Chapter 7: Failed Self-Discovery
The hot water of the shower didn’t scald the feeling away.It pounded against my shoulders, turning my skin pink, but the memory of the stream was a film I couldn’t wash off. I could still feel the ghost of them inside me—the frantic, greedy pulse of Drew, the deeper, punishing thrusts of Evan. My body ached in ways that were alien, a deep, internal soreness that was a constant, humiliating reminder.
I looked down at the soap suds sluicing over my breasts, the curve of my waist, the thatch of brown hair between my legs.My own reflection in the foggy glass door was a stranger’s. A desirable one.That was the worst part. I knew what that body looked like from the outside now, saw it in the stream replay—arching, bouncing, glistening with sweat. A perfect camgirl.A perfect fuck.
I shut the water off with a violent twist.The silence was louder. I toweled myself dry with rough, angry strokes, wrapped the towel around my chest, and padded back into my room. The bottle of X-change pills sat on my desk, a small, plastic monument to all of this.I had half a mind to flush the rest. But the other half, the pragmatic, ambitious half that was still me, remembered the donation counter hitting five figures.
My laptop was still open. I dropped onto my chair, the towel falling away as I leaned forward to tap the touchpad.The analytics page for the stream was still up.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.The numbers were insane.Viewer peak, triple our previous record. Total donations… I scrolled, my breath catching. It was more money than I’d made in six months of grinding. The chat log was a sprawling epic of degradation and desire, thousands of messages praising, demanding, fantasizing. My name—“Taylor”—was said over and over, but it felt like they were talking about someone else.A creature they’d built from their own hunger.
A knock at my door, two short raps.“Taylor?”
It was Evan.I didn’t answer. I just stared at the screen.He pushed the door open anyway. He’d changed into fresh clothes, but he looked exhausted, hollowed out. His eyes flicked from my bare back on the chair to the glowing screen, then fixed firmly on a point on the wall above my head. “You saw the numbers.”
“Yeah.”
“They want a follow-up.Tomorrow. A Q&A, they’re calling it.Live questions for… for you.” He cleared his throat. “The offer requests are already insane. People want to pay for specific… acts.”
I finally turned to look at him.“What about you, Evan? What do you want?”
He flinched, as if I’d slapped him.“I want the channel to succeed. You know that.”
“That’s all?After what… after what just happened?” My voice was low, dangerous.
“What do you want me to say, Taylor?” he hissed, his cool façade cracking. “That it fucked me up? That I knelt there and tasted my best friend’s cum because some faceless fuckers in a chatroom paid us?It did.It does. But the money is real.The opportunity is real.You walked out with your head high, calling the shots. You won.So what’s the problem?”
The problem is I came three times. The thought was a poison dart in my mind.The problem is part of me liked it.
I didn’t say that.I looked back at the screen.“A Q&A.Fine. But I set the limits.They ask, I answer.Or I don’t.No more… performances. Not tomorrow.”
He nodded, visibly relieved.“Just talking.Yeah. I can sell that.” He hesitated at the door.“For what it’s worth… you were in control the whole time. It was… impressive.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.Impressive. The word echoed in the quiet room.I was the general.I’d commanded the troops. I’d won the battle.So why did I feel so conquered?
A cold, sharp curiosity cut through the numbness.I opened a private browser window. My fingers, which had commanded cocks hours before, now typed in the address of a popular porn site. The familiar, garish thumbnails loaded.Women getting fucked.Women on their knees.Women screaming.
This is what you are, I told myself, clicking on a video titled “HARDCORE GANG BANG – TOTAL DESTRUCTION.” This is what they see.The video played. The camera work was crude, the music abrasive. A woman with huge, fake tits was bent over a couch, taking one thick cock in her pussy while another pushed into her mouth. I watched the men’s faces, their expressions of bored concentration. I tried to focus on their power, their dominance, the mechanics of their thrusts.But my eyes kept slipping to her. To the way her body jolted with each impact. To the shiny, stretched ring of her asshole as a third man rubbed lube against it. To the mascara smudged under her eyes, a mix of pain and something else. Her mouth was stretched obscenely wide, gagging, but her hands were clenched on the couch cushions, holding on.A familiar, hot ache began between my legs. I shifted in the chair, and the movement sent a bolt of sensation straight up my spine. My clit was throbbing, a tiny, insistent pulse against the seam of the chair.
“Fuck,” I muttered, disgusted.But my hand was already moving.I didn’t touch myself there. Not yet. I dragged the chair back, spread my legs wide, and let one hand trail up my inner thigh.The skin was so soft, so sensitive. My fingers grazed the wet folds, already slick.My own wetness. I brought my fingers to my mouth, tasting it—a clean, musky saltiness. The act was so inherently female it made my stomach turn, but my pussy clenched, empty and wanting.On the screen, the woman was being flipped onto her back. A cock slammed into her, her legs hooked over the man’s shoulders. Her back arched off the couch, a perfect, vulnerable curve.My breath hitched. Two of my own fingers slid inside me with ease.They were not enough.I twisted my wrist, curling them, searching. My body knew what it wanted. It was this body, this traitorous flesh, that remembered the full, stretching burn of being fucked.I closed my eyes, and the fantasy wasn't of being the man. It was of being her. Of being bent over the arm of this very chair, my ass in the air, completely exposed. I imagined Evan behind me, not as my friend, but as a viewer who’d paid top dollar. His hands would be rough on my hips, his cock a brutal, unforgiving intrusion.He wouldn’t fuck me.He’d use me. He’d pound into my tight, dripping cunt until my thighs shook and my moans turned into sobs.
The thought made my insides flutter. Three fingers now, pistoning in and out, the sound wet and lewd in the quiet room. My other hand found my breast, pinching the nipple hard, a sharp counterpoint to the deep, fucking rhythm below.
“Yeah, take it, you slut,” I growled at myself, my voice a broken echo of the men in the video. “Take that fucking cock.”
I was her.I was the commodity, the hole, the thing being destroyed. And God help me, it was pushing me higher than any fantasy of dominance ever had. The orgasm built like a storm, a devastating wave of shame and pleasure so intertwined I couldn’t tell them apart. I fucked myself harder, imagining the slap of balls against my skin, the grunt of a man spending himself deep inside.
I came with a choked, gasping cry, my body convulsing around my fingers, a flood of release soaking my hand and the chair beneath me. For a long minute, I just sat there, panting, the porn video forgotten, the only sound my ragged breaths.Then, the cold rush of aftermath. The self-loathing was a physical weight, heavier than ever.I pulled my slick fingers from my soaked pussy and looked at them with pure revulsion.
I had tried to reclaim my manhood by watching men fuck. Instead, I had just fantasized about being the woman getting destroyed.And I had loved it.
My eyes landed on the pill bottle.A desperate, reckless thought bloomed. This body, this desire—it was the key to everything.The money, the fame, the control I craved.What if I leaned into it? Not as a victim, but as a weapon. What if the ultimate display of dominance wasn’t fighting this new reality, but mastering it so completely that I turned every fuck, every submission, into an act of my own ruthless will?
I picked up the bottle, shook a single blue pill into my palm.I didn’t take it.I just held it, the polymer cool against my skin.
Tomorrow was a Q&A.Just talking.But the session after that… that could be anything. And for the first time, the idea didn’t just disgust me. It burned with a dark, terrifying promise.