It started weeks before that night, with a quiet ache I could not ignore. My boyfriend and I loved each other, but there were parts of me he had never touched. Not just with his hands, but deep in my fantasies where the air felt hotter and the rules were looser. There were things I wanted that I had never dared to say out loud. They came to me when I was alone in the shower, fingers sliding between my thighs while the water ran over my shoulders. They came to me in the darkness after midnight when he slept beside me, when my body thrummed with need and my mind whispered things I would never admit.
I wanted to be watched. I wanted to be told what to do. I wanted a man to take control and talk to me like I was his dirty little secret, to tell me where to put my hands and how to touch myself, to push me right to the edge and hold me there until I begged. I wanted to be praised and used and made to say filthy things with my cheeks burning and my legs shaking. The wanting felt too big to confess. I worried he would hear it and see me differently, like I was something he could not hold anymore. So I kept it locked up, and the ache grew.
One night while he was working late I found a cam site. At first I only watched. I told myself I was curious. That it was nothing. That it would pass. But curiosity is a door you open once and then you keep stepping through. I watched the way people connected there, raw and unashamed, their voices thick with need. I watched the way a woman would lean closer to the camera when a man told her to, the way his breath would catch when she did exactly what he asked. I imagined myself there, my skin lit by the glow of the screen, a stranger telling me to spread and show and rub and cum.
After a week of lurking I made an account. I uploaded a few pictures and tested my camera. I promised myself I would not go live. That promise lasted about two days. The first shows were awkward. Some men were kind, some were crude, most were forgettable. Then I met him. His name was Mark.
Mark was older and sure of himself in a way that made my skin hum. He did not waste time. He asked me what I wanted. Not the safe version. The real one. He made me feel like anything I said would be heard and used in the best way. His voice had weight, as if it could press me into the mattress. The first time we went to private he asked me to tell him my dirtiest fantasy and I felt the words tangle in my throat. I said some of it. He asked again. I said more. He kept me talking until I said everything I had not dared to say to anyone. When I finished he was quiet for a moment, then he told me I was perfect and that I was going to do exactly what he wanted.
From then on, Mark was in my head. He sent short messages during the day that made me wet in seconds. “Tonight, I want you spread wide for me.” “Tonight, I want to hear you beg.” “Tonight, show me how you touch your clit when you cannot stop thinking about me.” At night we met online. He would make me strip slow and arch my back and slide my fingers inside while he watched, his breath growing rougher in my speakers as my moans filled the room. He liked it when I talked. He liked it when I repeated what he told me. He liked it when I called myself his good girl and then begged to be used.
The night it happened, my boyfriend had said he would be working late. The apartment felt quiet and charged, like the air before a storm. I showered and put on a soft top that clung to my nipples and a pair of panties that would look pretty coming off. I set my laptop on the bed and angled the camera the way Mark liked. He was already online when I joined. His box filled the corner of my screen, his hand lazy on his cock, his voice a low ripple that traveled across my skin.
“Move the camera down. I want to see all of you.”
My heart sped up. I slid the top off my shoulders and let it fall. I lay back and lifted my hips so I could pull my panties down in one slow drag. Mark made a sound in his throat that felt like a hand closing around my waist.
“Good girl. Spread your legs. Show me how wet you are. Two fingers on your clit, slow circles. Let me hear you breathe.”
I did what he said. My fingers found that electric place and my breath changed. I could hear him, the tiny hitch in his voice each time I gasped.
“Slide one finger inside,” he murmured. “Curl it, then add another. Keep your knees wide. Keep your eyes on the camera.”
He asked what I was thinking about. I told him the truth. I told him I was thinking about his voice in my ear, about his hands on my hips, about how he would push my thighs apart and hold them open if he were here. He groaned.
“You are perfect. You make me ache.”
I was so deep in it that I did not hear the front door. The first sign was a soft creak from the hall floorboard. I froze, my head whipping around. He stood in the doorway. My boyfriend.
For a heartbeat my chest went hollow. I thought it was over. I thought he would slam the laptop shut and the words would come out of him like stones. Instead he leaned on the frame and looked at me with an expression I had never seen, calm and hungry at once.
“Do not stop.”
I could barely breathe. “Babe, I—”
“Keep going. I want to see exactly what you were doing for him.”
On the screen I heard Mark drag in a breath. “Is that your man?” The words came out half a groan. I could not answer. My body was already answering for me.
He sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand on my thigh. His palm was warm and firm. He looked at my hand where it moved over my clit and then at my face.
“So this is what you do when I am not home. You touch yourself for strangers. You get this wet for them?”
“Yes.”
“Show me how you were going to finish.”
I started to rub faster. He watched my fingers for a long second, then slid his hand up my inner thigh. He moved it higher until his thumb brushed the spot that made my breath catch. He parted my legs wider with one hand and looked me in the eyes.
“Tell me what he has been saying to you.”
“He told me to spread wider and rub harder and show him how wet I am.”
“Do it.”
I did, my hips lifting into my own hand. He slid two fingers through the wet mess I had made and pushed them inside me. I choked on a moan. He started slow, letting me feel every inch, then curled them until my back arched. He kept his thumb on my clit and spoke right against my ear.
“You like this. You like being watched while someone fucks you with their fingers. You like being told exactly what to do. Say it.”
“I like it. I love it. I like being watched. I like being told what to do.”
“Say you are my dirty little slut.”
“I am your dirty little slut.”
His breath thickened. “Good girl. Now keep rubbing while I fuck you. I want you to look at him on the screen. Do you see how hard he is for you?”
I turned my head. Mark was holding his cock in his fist, thick and flushed, his strokes steady. His face was tight with need. The sight flooded me with heat.
“Watch him,” my boyfriend whispered. “You see that big cock. Do you like imagining it inside you?”
“Yes. Oh God yes.”
“Tell him.”
“I want you inside me.”
Mark groaned and stroked faster. My boyfriend’s fingers pushed deeper and his thumb pressed harder.
“You want him to cum for you? Say it. Tell him to cum. Tell him you want to watch him shoot that load for your pretty mouth and your hungry pussy.”
I felt shameless and wild. My cheeks burned and my body begged. “Cum for me. Please cum for me. I want to watch you. I want to see it on your cock and on your hand and I want to imagine it inside me.”
“Do not look away,” my boyfriend said. “Watch every second.”
Mark let out a hoarse sound and his hips lifted. His hand blurred. Then it happened. Thick white ropes spilled over his fist and his stomach, pulse after pulse, messy and hot. I could hear his breath breaking in my speakers.
“Look at that,” my boyfriend growled. “Look at all that cum. Imagine him pushing into you and giving you every drop. Imagine it dripping out of you while I watch. You want that, do you not?”
“Yes. Please. I want it.”
“Say exactly what you want.”
“I want him to fuck me and cum in me. I want to feel him shoot inside me while you watch.”
“Good girl. Now feel my fingers. Feel how deep I am. Picture his cock inside you and my hand owning your clit. You are mine. I let you watch because it makes you cum harder for me. Now cum for me. Right now. Give me everything.”
I did not fall. I was pushed. The pleasure rose like a wave that had been gathering for days, my body tightening around his fingers until I could not speak. Then it broke. My back arched off the bed and a cry tore out of my throat that I could not hold back if I tried. I shook and gasped and begged without knowing what I was saying.
He held me there and kept talking, his voice a rough praise that poured heat into my bones.
“That is it. Ride my hand. Let it all out. You are so good for me. You are so beautiful when you cum. Look at me. Keep your eyes open for me. I want to see you come apart.”
I tried to keep my gaze on his and failed, then tried again. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and he kissed them away without stopping his hand. The orgasm came in waves. When one softened, the next swelled, dragging another helpless sound from my chest.
“You are perfect,” he murmured. “Filthy and perfect and mine. You have more in you, and I am going to take it.”
He told me to breathe, then to hold it, then to let it go. He told me to rub harder, then softer, then just to shake for him while he did the rest.
At the edge of the bed, the laptop glowed. Mark was still on screen, stunned and sated, watching my boyfriend wring me out like a wet cloth. I felt possessed by the room, by the scent of sex, by the steady weight of his hand, by the filthy images he painted in my ear.
He slowed only when my legs were trembling so hard I could not keep them open. He eased his fingers out and pressed them to my lips.
“Lick them clean.”
I did, tasting myself, tasting salt and heat and something that felt like relief.
“Mine,” he said, as if that one word could knock me back into my body.
He sucked the last of me from his knuckles. On the screen, Mark laughed once, soft and wrecked.
“Lucky bastard,” Mark muttered.
My boyfriend reached over and closed the laptop with a deliberate click.
“Show is over,” he said, his tone calm again but the hunger still in his eyes.
The room felt very quiet without the speakers humming. He kept his hand on my thigh, looking at my mouth, then at my throat, then at my breasts, rising and falling in little jerks. Something in his expression shifted from control to pride.
“How long have you been wanting to tell me?” he asked softly.
“A long time.”
“Why did you not?”
“I was scared. I thought you would not want it. I thought you would think I was too much.”
He laughed once, low and warm. “Too much. You are not too much. You are exactly right for me. Next time, you tell me. You do not hide it. If you want to be watched, I will watch. If you want to be told what to do, I will tell you. If you want to beg, I will make you beg. If you want to be used, I will use you and then hold you after until you stop shaking.”
His thumb traced a slow line on my thigh.
“But it is not only next time,” he continued. “It is now.”
His mouth found mine then, and the kiss was deep and steady. He tasted like me and I tasted like him, and the room tilted in a way that made everything easy. He pushed me back into the pillows and slid his hand up my stomach, over my breasts, his touch possessive and careful all at once.
He was hard against my hip, and when I moved he hissed between his teeth.
“Not yet,” he said. “I want to look. I want to see every inch I just brought to life.”
He kissed my collarbone and my throat and the hollow below my ear. He kissed each nipple and then licked and then sucked until I arched again.
“Keep your knees open,” he told me. “Keep your hands above your head. Hold the headboard and do not let go unless I say.”
I did it. I held on. He kissed down my stomach and back up. He paused at my mouth, smiling like he had found something he needed and had known where it was all along.
“You are going to tell me everything now,” he said. “All the things you think about when you touch yourself. All the words you want to hear. You will not hide from me again.”
I nodded, but he shook his head.
“Use your voice.”
“Yes. I will tell you everything.”
“Good girl. Say you belong to me.”
“I belong to you.”
“Say you are mine to use and mine to praise.”
“I am yours to use and yours to praise.”
His eyes darkened. “Then we are done with secrets.”
He made me cum again with his mouth, slow and patient, his hands keeping my thighs open when they tried to close. He asked for what he wanted and I gave it, and he praised me for giving it. He told me when to breathe. He told me when to hold it until I shook. He told me when to let go, and I let go, and it felt like a truth cracking open inside my chest.
I said “Thank you” without thinking, and he smiled into my skin.
“You are welcome,” he said, and then he climbed up and kissed me, the taste of me on his tongue making my head swim.
Later, when I was limp and lazy and full of that satisfied ache that feels like sleep, he settled beside me and stroked my hair. I remembered Mark on the screen and felt a strange mix of embarrassment and thrill. My boyfriend caught the look on my face and laughed softly.
“You liked that he watched,” he said. “You liked that I made you watch him cum.”
I nodded. “It made me feel filthy. In a good way. It made me feel wanted. It made me feel like I was doing something dangerous and safe at the same time because you were there. It made me feel like I was yours.”
He kissed my forehead. “You are mine. If you want him again, we will decide that together. Maybe we let him watch. Maybe we make him follow rules. Maybe we turn the screen off and keep you all to myself. You will tell me what you crave and I will choose how to serve it to you. That is what you wanted, is it not?”
“It is what I wanted.”
“Then you do not need to be scared anymore.”
I lay there with his hand on my skin and felt that quiet ache that had been with me for weeks shift into something warmer. It did not vanish. It changed shape. It became a promise. It became a door we would walk through together.
Finally, he stood and went to the bathroom to wash his hands, and I watched him in the mirror over the dresser. He looked at me in the reflection and said, “Stay just like that.”
When he came back, he climbed over me and set his knees between my thighs, and the look in his eyes said round two. He lowered himself, heavy and sure, and the heat of him made my eyes flutter. He paused and kissed my cheek and my mouth, then moved with a slow push that made me gasp into his neck.
He whispered praise and filth and everything I had wanted and never dared ask for, and when his rhythm deepened I could feel the last of my fear leave me like breath in winter air.
He took his time. He owned the night. He made me say things and then rewarded me for saying them. He told me to touch my clit, and I did, and he groaned. Then he told me to pull my hand away and he did it for me, and I shook.
“Open your eyes and look at me when you cum,” he said, and I looked.
He held my gaze, and I fell apart again, softer this time, more grateful, more awake. He followed me there a moment later, his mouth on my shoulder, his voice a rough sound that made the hairs on my arms lift.
After, he stayed inside me and held me until my breathing calmed. He kissed my hair and my cheek and my nose like the world had slowed just for us. When he finally moved, he did it gently, and he caught my face in his hands.
“I love you,” he said, without any performance, like a simple fact that had always been true.
“I love you too,” I replied, and I felt it hit differently now that I had given him all my shadows.
He rolled to his back and pulled me against his chest. We lay there in the soft dark. The laptop sat closed on the edge of the bed, quiet. The air smelled like sweat and sex and something like relief. My body felt used in the best way. My mind felt clear.
I thought of Mark’s voice and of the hot splash of his cum and of my boyfriend making me watch, and I thought of how those images would live in me now as something we had chosen, not something I had stolen. I let my leg slide over his, and he rubbed my calf.
“Sleep,” he said.
I did, and when I woke before dawn, I turned and put my mouth on his shoulder and whispered one more thing into his skin.
“Next time, I want to hear you talk dirtier.”
He laughed, low and pleased. “Next time I will.”
And I believed him.