The Girl in 6E
Page 10
HackOffMyBigCock: aww f**k bb im going to cum
I look over, read his words, and continue my barrage on the toy. “Where Mike—where do you want it?” I keep my eyes glued to the screen, waiting for his response.
HackOffMyBigCock: swallow it
I pull abruptly off the toy, spinning around and grabbing it in my hands. I devour it, plunging it down my throat and staring up at the cam, jacking the c**k off with my hand as I suck it, hard and fast. I moan encouragingly as I suck, and squeeze my tits, pulling on my ni**les softly with my fingers.
There is silence for almost a minute, then a message.
HackOffMyBigCock: f**k that was hot. thx jess
———PRIVATE CHAT ENDED BY HackOffMyBigCock. 13min24sec
Thirteen minutes. $94.35, which, minus my personal website’s transaction fees, is $91.06 to my bank account. It pays the bills.
I heave to my feet, walk naked across the floor and grab a glass, filling it with water from the sink. I open the cabinet and grab a Tylenol bottle, leaving the cabinet open as I pop two into my mouth and chase them down with tepid tap water. My eyes flicker over the cabinet and the racks of orange bottles that fill their shelves.
Derek prescribes anti-psychotics for me. They come, like clockwork, every thirty days in the mail. I don’t bother to tell him that I stopped taking them nine months ago. While they did take away my urge to kill, they also took away every intelligent thought in my head. When I watch old webcam videos from that time, I cringe. I was a zombie, moving through mechanical sexual motions, my face slack, words dead.
So I stopped taking and started stockpiling them. On the upside, if I ever do decide to kill myself, I have over seven hundred pills waiting for me in this cabinet.
CHAPTER 12: Life After Death
I hear a knock at my door at 9:00 a.m. and pause my cam, interrupting a bald Asian man who is asking to see my feet. Jumping up, I jog across the linoleum ‘til I can see through the peephole. It is UPS Jeremy, holding a big box. “Leave it. Thank you,” I call loudly, watching him set down the package, scrawl something on his pad, then wave to me and walk away. I hold my ear to the door, waiting for the sound of the elevator, then jerk open the door, grab the huge cardboard box, and slam it shut again. I don’t lock it. I never lock my door. I figure if someone is stupid enough to come inside, they have ill motives and deserve to die at my hands. It’s one of my favorite fantasies, because it is one of the ones most likely to occur. I drop the heavy box on the floor and bound back to my pink bed, where the patient Asian waits. I apologize to him and hold up my feet, close to the cam so he can see them better.
Foot fetishes make up a large part of my clientele. My feet were ignored for the first eighteen years of my life—the ends of limbs that slid into fashionable shoes before leaving the house. But in the webcam world, my feet are my bread and butter. The fact that this client is Asian has nothing to do with his fetish—it is a worldwide turn-on, and more common than I ever imagined. Most men have a slight fetish—like a ‘leg man’—they enjoy seeing nicely shaped feet, either bare or slid into four-inch heels. Other men focus solely on feet as their erotica; they do nothing but stare at my toes, soles, and arches and jack off while doing so. It is my favorite type of clientele in that all I have to do is wiggle my toes and rub my feet together seductively. The feet that I had abused for years—carelessly stubbing on doorjambs and stuffing barefoot into old sneakers—possess a high arch, symmetrical toes, and narrow ankles. I rock bare feet like Pamela Anderson filled that red swimsuit two decades ago.
The Asian is getting close, his face tight in concentration, his eyes glued to my feet. I lie back and slowly run my left arch over the top of my right foot, letting out a soft moan as my feet take him over the arc of ecstasy.
I take a fifteen-minute break at noon, cutting open the box and unpacking its contents. It’s my food: two weeks’ worth of Jenny Craig meals. Jenny is my current meal plan. I use diet plans because they make my life easier—shipping me a complete breakfast-lunch-dinner combination, two weeks of tasteless meat at a time. The fact that these companies ship me the food saves me from having to leave the apartment to get groceries. I’ve found I can typically tolerate a brand for about two months, but then I have to switch it up. This is my second shipment from Jenny Craig.
Popping a barbeque chicken with rice into the microwave, I think about killing myself. It’s a frequent daydream of mine—a rational thought process, and one that seems to solve the threat of me causing harm to others. I have yet to walk too far down that path. I could blame it on fear, say that I am too cowardly to do it, or too selfish to take my own life. But it’s not that. For some reason, I can’t. Can’t bring myself to take the only life worth taking. Whenever I go there, consider the act, there is a word spoken as clearly as if God were standing in front of me, saying it himself. Wait. I don’t know what I am waiting for, but I do. I wait.
The bell dings. I open up the microwave door and get out my steaming hot dish. Bon appetit.
I killed once, a long time ago. That was one of the reasons I decided to lock myself up. Someday, someone will figure it out, and they will come for me.
When I killed that first time, I fooled myself into thinking it was a one-time thing. That while I had acted in that moment and taken that life, it wasn’t who I was, but rather just what I had become in that one horrific instance.
The dark obsession with killing came when my family died. It left me alone long enough to grieve, to spend hours curled in bed, sobbing for my own situation: loneliness and despair over the loss of my family taking over any normal thought process. But eventually, I had to recover, leave my bed, and reenter the rat race known as life. But soon, it came a-calling, searching me out in moments of unguarded weakness. In the shower, I would be struck with a vision of slicing a throat open and letting the blood fill the drain. In class, I’d find myself focusing on my science teacher’s neck, fantasizing about wrapping my small hands around it and squeezing until the life was gone from his body.
I look over, read his words, and continue my barrage on the toy. “Where Mike—where do you want it?” I keep my eyes glued to the screen, waiting for his response.
HackOffMyBigCock: swallow it
I pull abruptly off the toy, spinning around and grabbing it in my hands. I devour it, plunging it down my throat and staring up at the cam, jacking the c**k off with my hand as I suck it, hard and fast. I moan encouragingly as I suck, and squeeze my tits, pulling on my ni**les softly with my fingers.
There is silence for almost a minute, then a message.
HackOffMyBigCock: f**k that was hot. thx jess
———PRIVATE CHAT ENDED BY HackOffMyBigCock. 13min24sec
Thirteen minutes. $94.35, which, minus my personal website’s transaction fees, is $91.06 to my bank account. It pays the bills.
I heave to my feet, walk naked across the floor and grab a glass, filling it with water from the sink. I open the cabinet and grab a Tylenol bottle, leaving the cabinet open as I pop two into my mouth and chase them down with tepid tap water. My eyes flicker over the cabinet and the racks of orange bottles that fill their shelves.
Derek prescribes anti-psychotics for me. They come, like clockwork, every thirty days in the mail. I don’t bother to tell him that I stopped taking them nine months ago. While they did take away my urge to kill, they also took away every intelligent thought in my head. When I watch old webcam videos from that time, I cringe. I was a zombie, moving through mechanical sexual motions, my face slack, words dead.
So I stopped taking and started stockpiling them. On the upside, if I ever do decide to kill myself, I have over seven hundred pills waiting for me in this cabinet.
CHAPTER 12: Life After Death
I hear a knock at my door at 9:00 a.m. and pause my cam, interrupting a bald Asian man who is asking to see my feet. Jumping up, I jog across the linoleum ‘til I can see through the peephole. It is UPS Jeremy, holding a big box. “Leave it. Thank you,” I call loudly, watching him set down the package, scrawl something on his pad, then wave to me and walk away. I hold my ear to the door, waiting for the sound of the elevator, then jerk open the door, grab the huge cardboard box, and slam it shut again. I don’t lock it. I never lock my door. I figure if someone is stupid enough to come inside, they have ill motives and deserve to die at my hands. It’s one of my favorite fantasies, because it is one of the ones most likely to occur. I drop the heavy box on the floor and bound back to my pink bed, where the patient Asian waits. I apologize to him and hold up my feet, close to the cam so he can see them better.
Foot fetishes make up a large part of my clientele. My feet were ignored for the first eighteen years of my life—the ends of limbs that slid into fashionable shoes before leaving the house. But in the webcam world, my feet are my bread and butter. The fact that this client is Asian has nothing to do with his fetish—it is a worldwide turn-on, and more common than I ever imagined. Most men have a slight fetish—like a ‘leg man’—they enjoy seeing nicely shaped feet, either bare or slid into four-inch heels. Other men focus solely on feet as their erotica; they do nothing but stare at my toes, soles, and arches and jack off while doing so. It is my favorite type of clientele in that all I have to do is wiggle my toes and rub my feet together seductively. The feet that I had abused for years—carelessly stubbing on doorjambs and stuffing barefoot into old sneakers—possess a high arch, symmetrical toes, and narrow ankles. I rock bare feet like Pamela Anderson filled that red swimsuit two decades ago.
The Asian is getting close, his face tight in concentration, his eyes glued to my feet. I lie back and slowly run my left arch over the top of my right foot, letting out a soft moan as my feet take him over the arc of ecstasy.
I take a fifteen-minute break at noon, cutting open the box and unpacking its contents. It’s my food: two weeks’ worth of Jenny Craig meals. Jenny is my current meal plan. I use diet plans because they make my life easier—shipping me a complete breakfast-lunch-dinner combination, two weeks of tasteless meat at a time. The fact that these companies ship me the food saves me from having to leave the apartment to get groceries. I’ve found I can typically tolerate a brand for about two months, but then I have to switch it up. This is my second shipment from Jenny Craig.
Popping a barbeque chicken with rice into the microwave, I think about killing myself. It’s a frequent daydream of mine—a rational thought process, and one that seems to solve the threat of me causing harm to others. I have yet to walk too far down that path. I could blame it on fear, say that I am too cowardly to do it, or too selfish to take my own life. But it’s not that. For some reason, I can’t. Can’t bring myself to take the only life worth taking. Whenever I go there, consider the act, there is a word spoken as clearly as if God were standing in front of me, saying it himself. Wait. I don’t know what I am waiting for, but I do. I wait.
The bell dings. I open up the microwave door and get out my steaming hot dish. Bon appetit.
I killed once, a long time ago. That was one of the reasons I decided to lock myself up. Someday, someone will figure it out, and they will come for me.
When I killed that first time, I fooled myself into thinking it was a one-time thing. That while I had acted in that moment and taken that life, it wasn’t who I was, but rather just what I had become in that one horrific instance.
The dark obsession with killing came when my family died. It left me alone long enough to grieve, to spend hours curled in bed, sobbing for my own situation: loneliness and despair over the loss of my family taking over any normal thought process. But eventually, I had to recover, leave my bed, and reenter the rat race known as life. But soon, it came a-calling, searching me out in moments of unguarded weakness. In the shower, I would be struck with a vision of slicing a throat open and letting the blood fill the drain. In class, I’d find myself focusing on my science teacher’s neck, fantasizing about wrapping my small hands around it and squeezing until the life was gone from his body.
