Chapter 9: A Promise

The next day...

The silence of the night weighs heavily on my shoulders, a leaden blanket that seems to thicken as the hours pass. Since my message to Emmy, the waiting has become unbearable, transforming into true torture. Each second without a response is a cruel reminder of the blurred line between reality and illusion where I’m slowly getting lost.

“Emmy, I ... I don’t know exactly how I feel. This is all so new to me, and sometimes, I feel like I’m losing control. But I know I love talking to you, that I eagerly await your messages. You mean more to me than I ever thought possible. I don’t know if it’s love, but I really want to discover who you are behind all of this.”

It’s been two days since I sent that message, living with this knot in my stomach, unable to focus on anything else. The lack of response from Emmy haunts me, each passing minute feeding my doubts. I can’t help but wonder if I made a mistake, if I was too honest, too vulnerable. What if she decided never to reply? What if my confession scared her off, or worse, disinterested her?

My phone has become an extension of myself, an object I can’t take my eyes off, afraid of missing her response. I check the screen at regular intervals, almost frantically, hoping to see her name appear, hoping that every vibration, every notification is the one I’m desperately waiting for.

I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling as if the answers might be up there, but all I see are the worst-case scenarios my mind conjures. What if she never replies? What if she doesn’t feel the same way? My thoughts spin in circles, growing darker as the days pass without a word from her.

Then, finally, just as I’m about to lose hope, a notification lights up the darkness of my room. My chest tightens. I grab my phone, hands trembling with anticipation. Her name appears on the screen, and a wave of relief mixed with intense apprehension washes over me. This is the moment of truth.

Emmy (message): “Hey ... I’m sorry for taking so long to reply ... I needed time to think, to make sure I really felt what I thought.” My heart races as I read her words. I continue scrolling through the conversation, hanging on every letter.

Emmy (message): “What you said really touched me. To be honest ... I feel the same way, but it scares and excites me at the same time. It’s different with you ... I feel like you understand me, that you see beyond what I show here.” A smile forms on my face despite myself. Her words warm my heart, but I also sense a twinge of apprehension. This relationship is becoming increasingly intense, and the implications start to overwhelm me.

Emmy (message): “But I have to ask you something ... Does it bother you that I take care of my other subscribers? I mean, I’m still doing my job, responding to their requests ... I don’t want you to feel left out or ... well, you know...?” I read and re-read that sentence, the words echoing louder each time. A surge of emotions rises within me: attachment, but also a shadow of possessiveness. The idea of her being close to other men stirs something raw and ugly inside me. I try to push it down, but it’s there, clawing at the edges of my mind.

Me (message): “I understand. It’s your job after all. It’s just that ... I don’t know, it feels a bit weird sometimes. But I don’t want to limit you; I just want to be honest with you.” There’s a long pause before she replies. I can feel the tension in the air; each second of waiting is a trial.

Emmy (message): “Thanks for telling me. I’ve always been honest with you, so I want you to know that I’ve never talked about myself this much with anyone else.” Her words ease some of my worries, but the question remains lodged in my mind: what makes me different? Why would she treat me any special way? These questions intertwine with a growing sense of attachment, and perhaps even dependency.

We continue talking, and the conversation naturally shifts to lighter topics. Yet, a question burns on my lips, a curiosity tinged with jealousy that I can no longer ignore.

Me (message): “Do you ... do you have subscribers who ask for specific things? Some things a bit more ... risqué?” I see the ellipsis indicating she’s typing, then it stops. Time seems to stretch until she finally responds.

Emmy (message): “Yes, there are. Some have been around since the beginning, and to please them, I sometimes fulfill more specific requests...” I feel a flicker of annoyance and jealousy rising within me, a reaction I can’t contain. I type my response faster than I want to.

Me (message): “What do they ask you for, exactly?” My thumb hovers for a moment above the send button, hesitating, then I finally press “send.” A part of me immediately regrets my reaction, but another part can’t help but want to know. To understand how far these other subscribers have gone and how far she’s been willing to go for them.

The silence that follows my question is deafening, and every second feels like an eternity. Then, finally, her response arrives, and I feel a tightness knot in my stomach.

Emmy (message): “I prefer to be honest with you. Some subscribers sometimes ask for specific things. It can range from certain poses to more ... suggestive setups. Sometimes they want me to use certain objects or wear particular outfits. For example, there’s one subscriber who asked me to use a plug ... and to stage certain scenes, etc.” I read her message several times, each word sinking in deeper than the last. My chest tightens, and a lump forms in my throat. I’m not sure what I expected, but her honesty hits me like a punch in the gut. The image of her in those scenes, fulfilling those requests for other men, burns itself into my mind, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it off.

Me (message): “And do you enjoy it? Fulfilling their requests like that?” It takes me a moment to realize how harsh my question may sound, even accusatory. But before I can add anything else, Emmy responds, and her reply surprises me.

Emmy (message): “I told you to be patient. There’s still so much I want to show you ... Don’t let jealousy take over. What I share with you is different, and that’s why you need to trust me.” I freeze at her message. Her tone is reassuring, almost tender, but there’s also a hint of authority that brings me back to reality. She’s right. This isn’t the time to let my emotions take over. I try to regain control, to calm this inner storm.

Me (message): “You’re right...” Emmy (message): “Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.” I feel a wave of relief wash over me, but a part of me remains on edge. This relationship is far more complex than I had imagined. I realize I’m ready to go further, to discover more about her, even if it means navigating moments of doubt and confusion. Because deep down, one thing is clear: I am irresistibly drawn to her, to the mystery she embodies.

The intensity of our exchange reaches a new high when I receive a notification that Emmy has sent me a photo. My heart races as I open it, knowing in advance that what I’m about to discover will push the boundaries of our relationship. The image that appears on the screen is both explicit and intimate.