Page 21 of Wells

There's something about him, about being able to be completely open about everything, that is so freeing it's hard for me to even comprehend.

But I can't. We don't do specifics. So I fold it up small and tuck it behind the version of me he pays for, the lighter one, the one who never has a rent due date or a real name, or even a real city. He thinks I live in Arizona.

His voice comes through low and warm, that faint digital edge I could pick out of a crowd.

"Peoria. You look beautiful tonight."

I settle deeper into the chair. The ring light warms my skin, and I smile at him, grateful for his approval.

"Hi, you. Wish I could say the same about you, but I have no idea what you look like."

"Not much to see. Trust me, I'm doing you a favor. How was your day?"

There it is. The opening I am not allowed to walk through. I think about the glass building and the offer letter and the number that made my throat close, and I want to pour all of it into the dark square where his face should be.

"Good," I say. "A good one, actually. Yours?"

"Better now."

Two words, and the warmth spreads through my chest. This is the part I never considered when I decided to do this, and it's not the performing. The performing is easy. It is the in-between I didn’t see coming, the small talk that isn’t really small, how he says better now like he means it, and I let myself believe him.

We have done this enough that I know his rhythms better than I know most people's faces. I know the hitch in his breath that means he is close. I know the silence that means he is only watching. I know that when he goes quiet for three full seconds, he is about to ask me for something.

He goes quiet for three full seconds.

"Tell me what you're wearing under that robe."

His voice drops lower, and the warmth spreads through my body. I lean back and let my knees fall open just enough for the camera to catch the motion.

"Nothing underneath tonight. For you."

"Open the robe," he says. "Slowly."

I pull the tie loose and let the silk fall open. Cool air finds my skin. My knees drift apart, and I tell myself it's for the camera. His breath changes, that low rough sound, and it is already doing more to me than my own hands are.

"There she is. Touch yourself for me since I can't. Give yourself the pleasure you deserve."

The line lands in a place I know it doesn't belong. We are both here for a performance, but something about our routine, our "dates," as I call them, has my brain making it more than that. And I like it.

I slide my hand low, and my breath goes thin. The room narrows to the light and the screen and his voice running underneath all of it. I forget the angles I am supposed to be minding, forget that I built this whole setup so no one could get to me. My head tips back, and the sound that comes out of me is not one I perform.

"Ah, yes. Mmm."

Heat crawls up my neck at his satisfaction. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my breathing even. My fingerless lace-gloved hand moves to my thigh, fingers tracing a slow line toward my hip.

"Rub up the inside of your thigh just like that. I want you to shiver."

I slide my hand between my legs, and the first contact sends a pulse through my core. My breath hitches, and I close my eyes behind the mask. The platinum wig brushes my shoulders.

"Slower. Touch your wet pussy for me. I see it glistening. Tell me how good it feels."

I obey without thinking, and my fingers circle my clit in lazy strokes. The pleasure builds in careful waves. My thighs tremble, and I press my other hand flat against the chair to steady myself.

"That's it, Peoria. You're so wet for me."

His voice wraps around me, and the room shrinks to just this, to his words and the sound of his breathing. My body responds before my brain catches up.

"You're so fucking perfect."