Chapter 31: The Client's Gaze
The hotel room felt hollow after the encore, the kind of quiet that follows a storm. Catriona was dozing, her head on Aidan’s chest, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Not a call. A direct message through the encrypted portal they used for client communications.
He shifted, reaching for it. The screen’s blue light cut across the dark.
“Who is it?” she mumbled, nuzzling closer.
“Him. The Professor client.” Aidan’s voice was low, alert. He scanned the message. “He’s… impressed. Says the 4K close-up of your face was a work of art.”
Catriona opened her eyes, a faint pride warming her. “Good.”
“He wants more.” Aidan paused. “A different format. A private, live video call. One hour from now. He wants to direct you himself, in real time.”
She went still. The aftermath of their physical connection still hummed in her veins, a warm, liquid courage. The thought of a stranger watching her through a lens, typing commands for her to follow, sent a jolt through that warmth—not quite fear, but something sharper, more metallic. A live performance. No edits, no retakes.
“What are the parameters?” she asked, her librarian’s mind clicking into assessment mode.
Aidan read aloud, his tone flat, professional. “He wants you solo initially. Strip. Use the glass toy from the Vancouver kit. Beg for my cock while looking directly into the camera. He’ll type instructions. I am to be off-camera, audible, directing you as well. If he’s satisfied, he wants me to enter the frame and finish the scene. Anal. He’s offering triple the usual rate for the live feed, plus the recording.”
Triple. The number hung in the dark. This was moving beyond custom videos into something more exclusive, more demanding. More dangerous. The client was buying not just a scene, but their immediate, unrehearsed obedience.
She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. The city’s neon glow painted streaks of pink and blue across her skin. “A private call. Just him watching.”
“Yeah. No other audience. It’s a closed loop.”
“And if we say no?”
“He goes elsewhere. Probably. But he’s a whale, Cat. This kind of money… it funds months of work.” Aidan put the phone down. “I don’t like the loss of control. We can’t vet a live feed the same way. But it’s your call. Literally.”
She thought of the alley after the wedding, Dave’s entitled grip on her arm. The terrifying freedom of that moment. This was the opposite. This was control given willingly, within a framework, for a price. A transaction with a safeword, even if it was just Aidan’s watchful presence in the room.
“We do it,” she said, the decision solidifying as the words left her mouth. “But you stay close. You watch me, not just the screen.”
Aidan leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Always.”
The next hour was a flurry of quiet preparation. They didn’t speak much. Aidan set up the laptop on the desk, framing the bed in its camera. He tested the audio, his voice a low rumble in the speakers. He placed the heavy, cool glass dildo on the black sheets. Catriona showered quickly, the water sluicing away the last traces of their earlier sweat. She didn’t re-do her makeup. The client had specified ‘raw’ and ‘real.’
At the appointed time, she sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing only a white cotton bathrobe. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. Aidan stood just outside the camera’s view, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. The laptop screen showed the empty video chat window, a black rectangle with a single blinking cursor in the text box below.
A soft chime.
The client joined. No video from his end. Just a username: ProfThorne87. The connection was pristine, silent.
Words appeared in the text box, white on black.
Good evening, Miss Shaw. Take off the robe. Slowly.
Catriona inhaled, held it, then let the breath out. She uncrossed her legs and stood beside the bed. She kept her eyes on the laptop’s camera lens, a little dark circle that felt like a pupil. Her fingers went to the belt of the robe. She undid the knot, let the fabric part, and shrugged it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor with a soft sigh. The air in the room was cool. She didn’t cover herself.Beautiful. Turn around. Show me everything.
She turned, a slow rotation, feeling the ghost of his gaze on every inch of her skin. She faced the lens again.
On the bed. On your back. Legs open for the camera. Use your hands. Show me how wet you are for your director.
She obeyed, settling back against the pillows, the sheets slick and cool. She let her knees fall apart, and brought her right hand down between her legs. She was already wet, the evidence shimmering on her fingers when she held them up to the camera light. The vulgarity of the gesture, performed on command, sent a thrill of shame straight to her core.
Now the toy. Cool it in the ice bucket first.
Aidan had anticipated this. A small silver ice bucket sat on the floor. He stepped into frame silently, lifted the glass dildo, and submerged it. The clink of ice was loud. He laid it back on the sheets beside her hip, beaded with cold water. Then he retreated, a shadow merging back with the room’s darkness.
Use it. Tell me how it feels. Describe it. Look at me while you do.
Catriona’s hand closed around the stem. It was shockingly cold. She guided the smooth, rounded tip to herself, gasping as it made contact. She pushed slowly, the intense cold giving way to a deep, filling stretch. Her head fell back for a second before she snapped it up, forcing her eyes to stay open, to find the lens.
“It’s… so cold,” she whispered, her voice husky. “It burns at first. Then it’s just… full. I can feel every inch.”
Deeper.
She obeyed, sliding it further until her knuckles pressed against her. A soft cry escaped her.
Now beg for Aidan’s cock. Tell the camera why you need it instead of the toy.
This was the core of the fantasy. The substitution. The inferior object making way for the real thing. She let the toy slide out, and her emptiness was instantaneous and aching. She craved warmth, the particular thickness only he possessed.
“Please,” she said, her voice breaking convincingly. “Please, I need Aidan’s cock. I need to feel him, not glass. It’s not enough. It’s not real. I need him to fuck me. I need to feel him come inside me. Please, let him use me.”
She was pleading to a blank screen, to a string of text, but the desperation was real. It was a distillation of every lonely fantasy she’d ever had in her quiet apartment. The words tumbled out, filthy and sincere.
Good girl. Now on your knees. Face away from the camera. Present yourself.
She scrambled onto her hands and knees, her back to the laptop, facing the headboard. She knew what he wanted to see. She arched her back, lowering her shoulders.
Aidan. Enter frame. Take what’s yours.
Aidan moved. She heard his belt buckle, the slide of his zip. He moved into her line of sight, his expression unreadable, focused. He positioned himself behind her, his hands rough and warm on her hips after the toy’s chill. There was no preparation, no gentle coaxing. He guided himself to her other entrance, the one reserved for their most intense filth, and pushed forward.
The stretch was brutal, magnificent. She cried out, her fingers clutching the sheets. He didn’t pause, working himself steadily deeper until he was fully seated, a low groan tearing from his throat. The client’s next command appeared, a green text scroll on Aidan’s phone, which he’d propped nearby.
Tell her what she is.
“You’re a live-stream whore,” Aidan growled, his voice dripping with a contempt that made her shiver. “A show for one rich bastard. And you love it, don’t you?” He began to move, hard, precise strokes that drove her forward.
“Yes!” she sobbed.
Ask him to degrade you.
“Degrade me!” she screamed at the headboard. “Please, tell me how dirty I am!”
Aidan’s words were a filthy, beautiful torrent, describing her in terms that would have made her past self blush and shut a book. He painted a picture of her worthlessness and her perfection, all while the camera captured the raw, physical truth of their joining. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, their ragged breaths, and the almost inaudible tap of keys from the laptop as the client typed.
She’s perfect. Make her come for me.
Aidan’s hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding the aching spot he knew so well. His thrusts became relentless, a piston rhythm that blurred thought. The dual sensations—the deep, filling pressure and the urgent, circling friction—coiled a spring tight in her belly. She shattered silently at first, a wave of pure sensation locking her muscles, then a broken, rasping wail tore from her throat as the climax rolled through her. Aidan followed moments later, his own release punched out of him with a final, deep drive, his body collapsing over hers for a second before he caught his weight.
For a long moment, the only sound was their heaving breath. Aidan slowly withdrew. Catriona collapsed onto her side, trembling violently, every nerve alight.
On the laptop screen, the client’s final message appeared.
A masterpiece. The payment is sent. Keep the recording. I will be in touch.
The chat window went dark. The call was over.
The sudden silence was absolute. Aidan moved first, closing the laptop lid. He then gathered Catriona up from the damp sheets, pulling her into his lap on the floor, wrapping a blanket around her. She was shaking, tears she hadn’t even been aware of leaking silently from the corners of her eyes.
He held her, rocking gently, his lips against her hair. “You were devastating,” he whispered, his voice back to its normal, Yorkshire-tinged cadence, all traces of the director gone. “A fucking star. He paid triple. It’s done. You’re safe.”
She nodded into his chest, the word ‘safe’ echoing in the hollowed-out, spent place inside her. It wasn’t the safety of a quiet library. It was the safety of a freefall with one guaranteed catcher. It was the most terrifying and solid thing she’d ever known.
Outside, the city blinked, indifferent. Inside, the red light on the tripod finally went out.