by A. R. Torre
freebird71: brilliant
I smile. “Yes. It’s nice.” Nice that it charges the customer forty dollars a month just for the ability to encourage their spending. Nice that it reduces the amount of time I fend off the free-chat clingers.
freebird71: the other girls don’t talk.
“Most of them are foreign. Or in a place where they can’t be heard.”
freebird71: why not
“Why can’t they be heard? Maybe they live with family, or a roommate.”
freebird71: do you?
An odd question but one I’ve gotten a hundred times before. “No. I’m in an apartment on campus. I got lucky and got a one-bedroom.” I smile, as if WAHOO! This is a feat worth celebrating.
freebird71: boyfriend?
Another common question, ranked right up there in popularity with How many toys do you have? Do you do anal? Are your boobs real? I shake my head again. “Nope.”
freebird71: why not
I give the answer that always works. One that clients believe. “My job doesn’t really work with a boyfriend. Most guys don’t want to date a girl who gets naked on the Internet.” Yes. Lucky me. With a boyfriend who turns a blind eye to my homicidal tendencies and allows me to cyberfuck strangers all day long. I smile brightly and ward off a yawn. My mood tonight is strange. I am bitter and angry, and don’t know why. After this chat, I am getting offline. I’m too close to blurting out the wrong thing and damaging my online image.
freebird71: I want to fuck you
And… looks like the chitchat is over. I am almost relieved, despite the fact that my throat is tired of moaning and my body has been worked over enough times today to classify as spent. “How do you want me?”
freebird71: on your knees in front of the camera. Get a flogger.
I shake my head. “I don’t do that sort of stuff.” I flip screens and look at my client spreadsheet, read the note I have next to his username: Wants a personal meet. I can’t imagine the girls who meet these guys in person. The risks they take when we already make enough. More than enough.
I get on my knees, switching the camera input to the cam above me, the one that looks down on me from the height of a typical man. “Do you want me to suck your cock?”
freebird71: yes
“Black or white cock?”
A long pause.
freebird71: white. Stop talking and suck me.
I clip a nude RealSkin seven-incher on the stand before me and grip it in eyesight of the camera, looking up into it. Tilting my head, I stare into the camera. “Please.” I don’t move. I don’t suck. I wait.
Thirty seconds pass.
freebird71: please what
“Please suck me.”
freebird71: are you serious?
I let go of the cock, let it hang before me, and stare into the cam and wait. Another minute passes. Another seven bucks earned.
freebird71: fine. PLEASE suck my cock. This is ridiculous.
I oblige, grabbing the toy and looking up into the camera, letting my tongue play over the head of it before I give it a slow and sexual journey down the back of my throat. I close my eyes as I pull off, taking my time, letting my hand work. I tease him for a good three minutes, then start the business of a full-fledged plastic cock suck.
I have almost forgotten about him, my mind elsewhere, my mouth going through automatic motions—suck, gag, bury, tease—when I hear the chime of a message.
freebird71: turn around. doggie style. muffle your mouth.
It’s a request I wouldn’t normally think twice about. Muffling my voice into a pillow—it’s about as tame as domination gets. But tonight… this client… I pull my mouth off of the cock, sliding the attachment and camera both lower, till they are at a more appropriate level. Standing, I strip free of my panties, taking my time before dropping back to my knees, my ass to the camera. I slide into the doggie-style position, giving him a view he will appreciate, pushing back until the toy is at my entrance. Then I wait, turning my head and looking into the camera. Bob my ass a bit, so that the toy teases me without going in.
freebird71: fuck me
“Please,” I say with an edge to my tone.
His response comes quickly.
freebird71: fuck you
I laugh. Sit up. “One more chance, freebird. Say please or go find another girl.”
freebird71: fuck you
I reach over and end the chat. Lock down my computer and turn off the lights. My hands shaking slightly, I step to the window. Run my hands over the latch. I need just a glimpse of the stars. Just a breath of the air. One minute’s worth, then I’ll sleep. I touch the metal of the latch. Press my hands against the glass to stop them from shaking.
My level of need for the action is suddenly scary. An indication of my loss of control. I watch my hands tremble against glass and wonder at the danger behind it. I have to control myself. Cannot need any of the freedoms I allow myself. Cannot grow addicted to the outside world as I have grown addicted to the thought of death. I pull my hands from the window. I may not be able to handle the scent of freedom. I am getting weaker. I suddenly don’t trust myself or any of my justifications. I turn my back to the window and move to the shower.
His mouth set, Marcus reaches for the mouse, clicking the button that takes him back to free chat. The little bitch. Thinking she holds the power. Thinking she can make him beg like a dog. There are a thousand other girls on this site. Who cares if they don’t speak English? Who cares if they have tattoos and piercings? Who cares if they let him use them without argument? That snobby bitch. Making him say “please” like he is a child. He is paying her. She should take her money like a good whore and say, Thank you. Yes, sir. Whatever the fuck you want. Not sit there with her stony stare and demand that he kiss her ass. God, if only she were in front of him. He would break her. She would beg him. Cry for him. Scream to God then scream to him. By the time he was done with her the only name she would know would be his.
Refresh. He jabs at the button over and over. Searches for her among the sea of slutty faces. But she doesn’t return, the late hour probably sending her to bed. Bitch.
He jacks off to the thought of smacking the smirk off her face, his hand moving in tune to the sound of her screams.
He will get her respect, put her in her place. Preferably in person. He is a powerful man. It will happen.
CHAPTER 31
“GOOD AFTERNOON, DEANNA.”
“Hey, Doc.” I bite into an apple, moving the phone away from my mouth as I chew.
“How are you doing today?”
“Haven’t killed anybody yet.” I smile, expecting—hoping for a chuckle. I should know better. Disapproving silence meets my ears, and I make a face into the receiver. “It’s a joke, Derek. I’m good.”
“Are you taking your meds?”
“Yep,” I lie smoothly, the word coming out casual, so perfect I decide to elaborate a bit, just because I’m bored and we have a half hour to fill. “I’m thinking about getting on birth control. Will the medicine affect that?”
Total silence. I grin, wishing I could see his face. “Why?” he finally manages, his voice tight and uncomfortable.
“Why what?” I crunch happily away.
“Why would you get on birth control?”
“For the same reason that normal people do. To avoid pregnancy.”
“You’re having sex?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Deanna, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I frown. “I’m not asking your permission. It’s my body. My life.” It’s not that I’m surprised by Derek’s response; he hasn’t exactly been on board with my relationship. But my flippant tease of Derek does bring to mind the risks associated if Jeremy and I do take that next step. The risks that are more emotionally damaging than physical. I don’t worry about physically hurting him during the act of sex. He has held me at bay enough to dissuade that fear. Plus, any homicidal thoughts seem to flee th
e moment my arousal begins. But emotionally… I think we are both in danger. I’m in danger of falling for a man who will one day discover the black actions of my soul and leave me. He’s in danger of falling for a girl who may one day kill him.
“It’s too dangerous, Dee. What if you lose control? When an individual is swept away by passion, they often lose common sense, the ability to make good decisions…” His voice trails off.
“I’m not gonna stop midfuck and strangle him with my libido,” I say dryly, chucking my apple core in the direction of the trash and groaning when it misses.
“When are you planning on being intimate? And will it be during the day or at night? Have you thought these details through?” His voice has increased in agitation, and I would bet a million dollars he is standing right now, pacing behind his desk, his face twisted in frustration.
I roll my eyes, standing and walking over to the apple, picking it up and throwing it away. “Killing doesn’t seem to be on my mind when we are… please don’t say ‘intimate.’ It makes you sound ancient. And you’re… what—under fifty, right?” It is a weak attempt at sleuthing. I know so little about this man, other than that he has a smooth voice that could make a killing in phone sex, should he ever be so inclined. I’ve considered siccing Mike on him, but that seems invasive, like something that shouldn’t be done to a friend. Plus, the fantasies of Derek make it all the more fun. Chances are he’s George Costanza with a mullet, and there’s no way I can fantasize to that image. Better that I envision him leaning back in his chair, a Josh Duhamel type, with glasses, his suit unbuttoned, twirling a pen lazily as he reaches down and adjusts his hardening cock.
“How long have you been considering this?”
I pretend that there’s a bit of a hitch to his tone, a thickening that indicates arousal. “A while.” Definitely under fifty. “And please, just call it what it is. No more ‘intimate’ terminology.”
“Which is?”
Okay, I’m not crazy. There is definitely a bit of a sexual drawl in that question. I grin, letting my voice drop and my tone change. “Fucking, Derek. Crazy, screammynamelouder fucking.”
Silence. Maybe I took that answer a little too far.
“Time’s up, Deanna,” he says shortly, and I glance at the wall clock, silently arguing with him that we have eight minutes left. “Your medication will not affect, or be affected by, birth control. Please note that I strongly suggest you refrain from any sexual activity as it could trigger an episode. Especially at night.”
A click, absolute and decisive, sounds through the cell phone’s receiver, and he is gone. I look to the other side of my apartment, to my bed of sex, cameras, toys, and lingerie spread all over its surface. Refrain from any sexual activity? Bitch, please.
CHAPTER 32
HackOffMyBigCock: u there?
JessReilly19: yep
HackOffMyBigCock: you flagged a client about a month ago. A freebird71.
JessReilly19: Go on
HackOffMyBigCock: his name is Marcus Renza. He was just released from jail.
JessReilly19: Awesome. For what?
HackOffMyBigCock: rape and aggravated battery
JessReilly19: Swell. Thanks for the speedy warning.
HackOffMyBigCock: you flagged 32 people last month. my caseload got backed up. Plus I’m assuming, from your smartass tone, that you are still alive.
JessReilly19: For now.
HackOffMyBigCock: want me to block him from your sites and social networks?
JessReilly19: No. he’s a potential whale. I’ll tread lightly. If he misbehaves, I’ll let you know to cut him off.
HackOffMyBigCock: I could do more.
JessReilly19: Stop stretching your morals on my dime. I can take care of myself.
HackOffMyBigCock: never doubted that babe.
JessReilly19: Thanks for the heads up
HackOffMyBigCock: anytime. The rest of the list was clean.
JessReilly19: Got to run. Horny men waiting.
HackOffMyBigCock: bye sexy
CHAPTER 33
VILLAINS COME IN all shapes and forms. I’m sure no one would have suspected my mother, her gingerbread apron tied perfectly over pressed pants and paired with a spotless smile. Or me, the barely-looks-eighteen beauty in a pink cami and white panties, kneeling on my bed and smiling into my webcam.
I know better. Regardless of the exterior smile, regardless of how sweet, or handsome, or friendly someone may look, I should never trust them. I should never let them get close enough to hurt me. Even Jeremy. In some ways, especially Jeremy.
I’ve been turning it over ever since my conversation with Derek. Debated the point of undertaking an unwinnable journey. My side of our relationship has become, in these deliberations, a struggle to keep him emotionally at bay. I have physically let him in, let him run those strong fingers over every inch of my body, my skin thirsty for the touch, my mouth eager for the contact. But I won’t let him touch my heart. It isn’t fair to let him love me, not when he doesn’t really know what it is he is loving. He doesn’t know what he holds in his hand, who he kisses over takeout. He thinks he knows, he thinks he is aware of my dark desires to hurt and thinks that that makes him educated, protected. But when he doesn’t know what I’ve done with that need, what lives I have taken… can his love be true without that information?
Our relationship started out so guarded, my fear of my actions setting so many parameters and restrictions on our time that we barely discussed anything other than the basics. And as time has gone on I have carefully trained him to avoid certain subjects. My work is discussed freely. But any discussion of death is avoided. He has tried to ask about the past, about where I went that night when I borrowed his truck a couple of months ago. But I have stayed silent and he, respectful Jeremy, hasn’t pushed the issue.
A part of me thinks that I should tell him. Should give him some idea of what lies beneath my skin. He might take my fears more seriously if he knew. Might do more to ensure that I am returned to my apartment at night. Might understand why I insist we avoid steak knives, glass bottles, or anything with a point sharp enough to kill. So I consider, at weak moments, telling him things. Sharing my past—at least some of it—my moral compass wavering over exclusion points and disclosure limits. Trust, a loosening of the purse strings that contain my secrets, might be necessary for a viable relationship. And maybe, after he knows what I am capable of, he won’t run. He’ll stay.
Maybe. Or maybe, for the first time in this crazy courtship that we call a relationship, he’ll show some common sense and run the hell away.
I consider the possibilities, turn over the words I’d use to confess, but my mouth has stayed quiet. I can always tell him. But I can’t take back the truth once it is spoken. And honestly? I don’t know how my heart would react if he left.
Yes, my silence is selfish. Admitting the fact does little to convince my mouth to speak. Selfishness is the least of my problems.
CHAPTER 34
I WATCH THE clock in Jeremy’s truck hit 7:40 p.m. I am pushing it, breaking my own rules, outside later than I should be. Dr. Derek would not approve, but Dr. Derek can go screw himself. I want to do this. Try this. And if I fail, then Jeremy is here to stop me. I have no weapons on me; he’ll return me home soon, in time for lockup, so everything should be fine. I just want one night. One night of normalcy. I deserve this after behaving for so long, trying so hard. I’ve left the apartment at this time for the last two Saturdays. Bought lotto tickets and ice cream and not killed anyone. So tonight should be easy.
Now, I accelerate. We just left dinner, a barbecue restaurant where I ordered ribs and Jeremy let me pay, reluctantly accepting once I pointed out that he has fronted my dinners for months now. He still has some barbecue sauce on his mouth; I can see it out of the corner of my eye, a dried bit of yummy, begging to be licked off. He turns, catches my eye, and reaches over, loops his hand through mine. I smile, my eyes returning to the road, the rough hum of the engine reas
suring me.
Jeremy wanted to drive, thinks it establishes some form of caveman masculinity, but I haven’t driven in so long and am not passing up the opportunity. To have the windows down, wind ripping through my hair, the fresh blast of air, however cold it may be, reminding me that I am alive. Alive and living. The seat is warm on my legs and back, my body glued to them, the heater placing a gentle touch on my arms and face before the night air steals it away. I take the exit that Jeremy indicates, the ramp curving steeply, my foot on the brake long enough to pause, then there is a small squeal of truck tires and we are heading up. I didn’t even know there were hills in this area, flatness seeming to be the only game in town. But here, fifteen minutes outside of town, we are curving down and then up the swells of a hill, Jeremy tapping on my arm and pointing, my foot easing off the gas, and we pull off and park.
At eight, a winter fireworks display is scheduled. I haven’t seen fireworks since my family was alive. That night five years ago, we had packed up snacks and blankets and headed into town, spread out on an open bit of park lawn and watched the sky light up above us. Trent had cried from the noise, Mom had deserted us to get the car, and Dad had pulled the twins into his lap, shooting me a reassuring smile. Trent had quieted, Dad’s arms strong around him, hands covering his little ears. And we had watched the remainder of the show, the display of colors, taking our time, waiting until the end before collecting our things and meeting Mom at the car.
7:58 p.m. I can do this. I step out of the truck, no one in sight, just him and me, alone on the side of the road, high enough that we can look down on the city. He unrolls a blanket, puts it on the hood of the truck, close to the windshield, and holds out a hand. Helps me up onto the hood, then joins me, his arm wrapping around me and pulling me back, reclining us both against the windshield, the sky above us dark.