Chapter 1: The Crack in the Screen
The private browser window was already open, my fingers poised over the keyboard to type in the familiar, shameful URL. I was about to open my favorite sissy hypno porn site. Suddenly, a video call came from my girlfriend.
Sasha’s face filled the screen, replacing the blank, waiting tab. Her expression was crumpled, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Hey,” I said, forcing a smile, my heart hammering against my ribs.
We started to talk; she talked about her life, about a gallery rejection that morning. “They said my pieces lacked ‘cohesion,’” she muttered, her voice trembling. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s all just crap.”
“It’s not crap, Sash. Their loss,” I said, but my words felt hollow, distracted by the ghost of the other tab lurking just behind her pixelated image.
“You didn’t even ask to see the new pieces,” she shot back, her insecurity curdling into accusation. “You’re just staring through me.”
“That’s not true. I’m here, aren’t I?” The defensiveness in my voice was too sharp.
“Are you? Where even is ‘here,’ Max? You’re a world away and sometimes it feels like you’re on another planet.” A tear tracked through her pixelated cheek. “Do you even miss me, or just the idea of me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, the guilt making me cruel. “Of course I miss you. But I’m stuck in this freezing apartment, studying for finals, and you’re calling to fight about your art.”
“It’s not about the art!” The connection glitched, freezing her furious, wounded expression. “It’s about you never being present. I feel so alone.”
“Well, join the club,” I said, the words tasting like ash.
She went very still. “You’re a bastard.” The screen went black. She’d hung up.
Silence, thick and heavy, swallowed the dim room. I stared at the darkened rectangle where her face had been, filled with a cold, sudden anger. My knuckles were white where I gripped the edge of the desk. The glow from the other monitor, the private browser still patiently open, now felt like the only light in the world.
The glow from the other monitor, the private browser still patiently open, now felt like the only light in the world.
My head was hot. How dare she do this to me. The porn tab finished loading and the thumbnail of the main video of the page was showing. “Forget Everything, Just Suck a Cock” the caption said. The thumbnail was a blonde girl doing an ahegao face with cocks surrounding her. The image was a garish, pixelated void, and I stared right into it. Fuck it.
All the tight, knotted anger in my chest had one release valve. Sasha’s tear-streaked face was replaced by this blatant, welcoming distortion. My mouse cursor hovered, a digital manifestation of my pulse. I clicked.
The video filled the screen. Hypnotic, pulsing colors began their familiar sweep. A soothing, synthesized voice whispered through my headphones, “Let go… just let it all fade…” I unzipped my jeans. This was easier. This had no expectations, no fragile emotions to mismanage. The voice was a directive, not a conversation. The images commanded surrender, not compromise. My breathing shallowed, syncing with the rhythm on screen. I gave myself over to the flickering light, a deliberate act of forgetting. For her, for me, for the ten thousand miles between us. The tension in my shoulders finally began to unwind into something hollow and accepting.
The tension in my shoulders finally began to unwind into something hollow and accepting.
I don’t know why, but I started to stop my jerking.
It was like my hand just froze. The hypnotic pulse on the screen seemed to sync with my heartbeat, pushing me toward something deeper, a total surrender the whispering voice promised. Instinctively, I started to put my fingers in my mouth, sucking on them until they were slick and wet. The taste was sterile, just skin and saliva.
Then, moving almost without my own permission, I used the damp fingers to circle the entrance of my butt.
A sharp, electric jolt shot through me—not pain, but pure, shocking sensation. My breath hitched. I’d never done this, because I have a girlfriend. The thought was a distant, fading billboard seen from a speeding car. This isn’t me, one part of my brain screamed. But my body arched, a low groan escaping my lips as the pressure created a dizzying feedback loop with the images on the screen.
I always think that watching sissy porn is okay. It’s just a video, a secret fantasy, a pressure valve. This was different. This was a line, thick and black, vaporizing under my own touch. The pleasure was immense and instant, followed by a nausea so profound my vision blurred. I was here, doing this, while Sasha’s shattered expression was still burned on the back of my eyelids. The two realities collapsed into each other, and for a terrifying second, I didn’t know which person was the real one.
The two realities collapsed into each other, and for a terrifying second, I didn’t know which person was the real one.
I yanked my hand back as if burned, scrambling away from the desk until my back hit the cold wall. I sat there on the floor, breathing hard, the garish video still playing silently on the screen, casting sickly light across my knees. Shame poured into the hollow the pleasure had left, hot and sour in my throat.
I think about all the sex I had with her, it was good, amazing even. But something feels off. I was so turned on when she's being submissive, turned on seeing her in a new lingerie that I bought. But now I realized, the reason I was so turned on was because I was picturing myself in her place. The satin, the positioning, the vulnerability—it wasn’t about her at all. It was a translation. A proxy. The understanding was a physical blow, knocking the last air from my lungs. I was using my own girlfriend as a stand-in for the fantasies I was too scared to claim.
I was using my own girlfriend as a stand-in for the fantasies I was too scared to claim.
On the screen, the hypno porn video then went so bright, glaring with a pulsing, neon caption: "DON'T THINK ANYMORE JUST SUCK A COCK". The command was a siren song, obliterating the fragile thread of my remorse.
I remember my girlfriend, I was not her first.
I then remember a time in Jakarta, the mosquito-whine night air thick around us. She’d mentioned an ex, casually, a name dropped like a stone into still water. “He was just… different,” she’d said, a vague smile playing on her lips that my brain has, for years, etched with secret, superior knowledge. Different how? Taller? Better? A real man, not whatever tangled mess I was becoming on this floor?
Another memory: her laughing at a story about some Australian guy she’d briefly dated, a surfer. The ease in her voice as she described his confidence, a quality I had to meticulously perform.
The video’s spiral pulled at my gaze, the brightness leaching the detail from those old scenes, simplifying everything. Her past lovers became faceless, formidable silhouettes against whom I’d always been unconsciously measuring myself—and falling short. The hypnotic pulse on the screen seemed to agree with them. It whispered that their kind of certainty, their straightforward desire, was the only truth. My own was a corrupt deviation.
A final, cruel flash: Sasha’s body under mine, but my mind, traitorously, was elsewhere, was here, in this exact degrading position. The two images fused, the memory and the perversion, until I couldn’t separate the love from the sickness. The caption burned. JUST SUCK.
JUST SUCK.
The words weren’t just on the screen; they were in my skull, a direct current frying my resistance. My hand moved back, not with shame now, but with a frantic, mechanical purpose. The slickness was gone, so I spat into my palm, the sound obscenely loud in the silent room. My knees were on the cold hardwood, my forehead pressing against the edge of the desk, the wood grain imprinting itself on my skin.
A choked sound escaped me, part gasp, part sob. The synthetic voice cooed, “Good boy.” My vision swam, pixels and memory blurring. I saw Sasha’s smile, the one she gave me at the airport, then it shattered into the hypnotic spiral. My body tensed, a wire pulled taut, vibrating with a shameful, undeniable electricity. Every muscle locked. A raw, guttural cry was torn from my throat, muffled by my own arm. The pleasure was a detonation, instantly followed by a vacuum.
Silence roared in my ears. I collapsed onto my side, curled into myself on the floor, shaking. The video played on to an empty room, its cheerful, encouraging music now a horrific parody. Sticky wetness cooled rapidly on my stomach and the floorboards beneath my cheek. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The high-definition shame was render-
I couldn’t move. The high-definition shame had rendered me a hollow shell on the cold floor. Anger began to boil up through the numbness, hot and urgent. I shoved myself upright, my knees cracking. My phone was on the desk, glowing beside the darkened monitor. I snatched it up, my fingers trembling with a new, reckless energy. In a furious swipe, I opened the app store and searched for a dating app. The first one that popped up, I downloaded it, not caring which. The installation icon spun, a tiny circle of impending chaos. While it loaded, I paced the small room, the shame now fuel for something worse. The app opened with a cheerful chirp. I started filling my info: age, location, a fake name that felt dangerous on my tongue. For the bio, I typed, "Exploring new sides," my heart hammering against my ribs. Then, driven by a compulsion I no longer fought, I yanked open the bottom drawer of my dresser. Inside, folded neat and untouched, were the girls' clothes I'd bought as soon as I arrived in NYC. I’d never once worn them, too terrified of what they meant. The silky fabric of a blouse slid between my fingers, cool and alien. I held up a skirt, the pleats catching the dim light. My breath hitched. This was the line, and I was stepping over it with both feet. The anger had crystallized into a sharp, clear purpose.
The anger had crystallized into a sharp, clear purpose. I grabbed the silky blouse and held the phone up with a shaking hand, snapping a few angled photos of the fabric draped over my thigh, careful to keep my face out of frame. The flash was a stark, judgmental blink in the dark room. I uploaded the most ambiguous one to the new profile and started swiping.
My thumb moved with a frantic, mechanical rhythm. I don’t know why, but I needed a cock tonight. The thought was a pure, primal wire in my brain, bypassing all reason. After three years of holding it back due to the love I have for my girlfriend, tonight I wanted more. Faces blurred past—smiling, bearded, smug, bored. I mean, it’s okay as long as she is the only one I love, right? The logic felt flimsy even as I constructed it, a paper shield. I suck cock only because of lust, not love. I don’t like guys, I just like cocks, especially the big one. My criteria was brutally simple, a reductive filter that turned people into mere anatomy. I swipe right to everyone. A chaotic spray of potential, a digital cry into the void. The phone vibrated almost immediately in my palm—a match. Then another. The tiny buzzes felt like pulses of validation, or condemnation, I couldn’t tell which.
The tiny buzzes felt like pulses of validation, or condemnation, I couldn’t tell which. A ton of matches flooded my phone immediately. I mean, it’s understandable. I have a thin body and waist and I mainly store fat in my butt and thighs, I’m probably the most fuckable bottom on this app. I started talking to a lot of people. The notifications piled up, a chaotic scroll of “hey” and “what’s up” and more graphic openers.
My thumb scrolled, my mind blissfully numb, until one profile made me pause. A guy named David, no face, just a torso shot that made my mouth go dry. The message was simple: “You look like you need to be put in your place.”
I typed back, “Maybe I do.” My breath hitched.
”My breath hitched.
David’s reply was instant. “Good. Send a real pic.”
My thumb faltered, but another notification popped up—a different guy, a different demand. Then another. The screen became a strobing barrage of want. Other people then started messaging me also, all of them I respond to. I was moving from chatroom to chatroom to 10 different guys. “Show me.” “On your knees.” “You there, slut?”
The cold floor bit into my knees as I typed fragmented promises to each, my identity splintering into a dozen eager voices. “Yes.” “Anything.” “Please.” One chat was pure transaction—an address in Queens, a time. Another was a degrading questionnaire that made my face burn as I answered. A third guy just sent a photograph, and I stared, my mouth dry, before typing a shaky compliment. The phone buzzed and buzzed, a relentless hive against my palm.
I was a distributor of my own disintegration, parceling out pieces of a self I no longer recognized. Sasha’s tear-streaked face flashed behind my eyes, but it was drowned out by a fresh, snarling message: “U still looking to get used?”
I typed back “yes” before my brain could veto it.
I WAS BEING SO EASY. IF THE GUYS WANT A PIC, I GIVE THEM THE SEXIEST PIC THEY'LL EVER SEE. The cold resolve surprised me. I fumbled with the blouse buttons, my fingers clumsy, then yanked the waistband of my jeans low. The phone’s camera app opened with a silent swish. I angled it down my torso, a strategic shadow, a teasing line of hip bone. The flash was a clinical white explosion that left spots in my vision. I sent it without looking. The response was instant. “Fuck. More.” Another chat buzzed. “You got snap?” I created one on the spot, username a jumble of letters, and added him. His first message was a single emoji. I sent another pic, lower this time. My heart wasn’t hammering anymore; it was a dull, distant thud. The vibration in my palm was the only thing that felt real. A new message, from David: “Address. Now.” I stared at my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator hum in the other room. Another buzz. “U there or u just a tease?”
The message glared up from the screen. U there or u just a tease? My thumb smeared across the glass, closing every other chat until only David’s was open. I’m not a tease.
I started to focus on one guy and start dirty talking like crazy.
“Do you even know what to do with a mouth like mine?” I typed, the words feeling alien and hot on my tongue.
His reply was instant. “I know how to shut it up.”
“Prove it,” I sent back, my breathing shallow. “I want you to make me forget my own name.”
“You’ll be remembering mine when you’re choking on it.”
A sharp thrill cut through the numbness. I could almost feel the pressure, the phantom weight. “I want that,” I typed, fingers flying. “I want to taste how much you don’t care about me.”
“Good. Because I don’t. You’re just a hole waiting to be used.”
The brutality of it made my skin prickle. Sasha’s face flickered behind my eyes—hurt, confused—and I pushed it away by typing faster. “Then use it. I’m on my knees right now thinking about it.”
“Picture this,” he wrote. “My hand in your hair, forcing you down. You struggling for a second before you give in and take it.”
I let out a shaky breath, the room tilting. “I wouldn’t struggle. I’d open up for you. I’d thank you.”
“Pathetic,” he replied, and the word sent a jolt through me. “Send your address. Stop talking and get ready.”
I stared at David’s final command. “Stop talking and get ready.”
My fingers trembled as I typed back, the urgency a hot wire in my veins. “Come get me. Use your car. Do me in your back seat and then bring me home after. I’ll give you my address right now.”
The reply took a lifetime. “Can’t use my place tonight. Roommates. Next week, though. Wednesday. I’ll clear the place.”
Next week. The words were a door slamming shut. A wave of frantic, clawing need rose up, choking me. I couldn’t wait another day, let alone five. The hollow feeling would eat me alive.
I swiped back to the grid of matches, a chaotic mosaic of torsos and smirks. My gaze landed on a profile named ‘Alex’. His bio was just a flame emoji. I opened the chat.
“Hey,” I wrote.
“What’s up,” he replied seconds later.
“Bored. Restless,” I typed, my thumb a frantic metronome against the screen. “Looking for a distraction.”
“What kind of distraction?”
“The kind that leaves me forgetting how to speak,” I sent, the admission like stepping off a ledge.
“Big talk. Prove you mean it.”
A hot flush spread across my chest. “I’m on my floor right now. Thinking about what a real man’s hands feel like. How they don’t ask. They just take what they want.”
There was a pause. Then, “You’d let a stranger do that? Just take?”
“If he knew how to make me feel like I was nothing else? Yeah. I would.” The confession felt like pouring acid on my own skin, purging and painful.
“Dangerous game.”
“I’m not playing.”
“I’m not playing.” The words hung in the digital space, a challenge. Alex’s response was a location pin, an address in Hell’s Kitchen, and a time: 45 minutes. “Don’t be late.” My throat tightened. This was real.
I was so horny from the dirt talk. I sent even more of them. Blurry shots of my torso in the blouse, the skirt hiked high, a close-up of my mouth. I distributed them to three other chats simultaneously, a fire sale of my dignity. The phone became a strobe light of demand and fulfillment, buzzing relentlessly against my palm. “Such a good slut.” “I’d wreck you.” “Wanna see what you’re begging for?” A new photo appeared, explicit and huge. I stared, my breath catching, and typed “yes” to him, “please” to another, and “now” to Alex. The promises piled up, a web of impossible rendezvous. My mind fragmented, each hungry reply a shard of a person I no longer knew.
I started to tease one of the guys more. "U talk to much, maybe u are just compensating for something small" i typed trying to tease the guy . Then I sent a photo of my tongue out, licking my bottom lip seductively.
His reply made my heart race. "Oh I am sure I can compensate for that."
I sent another, more revealing photo this time - my blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the swell of my chest, the fabric clinging, the nipples just visible. "Like what u see?" I typed, my voice trembling despite myself.
The chat replied instantly. "Fucking hell. U are gonna be the death of me."
I should stop. I knew I should stop. But the words kept flowing from my fingers like something separate, autonomous.
But the words kept flowing from my fingers like something separate, autonomous. The vibration of yet another incoming image made my palm tingle. I tapped it open.
I WAS HAVING A LOT OF FUN SENDING A NAUGHTY PICTURE OF ME TO A BUNCH OF GUYS. AND MY MOUTH WATERS EVERYTIME THEY SEND BACK A PICTURE OF THEIR HARD COCKS. The latest was a stark, close-up shot against rumpled grey sheets, veined and thick, and a low, hungry sound escaped my throat. My tongue dampened my lips. "Fuck," I whispered to the empty room.
"Like that, princess?" came the attached message.
"Looks heavy," I typed back, my spine melting against the dresser. "Bet it tastes like control."
Another buzz, a different chat. This photo was taken in what looked like a sterile office bathroom, the tile gleaming in the background. "Thinking about stuffing that smart mouth of yours,"