Page 23 of Cruel Delights
This doesn’t end untilI’msatisfied enough to walk away.
What was she about to do? She changed into what looked like lingerie, grabbed her laptop, and then a mask…
The idea materializes in the next second.
I wrench my phone from out of my pocket and do another internet search of Lyra Hendrix. During my earlier perusal, I had only come across an Instapix and MyFace account she’s barely updated since graduating college.
Come to think of it, I had only used her birth name. She wouldn’t do what she’s doing using her birth name.
My fingers tap at my screen, typing in the different email address and username handles I know she’s created on other sites.
Most turn up nothing… until I reach KuteKittty96. A Cyber Fans profile is at the top of the results page. I quickly click on it, my heart rate speeding up.
I don’t have a Cyber Fans account. Before this moment, I never would’ve been so pathetic to pay money to watch women who are strangers post photos and videos online. The only reason I know of Cyber Fans even as the page loads is because Nolan and Kleinarethat pathetic—both have a subscription to a few models who have started selling content on the lurid site.
It takes me another minute to throw together an account. I use one of my aliases for the profile information, along with the credit card I’m forced to put down. Then I click subscribe to KuteKitty96’s page (she has a few hundred subscribers).
From what I’ve gathered, that’s a smaller scale channel… but surely she makes some income off what she’s doing.
A small icon glows next to her profile picture—a teasing photo of her in a mask with her breasts pushed up in a bra. She’s live camming right now, available for her subscribers to tune in if they want to. I promptly log into the chatroom, for once ignoring how I’d otherwise find such an action to be embarrassing and stupid.
Sure enough, Lyra comes up on my screen. She’s disguised behind her leather cat mask, sitting on her bed. Though she’s technically clothed in her robe, she’s left it untied, intentionally revealing to her subscribers that she’s in a lacy bra and panties.
My pulse is beating so fast, I canhearit. It’s almost louder than Lyra on my screen.
She lets out a fake giggle as a subscriber tells her a joke. The joke is unfunny and would likely garner an eye roll if he ever told a woman in person. Online is a different story; she’s pretending he’s funny and that she’s into it.
It becomes evident she pretends she’s into everything her subscribers say.
The many creeps who keep typing things like, “ur so sexy” and “hey beautiful” to the more forward, outright aggressive comments like, “show us ur tits” and “play w/ urself”.
The truly bad ones she seems to ignore, pretending they don’t exist. If it bothers her, she doesn’t show that it does. However, a user named mrsteel820, begins filling up the chat box with increasingly degrading comments.
I scowl at my phone watching him make demands she stops stalling and begins taking her clothes off. He threatens to take his money elsewhere if she doesn’t.
Two other users jump in and offer an additional tip if she takes her bra off.
Lyra’s mask conceals any distinguishable expression until cracks begin forming. The pervert losers watching her live might not pick up on it, but I do—the subtle flicker in her eyes and tightening roll of her lips. Her smile dulls, even faker than it already was.
“I have to go,” she says a few minutes later. “Thanks for spending the night with me. Miss you. Bye.”
The video screen where she’s displayed goes dark. The small icon glowing green next to her picture grays out. She’s logged off.
I can no longer see her, however, in the next fifteen minutes, the light in her window flicks off. She’s going to bed.
For a moment that drags on, I stand among the deep shadows of the old, unused office. I’m considering what to do. If I’ve finally had enough surveilling of my next victim, or if I’m not yet ready to move on. My pulse has not slowed and the drum of frustration beating inside me has gone nowhere.
A range of different, perplexing sensibilities spike through me, like a volatile bolt of electricity. I don’t know what to do or how to proceed.
Perhaps a first.
I make my decision in a state of disassociation. I leave the office behind and cross the barren street. I climb up the fire escape along the side of the brick warehouse building, and then cross over to the window in the uttermost corner that’s Lyra’s.
It’s unlocked, the latch undone.
She lays in bed, barely covered by the sheets and blanket. Still in her robe, bra, and panties, she must’ve fallen asleep minutes after logging off. Her laptop sits on her bedside table. She’s a deep sleeper.
As I ease the window open, she doesn’t stir. She remains as is, completely clueless that she’s no longer alone.