Do Not Disturb

 

Twelve minutes later, I am about to come. My excitement builds at the realization. It rarely happens in a chat, my body too bored with the constraints of digital interaction. But this man, this sub, wants pain. It’s something I rarely do; the clients wanting that normally go for the dominatrix types. But today has been slow and my fingers are numb from the vibration of my toys, so what-the-hell, I’m here, my legs spread, my fingers strumming across my clit in a frantic movement that would make Keith Richards proud. And I am pouring my soul out to him. Our role-play has me straddling his body, his hard cock inside of me. My hands wrapped tight around his neck. His hands tied, spread-eagle to the bed, helpless to stop me. The frantic pumps of his hips as he tries to squirm free pushing his cock deeper and deeper, the thrash of his body creating additional friction against my clit. He is hard despite himself. Unable to resist my body. The soft touch of my fingers, even as they dig into the muscles of his throat. I make him stare into my eyes as he gulps for air.

 

I can physically hear his gasps, his begs as he, as excited as I am, pleads for his life. And when he comes, when his breaths become short and fast and finally stop—I imagine that I am done. That the life has left his body, that he is dead and I have killed him. And that final image pacifies my sick mind for the rest of the night.

 

That night, I sleep like a baby.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 10

 

 

TWO NIGHTS LATER. I pull a load of laundry out of the dryer, the job made easy by the fact that 90 percent of the items are in delicate-garment bags, mesh pouches that protect my lingerie and subdivide the majority of my laundry, a few pairs of sweats added in. I hold the phone in the crook of my shoulder, glancing at the wall clock as I move.

 

“I’ve got to go. I have a call scheduled in a few minutes.”

 

“I should be headed to my sister’s house anyway. Is it Paul?”

 

I grin at Jeremy’s response. “Yes, it’s Paul. I’ve got to stop talking to you about clients. I’ll lose my rep for secrecy.”

 

I shouldn’t talk to him about my clients. I’ve always freely discussed them with Dr. Bryan, my sex therapist, our conversations protected by the beautiful cloud of doctor/client confidentiality. But my conversations with Jeremy don’t have that protection. If he wanted, he could put a billboard on the side of I-10, broadcasting my clients’ secrets across four lanes of freeway traffic. I’m not sure who would pay attention. No one knows who IWearMommasPanties42 is. I could find out, if I cared enough to sic Mike on them. But I don’t dig, and Jeremy doesn’t know usernames or specific intimate details. I’ve only discussed a few clients with him—my regulars. Paul, the sweetheart who calls me daily, madly in love with a figment of my imagination. Frankie, my latest FinDom client, a relationship which will last until he depletes his bank account. DoctorPat, my resident physician, who prescribes me the pills I pay Simon with in exchange for watching him corrupt his ass with whatever phallic-shaped item he has handy.

 

“Paul gets more conversation time in than I do.”

 

I hesitate in my steps to the bed, unsure at the tone in his voice. Is it jealousy? I am so out of practice that I don’t know. But it seems, from the subtle hints he occasionally drops, that the emotional clients bother him more than the physical. Which, in some ways I get. In other ways, this entire relationship is screwed six ways to Sunday, an hour-long chat with a lonely man being the least of our hurdles.

 

“We still on for the movies tomorrow night?” he asks.

 

I upend the laundry basket onto my cam bed, tossing the plastic bin to the side and beginning the super-exciting process of unzipping and dumping out the mesh bags of lingerie. “I don’t know if you can call four o’clock night… but yeah. I haven’t made other plans.” My other cell, the one I use while camming, vibrates against the wood of my desk. I speak quickly. “I got to go.”

 

“Bye, babe.” There is a smile in his voice and my own face responds, curving upward.

 

“Bye.”

 

I end the call and answer the second? moving to my computer as I speak.

 

“Hey, Paul.”

 

“Hey. I’m in the chatroom.”

 

A.R. Torre's books