Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Eliza. My sweet, brilliant, secret girlfriend. She’s here, in my living room, but also not. She’s streaming to hundreds, maybe thousands of men, and as I watch this live stream, every second, more names fill the chat box, their words as vulgar as a locker room after PT.
BunnySnowGirl: “You like my new toy, Daddy? Tip if you want to see it in my ass.”
The text scrolls by, a parade of digital filth, and the number next to “Current Viewers” ticks upward with each breath. Tips pour in—tokens, hearts, little animated dollar signs. She smiles, adjusts her angle, and uses both hands now, one on the dildo, the other spreading herself for the camera so that viewers can see exactly where it enters her swollen pussy. The sight makes my cock twitch, even as my brain howls with a storm of emotions: lust, confusion, anger, pride (because Jesus, she’s good at it), and a gnawing sense of betrayal.
I want to close the tab, but I can’t. I lean in, squinting, looking for proof. Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s some digital deepfake, or a lookalike, or a sick cosmic joke. But I know every inch of her body, every scar, every freckle, and the more I watch, the more certain I am.
She’s not even hiding it. Her face stays turned away, but everything else is on display: the curves, the giggle, the little hitch in her breath when she’s about to come.
My eyes drift to the chat. It’s the usual mob: drooling guys with usernames like “BigBadWolf69” and “Lawyer4Life.” They’re throwing tokens, egging her on, begging for more. She reads some of the messages, giggles, and does what they ask. She lets one hand drift back to her ass, presses a finger inside, and moans as she double-penetrated. The room fills with wet, obscene sounds as she rides the toy like a pro.
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen—and the most devastating.
Suddenly, Eliza arches, her moan bright and sharp, and her orgasm is unmistakable, a real one, not the kind you fake for strangers. Her body trembles, then collapses forward, spent and luminous, strands of hair plastered to her back with sweat.
The chat explodes. Tips flood in. Someone posts a gif of fireworks.
I close the tab.
I sit back, rub my hands over my face, and try to process what the fuck just happened. My heart is racing like I just pulled ten G’s, and my stomach is somewhere in my boots.
I pour another whiskey, neat this time. My hands are still trembling, and I watch the glass slosh like a rookie.
What do I do now? Confront her? Pretend it never happened? Secretly bankroll her so she never has to do this again? The absurdity makes me laugh again, loud and bitter.
I can’t get Eliza’s image out of my head though. The way she smiled, the little flutter of her fingers when she thanked her customers. The way she came, sweet and erotic, for a crowd of men who have no idea what she’s really like—her intelligence, her wit, her heart.
I check the clock. It’s almost midnight. My first instinct is to call, but that’s insane. There’s no playbook for this. No protocol.
So I do what I always do: I plan.
I pull up my phone, thumb hovering over her name in the contacts.
Finally, I type:
“Dinner at my place tomorrow? 7pm? Wear something you want me to rip off.”
She replies in seconds: “Absolutely, Commander. Can’t wait.”
I put the phone down and stare at the blank wall, the afterimages of her body still burning in my eyes.
The house is silent. I listen to the fridge cycle, the ice machine spit cubes into the tray, the faint click of the heating system.
I pour one more drink and wait for morning.
There’s a weird fugue that sets in after a shock. In war, it’s called shell-shock or PTSD or a dozen other acronyms, but at home, it’s just numbness: the way your brain floats above the facts, refusing to deal until forced by reality. I spend the day in a haze, cleaning the house until every surface is spotless, then setting out steaks, wine, and a wedge salad so perfect it could star in a cooking magazine. I check the oven twice, arrange the silverware in careful formation, then stare at the clock and will it to run out of minutes.
At 6:57, headlights flash through the window. My chest tightens. I force myself to breathe steady, like I’m prepping for a jump.
The knock is soft, and when I open the door, she’s there—Eliza, glowing with impossible youth, eyes huge and lips glossy. She’s dressed up, blonde hair curled, a dark coat that skims her curves and ends just below the knee. She’s even wearing heels. My heart does a weird skip, like maybe this is just a nightmare and everything’s normal.