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We met in a chatroom.

No, not AOL, it was 2021, not 1997, though the anonymity wasn’t something I was used to in an age of Instagram posts and Facebook feeds. The pandemic and corresponding isolation left me lonely and two months without touching human skin had me seeking beyond the usual Literotica tag words I was used to. I swear I only accidentally clicked on the link to a camgirl website (it’s hard to scroll with one hand while your other more dominant appendage is occupied), but when my screen opened to the diagram of woman after woman, live and real and sharing it all, I couldn’t help but fall down the rabbit hole. Like Alice I was perplexed, curious, and a little bit afraid. Like Alice, I never wanted to leave.

These women inspired me, empowered me, and turned me on. Not in the way you might expect. Even though I am bi and love a threesome I tend to go after girls who have never been with another woman, what can I say, I’m a dom with the ladies I guess. No, what made me drip was imagining I was them. Imagining someone was at the other end of the lens, watching me, waiting for me, and getting off on what I could provide. I’ve been a people pleaser my whole life and overly sexual to boot, but the shame I was taught to feel in the delights of my body had never made me think of marrying the two in such a way. The first time I saw a tip accompany the words “good girl” and the model purred “thank you daddy” to the lens I had to close my computer, reach between my legs, and allow myself to come.

Soon watching the cams became my nightly ritual. When work was done, I would escape into their world, finding my favorites, and coming by their side. I would pretend I was them, only touching myself when they were tipped, only letting myself come when they did the same. I liked the ones that shared about their day, who seemed so effortless as they switched between typical life and their secret inner worlds. What turned me on the most was still those who clearly liked to be controlled, who begged the men watching to please allow them to pinch their nipples or untie their feet. But I loved exploring them all.

I began to tip the women, of course, when I realized I was experiencing pleasure for free and I’d never want to be a freeloader like so many men whose greyed names they chastised and who thus weren’t allowed to play along. Tip enough and I could send a DM. I began to learn about their real lives and worlds. So many of these girls were just like me with lives and jobs and outside personas where no one would guess what they did behind closed doors. Of course, I could never. My job was too public-facing, and my future plans too potentially ruptured by the stigma that would be placed. Besides, I didn’t want to belong to everyone, everywhere all at once. But still, I couldn’t help but fantasize about what could be.

One night he and I found ourselves in a tipping war with one of my favorites. She was a newbie and seemed nervous, the kind that turned me on the most. She was so grateful for every tip, so delighted when we outbid one another. She was young, or at least she said she was. Maybe 19 or 20. And we loved to tease her. Edge her. Make her hold off until one of us showered her with coins.He wondered I was a dude, of course. Even the folks who claim they are women never end up being so. My brat tendencies came out when he teased me and said he didn’t believe I was a girl writing him from the other side. I’ll prove it to you, I said, and wrote his user name in bright purple Crayola marker across my breasts.

*Fuck.* He typed back.

*Holy shit.*

*Who the hell are you?*

And then,

*“Why aren’t you up there instead of her?”*

I logged off for a few days after that. The idea got me too excited, and I became too distracted in everything I did. Walking my dog in the morning. Going on hikes in the afternoon. Responding to emails and running remote programs. Everything was punctuated by an undercurrent of desire and lust and temptation. I wanted it. I wanted to be her. So badly. How did he know?

The morning after I woke up from a dream, heavy with sweat and wet between my legs, I knew I had to go back. When I logged back on there was a message waiting. From him.

*Did I scare you off?* He had written.

*I hope not.*

*Either way, here’s my Gmail. Chat me sometime.*

I set up a burner profile, and we began talking. About our daily lives and what was going on. We spoke about camming on a sociological level, and I loved the methods in which we could utilize our brains as well as our bodies to explore. I spoke of my desires hypothetically, while also discussing the stigma that faces a woman who owns her sexuality in such a way. He told me about his marriage and the dead bedroom he occupied at night. He was older, of course. And I loved hearing about all the lives he had lived. He waited to broach the subject of my body for a few days until one night when we had been texting all day he said

*, you know Alex, I can’t stop thinking about your breasts*.

I didn’t answer, but my blood started pulsing.

*Do you think you’d show me again?*

Electric pulses ran past my belly button, down below.

*What if I paid you?*

And. Fuck. Let me tell you I came, and I came, and I came.

Thus began our little adventures, late at night. He taught me how to set up a cash app and I followed his instructions like a good little girl. The first time I was so nervous I wondered my heart would beat out of my chest. But he was so kind and so patient with me. Typing good girl, good girl, every time I unbuttoned one more. Sometimes I had to stop early because I needed to come. Sometimes he wouldn’t let me and would send me more money to wait. He knew he couldn’t give me what I wanted – real love, a relationship, someone to hold. He was married. He had kids. He had a whole life.

*Treat yourself.* He would say, after our sessions.

*Show daddy what you got next time I can see you*.

I’d text him topless photos behind hardcovers of books I would buy or model dresses from the designer indulgences I would rent to just wear around my home or curled up by the fire on my porch. I didn’t care about material things, and I didn’t need the money. But after dating so many boys who seemed to not care if they tossed me apart, he made me feel special. And wanted. And dirty. And oh so good.

We never saw each other’s faces. I kept the camera squarely below my nose, sucking my fingers or thumbing my nipple while he watched. Sometimes he couldn’t turn on his camera, and I never heard his voice. Was it wrong of me to get wetter on the nights he was downstairs, “working”, with the laptop pointed at his hard cock in his hand. Was I bad for trembling when he told me he had to turn down his volume because my moaning was too loud and his wife would hear and the jig would be up?

My favorite nights were when we would come together, though sometimes the camera would slip and I’d expose more than I meant to instead of just my upper wrist rubbing, I didn’t care. Watching his cock shoot out come onto his waiting hand like a geyser, pumping, and pumping, and imagine his come was filling me up. Fuck. I didn’t care about anything then.

When the world began to open back up, when vaccines became available and friends started to visit, I became embarrassed by my excursions, my explorations into the night. He too, got busier and his texts became less frequent. Soon the neglect merged with the shame, and I deleted my accounts across all the platforms. I lasted three months before I began to quake for him again. I tried looking in all the rooms of the girls we used to follow but many of them were gone as well. I tried remembering his handles but it was no use. There were burners upon burners and I never wrote any of it down. So he was lost. And, well, so was I.

But I think about him sometimes and am grateful for what he awakened in me. And he’s the one who taught me about reddit so maybe, just maybe, he will read this and know, how often he still makes me come. Even if it’s only in my dreams.

NSFW: yes

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