Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
But I never pretend to be normal.
To me, the fact that he’s telling me to do it if I want the privilege of being used by him . . .
I can’t help it. I want to obey him so much I can’t stand it.
My right hand travels south and finds my wet petals as I hold my phone with my left hand.
RealLifeDoll: Does that mean we’re meeting up?
PuppetMaster: Maybe
PuppetMaster: Show me your test results and we’ll talk
My insides heat up with arousal as I play with myself. He’s making me work for his approval, and I’m loving it.
RealLifeDoll: Don’t you want to know where I am first?
PuppetMaster: I already do
What?
Is this guy some kind of a hacker?
I can’t believe he’s spying on me.
Things have just gotten hotter.
RealLifeDoll: What do you want to do to me?
PuppetMaster: I’ll tell you once you show me your test results
PuppetMaster: I expect you to have them next time we chat
PuppetMaster: Bye for now
Wait, what? He’s just going to leave, when I’m just starting to warm up?
I check his status at the top of the webpage.
PuppetMaster is offline.
Jesus. This guy must be the cockiest, rudest, and most demanding person on the site . . . Where has he been my whole life?
I put my phone down next to me on the couch. Closing my eyes, I rub my clit to images of a faceless man ordering me to pleasure him, telling me that’s all I’m good for, making me beg for the slightest attention from him.
The chat has gotten me so hot and bothered, it only takes minutes for me to shake and shudder, moaning in my empty living room.
When I reopen my eyes, I’m panting. Breathless.
I can already tell this guy is going to satisfy my cravings. He’s going to make me feel alive again.
I know, I know. That’s a lot to ask of some Internet stranger. In all likelihood, he won’t live up to my expectations.
Still, anything has got to be better than this whole lot of nothing.
I’ll have to add “get tested” to my to-do list. I can continue researching security systems at the doctor’s office.
As orgasmic fog dissipates from my brain, I wonder again . . . how does PuppetMaster know where I am?
Is he a local here at Ashbourne?
Does he know who I am, too?
A chill runs down my arms at the thought.
Luca
Jesus, Sarah. A random guy at a park, really? What the fuck . . . ? He could’ve been an axe murderer, or a homeless guy.
To be honest, when I decided to send Sarah a private message, a part of me was hoping that her post was a lie, that she just wanted to see what kind of replies she was going to get. I wanted her to stay pure.
But the way she was talking . . . There's no doubt about it. She's the real deal.
When I push her, she doesn't push back. Instead, she does the virtual equivalent of falling to her knees, apologizing, and asking me what else I wanted, all while calling me “Sir”.
My dick hasn't been this hard in a long time, mainly because there's a limited range of pussy in this small town.
The game was getting too predictable. Even after a long absence, if I wanted someone to come and suck my dick right now, all I have to do is pick one of the numbers on my phone. Easier than a frozen meal, and faster than a pizza delivery.
But it was still fast food. I haven’t really ever had my fill since I moved here from the city. After what happened, it doesn’t feel right for me to gain a woman’s trust, only to turn around and inflict pain on her body.
It’s not that I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t think this darkness within me will ever go away.
I just thought I could substitute variety for intensity, but even that's gotten old now.
I thought I was getting old. I’m not in my twenties anymore.
But my cock’s raging right now. All I can think about is Sarah calling me “Sir” with sweet submission in her big doe eyes.
Even her stupid hobo story was turning me on. Yes, I was angry. But also aroused.
It's a different kind of arousal than I’m used to—no, not because there’s anger in the mix; I’m used to that. There's anger and aggression, like I want to fuck her so hard I erase all trace of any other dick that's been in that pussy—that's the normal part.
What's strange, what's really choking me up, is this heavy stone in my chest.
I’m aching with the same pain she's suffering; we’re not only nursing the same wound, but also dealing with the same addiction.
Problem is, nothing can fill the hole left behind by grief.
After years of trying, I know the truth. All I can do is accept each new hole as death does its thing and somehow live a complete life despite all those holes crippling me.