because I was told I should."

And what is it that you want?

"Well, that's the question, isn't it? I'm still attempting to work that out." Then in a lower tone, "But it's becoming clearer to me."

I would offer my assistance, but you seem to be doing a wonderful job of peeling off those layers on your own.

But I also wouldn't object to helping you take them off if you asked me to.

"Are you serious?" You give your camera an astonished look. "I'm merely unraveling the thread you pulled, David. None of this was possible without you. You've helped me finally see myself so clearly that at first I was worried I only wanted to come back here because, between that and the money, I felt like I owed you something. But now I realize it's because I want you to keep pulling. I want to see what's underneath. What I've been denied—what I've been denying this whole time. And maybe…" You trail off, suddenly unsure because you almost let slip something vulnerable that still scares you.

If he saw you, would he still want to look? Or would he upend your life only to leave when you became too much?

Maybe what? Don't stop now. I want to hear what you were about to say. And I want to hear the truth.

You take a deep breath in hopes that, in doing so, you'll find your courage.

You don't, but it's too late anyway. You've shown him a seam that's still neatly stitched. You can't pretend now that it was nothing because he'll latch onto it, and you can't lie to him because he'll know. As scary as it is, all you have is the truth. And he asked for it.

"Maybe for once someone won't be repulsed by what's there." Your voice sounds so weak. You hate feeling this exposed. Leaving yourself open like this is just an invitation for someone to hurt you—actually hurt you, like slipping a knife into a gap in your armor. Now you may as well be handing him the knife, too. But you push past that panic and fear, and hold tight to the truth. "Maybe…maybe I've been hoping you won't be."

You're practically fidgeting in your chair with anxiety as you wait to see if he draws blood with his response or plunges said metaphorical knife between your ribs. And to your surprise, his response comes rather quickly.

Do you think I would be here if I'd seen anything in you that came close to repulsing me? It's your disguise that I find repulsive. It's that you had to wear it at all that repulses me. I am restraining myself from tearing it off of you. I've only ever wanted to see more.

Repulsed?

How could I find such a perfect creature repulsive?

Oh.

"David," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "God, I…I don't know what to say."

Your heart is pounding against the walls of your ribcage, but no longer in fear. Not even in arousal. It's relief. Gratitude. Thrill. Anticipation. The desire to hear more of anything he has to tell you gnaws at your belly. You're starving for it.

That you even believe a single thing about yourself could be repulsive only strengthens my conviction that the world is full of monsters that hide behind their civility and their self-righteousness. They tell themselves they're better than us when the only difference is we're honest.

"But I haven't been honest, have I? Not always."

You are now.

"I'm trying to be," you correct him.

You've wanted to be this whole time. Do you think you would have embraced so many truths about yourself so quickly if you hadn't?

"That's a fair point." You lit a flame under your entire life with only the slightest encouragement from a complete stranger that was blackmailing you. To say that you've yearned to be free of it—to be yourself—would be an understatement. Now that fire is spreading and you don't even care enough to watch it burn. Not when you can look to him instead. "I have wanted it, I just never realized I did. Until you."

See? The money never mattered. It was just a means to an end, too. This was always my gift to you.

You let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. "Who are you, David?"

What happened to wanting to figure me out?

"That's still the plan, but I realize now I may have bitten off more than I can chew."

Don't worry, I won't let you choke.

Unless you want to.

You don't stop the pained moan that comes out of your mouth as you're tossed from feeling something approaching tender straight back into arousal. "My god, I'm getting whiplash," you mumble to yourself.

He doesn't say anything and you don't expect him to. His silence betrays how smug he's currently feeling just fine.

There's a moment of quiet then, and you glance around the room, willing yourself to calm down so your mind isn't trying to drag you in two directions at once. As you do so, your eyes catch the clock on the wall. You quickly do a double take and then look at your computer to confirm the time is correct. Because you're surprised to discover nearly an hour and a half has passed. It felt like ten minutes.

"My god. Is it really past seven?"

It is.

"I can't recall ever having a conversation where time just flew by. Usually it drags and I can't escape fast enough." You shake your head. "You know, being around people has always been exhausting and I couldn't figure out why. It's because wearing the mask is exhausting, isn't it? I was dedicating so much effort to not letting it slip and I didn't even realize. With you it's…different. I'm still worn out, but only because learning to keep it off is also exhausting. Just, you know, in the same way going to the gym or accomplishing a task that requires labor is. It's a rewarding ache."

It gets easier. Like with anything, the more you practice, the better you get.

"You speak from experience."

I do.

"How long?"

About fifteen years.

"Fifteen years?" For a brief moment you wonder how old he is, but you aren't sure if he'll tell you more than his name yet. You file it away for next time. "And you just…live without it? Do whatever you want?"

Oh, I still wear it occasionally, but it's tactical now instead of habit. It can be a very useful tool.

"I hadn't considered that," you mutter.

Sometimes it's also necessary for survival.

"Survival?" You recoil in surprise. "Jesus, how could that be necessary?"

The world isn't kind to people like us. Besides, isn't that what you've been doing this whole time?

"I always thought it was just a way to fit in, but I suppose that was its own form of survival."

See? You learn quickly.

"It helps when you're being hand fed the answers, but I appreciate the compliment nonetheless."

You should give yourself more credit. You're quite clever, remember?

"Not something I'm used to doing out loud," you shrug. "I'm sure I'll develop the muscle memory soon enough."

You will.

"So…are we winding down? Is that what's happening here? Because otherwise I don't usually have conversations about the clock."

Why? Is it your bedtime?

You know he's teasing, but you can feel how heavy your eyelids are getting. You were serious when you said all of this wore you out, even if you find yourself not wanting to go. "No, but it could be. I am getting tired."

Do you have an early morning?

"Not really. I technically still have work tomorrow, but I've done nothing except scroll through my phone and mess around on my computer since I gave my notice.."

How rebellious of you.

"Hardly," you chuckle. "I've been hoping they'll get annoyed and tell me they don't need me to stay the whole two weeks."

Couldn't you simply walk out on your own?

"Oh, I could. Doing it this way is so satisfying, though. They're furious, but what are they going to do? Fire me?" You grin. "No, they can only bite their tongues and watch it happen."

Then by all means, scroll away. Wouldn't want to come between you and your satisfaction.

You blush and look up at the camera from beneath your eyelashes. "You wouldn't?"

No. Your satisfaction comes first.

"Fuck," you hiss. At the same time you think, 'At least I would get that orgasm.' And that thought causes a potent swell of lust to pool between your thighs. Your breath hitches. "Now I really do think I need to go before I do something I might regret in the morning."

Would you?

Regret it?

You stop to consider whether or not you're ready—if you've learned enough—only to discover you no longer know the answer to that question. Which probably means…

You hesitated.

"I did," you sigh, disappointed, even as you remind yourself it's the right thing to do. And a good rule to hold yourself to.

There was more conflict on your face than introspection this time.

"Then you already know how I'm feeling."

I'll get you there.

That confidence that bothered you just a few days ago is now thrilling. "You'd better. You promised, David."

It's a promise I not only intend to keep, but will enjoy keeping.

"Good." You give your camera a wistful smile. "Last time I couldn't wait to close this window. Now I'm reluctant to go. That should probably concern me."

Does it?

"No. It doesn't."

Good.

"You're feeling quite pleased with yourself right now, aren't you?"

As a matter of fact, yes I am.

Because I'm once again savoring an I told you so.

"Infuriating," you sigh, but without the irritation this time.

Take the remainder of the evening to rest and do some self reflection, as you called it. I'm sure you have plenty to mull over before next time, and I'm eager to hear what new truths you uncover.

"You know I will. Especially the rest part."

Good. I wouldn't want to wear you out too soon.

"Don't worry, I have excellent stamina." You give the camera a wink. "Goodnight, David."

Goodnight.

Before you leave the spare room, you pick up your phone and peel the tape off both of the camera lenses. In doing so, you also quickly learn that tape was a terrible idea because it leaves behind an adhesive residue that you're forced to rub off, which takes a minute. You have to keep opening your camera to make sure there aren't any smudges.

Once that's clean, you completely unbutton your blouse, exposing your bra and your stomach. Then you go down to your knees on the carpet, hold your phone high, look up into the lense with a heated, angry expression, and take a selfie.

A selfie of you posing the way he pictures you when he touches himself to the thought of you.

You text it to him with the message: "Some inspiration. No mask."

A good twenty minutes later, while you're in the bathroom brushing your teeth and getting ready for bed, your phone buzzes.

Stunning. I was very inspired.

Fuck. It's going to be another long night and workday, isn't it?

Chapter 3 ->

A/N: Hi. Hello. Yes, Reader needs therapy, stat. Alas, she's not going to go to therapy. She's going to go fuck David Robey, serial killer, instead. Very normal and healthy behavior. (LOVE that for her, though.) Also I cannot begin to tell you how empowering it is to write her. How freeing. I ask you, who amongst us hasn't worn a mask to hide themselves or felt bad for wanting something? Who hasn't wanted to be seen by someone that can't look away? Who hasn't wanted to shed expectations like snakeskin and then go absolutely apeshit? Because I sure have. So I hope at least some of you find this just as empowering to read. This fic is for all of us. (Just maybe don't try to emulate her. She super does need therapy, like, for real.)

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