Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I came too.
It's so sick. So fucking sick. My fingers were between my legs as I watched and… I didn't even realize it.
I did exactly what Caleb did.
I am just like him.
I am sick.
Even now, lying here in these rumpled sheets at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling in the dark with absolutely zero sleep and my mind running this endless, spiraling speedrun through every horrific detail—I'm wet.
My pussy is throbbing.
Just like it always is when I remember.
Until now, though, I've been pushing away the truth.
That's why I didn't masturbate until this past week.
I couldn't get past the idea that I'm a sick fuck just like Caleb.
That's why he needs to go away.
It's not because I don't like him.
It's because I like him too much.
Ryan is… maybe not normal. But I'm not looking for normal. I'm looking for… well, his kind of freak flag is something I can deal with. Something I can get on board with.
Strapping me into gyno contraptions? Yes. Yes. I'm here for it. It's actually a common thread in my recent sex history.
Practically vanilla at this point.
I might even let him film me. With a mask on. Maybe. The thought sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through me—imagining strangers watching, their eyes glued to the screen, their hands working themselves into a frenzy over me. Over what I'm doing. What I'm letting Ryan do to me.
It's twisted and exhibitionistic and exactly the kind of thing that should make me feel ashamed, but instead I'm just… turned on. Picturing some faceless person on the other side of a computer screen, jerking off to footage of me strapped into that contraption, spread open and vulnerable and wanting it.
Using what they see as fuel for their own fantasies, their own future encounters. Planning out scenarios with their partners based on what they watched me experience with Ryan.
The idea shouldn't be hot.
But it is.
This is my justification—my permission, my excuse, whatever I need to call it to make it okay—when my hand slowly lowers, fingertips trailing down my stomach, hesitating at my hip bone before sliding further. Ryan. The cameras. The knowledge that someone might be watching this exact moment, cataloging it for later use. That's what I tell myself this is about.
I picture it. Ryan's hands on my ankles, lifting them, positioning them exactly where he wants them. The cold metal stirrups against my calves as he locks them in. That click. The finality of it.
I'm already touching myself, fingers sliding through the wetness that's been building all night.
In my mind, I'm spread wide on that table. Exposed. The cameras positioned at deliberate angles—one overhead, one between my legs, one capturing my face. Ryan stepping back to check the framing. Adjusting the ring lights so there's no shadow obscuring anything important.
He'd make me wait. Test me. Let me lie there with my pussy on display while he fucks around with settings and equipment, taking his time, letting the anticipation build until I'm squirming against the restraints.
My fingers circle my clit, pressure building as I imagine him finally approaching. Standing between my spread thighs. The bulge in his joggers right there, eye level if I could lift my head.
"You ready to be famous, button?"
I whimper into my empty apartment, hips lifting off the mattress.
The fantasy Ryan doesn't ask permission. He just pulls his cock out—thick and heavy—and drags the head through my folds. Teasing. Making me beg for it while the cameras record everything.
"Please," I whisper to no one, fingers working faster. "Please fuck me."
Fantasy Ryan grips my hips and slams inside in one brutal thrust. No warning. No gentleness. Just claiming what's his while the cameras capture every second.
He fucks me hard on that table, using the stirrups as leverage to drive deeper. Each thrust punches the air from my lungs. The restraints dig into my ankles. I'm completely helpless, completely his, and everyone watching will know it.
"That's it, button. Show them what a dirty little slut you are."
My fingers move frantically now, circling my clit while I imagine him pounding into me. The wet sounds. The slap of skin. His grunts mixing with my moans. All of it recorded. Permanent. Evidence of exactly how much I need this.
"Come for the camera," fantasy Ryan commands. "Let them see."
And I do. I come so fucking hard my back arches off the mattress, thighs trembling, a scream tearing from my throat that echoes through my empty apartment. Wave after wave crashes through me while I work myself through it, imagining those cameras capturing every spasm, every desperate sound.
When I finally collapse back onto the bed, panting and limp, I'm staring at the ceiling again.
My pussy is still throbbing.
Why am I such a freak?
It could be worse, inner monologue reasons. You could be coming to the image of Caleb killing someone…