3. Trip
THREE
TRIP
I was only supposed to run a quick match.
I have ink on my hands, a full day of clients tomorrow, and I’ve been awake for twenty hours straight. But I can’t sleep. Not with her still in my head.
The gaming girl. The beautiful little killer.
Split-dyed hair. Thick thighs. Big tits barely stuffed into a sheer tank top. She makes thirst traps look like religion. Her voice is always teasing, sweet, confident, with that bite just underneath.
She hadn’t posted tonight.
But I knew her handle. LydieLIVE. I’d seen it in passing in some of the Masktok comment sections. She was always in the comments of those videos, thirsty. My curiosity turned into a habit. Then obsession. Now, I can’t stop.
I don’t need to. Obsession has kept me alive this long.
I queue into a Call of Duty round, controller in hand, headset loose around my neck. A chill from the half-open window rolls across my bare back. I haven’t bothered with a shirt. Just low-slung sweats and the ache in my gut that never really goes away anymore.
The second I join, I hear her voice.
Not the filtered version she uses on social media. Not the sultry stream persona. Just… her.
Real .
Slightly out of breath. Focused. Talking shit like she knows the game better than any of them.
It’s her .
LydieLIVE.
And the other guys in the lobby? Already tearing into her.
“Oh look, a bitch in the lobby. Better hope you’re hot, sweetheart, ‘cause your K/D’s trash.”
I didn’t think. I hit the mic button.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Silence.
“You couldn’t hit a target if she tied herself to your barrel, you limp-dicked loser,” I add. I keep going, shit talking them back as they do the incell trash talk they like to do. “You talk a lot for someone who’s about to get clapped by a girl.”
She doesn’t say anything, but the sudden stutter in her movement? That tells me I have her attention.
Good.
The rest of the game, I stay near her, close, but not hovering. I let her lead. Cover her flank. Pick off anyone tailing her. We don’t speak again, but it doesn’t matter.
She moves instinctively. Sharp, fast, reckless. The way she plays matches everything I’ve imagined about her. Fiery. Determined. She takes shit from no one, and she plays like she has something to prove.
I like it.
Hell, I feel it.
When the round ended, she sent me a friend request. I accept instantly, fingers twitching.
A new round opens, 1v1. Just her and me.
No words. No plan.
We dance through the maps like it’s foreplay. Every time she flanks me, I counter. Every time I snipe her, she comes back faster. Her rhythm is aggressive, and I don’t hold back. Neither of us do.
It isn’t just a game. It’s tension. Real, raw, addictive tension.
After our sixth match, I hear her voice again, soft, almost like she’s talking to herself.
“You’re good…”
I clicked on my mic.
“So are you.”
Simple. Controlled. But every cell in my body is buzzing.
We play until her character freezes. AFK. The screen stays still for a long beat before disconnecting.
I message her.
[TripsterGuy]: Same time tomorrow, Killstreak?
But she’s gone. Or so I thought.
*Ding
A notification pops up seconds later.
[LydieLIVE]: You better show up.
I stare at it like it means more than it should.
Fuck. I need to get out of my head.
I step into the shower, flipping on the water so hot it burns at first. Steam curls up the mirror and the tiled walls. My muscles ache, tense from sitting too long and being painfully hard for too long.
I press my palms to the wall and let the water pour down my back.
Everything about her is still in my head.
The way she moves. The way her voice dips low when she gets serious. And the way I remember her from that one thirst trap video, the one I’ve watched too many times to admit.
She was in a sheer white tank. No bra. No shame. Her split-dyed hair was up in a messy clip, neck exposed, thighs parted just enough to show black lace between them. She sat on the edge of her bed, legs open, mouth parted like she’d just started touching herself off camera.
Her caption?
“What would you do if I were yours for the night?”
I wrap my hand around my cock, already rock hard. I don’t even have to close my eyes.
I can see her.
I can see those thick thighs bouncing while I drag her onto my lap. Can hear her moaning my name as I fuck her deep, slow, until she begs for more.
I stroke my cock from base to tip, slow and tight. The water slaps down over my chest, but I barely feel it.
I want her bent over my tattoo chair. Want her wrists tied behind her back with my belt. Want to mark her, bite her, make her forget any man existed before me.
“Fuck, Lydia…” I muttered, breath ragged.
I pump harder, faster. My grip tightening. My muscles tensing.
I imagine her riding me, tits bouncing, her nails raking down my chest. I’d let her come once, maybe twice, then edge her until she’s crying. Then I’d flip her, fuck her until her voice is hoarse from screaming my name.
I come hard, groaning low, head drooping forward, my free hand curling into a fist against the tile.
Hot cum splashes across my abs, some hitting the wall. I stand there for a long minute, breathing hard, letting the water rinse it all away.
I press my forehead to the wall, eyes shut, jaw clenched.
Tomorrow, I'll play with her again.
Tomorrow, she’ll get a little closer to learning who I am.
And hopefully, when she finally figures it out, she’ll never want anyone else.