Chapter 7: A Desperate Attempt at Intimacy
Billy stayed on his knees, his face shiny and earnest in the dim light from the laptop screen. He looked up at her, hopeful, like a dog waiting for a treat. “Was that… was that okay?”
Leah’s thighs were cold where the air hit them. She pulled her leggings and underwear back up in one swift, awkward motion, the elastic snapping against her skin.“Yeah. It was fine.”
“Just fine?” He rocked back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A flicker of insecurity crossed his face.“You seemed really into it.You sounded…”
She had. She’d made the right noises, the ones she knew he wanted to hear. High, breathy gasps that built to a climax. It was a performance, and he’d bought the front row ticket.The taste of him was still in her mouth, bland and faintly sour. The fantasy she’d conjured—the other hands, the other voice—had evaporated the second he touched her, leaving behind only the mechanics of it.A tongue.Friction.A task being completed.
“I’m just tired, Billy.” She swung her legs off the couch, avoiding his eyes. The superhero movie was still playing, forgotten, casting blue and red flashes across the walls. Someone was delivering a quippy one-liner before a building exploded. “It’s been a long week.”
He stood up, knees cracking, and settled back onto the couch beside her.Not touching. The respectful space was back, but now it felt charged with failure.“Right.Of course. I just… I wanted to make you feel good.”
“You did,” she said, the lie smooth and heavy on her tongue. She focused on the screen where two characters in spandex were now grappling mid-air. “It was good.”
Silence thickened between them, filled only with the movie’s manufactured explosions. The taste of him was gone, replaced by a metallic tang of disappointment. She felt the gulf between them as a physical space, cold and widening. Her mind skittered back to the video hidden in her closet—the raw, unforgiving hunger of it, the complete absence of this fragile politeness.
A reckless, vibrating energy crawled up her throat. The words were out before the thought had fully formed, shocking her with their blunt, vulgar shape. “Have you ever eaten a girl’s ass before?”
Billy flinched as if she’d slapped him. His head swiveled toward her, eyes wide with pure, uncomplicated bewilderment. “What?”
Heat flooded her cheeks, but a deeper part of her, the part that had watched that video, felt a thrill at his shock. She had broken the script. She pushed forward, her voice oddly calm. “I was always kind of curious about how that would feel like. It might feel good.” She let the suggestion hang for a beat, watching his face collapse into confusion. “Do you wanna try?”
He stared, his mouth slightly open. The kind, familiar lines of his face seemed to rearrange themselves into that of a stranger’s—a prudish, appalled stranger. “Uh, no I haven’t done that.” He wiped his mouth again, a nervous, repetitive gesture. “I never really wanted to. I always thought it was gross.”
The word landed with a final, dull thud. Gross. It wasn't just a refusal; it was a judgment. It labeled a part of the world she was now electrically aware of as unclean, unworthy. In that single word, he dismissed the entire dark, thrilling spectrum of depravity that had been humming in her veins since she’d opened that laptop.
“Right,” Leah said softly. She looked away from him, back to the colorful explosions that meant nothing. “Forget I asked.”
“Leah, it’s just… it’s not hygienic,” Billy stammered, digging the hole deeper with the shovel of his normality. “I mean, it’s an ass. Who does that?”
He does, she thought. The man from the video didn't ask about hygiene. He demanded spit and submission. He took what he wanted and called the resulting wreckage beautiful. A cold certainty settled in her stomach, hardening like cement.
“It’s fine, Billy,” she said, cutting off his clumsy justification. She stood up, her body feeling both heavy and disconnected. “I think you should go. I’ve got an early lab.”
“Wait, are you serious? Are you mad?” He scrambled to his feet, reaching for her arm.
She sidestepped his touch. “I’m not mad. I’m tired.” She walked to the door and opened it, the gesture impersonal and final. The hallway light cut a yellow wedge into the dim room. “Thanks for the tea.”
He hovered for a moment, his handsome face a mask of hurt confusion. He had come to make amends, to perform gentle intimacy, and she had asked him for something dirty. He didn’t know this version of her. She barely knew her herself. “Leah…”
“Goodnight, Billy.”
He shuffled out, a defeated silhouette. She closed the door and locked it, the click echoing in the sudden quiet. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, listening to his footsteps recede down the stairs. The room felt different. Emptier, but also charged, as if her question had ionized the air.
Her gaze went straight to the closet. The backpack was a silent, magnetic presence. Billy’s disgust had carved out a new space inside her, a hollow that ached to be filled with its opposite. She didn’t move toward it yet. She let the feeling marinate—the rejection, the shame, the thrilling, ugly freedom of having asked. He thought it was gross. The man on the screen thought it was a starting point.
She walked to the window, peering through the floral curtains at the street below. Billy’s car door slammed, an angry sound. His headlights swept across the pavement as he pulled away, taking his clean, simple world with him. She turned back to the room, now entirely her own. The only sound was the movie’s end credits music, a bland, orchestral sweep.
She crossed the room. She didn't hurry. Her fingers unzipped the backpack in the closet, feeling for the familiar shape of the laptop inside. The sweater she wore, the one she’d put on for him, felt like a costume. She pulled it over her head and dropped it on the floor, standing in her bra and leggings in the cool dark. The laptop glowed to life on her bed, its screen a portal. The private message from BLK_BRIDGE was still there, the last text burning a hole in the digital silence: "TIGHTER THAN ANY OF THESE OTHER BITCHES".
The private message from BLK_BRIDGE was still there, the last text burning a hole in the digital silence: "TIGHTER THAN ANY OF THESE OTHER BITCHES".Leah sat cross-legged on the rumpled bed, the laptop’s glow painting her bare torso a sickly blue. The forum page was a museum of vulgar icons, but her eyes locked on one small detail in the corner of the private chat window.A green dot. Next to his username.It glowed, soft and malevolent.BLK_BRIDGE was online. Right now.Watching.Maybe watching her.Her breath shallowed. Her finger drifted to the trackpad, the cursor hovering over the message box.Billy’s word echoed.Gross. The green dot pulsed.It felt like an invitation, or a dare.Her throat tightened. She thought about closing the lid, walking away, going to brush her teeth and try to scrub the entire night from her mouth.
She didn’t.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of shame and something hotter, more urgent.She clicked in the box.The cursor blinked, a tiny, demanding heartbeat. She typed a single, trembling letter.H. Then I.
She stared at the word. It was so small.So stupidly normal.“Hi.” Like she was meeting a neighbor. Not a man who posted videos of brutal, sobbing anal conquests.
Her finger jerked on the trackpad, a spasm of finality.She hit send.
The word vanished from her box and appeared in the chat log, a tiny, monumental commitment.There was no undo.The green dot remained. A minute passed.The silence from the laptop was absolute, heavier than Billy’s confused departure. Maybe he was ignoring her.Maybe her tiny greeting was pathetic, beneath his notice. The flush of shame deepened, hot on her chest and neck.
A sound cut the quiet—a sharp, digital bloop.A new message appeared, its text bold and immediate.
BLK_BRIDGE: knew you’d be back. your mans dont know what to do with an ass like yours, does he?Leah’s hand flew to her mouth.It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, ripped from the secret script of her evening.He knew. He knew. The reality of the connection, this direct and filthy line to a stranger who saw her, ignited a fearful, thrilling current in her veins. She stared at the words, her body thrumming with a terrifying sense of recognition.
She stared at the words, her body thrumming with a terrifying sense of recognition. He’d seen right through her evening, through the pathetic movie and Billy’s clumsy attempt at apology sex. Her fingers trembled above the keys, cold and alive. The truth felt corrosive, but also like the first honest thing she’d touched all night.She typed slowly, each keypress a loud click in the silent room. “he tried to go down on me earlier. it was terrible.” She sent it, the confession detonating in the digital space between them.It was a betrayal of Billy, but it felt like unburdening. This stranger didn’t deserve her truth, but he was the only one who could possibly understand it.The reply came instantly.“LOL.bet he did that timid little circle shit. like he’s polishing a fucking trophy.” Leah flinched.It was exactly that. A performative, careful act.Polishing a trophy.Her breath hitched. She felt exposed, but also vindicated.Someone else saw the hollow performance for what it was.
“yes,” she typed, the word simple and damning.“he doesnt know how to handle a real woman. needs a flat little boy-body he cant break.” The words were cruel, reductive. They should have angered her.Instead, they twisted into a strange, ugly compliment.A ‘real woman’. Her curves, the weight Billy had called ‘thick’, were reframed here as assets requiring specialized handling. It was a warped mirror, but it gave back a reflection of power, not inadequacy.
Her heart was a frantic animal against her ribs. She remembered the question she’d asked Billy, his face collapsing into disgust.She needed BLK_BRIDGE to know. To see the whole, humiliating picture.She typed the next part fast, before she could stop herself. “i asked him if he would eat my ass.”
The green dot pulsed. For a long moment, there was no response. She wondered if she’d gone too far, crossed some invisible line in this hellish landscape.Then the typing indicator appeared, three dancing dots that held her paralyzed.
His message popped up. “and what did the little boy say?”
She swallowed, the memory of Billy’s revulsion fresh and acidic.This was the threshold. Telling Billy had been a test he’d failed.Telling this man was an admission of something else entirely. She took a sharp breath and let her fingers translate the verdict.
“HE SAYS HE’S NOT INTO THAT AND THAT IT’S GROSS.I AGREE. IT’S GROSS”
She sent it and stared, waiting.She had agreed with Billy, out loud.She had just called the act gross herself. But here, in this chat, the words felt like a challenge.A plea for contradiction. The silence stretched, thin and electric.His reply was a single line. “you’re a liar.”
Leah’s stomach dropped. She opened her mouth to type a denial, but her hands froze.He was right. The physical reaction she’d had to the video, the warmth that had pooled low in her belly as she watched—it hadn’t been disgust. It had been fascination.It had been hunger.Another message followed, relentless. “if you really thought it was gross, you wouldn’t have watched my video twice.you wouldn’t be talking to me. you’re curious.” The word ‘curious’ glowed on the screen, somehow more intimate and accusing than any obscenity.It was a diagnosis.
It was a diagnosis.
Leah stared at the word on the screen until the letters bled into a blur.Her throat tightened.He was right, of course.A liar.To Billy.To herself. The cursor pulsed in the reply box, a tiny, persistent metronome. Her fingers felt clumsy and distant on the keys.
She started to type a deflection, something about just being messed up from the fight, but a new notification blipped at the top of the screen before she could finish. It was a file transfer request from BLK_BRIDGE.No text this time. Just an icon of a video file, cold and final.Her breath stopped in her lungs.
The chat window auto-minimized as the video player launched.It filled the screen. The quality was the same raw, grainy texture as before, shot in the same low-lit room with the wood-paneled walls.He was standing, naked, his immense cock jutting out thick and veined. In front of him, another girl was bent over the edge of what looked like a cheap dresser, her face pressed against the mirror above it. Her reflection was a distorted mask of parted lips and closed eyes.He hawked a glob of spit directly onto her exposed asshole. The sound was wet and deliberate.Then he dropped to his knees behind her, his hands spreading her cheeks wide. He didn’t lick or tease. He buried his face between them, his mouth open wide, and began to eat her ass with a grotesque, starving intensity. His tongue, long and pointed, drilled into her with a rhythm that was unmistakably carnal.It wasn’t loving.It was consumption.
The girl’s moans started low, guttural, then climbed in pitch. Her fingers scrambled against the dresser’s surface. “Oh fuck… oh my god, right there…” Her words dissolved into sharp, panting cries.His head moved with a relentless, mechanical focus, his shoulders working. Her back arched violently.“FUCK DADDY! I’M GOING TO CUM!” she screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, raw and utterly genuine.
Leah watched, transfixed.Her own body had gone rigid. The clinical part of her mind noted the lack of hygiene, the crude setting, the sheer degradation of it. But a deeper, shuddering part of her was syncing with the girl’s convulsing pleasure. Heat pooled between her own legs, a sympathetic and shameful echo.This was the antithesis of ‘gross.’ This was ownership.
The video ended. The screen went black, reflecting her own wide-eyed face back at her in the dark bedroom.The silence was absolute, and inside it, Leah felt something irrevocably shift. A boundary had not just been crossed; it had been obliterated.
A new message from BLK_BRIDGE appeared in the now-unhidden chat window.“see? that’s what a real woman sounds like when she’s getting what she needs. not that polite little shit you faked for your boyfriend.”
Leah exhaled, a trembling rush of air she hadn’t realized she was holding.Her heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at her hands, then back at the screen.The performative gasp she’d forced for Billy felt pathetic in her memory. The scream from the video felt like a truth she’d been missing. She typed her reply slowly, each letter a conscious decision.
“She came just from that?”
His reply was immediate.“YES, THEY ALL DO. THEY LOVE HOW I OWN THEIR ASS.THIS COULD BE YOU, SLUT. AND FROM NOW ON YOU ARE TO CALL ME DADDY.”
The words seemed to vibrate off the screen. Leah jerked back as if scalded.Her breath caught in a sharp, silent gasp. A cold rush swept over her skin, raising goosebumps on her arms and torso.She was a feminist. She believed in equality, in self-respect.This man, this repulsive stranger, was dictating her speech. He was assigning himself a title of dominance, of twisted caretaking.It was a fundamental violation. It was a line.She didn't close the laptop.Her eyes remained locked on that word. DADDY.It sat there in all caps, a crude and monumental demand. The part of her that had written papers on patriarchal structures recoiled. But another part, the part that had felt nothing with Billy and everything in that secret, shameful warmth, was transfixed.The cursor blinked. Her hands hovered.The room was silent except for the hum of the laptop fan. Calling him that would be an acceptance.It would be stepping over the line she had just drawn in her own mind. It would be handing him a piece of her identity she hadn’t even known was negotiable.
She thought of Billy’s face, his confused hurt. She thought of the warehouse, the eyes of Rick and Tony that had once felt violating but now felt like a preview.This was different. This was intentional.This was walking into the violation with her eyes wide open.Her fingers touched the keys. They felt like someone else’s fingers.She typed a single letter. D. Then A. The words from the video echoed in her head.FUCK DADDY! The scream hadn’t sounded pained.It had sounded worshipful.It had sounded free.
She completed the word.She did not send it. She stared at it in the message box, a five-letter abomination.‘Daddy.’ It was just a word.It was everything. Sending it would make it real.It would make her different.Leah closed her eyes. She saw the girl’s face in the mirror, the absolute surrender. She felt the echo of her own barren performance for Billy, the hollow ache of being ‘fine.’ This was the opposite of fine. This was filthy.This was alive.Her thumb pressed down on the trackpad button. The click was deafening in the quiet room. The word ‘Daddy’ vanished from her box and appeared in the chat log.It looked smaller there.It looked like it belonged.
She waited, her heart pounding a wild, sick rhythm against her ribs.The green dot pulsed.She had done it. She had called him Daddy.The title felt alien and sticky in her mind, a tar-like claim. A strange, defiant heat flushed through her, burning away some of the cold shock.
His response came.“Good girl.”
A tremor ran through her, bottom to top.It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a seismic shift, a tectonic plate of her psyche grinding into a new, terrible configuration.‘Good girl.’ Billy had never called her that.He apologized. He tread lightly.This man bestowed approval for obedience.
She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly conscious of her bare skin in the dark.The laptop’s glow was the only light. She was alone in her bedroom, but she had never felt less alone. Someone was with her now, in the room, in her head.She typed again, the words forming before she could censor them. “It’s different.What you do. It’s not… polite.” She cringed as she sent it.It sounded stupid, childish.But it was the only truth she could articulate.
“Polite is for children having a tea party,” he wrote back. “You’re not a child.You saw what I do.You know what I want.I want that ass. I want to hear you thank me for ruining you.”
Leah’s throat closed. Ruining her.The word should have terrified her. Instead, it unspooled a dark, thrilling thread of possibility. To be ruined meant the old Leah, the one betrayed by Billy and numbed by textbooks, could be erased.This man wasn’t offering repair.He was offering annihilation.
She thought of the half-empty ibuprofen bottle in the bathroom, the dull ache it was meant to suppress.This was a different kind of pain management.This was cauterization. “I don’t know if I can,” she typed, her honesty shocking herself.“You can. You will.First, you’re going to show me what I’m working with.No more talking. Send me a picture.Of your ass.Now.”
The command was absolute. It brooked no argument.The clinical part of her mind noted the progression: message, video, title, now image. It was a ladder descending into a place she could never return from. Billy’s disgusted face floated behind her eyes.‘Gross.’ This was so far beyond gross.
She stood up from the bed, her legs unsteady.The laptop sat open, the command glaring. She walked to her dresser, her reflection in the dark window a pale ghost. Her hands went to the waistband of her leggings.She hooked her thumbs in the fabric.She paused.This was the last door. The last one she could close herself.Once she sent a picture, it existed in the world. It existed in his world.He would own a piece of her, literally. Her breath fogged the cool glass in front of her.
She pushed the leggings and her underwear down in one motion, letting them pool at her ankles.The air was cool on her skin. She didn't look at herself.She turned around, faced the room, the bed, the laptop. She bent over slowly, placing her hands on the rumpled duvet.Her heart hammered so hard she felt dizzy. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers fumbling. The screen lit up with a notification from Billy: ‘I’m sorry about tonight. I love you.’ She swiped it away, a sharp, final gesture.She opened the camera app.She didn't look at the screen. She held the phone behind her, pointed roughly where she knew her body was. The flash exploded, a shocking white burst that printed the room’s inverse onto her vision. For a second, she was blind.Blinking away the spots, she looked at the captured image. It was crude, poorly framed.The curve of her hip, the swell of her ass, the shadowed cleft. It was just a body part.It was the most intimate thing she had ever deliberately given to another person.
She saved it.She went back to the laptop.She attached the file to the chat. Her cursor hovered over the send button.Her mouth was dry as dust.This was it. The point of no return.She thought of the girl’s scream, the one that had sounded like freedom. She thought of her own silent, performative gasp on the couch just an hour ago. She wanted to scream like that.She wanted to feel something that true.
She sent the picture.