Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (11 page)

I WAS CAUGHT
off guard the first time a small dick entered the room. Outside of my private chat room, there is a waiting room of sorts called free chat. When I am not in a private chat, I log into that room. It is designed as a place for camgirls to meet the members and convince them to take them into a private chat. The waiting room is free, and there I’m supposed to chat with all the members at one time until one of them decides to hit the “Take to Private Chat” button, which is when everyone else is kicked out and the credit card charges begin. I am lucky in that I don’t typically sit in the waiting room for more than a minute or so. I am, in terms of camgirls, a hot commodity. But one Monday things were slow, and I was lounging on my side, smiling into the cam and chatting up seventy-two different members, when threeinchpenis popped up on my screen.

I laughed, leaning forward so that my cleavage was enhanced. “Hey, Three—no, Rich, you know the rules in free chat, and it’s six ninety-nine a minute, Fresh.”

“Of course it’s okay that your cock is three inches long. Do you want to go to private, and you can show it to me?”

“Thanks, NFL. You guys, please be nice. All, I love cunnilingus, and I don’t give a damn how anyone spells it. Rich, were you going to take me private?”

I incorrectly assumed that a guy with a small cock would want reassurance that size didn’t matter, that I found him attractive regardless. threeinchpenis didn’t let me get very far down that path before he set me straight. His request seemed so odd; I blinked a moment at the computer screen.

I understood cuckold stuff. That constituted about 10 percent of my chats. Cuckold has an edge of humiliation attached, and I am comfortable with that edge. But pure humiliation and ridicule was not a fetish I was experienced or necessarily comfortable with. Those clients have their own section of the camsites, with their own dedicated models—girls who specialize in leather, insults, and degradation. I’ve never had to go there in a session, and I wasn’t particularly comfortable with a leap in that direction.

I started hesitantly, a fumbling, disastrous attempt to point awkwardly and laugh. I sounded forced, ridiculous, and kept waiting for the ENDED CHAT message to fill my screen. But it didn’t, and he stayed with me, patient—his grainy image filling the screen, his small cock wedged between tan, muscular thighs. He appeared to be, from my limited view of his stomach and crotch, someone who took meticulous care of himself—tan, muscular, shaven. His cock was hard, the area hairless and smooth, the short stub thin and uncircumcised. It was tiny, and I tried to laugh and point—but it went against every empathetic bone in my body.

With threeinchpenis’s gentle coaching, I finally got it, falling into a rhythm that sounded natural and sincerely cruel. I told him it was pathetic, that he would never please a woman with that. The words caused his short stub to bob and swell; his fingers grasped the short stalk and jerked it. The climax came five minutes later, when I told him I wanted to invite my friends over, show them his webcam. They would all roll on the floor laughing at how puny and ridiculous his tiny cock was. I almost missed it, his hand covering it, but caught a glimpse of white spray, and then he moved his fingers and I saw it. The normal-sized head, dwarfing the short shaft, twitching and gushing, a shocking amount of white cum shooting out in quick, rapid shots.

I gasped, a standard and genuine reaction when I see a guy finish—and hesitated, not sure what the desired response would be. I finally smiled, a smirk that spread over my whole face. “Wow,” I gushed. “That was impressive.” I tried to maintain my snobby, condescending exterior but added some grudging approval, and he seemed to enjoy the reaction, rubbing his dick with a white towel and leaning forward, giving me a brief glimpse of tan, muscular chest before his cam went dark.

I opened my mouth to respond, but he was gone.

I clicked on the “yes” button, pasted a smile on my face, and waved enthusiastically to the cam in front of me, greeting the waiting clients who filled the free chat room.

Eleven minutes. Amount charged to his credit card: $76.89. My cut from the bastards that own the camsite: $21.53.

IT HAS BEEN
a long day, full of waiting. Waiting through a long day of work. Waiting through a quiet breakfast, both of them looking at each other quietly over macaroni and cheese. Two souls in an otherwise empty house. He had watched television after dinner, waiting anxiously for the house to fall quiet, for her to fall asleep. And now he is finally free. Free to do what he has waited for all day long.

He powers up his laptop, scrolling through images until he reaches the one he wanted, the one he has cropped.

He looks at her photo, blond curls surrounding a sweet and angelic face. Full of innocence, full of hope. It is almost a shame to destroy that. The sweetness never stays long. It is destroyed quickly, replaced with tears and fear. It is sad that he now connects that fear with the experience, has grown to enjoy it on a level almost equal to the innocence.

He releases a tight breath, staring at her image, his palms sweating as he allows his mind to wander. He stands abruptly, moving the mouse until the time comes into view: 11:02 p.m. He should go to the trailer. He wants to be on the property, hear the silence of the woods, and verify that her future screams will not be heard. He can go, twenty minutes to the trailer and twenty minutes back, stay just long enough to get his fill. She will never know. She will sleep through it all, just as she has before.

THERE IS NO
answer when Jeremy knocks at 1:55 p.m., the first time this has ever happened. He waits patiently, a small box in his hands.
She must be in the bathroom.
A minute passes, and he shifts impatiently before he knocks again.

At 1:57 he is in full-blown panic mode, his knocks increasing in frequency and volume, visions of her lying comatose on the floor filling his head. He puts his ear to the door, listening, and can swear he hears her crying out, needing help.
What if there is someone else there? An abductor or burglar?
Visions of her gagged and tied or held at knifepoint arrest him. The knob beckons, seeming to pulse at him like a neon sign. He stares at it, the world disappearing around him. Patting his body, he finds his box cutters, the only thing remotely close to a weapon he has, and looks again at the knob.
It’s probably locked.

He reaches forward, grasps the round metal tightly, and twists. The knob turns easily in his hand and the door opens smoothly, leaving his hand and swinging inward. He gapes at the open door, caught by his action, not knowing what to do. Then he hears it—a definite moan of pain.
He didn’t imagine it.
He rushes forward through the open doorway and into her apartment, his box cutters out and ready to defend her: her knight in shining armor.
This could be my chance.

He enters the room with a burst of adrenaline and stops just inside the doorway, his eyes moving everywhere at once, his skin prickling in the sudden chill of the room. This apartment is one giant open space, something he didn’t expect. His eyes flit quickly over a galley kitchen, one lone recliner, and a bedroom area—sparse and ordinary—a dark purple comforter and pillows tossed messily over a mattress and box spring on the floor. Novels are stacked everywhere: around the bed and alongside a stack of cardboard boxes that make his UPS storeroom look puny. Boxes. It is like looking at a timeline of their relationship, neat stacks of varying-size squares, white labels decorating them like erratic rectangular polka dots, easily a hundred boxes crammed into a giant hill of brown. He turns, looking to the left side of the apartment, and blinks, the strange sight foreign to his eyes.

Brightness.
His eyes squint at the light, then adjust, his mind trying to understand the scene before him. It is like entering another dimension—a Barbie World Boogie Nights mash-up. The walls on this side are a pale shade of white, almost pink in tone, and covered with posters, framed photos, and a wall calendar—filled with notes, arrows, and hearts. The bed, a white four-poster queen, is covered in a pink bedspread, pink pillows, and ruffles. The bed frame matches a small bedside table, which holds a hot-pink lamp and notebook. It is as if a teenage girl has been given free rein at Bed Bath & Beyond and has gone wild with her mother’s credit card. The bedroom is illuminated in bright, blinding light coming from four giant stands, each holding professional-grade spotlights. Cords run around the room, thin Ethernet ones, large power strip ropes, and silver-mesh strands that seem to power and orchestrate the whole ensemble. There are computers, monitors, and cameras everywhere, all focused on the area, all on wheels or tracks, portable and easily maneuvered.
She
is in the center of the bed, and everything else suddenly disappears.

She kneels upright, her dark hair disheveled, her eyes locked with his. She is naked, her breasts heaving, pink nipples stiff, her pale skin flushed and glowing. Her brown eyes sharpen on his and flash with something he instantly recognizes as anger.
Oh shit.
He tries not to stare at her skin, her breasts, or the shaved mound between her thighs. He moves his mouth, tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

He is
here
, inside my apartment. I study him openly, without the distortion of dirty glass. The width of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, tan skin, and strong features. Whatever warped vision of good looks I’ve seen through the peephole, this view is infinitely better.

He is here.

Confused, I recount my recent actions, realizing that my position on the pillows must have muffled my good ear. He probably knocked. And given his flushed face and panicked eyes, he thought something was wrong.

His eyes lock on me and I hold his gaze, my brain working overtime, fury creeping into my mind. He is
here
, in my space, invading my home, for what reason? Because he thinks I need
saving
?

I feel the rush of excitement, power ripping through every vein, muscle, and pore of my body.
He is here, no door or barrier between us.
I stand, my bare feet planted on the bed, my senses on high alert; I stare with hunger at my beautiful prey. It is as if God has delivered him, on a silver platter, and the proof of it all is grasped in his hand. Box cutters. My pussy clenches, instantly aching, a drop of my liquid collecting and running down my inner thigh, evidence of my excitement.
This is my time.

He is shocked that she doesn’t move to cover herself, doesn’t have any shame in her nakedness. A change has come over her, and she straightens to her full height on the bed, her muscles tight, a strange smile on her lips. It is as if she is both furious and excited, all at the same time. Her eyes drop to his hand, to his “weapon,” and he instinctively drops it, realizing she is on the defense, probably thinking he is there to hurt her. He raises his arms. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t answer. I thought you were in danger. I’m sorry.” He ducks his head, pulling his reluctant eyes from her tight body, and takes a step sideways, toward the door. A sound, like a strangled but joyous battle cry, erupts from her mouth, and he freezes. She launches herself off the bed, her naked body extending, and lands on both feet. Her eyes are bright with pleasure, her mouth curved into what can only be described as a grin. Her eyes are locked on something, not him, and he follows her gaze to his box cutters, which lie on the ground at his feet. He crouches, picking them up, and flips the blade down, bringing his hand up to put them in his pocket. There is a blur of nudity, and her body collides with his, her hands greedy and reaching, her weight catching him off-balance. They fall together onto the floor, and her hand yanks the cutters from his. She fumbles with them briefly, then flips the blade out and, straddling his body, brings both hands together above her head, wild joy in her eyes. She brings her hands down together in one quick motion, the sharp point descending toward his neck.