I headed upstairs, leaving the wafting smell of dinner behind. My stomach churned, and anxiety coursed through my body. Not that that was unusual, it was a daily occurrence. The origin of that anxiety was the difference today. More and more lately, I had been swamped with new feelings, urges, and compulsions even. A new sickness, guiltily driving me into a world I had never explored before. I couldn’t have worded it as such at the time. I just knew daily life was strangling me. Drowning me in a molasses of emptiness, failure, and anxiety. That cup was overflowing and I had found a way to empty or at least drain some of it. The men online.

It wasn’t even what I had planned at the start. I hadn’t gone looking for it. Not like that at least. I had known before that masturbation could be a stress reliever. Staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep because my brain wouldn’t turn off. I’d coped by sliding my hand down my pajamas. Feeling my warmth down there, closing my eyes, almost obsessively and clumsily rubbing and touching myself. It was hard though. Sometimes unwanted thoughts intruded of footsteps down the hall. Those times became frustrating because I couldn’t cum which left me even worse than before. More frustrated than ever. Watching porn helped on occasion but none of it really clicked with me. But overheard conversations of older girls had led me online, to find peers to chat with, to play with online. To make the orgasms come easier.

And I found out quickly that my peers were idiots. They were hornier than I was, blindly sending dick pics, saying the stupidest things. They wanted to get off. That was the only thing that mattered. Which was selfish of me I suppose. I wanted the same thing. But the way they went about it, saying “sup?” or “horny?” as if that would even get my attention. I almost quit right then. But my life was forever altered because I stayed on a bit longer and also got messages from those who were not my peers. They were older. Much older.

They didn’t say one-liners, those men. They didn’t go straight for the prize, they talked to me. It honestly felt like they wanted to just chat. Looking back, that was probably manipulation. Very successful manipulation. Leading questions to get me to relax, open up, to guide the conversation subtly. I was mostly blind to it except for the clumsy attempts. So by the time they asked me to do certain things, well, yeah it was icky they were older. Kinda. Maybe. But they saw me. They pressed the right buttons and when I pressed mine, they praised me for it. After that, I was hooked. Hopelessly addicted to them.

I headed into my room and closed the door. I locked it and then got out my pajamas. I didn’t put them on though. They were there only if the door received a knock or was attempted to be opened. I could get dressed quickly and if the door was unlocked without my doing so, any state of undress could be explained by my changing into them. I took off my t-shirt and shorts and tossed them into the hamper. I chewed my lip nervously, adjusted my bra and panties, and glanced in the mirror to ensure I looked as good as possible in them. I didn’t have a chest to speak of, slim as I was. It seemed most of the men I talked to enjoyed that, enjoyed the late bloomers who still looked a certain way. Every time I thought about it too much, I felt wrong, sick. That I would talk to them, encourage them, and even want them was bad. But I couldn’t stop myself.

I walked to the desk and opened up the laptop. I went to a hidden folder inside Windows where I kept my private stuff I didn’t want anyone to find and started up the VPN. I hadn’t even known about them until one of the men had explained how to protect myself online. I had to spend some money, but it was worth it. I couldn’t risk getting caught, either here at home or by being tracked down by one of the men I chatted with. Not that I didn’t find the fantasy exciting. I did. The stories some had sent me, the videos, I felt so bad after but I felt purged as well. But just because the fantasy was intense didn’t mean it was just that, a fantasy.

I hopped into one of the regular chat rooms I frequented and ignored the glut of moronic PMs that bombarded me. Spam, losers, boys, all desperate for a response from me. I had my own desperate needs and none of them would be able to fulfill them. Soon, I got other pings. Names I recognized. It was easy now to pick out the older ones. The way they wrote, the references in their user names. I made sure never to commit to one person. I didn’t trust them nor did I trust myself. I tried to be careful whenever I could think straight. Obsessions either way could lead to trouble, plus I liked the act of discovery. Letting them unpeel my layers, them opening up to me. It was a dance that was safe, I felt. But today was one I’d chatted with before. I smiled, putting in my earbuds. One dangled, my left, unused. That way I could hear anyone approaching easier. I set the sound to mono and then responded.

He was happy to see me again and asked how I was doing. As he typed that out, he sent a link so he could talk and see me. He knew I wouldn’t talk much, if any. Only type, so no one could easily hear me. I chewed my poor lip leaving it chapped to hell as I wiggled in my chair. He asked me if I was antsy and I told him yes as the session started. I saw myself in the upper corner. Scrawny, almost flat-chested. A waif to be blown away by a strong wind. I wasn’t beautiful like the women in the videos most sent me. But I often looked like the girls in some of the others. He told me my bra with yellow daisies on it was pretty. Asked me to stand and turn around. My panties matched, which he told me he appreciated. I sat back down carefully. I always made sure my face was hidden. Later on, that would change. But now, I behaved.

He asked me if I wanted to relieve myself of my clothing but I wasn’t quite ready yet. The ones who knew what they were doing, knew when to push and when to hold. He held. He made sure I knew he remembered talking to me. Details I had given him freely, nothing that he had possibly inferred. Those made me skittish, anxious as fuck, when I let some detail loose that they picked up on. Some pounced on it, clearly either knowledgeable or googling the information I gave them. Those I usually bolted from, blocked. Maybe he didn’t, but if he did, he didn’t let me know it. It always relaxed me to have them remember details. I got annoyed and hurt if they didn’t. One validated, one implied at best I was just forgettable. Even though my goal wasn’t to find a singular man to play with, it hurt when they struggled to recall me.

This guy tho, he remembered. He asked me if I had read the story he’d sent me. It was one from Asstr, a young girl getting raped, used, and taken from her life forever. I nodded meekly. I’d come guiltily to it at least twice. It was my current obsession, stories where a young girl disappeared. Sometimes in the stories they died, but that didn’t kill my orgasms. Sometimes they were lost forever, but I always found that spot that made me shudder. Every time, part of me wanted the same for me. I would be free then. Dead, taken, lost, in any of those situations, the pressures on me would be gone. I found a sick comfort in that. He asked me to remove my panties and show him. It wasn’t an ask though. It was a demand. I was getting better at understanding the difference; the tone of voice. Some would try to bark and yell, but those were almost comical. Many though, just a slight change in inflection, and despite it being a request, technically, it was really an order. I nodded.

I stood up, the beanpole that I was, and slid them down. He remarked on my hairless crotch. Not that I naturally had much hair there anyway, but I had learned fast they all wanted girls hairless. Especially the scrawny ones in pigtails. He told me I could sit but to part my legs. Again, I nodded. He didn’t even ask for me to angle the camera down or give him a better view. It was enough to see the command was followed.

“Three fingers, in your mouth, slobber on them, please. Then touch yourself. Touch yourself and tell me what you wanted most in the story.” He said it in a polite, almost fatherly tone. As if he wasn’t asking me to masturbate on camera and degrade myself for him. Some part of me wanted him to be able to pat my head. Twice my age but it felt closer to three times when he talked like that. He spoke almost with a tone that made me feel stupid, but he was so encouraging that I didn’t care. He was making time for me and I wanted to pay him back for the feelings he had given me already before and would tonight.