OFF! (NSFW)

This story is explicit and not for the faint of heart. NSFW.

An alarm clock begins at 9. Snooze. Ten minutes. It chimes again, the bells distant. Snooze. One more time. Sleep inertia. Ringing again. She straddles her bed, grinding her hips into the sheets. She inhales deep, exhales a soft moan. She hates the morning. She rolls out of bed, she’s a pristine figure, petite, and five seven. Plain body with a striking face. Eyes that fill souls, hearts, and their desires. She wears simple cotton panties. Her small, supple breasts bare into the darkness of the morning. She walks to the bathroom and brushes her teeth. The brush’s vibrations and mint toothpaste delight her. Gratitude. Before her shower, she sets up a warm ring light and a tripod. 

She puts her phone on the stand and presses record. Her panties are out of frame, forgotten. Between her breasts rests an owl tattoo, superflat in style. There is a wing under each of her breasts. Across her belly is a black dragon, fantastical and flying. She turns around, her back to the camera. Geometric tattoos run down her spine to the small of her back. Almost like the scales of a mermaid, following the waves of her back as she moves with pleasure. Moving in a flow, her face smiling softly at the camera, she opens her legs and turns the camera off with her remote. She moves the camera closer to the shower, turns on the water, and waits for it to heat up. 

Water falls on her bare chest; she’s recording the streams coalescing, converging, and diverging down her body passed her stomach. She’s washing herself live. Men, women, and all wondrous beings thirsting in the chat. She wonders if any of them are bots while she drops her hair tie, a feign. Her thighs expand as she reaches down, bending over for the tie, looking in the camera on the way down. $20. $10. $10. $100. 

She thanks her fans, then tries to put them far from her mind. She puts on music. Something ominous. Heavy with haunting bass. What was once warm and inviting begins to strobe and create a space of total darkness. Only 9:30. Moving her body without thought, spraying water onto the clear glass. She presses her firm nipples against the door of the shower. The showerhead massages her deep until she feels a release of herself outside of her body. $50. $25. $10. 5$. $20. $20. Don’t stop, she mouths, turning around. Her shower is over, she blows a kiss to her live. After all is done and settled, $2,000 before breakfast.

She puts a towel across her soft frame, wrapping it snuggly, and she walks out into her apartment. Large modern windows, flooding in light from the early sun. There are two wooden window covers. A slatted plantstand along the trim of the windowsill. Catnip, pothos, and an army of plants hoping to survive winter. Only 3 of the many seem to be withering away. She turns back around, heading to the bathroom. She grabs the camera equipment and heads past the shadows in the living room. Her style is centered on the occult and esoteric. A deck of tarot rests on her glass coffee table. The panes are held up by oxidized metallic legs. Each one has a daemon representing murder, gluttony, lust, and greed. It took her a day to get the money to buy the ornate table. She did naked tarot from time to time. Seductively reading the fates and fortunes of others. Whether they cared for their fate or not mattered little. 

She sets the camera up on her kitchen island. Filming her making breakfast. Her camera was setup and she dropped her towel. She goes and grabs her apron, it’s a daisy white with deep green florals patterened around it. The emerald, sage, and evergreen complement her pearlescent fair skin. Once her apron is on, she checks her reflection on her phone. Her side profile had her breasts exposed just before her areola. She turns around and begins clicking her Bluetooth remote to capture backshots. She bends over, her head peering between her legs, her hands opening her to the camera. She places her left, middle, and ring fingers inside her. She holds the Bluetooth remote down, clicking record. She slowly moves in and out of herself. Working her fingers with grace. 

The first strokes feel performative. As she becomes wet, her body begins to melt, and the camera dissolves. She feels the pulse from her deep within. She presses hard on the soft flesh behind her clit, letting out a moan. Her control was slipping. Moving faster, she starts gasping. Time slips, she tightens hard on her fingers over, and over, and over again. With one final pulse, her pussy convulses, cum sliding down her thighs, rushing to the floor. 

She smiles, eyeing the camera shyly through her legs. She bends her knees, goes to the ground, turns around, and places her pointer finger and middle fingers in her cum. She slides them through it. Wetting her fingers, bringing them up to her soft pink lips, and presses her tongue to them. She looks at the camera like a lover. She gives them everything. She hits stop on the recording after sucking on her fingers more. She stands. Back to the camera again, hitting record, she scoops her ass with her hands and takes more photos. She’s cupping it from underneath, adding some mass, staying pouty, she begins moving her ass with her hands. Forming a rhythm, enough for a short clip, and then she turns the camera off. 

Her breakfast is banana pancakes. With chocolate chips, topped with berries, and turkey bacon on the side. She turns on a video about Dante’s Inferno to pair with her meal, wondering why she has to live in hell. Pondering which ring she may be in. Lust quite obviously. Avarice crossed her mind, but she quickly let the thoughts go from her mind. After the video essay ends, she switches on Secret Lives of Mormon Wives and begins to edit her footage. Her heart races from being vulnerable and intimate. Nervous, then confident. Three photos, two videos. A bundle. $40. “Cum Make Breakfast With Me.” The thumbnail was her putting her fingers in her mouth, deeply. Give them what they want, she thought. Her phone lights up. A DM. From ThatGuy69. 

“Hey, my wife is gone today. I need you. Got time for a FT?” (Dollar-sign eyes emoji.)

“Heyyy, baby. I think I can fit you in. (Winky-face emoji.) What time?” She replied.

“ASAP. I need to see you, need to see what’s mine.” (Winky-face emoji.) Of course, he’d say as soon as possible. They can’t ever wait. Their loads were already half shot. 

“You know speed costs you, right?” (Hand-over-mouth smiling emoji.)

“Money’s never the issue. That’s my wife. (Crying laughing emoji.) I just need you. Half up front?”

“You know it.” (Winky-face emoji.) Before she hit send, she gets another notification. Vinmo. $500. When her mom told her that sex sells, she didn’t want her to become a sex worker. She rushes to her room, leaping to her closet. She grabs an areola pink, sheer baby doll dress and slips it over her naked body. She slides to the bathroom for her toys. She grabs two vibrators and some anal beads. She grabs her laptop from the nightstand and reaches into the drawer. Lube and a pair of black fuzzy handcuffs. She begins to burn a candlestick. This guy spends a lot and often, but what he asks for makes the money something she has to work for. 

She Facetimes him, and he answers. He is heavyset, with a bulging belly, with breasts near her size sitting on top of his stomach. He is already naked and splayed for her. His 3-inch cock is half-hard. His massive thighs make him appear even smaller than he is. 

“Hey,” she says with a faux, sultry voice.

“Oh, my god. What took you so long?” He says anxiously. 

“Getting ready for you. See?” She slides seductively off the bed and shows off her lingerie for him.

“It’s barely an excuse for how much I pay you.” He says in distress.

She reminds herself to remain in character. She leans over the bed, sitting her knees on the floor, allowing him to see down her dress. “Well, I’m here now, big man.” 

He sighs deeply in pleasure. “Yes, you are.” He says, breathing heavily.

“Well, now that you have me,” she says. “What can I do for you?”

“I want you to pull your tits out of your dress and tell me you want me.” When she obliged, she saw his dick stiffen harder. It makes her stomach turn a little. She struggles to maintain her performance. She shifts her thoughts and her body. She presses her breasts together, running her hands over them. Keeping them close to each other with her right hand, she traces her nipple with her left. His moans and masturbation almost take her out of it. She reminds herself how much money he’s paid her over the year and reaches for the candle. She lights it, blowing the open flame on the lighter out to the camera. She puckers her lips for him. He murmurs. “Fuck yeah.” 

She watches the wax fall from the black candle, sliding all the way down the stick. A drop of wax falls… all the way to her chest. It singes her, and she lets out a small, mousy noise. It hurts, but she does like it. She didn’t need an audience for this.

“I want you to talk about how much you wanna fuck me and why.” He says, rubbing his nipple, playing with himself. He’s starting to sweat heavily. 

“I need your big dick. I want to feel your powerful body slamming into me.” Wax drips down her chest, occasionally changing the pitch and tone of her words. He never lasts long. She grabs a vibrator and moves to a lying position. Lifting her lingerie, opening herself to the camera. She stays wet without cease. She was still leaking some from earlier, and she felt as dry as gnashed bones. 

“I’m so wet for you.” She lies, turning the vibrator on, the hum calms her nerves. It makes her wetter. She places it inside of her and starts moaning for him. 

“Tell me to cum and where.” He demands quickly.

“Cum in my tight little pussy big man-” all of a sudden, from the man’s microphone, she hears a woman shout “What the Fuck??!” He stops playing with himself immediately. The facetime goes black. That’s why it’s half up front, she thinks with relief. The vibrator is still pulsing inside of her. She decides to record herself until she comes. She flips onto her stomach. Hiding her eyes while she licks her toy clean. She turns the recording off. Stepping in the shower to rinse off, toweling down, and dressing to go out for the day. 

As she steps out, her Vinmo notification lights up her phone. $1000. With a note: “For the trouble.” (Winky face emoji.) He’ll be back, she thinks, her feelings mixing with dread and security. 

The streets of Brooklyn are unkind and cold. They mirror the sky above her. It looks like rain. She breaths in cold air and coughs harshly. Passersby give her a rude look. Everyone is terrified of sickness. Even five years after the virus. “I’m not sick.” She lies to the people scoffing at her. 

“Probably be dead by winter.” One of the ugly faces says. At least she isn’t contagious, but people didn’t care about that either. She’s a pariah. She felt her phone buzz. For a second, she thinks it is the hum of her vibrator. Her legs are sore from her orgasms and play this morning. It’s a text; the contact card said DH. The message says, “Are you free tn?” (money face emoji.)

“Mmmm…” She starts to write, deleting it quickly. Better to make him wait. She coughs again into her coat, waiting a moment to recover, walking into the pharmacy. More of a glorified bodega. In New York, your pills and sandwiches can come from the same place. 

She orders her sandwich and goes to the pharmacy. She pays $1000 for the 30-day supply of her meds. Insurance feels useless. The pills totaled thousands without it. It’s midday, so she decides to go to the Met. She finishes her sandwich on the way. She smokes half a joint once after the subway. Deciding to text DH pack. “Oh, baby. I’m busy.” (Sad face emoji.) He quickly responds.

“How does 3K sound?” It sounds like she's staying alive. 

“That sounds like I can try to fit you in.” 

“Lol.” He writes. “Try as you may, you still can’t fit all of me. See you at your place.”

It’s always her place. DH is on the city council. A wife, a kid, a skyrise apartment, and a lust Only Fucking Fans, grinderr, and whores can’t satisfy. She couldn’t tell if it was good or bad for her. 

The met is monolithic. Wondrous and leviathan. A stone body housing the beauty and heart of the world’s past and present. There’s comfort in death. She’s looking at a tablet with an avatar of Anubis. Pride and resilience, she studies Roman-Graeco urns. In the far east wing, she feels her high climax. Her sickness is rising too. She sits in front of a statue of the fat Buddha. She wonders if life was better then. Maybe it was more real. She wonders if it is possible for it to feel real now. She coughs a couple of times, then picks her head up.

An old man takes notice of her and takes it upon himself to walk over. 

“Hello.” His cracked face says. He looks like an exhibit here. 

“Hi.” She says tersely. It’s like they all know.

“I just-” he begins to say, she cuts him off. 

“$1,000 an hour starting. More for the weird shit you’re going to be into.” His eyes downcast, and she hears him exhale deeply.

“I just wanted to ask,” his shaking hands reach into his coat pocket and pulls out a pastel pink handkerchief. “About your sickness.” Her face flushes red like hearts. 

“Your nose is bleeding, miss. Keep this.” She hands it to him. Her face is scarlet, and she wants to shrink into nothing. 

“Oh-” she blurts. “Sorry…”

“My wife had it too.” He says somberly.

“She died when she was 35 from it. How old are you?” He asks, sincerity oozing from his voice, bringing comfort to her weariness. 

“25.” She says with a sour sigh. 

“Too young. How bad is your pain?”

“With the meds, bearable.”

“Without the meds?” he asks cautiously.

“It feels like my intestines are being set on fire, my kidneys are being sucked through a vacuum, and my ovaries are cars driving into each other head-on.” She says with exhaustion reverberating. He exhales deeply.

“Sounds about right, my wife killed herself before the sickness.” He’s looking at the Buddha. “There is a difference between detachment and disassociation. Feel your pain, sweet girl, numbing it will not free you from suffering.”

“It’s kinda hard not to feel it.” She says in frustration.

“Ah, yes. But what is your reaction?” Her heart sinks. When she feels the agony from her meds wearing off, the waves of discomfort when the medicine isn’t working, the pain fills her mind, and she’ll try anything to kill it. Orgasming works best. 

“How does detachment work then?” The man didn’t pry for an answer. It’s like he knew.

“Feel the experience wash over you first, hold your seat. Let the winds gust, the fire surround you, and the ground quake underneath you. Feel it shatter, burn, and blow. But hold your seat. Do not get up, do not fall to the sensations. That is when you start to distract yourself with deeper suffering. When the sensations pass, you will know, and feel relieved you did not bring about more harm than was warranted.”

“Mm…” she says thoughtfully. “I may misunderstand you, but it sounds like splitting hairs.” She says decidedly. 

“Maybe it is.” He says, smiling. “Regardless, I pray for your suffering; your soul is loving. I see that.” He takes his time standing and walks away before she can ask how he knew she was sick. It doesn’t matter anyway. She goes to a bathroom and logs into OnlyFuckingFans. Checking to make sure no one is in the bathroom, she locks it quickly. She strides to the mirror, taking pictures with her dress raised in a backshot. Next, one of her fully dressed in the mirror. She posts to her wall, “Tip to see my Pussy Art.” She unlocks the restroom and slides out. 

She’s back in the frosty winter wind. Heading to her apartment. Outside the Met, there are vendors selling sodas, funnel cakes, zens, and a plethora of other poisons. DH would be at her place just after dinner. 

When she walks into her apartment, she feels the warmth of the heater bring life back into the coldness of her cheeks. She goes to the fridge and grabs a bottle of Merlot. A fine merlot, origin unknown, but potent. She’ll need it for tonight. She knows she is not supposed to chill the wine or drink on her medication, but she has 10 years at most. She’d do whatever she’d like. What did fucking her body up mean in the long run? Very little. She walks into her living room. 

“Hello,” says a voice dark and rich. She lets out a gasp, then places her hand over her chest in recognition. It’s DH. 

 “What the fuck? How did you get in?” 

He smiles with a charismatic grimace. “I may have threatened your landlord with immediate code inspections. He stands up, naked as Adam. He’s tall with short, curly brown hair. Hazlenut eyes that swirl when she changes angles, his abs look like etches in the Rosetta stone. Beautiful. And then below them, the biggest cock she’s ever felt. Her body aches in want and revolts in disgust. He does whatever he wants. She reads his tattoo, just above the knee, “SLUT.” 

“You cannot break into my house, Dylan.”

“It’s not breaking in,” he says cooly, “Your landlord let me in. Besides, I know how much love surprises.” he reaches for a black Coach bag and hands it to her. “There’s 3K, plus the tip.” 

“That still doesn’t make it okay.” She says insistently. “I could’ve been murdered the same way.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen. And if you feel that unsafe here, you need to move. Move in with me.”

“You’re insane, you know I can’t do that.” She says flatly.

“Times started, now role play.” He says, and she knows he’ll only say it once. He sits on the chair, legs spread open. His big balls resting on the cushion. She doesn’t know why he chooses her to play with. He’s already hard and throbbing. Even when she’s scolding him. Maybe that’s what made him rise. She swallows and snaps into character.

“Dylan, you’ve not ever asked me to move in… Does that mean you’re ready?”

She walks over to him. Halfway there, she slides down to all fours, placing her hands on either side of his thighs. 

“Mmm. One step at a time, I have a hard time marrying a slut. I pay you, it doesn’t mean I love you.”

“Then why do you break in with such a hard cock?” she says, licking him up the side of his shaft to his head. It feels like it takes centuries to make her way up it. She leaves spit hanging between her mouth and his shaft. She looks up at him. 

“Say it.” She demands.

“No.” He says. She lets go of him and rotates around. She pulls up her dress seductively. There are no panties between her and Dylan. She begins to glide her hips through the air, carving and curving like a figure skater, riding the air around her. He moans deeply.

“Say. It. Or I tease you, and you’ll never come.”

“I’m not so sure I ever want to. But you have to play whether I say it or not. It’s what I pay you for.”  He says, amused. She pops her ass down into his lap. Drawing infinity signs on him. Somehow, he manages to get bigger, and his face grows red. “I’ll not say it. Take your clothes off fully, I’m sick of them.” She slides her coat off and slips out of her dress. She begins to climb over him, shifting her body, and she puts her thighs open in his face.

“Hungry?” I am.” She begins to lick him, wrapping her pink lips around him. Soaking every inch she can fit. She didn’t have a gag reflex, but no mouth or pussy, for that matter, could ever fit him fully.

“You know I’m not here to make you cum.” He says, pressing his fingers into her. 

“You never do…” She teases. “What about tonight? We’re moving in together after all, and you still won’t say it. You could satisfy me somehow.” He was finally done hearing her. He grabs her thighs and pushes her onto the floor. Her breasts press against the carpet. He spreads her legs and brings himself quickly into her. She’s soaking wet, come sliding down her thighs as he penetrates her. He began stroking her deep and quickly.

“I love you.” He says. Pushing deeper. 

“I love you, baby.” She says in a moan. Tears welled in her eyes. He’s too big, and he doesn’t care. Half in pain, half in bliss. She grabs the carpet and moans, deep her soul quakes. Holding on for her life, her money, and her sickness. She performs for him. 

When they were finished, he sighed and gave a small, pleasurable laugh.

“Do you?” She asks.

“Do I what?” He replies coldly, knowingly.

“Do you love me?” She says sadly. 

“I can’t love you.” He said. “You’re dying.”

“It’s ten years away, Dylan. You can be with me.”

“Ten is if your medicine works at its best. You’re dying.” He stops to think, “You love whoever pays you. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Yeah…” She says, crestfallen. “I guess not.” 

After Dylan had her again, he left. He had a dinner party with his wife. She drank well into the night, crying off and on. Wondering if love or death would find her first.