The text comes through as I'm painting my toenails a pale, shimmery pink.
Be at my door in thirty minutes. Wear the black lace set. Your piercings. Over it, a shirt and sweatpants. Nothing else. Don't knock. Just come in.
My heart does that familiar, frantic drumroll against my ribs. Thirty minutes. I'm moving before the polish is even dry, my fingers fumbling with the tiny clasp of the black lace bra. It strains against the heavy, full weight of my tits, the silver barbells making obvious points against the delicate fabric. The thong is a sheer afterthought. I pull on an old, soft grey sweatshirt and a pair of loose black sweatpants, the coarse fabric a strange contrast to the sensitive lace beneath. I check myself in the mirror—a girl wrapped in cozy layers, hiding a secret, slutty feast underneath. A blush heats my cheeks just thinking about it.
The walk to his apartment door feels endless and takes seconds all at once. My bare feet are silent on the hallway carpet. I twist the knob. It's unlocked.
I push the door open and step into warmth, the smell of lemon polish and something savory cooking. And then I freeze.
It's not him in the entryway.
It's a woman. Pretty, with kind eyes and hair swept up in a messy bun. She's wearing scrubs. Stella. His wife.
"Oh! Hello!" she says, smiling, not an ounce of suspicion in her face. "You must be Mia from down the hall! Callaghan mentioned you might stop by."
I'm stuck in the doorway, my tongue a useless lump of clay. I can only manage a shaky nod.
"Come in, come in, don't be shy!" She gestures, and I shuffle inside, my eyes darting around. It's a humble, lived-in space. Cozy. Normal. A home. The contrast with the filth in my head is dizzying.
"Callaghan!" Stella calls out. "Your computer helper is here!"
Mr. Callaghan appears from a hallway, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans. He looks… domestic. Ordinary. His eyes meet mine, and a spark of pure, dark heat flashes in them so fast I think I imagined it.
"Mia," he says, his voice warm and normal. "Thanks for coming by. Stella, this is the young lady who solved my mobile crisis last week. Remember? The app thing."
Stella beams at me. "Oh, that's right! You're a lifesaver. He's hopeless with technology." She shakes her head fondly.
Mr. Callahan smirks. "Didn't you do a good job, Mia?" he asks, his tone light, but the double meaning slithers under my skin.
I manage a squeak. "It was… nothing."
"Well, I'm late for my shift," Stella says, grabbing a jacket from a hook. She goes to her husband, rises on her toes, and kisses him full on the mouth. A soft, affectionate, married kiss. "I'll talk to you next time, Mia! Be good, you two!"
She's out the door with a wave, and the lock clicks behind her.
The air in the apartment changes instantly. It becomes thick, charged. Mr. Callahan's friendly mask melts away, replaced by that hungry, possessive look I know so well. I'm still standing awkwardly by the couch.
In two strides, he's behind me. His hands land on my shoulders, and his mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. He kisses it, a hot, open-mouthed press that makes my knees weak. His hands slide under my oversized sweatshirt, his palms skimming up my stomach to cup the lace-covered swell of my breasts. He squeezes, his thumbs finding my pierced nipples and pinching them hard through the fabric.
"Good girl," he murmurs against my skin, his voice a low rumble. "You obeyed. Exactly as I asked." He stares at the lace bra struggling to contain me, at my flushed skin. "I bought you a gift," he says, his eyes gleaming. He takes my hand, his grip firm, and leads me down the hallway to his bedroom.
It's a dark, simple room. A bed, a dresser, a desk with a large desktop computer. It smells like him—soap and that dark, spicy cologne. He goes to the dresser and pulls out two things: a sleek black vibrator and a cloth mask. The mask is full coverage, black, with precise cut-outs for my eyes, nostrils, and mouth.
"Put this on," he says, handing it to me. His own expression is unreadable as he pulls an identical one over his head, adjusting it. With the mask, he's anonymous. A stranger. A phantom with his commanding eyes and familiar, rough hands.
My fingers tremble as I pull the mask on. The world narrows to the view through the eyeholes, the feel of cloth against my cheeks. He looks me over, a masked man assessing masked property. "We're going live, sweetie," he says, his voice slightly muffled. "Gonna show the world my prized possession."
My stomach clenches with a terrifying mix of dread and white-hot arousal. Live? He sits at the desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard. The monitor glows to life. He's pushed his office chair aside; in front of the desk is a small loveseat. He pats his lap. "Sit."
I go to him, settling on his thighs, my back to his chest. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me tight. He clicks a final button, and a red light blinks on the webcam.
"Hello, everyone," he says, his voice taking on a smooth, showman's tone. It vibrates through his chest into my back. "Welcome back. Tonight, I want to introduce you to my prized possession. My slutty little slave. Let's make her do things for us, shall we?"
Comments start streaming in on the side of the screen, usernames and emojis blurring together. Take her clothes off! Show us!
He nuzzles my masked cheek. "You hear that, sweetie? They want to see you." He pulls the sweatshirt up over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.His hands go to the waistband of my sweatpants. He hooks his thumbs in them and peels them down my hips, taking them in one move. Cool air hits my ass and pussy. He pushes the pants down my thighs. I'm in just the lace set and the mask, sitting on his lap, on display for a glowing screen full of strangers.
Hot! Ass! Spread her!
He helps me stand, turning me to face the camera. My heavy tits strain against the black lace. "Show them your ass, Mia. Bend over."
Blushing so hard I feel faint behind the mask, I bend at the waist, placing my hands on the loveseat. I feel his hands on me, spreading my cheeks apart. The camera is right there. He's showing them everything. The thick, puffy outer lips of my pussy, already glistening. The long, dark inner lips, swollen and dangling between my thighs.
FUCK! Look at those meaty lips! Smack that ass!
His hand comes down in a sharp, loud crack on my right ass cheek. The flesh jiggles, a ripple of pain-pleasure radiating through me. I moan, and the sound seems to excite the chat even more. Rewards—little digital icons—start popping up on the stream.
"They like that," he growls, groping the stinging flesh. "Sit back down, sweetie. Face me."
I settle back onto his lap, now straddling him, my back to the camera. He kisses my neck, his hands cupping my tits through the bra. The comments are a frenzied scroll. Take the bra off! Eat those tits!
He reaches behind me, unhooks the clasp with practiced ease, and pulls the lace away. My tits spill free, full and heavy, my pierced nipples hard and aching. He groans, loud enough for the mic to pick up. "Look at these fucking melons," he says, to them, to me. He lowers his head and takes my right nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the metal ball. The sensation is blinding, amplified by the knowledge that hundreds of eyes are watching him devour me.
The rewards flood in. He switches to my left breast, sucking and biting, his hand mauling the other. "She tastes so fucking good," he mumbles against my skin, for the audience.
He turns me again, so I'm facing the camera, sitting on the edge of the loveseat. He kneels on the floor between my spread legs and slides down my thongs. His thumb finds my clit, rubbing slow, firm circles. I can't help it—my hips roll, a low moan tearing from my throat. He gives my clit a gentle, stinging smack. "Such a noisy little slut," he comments, and the chat goes wild.
He pushes my knees wider. His fingers hook into my slick, swollen outer lips, spreading me open for the camera. "Zoom in," says the crowd. "Look at this pretty, hungry hole. Look at those inner lips. So dark, so long. They're dripping for you."
I'm panting, my entire body aflame with humiliation and desperate need. He pushes two fingers inside me, curling them up. I cry out, my cunt clenching around the invasion. He adds a third, then a fourth, stretching me wide. The wet, squelching sounds are picked up by the mic. He pulls his glistening fingers out and slowly, deliberately, licks them clean, staring right into the camera.
Then he picks up the vibrator and sits on the couch again, and me facing him. He turns it on, a low, insistent buzz. He rubs the tip over my throbbing clit, and I jolt, a sharp cry escaping my masked lips. "You like that, don't you?" he whispers. He pushes two fingers back inside me, his thumb holding the vibrator firmly against my clit. "Ride it, sweetie. Fuck my fingers."
I'm beyond thought. My hips move, fucking myself on his hand, the dual sensation of penetration and relentless vibration hurtling me toward the edge. The obscene, wet sounds fill the room. I'm so lost, so desperate, that I lean forward, my masked mouth finding his. I kiss him. A deep, frantic, French kiss, breaking my own rule, my tongue tangling with his. It's possessive, claiming.
He breaks the kiss, his eyes blazing behind his mask. "My sweetie?" he asks, his voice thick with nasty triumph.
"Yours," I gasp, and kiss him again, deeper, sloppier.
"That's a good bitch," he rasps against my mouth. He pulls his fingers from my sopping cunt and guides me to lie back on the loveseat. He gets the camera, holding it close as he kneels again. "Hold it, baby. Show them how I eat you."
He puts the camera in my trembling hand, guiding it to point at my spread pussy. Then his mouth is on me. He doesn't just lick. He french kisses my cunt, his tongue plunging deep, lapping up my juices, sucking my long inner lips into his mouth. The vibrator is still buzzing on my clit, held there by his other hand. The visual on the screen is my swollen, glistening folds being devoured by a masked man, drool and my own wetness mixing and dripping down.
"So fucking wet for me," he groans, for the mic. He pushes his saliva-slicked fingers inside me, then pulls them out, showing the camera the thick strings of clear fluid leaking from my stretched hole. He gives my pussy a wet, open-palmed smack, tugs gently on my clit piercing, and leaves dark hickeys on my inner thighs.
The stream is a cascade of rewards and filthy comments.
He suddenly reaches over and clicks the mouse. The red light on the camera blinks off. The stream ends. Silence, except for our ragged breathing.
He pulls his mask off, then mine. His face is flushed, his eyes wild with victory. He stands, pulls me up, and walks me to his bed. "Lie down."
I do, on my back. He looks down at me, then slowly pushes his boxers down. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, already leaking. My mouth waters.
He doesn't put it in me. He picks up his discarded white cotton boxers from the floor. He folds them into a thick wad. "Spread your legs, Mia."
I obey, blushing fiercely. He brings the soft cotton to my soaked entrance and begins to press it inside me, slowly, watching my face. The fabric absorbs my wetness, swelling as he stuffs it into my hungry hole. I moan, my back arching, as he pushes it all the way in, until the waistband is nestled against my puffy lips.
He picks up the vibrator—now a sleek, egg-shaped plug. He licks it, coating it in spit, and then presses it against my other hole. I gasp as the smooth tip pushes past the tight ring of muscle. He works it in slowly, until it's seated inside me, nestled right next to the stuffed cotton in my cunt. He picks up his phone, taps it, and the plug inside me comes to life with a deep, internal buzz. I jerk, a broken sob of pleasure wrenching from my throat.
He turns the vibration off with his phone. On. Off. Watching me twitch and moan each time. He checks his streaming platform on his phone, a wide, satisfied grin spreading across his face. "You made me a good fortune today, sweetie," he says, sitting on the bed and pulling me onto his lap. He kisses me, deep and slow, his hands groping my bare tits. "No need to pay rent for the next three months. Consider it your allowance."
He helps me back into the sweatpants and hoodie, with nothing underneath. I can feel the soaked cotton of his boxers packed inside me, a secret, shameful fullness. The plug is a constant, teasing presence. At the door, he pulls me into one last, deep French kiss, his hands squeezing my breasts through the thick fabric. "Don't you dare take that plug out," he whispers, his voice a nasty, thrilling command, "until my underwear is soaked through with your slutty essence. The lingerie is mine now." He brings the black lace thong to his nose, inhaling deeply, and winks. "I'll be smelling you all night."
I stumble back to my apartment, my face on fire, my body humming. I close my door, lean against it, and slide down to the floor, my hands instinctively going between my legs, feeling the outline of the plug through the sweatpants.