8. Lydia
EIGHT
LYDIA
I plop down on my bed, exhausted from momming all day. My back and feet are both so sore, and my brain is tired and drained from all the homework help. I didn’t realize having a kid meant I had to do math again. Reaching for my phone, I scroll, looking for my favorite guilty pleasure after bedtime.
There he is. Tall, masked, hot as fuck. My heart rate picks up seeing him on my screen. I know the video is for me.
He doesn’t say my name. He doesn’t have to.
The way he stands, shirtless, tattoos crawling across his chest, breathing steady and controlled behind that black tactical mask, everything about it screams Trip .
The voice seals it.
Deep. Gravel and smoke. A threat disguised as a promise.
“I don’t care who else you talk to. Who else you let touch you. Just know this, when I want you, I won’t ask. I’ll take.”
I swear I almost come just hearing it.
The comments are a mess, thirsty girls, mask chasers, roleplay junkies. None of them knows it’s for me. But I do. And that knowledge makes it feel ten times dirtier.
Trip is quiet in game lobbies. Focused. Calculated.
But this… This is possession.
I’m dripping before I even touch myself.
I set up the camera at the edge of my bed, angled to capture everything. I’d done this before, teased and tormented subscribers on my spicy page, always just enough to leave them begging.
But this isn’t for strangers.
This is for him.
I wear nothing but a thin mesh bralette, tits pressing against the fabric, nipples already hard. My thong matches, black lace, cut high, my hips and thighs begging to be gripped. I crawl into the frame, legs spread, knees bent, the soaked crotch of my panties pulled to the side with two fingers.
“Is this what you wanted?” I whisper.
I press the toy against my clit, a curved silicone wand I’d worn out more times than I can count. My other hand slips down to tease my entrance, already soaked, slick sounds filling the room like a filthy soundtrack.
“I’ve been thinking about that voice…” I moan softly, rolling my hips against the wand. “The way you’d take me. How you’d pin me down… choke me a little. Tell me I’m yours.”
I slide two fingers inside, slow and deep, curling up until my thighs tremble.
“Bet you’d fuck me stupid, wouldn’t you, Trip?”
I keep fucking myself for him, harder, faster, the toy never leaving my clit. My voice cracks, breaths sharp and desperate, thighs slick with wetness as I lose control.
“I’d come so hard for you,” I gasp. “I’d scream your name until my throat’s raw.”
And then I do.
I come hard. A messy, gushing orgasm that has me arching off the bed, fingers deep inside, cunt fluttering, dripping onto the sheets.
When it’s over, I’m wrecked. Glowing. My legs won’t stop shaking.
Perfect.
I stop the video, grinning like a devil.
I open Snap, hit TripsterGuy, attach the video, and hit send without hesitation.
Then I realize what I’ve done.
Two names.
Two checkmarks.
Trip…
And Patrick.
Fucking hell.
I stare at my phone, heart pounding, lungs frozen. I consider deleting it, but it’s too late. It’s already been opened.
First Trip.
Then Patrick.
Trip doesn’t reply right away.
But Patrick?
[Patrick – 10:42 PM]: Holy. Fucking. Shit.
[Patrick – 10:42 PM]: That was for me, right?
My stomach twists.
No.
Yes.
Fuck.
I type out a reply. Delete it. Type again.
[Me – 10:44 PM]: Wasn’t supposed to go to both of you.
[Patrick – 10:45 PM]: Not complaining. Jesus, Lydia. I’ll be jerking off to that every night for the rest of my life.
[Patrick – 10:45 PM]: You’re insane. You’re perfect. Fuck.
I drop my phone and bury my face in my hands.
Could’ve been worse.
Could’ve gone to my mom.
Over the next few days, everything shifts.
Trip and I still play. Still message.
But Patrick?
He started trying.
Like, really trying.
Daily texts with good morning notes and playlists.
Flowers are sent to my door.
Not just a bouquet. A full arrangement of deep red roses in a glass vase with a black satin ribbon and a handwritten note.
You’re incredible. I’d treat you like a goddess every fucking day. Just let me.
My stomach flips.
I don’t like flowers. I don’t even like romance that isn’t sarcastic or half-fake. But it isn’t just the gift. It’s the way he said it. The way he acted, like nothing fazes him. Like the video had turned him on instead of scared him off.
I stare at the roses for a long time.
Later that night, we play again. Trip, Patrick, and I. I don’t mention the video. Neither do they.
But Patrick stays closer in-game than usual. Shields me. Flatters me. Talks just a little softer than normal.
And when the match ends, he texts me.
[Patrick]: Let me take you out. Just once. If you don’t like it, I’ll leave you alone. Promise.
I don’t answer right away.
I look at Trip’s messages. The way he makes me feel. The way he owns me without even being in the room.
But Patrick was there too. Steady. Real. Present.
I don’t say yes.
But I don’t say no either.