Nanami: "00:15. Sign up. Imagine my tongue going into your shoe, sucking the sweat from your socks, sliding down and licking your inner thigh until it smells of you. Just enjoy. I'll watch you on tape. If it's authentic and the way I like it, I'll send you an address tomorrow: I'll take you to dinner and cum on the new clothes I'll buy you. Night, Y/N."
You remained silent. You lay down, pushing your panties aside, your feet still dusty on the sheet. You realized you'd raised your hips on your own, seeking friction. With a finger, you touched your already engorged clit. You closed your eyes: the image was that of a man with a vacant face and a sculpted torso climbing on you, sniffing your shoes, nibbling on the heel. A spasm made you tremble. With your left hand, you squeezed your breast under your shirt; with your right, you sank two fingers into your warm, wet slit. Your hips rose on their own. Your fingers quickened, finding a steady, warm rhythm, similar to that of your heart. With your wrist, you turned the phone: video mode, the front lens framed your body from the navel down. You pressed REC.
The screen showed your trembling thighs, your fingers sliding in and out, your skin slick with fluids, your dirty feet twitching, your big toe curled. You didn't speak, but your moans came out broken, muffled. You imagined those strong hands grabbing your ankles, that tongue licking the sole of your foot, going up and up to your ankle. A huge shiver ran down your spine. Your fingers tightened, your left hand sliding down to touch your clitoris, trembling. You felt your first orgasm approaching, a jet of cum wetting your palm and dripping onto the sheets. The convulsions made your hips buck, while your fingers still clung to you, trying to hold back the rush. A sob of pure pleasure escaped you.
You turned off the recording.
Before sending it, you began to tremble again. It was only the second time someone had seen your body in that state, filthy and voluptuous. Breathing heavily, you hit send anyway. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was leaping out of your chest. You waited. No immediate response. Two minutes passed. Then five...you fell asleep, the phone on your chest.
***
You were in your room, having just returned from work and having just stepped out of the shower. You hadn't told anyone what had happened the day before, nor had you told anyone about all the money you'd received, not even your best friend. It wasn't the right time; it still felt a little too early, and you didn't feel ready to talk about Nanami so soon. The air in your apartment that evening was heavy, thick with lingering odors and expired food. You still had enough money left to pay off your debt to the landlord, at least it would keep him quiet for a while. But you needed more to catch up on your overdue bills and do some shopping; you barely had anything left to wear, and your shoes were old and worn out.
Nanami had kept his promise. The night before, after watching your dirty video and commenting on it with enough obscene comments to make your insides tingle, he sent you the remaining amount of money, that infamous $4,000 that was missing from the $8,000. You, meanwhile, still couldn't believe that in half an hour you had earned almost over $9,000... without having done anything!
You sat on your futon, legs crossed, laptop on your lap. You stared at the screen with a look that wavered between boredom and excitement. Your room was a mess: a chaos of scattered clothes and dirty dishes, the lights off and your face illuminated only by the bluish light of the computer, which accentuated the shadows under your high cheekbones and your dark eyes, ringed by sleepless nights. Your slender fingers glided across the touchpad with extreme slowness. Mysweetdaddy, the website that was slowly changing your life, loaded slowly, the apartment's unstable internet connection seemingly resisting your every wish. But finally, the minimalist interface and purple colors appeared, it seemed to be an invitation to dive into a world where money flowed as easily as desire.
You scanned the profiles with studied slowness. Every photo was a possibility for you, but you wanted only the best. The men on that site weren't like the ones you met at the supermarket, with their dull lives and broken dreams. They were truly different: confident, powerful, with sculpted bodies and poses that promised unspeakable pleasures. Some even showed their backs, others didn't. Some asked for encounters, others were satisfied with photos. But one, in particular, caught your attention again.
His profile picture was a close-up of his torso, his skin pale and luminescent, his blue veins protruding like underground rivers along his powerful arms and sculpted abs. There was no face, obviously, just the hint of a strong jaw. The nickname was obscured. You felt a shiver down your spine, both excited and intimidated by a man like that. Your fingers trembled slightly as you clicked the like button, the smiling heart emoji appearing on the screen and his nickname appearing in bold: Satoru. The counter under Satoru's photo jumped from 502 to 503.
Not even a minute passed.
A notification flashed in the top right, the high-pitched sound of reception making you jump. Your heart pounded in your chest as you clicked the messages icon. A new conversation, opened just seconds ago.
Satoru: Simple photo. Tight tank top, no bra, knee-high socks. No face.
The words were dry, blunt, direct, and without preamble. A command, rather than a request. Your blood rushed faster through your veins, a warmth that reached your belly. You bit your lower lip, blood gushing out and flooding the tip of your tongue. Your mind was already wandering toward unexplored possibilities.
You rose from the futon with a quick, confident movement, your slender legs stretching gracefully. The room, a chaos of unwashed and unironed clothes, seemed almost fitting as a backdrop for what was about to happen. You undressed quickly, dropping your clothes to the floor one after another, and hurried to the closet to change.
The black tank top, stretchy and tight, hugged your small but firm breasts, your nipples instantly hardening against the thin, warm fabric. The light blue stockings, shiny and innocent, wrapped around your legs, with the elastic tightening slightly above the knee, where a decorative stitching made them look even more childish, cheaper.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, the one hanging on the hallway wall, all chipped and crooked. Your lips seemed fuller, as if the desire for sex had swollen them. You turned sideways, taking in the way the tank top molded to your body, your breasts barely perceptible but perfectly rounded, your nipples pressing against the fabric, sending shivers down your spine.
Satoru wouldn't see your face, but he would see everything else.
You leaned against the peeling wall, the paint scratching your back lightly through the thin fabric. You raised one arm, resting your wrist against the wall, as if waiting for someone. You held your other hand at your side, fingers slightly curved, as if ready to grasp. Like claws.
The phone shook in your hand as you snapped the photo. There was no need for filters, studied poses, or special editing. Satoru wanted you, raw and real, just as you were.
Sending.
The message went out with an electronic whoosh, and for a moment, you wondered if you'd just crossed a line. But then your phone vibrated again. It wasn't a message. It was a notification from your bank.
"$10,000+"
Your legs buckled again with emotion, and you collapsed onto the futon, the phone slipping from your limp fingers. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand. A sum of money that seemed astronomical to you, more than you'd ever seen in your life. A low, guttural, and menacing laugh escaped your lips, a sound that seemed completely unfamiliar to you, yet perfectly expressed the exhilaration of the moment.
Then, the phone vibrated again.
Satoru: Measurements.
You smiled. Oh, he wants to play? You thought. Good.
Y/N: 85/60/88. Are those enough for you?
The answer came almost instantly, blunt and direct.
Satoru: For now.
For now. Two words that made your stomach clench, it seemed like a promise of something more, something greater. But courage, which you certainly didn't lack, or perhaps madness, pushed you to answer.
Y/N: And you? What are your measurements?
You waited anxiously, your heart pounding. Then your phone rang. A photo.
You scanned the screen with a trembling finger, and when the image fully loaded, a groan escaped your lips. It wasn't a dick. It was a weapon.
Long, thick, veiny, the skin stretched taut over a shaft that looked ready to burst. The head was broad, purple, with a glistening drop of precum ready to drip. The veins bulged, bluish and swollen, as if every inch of that monster were alive, throbbing, hungry.
Satoru: 32 cm. I'd devastate you.
You felt heat flood your belly, and it ran down like lava, burning your panties. Thirty-two centimeters. You'd never seen anything like it, not even in your wildest fantasies. It was enormous, impossible. Perfect.
Your fingers slid under the waistband of your panties, already finding the moist heat that had gathered between your pussy lips. You bit your lip again, trying not to moan, but you couldn't take your eyes off that photo. You imagined Satoru's hands gripping you, that cock pounding you, filling you until it hurt, until you forgot your name.
With a hint of courage, you wrote.
Y/N: Try it.
Send.
You waited until an emoji appeared, just a wink.
You dropped the phone, your hands shaking as you rubbed your thighs together, trying to ease the burning sensation between your legs. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. The noises in and out of you faded, replaced by the sound of your labored breathing, the swish of your fingers moving, over your clit, faster and faster. You lay back on the futon, your back arched, your breasts pressing against your tank top as one hand slid under the fabric, fingers pinching an already hard nipple. Your other hand slid down, under the waistband of your panties, and when your fingers found your swollen and throbbing clit, you couldn't help but moan.
Thirty-two centimeters.
You imagined that cock penetrating you, stretching you, filling you until tears came to your eyes. You imagined Satoru's hands gripping your hips, holding you still as he pounded you mercilessly, without hesitation. You imagined the sound of your bodies colliding as you screamed his name.
His fingers began to move faster, his index finger pressing on your dripping wet clit while two fingers sank inside you, trying to fill that void that only he could fill. The futon creaked beneath your ass, your buttocks rubbing against the fabric.
I'd devastate you.
Oh, God, yes.
You closed your eyes, and for the first time since you'd started this game, you let yourself go completely. There were no more doubts, no more fears. There was only desire, burning and uncontrollable, and the certainty that, whatever happened next, nothing would ever be the same again. Your body arched, your fingers sinking deeper and deeper, as the orgasm violently overwhelmed you, something that tore a strangled cry from you, made your muscles contract until they hurt, made you see stars behind your closed eyelids.
When you finally relaxed, panting, sweaty, your panties soaked and your heart still racing, you opened your eyes and stared at the cracked ceiling.