3. Rio
three
Rio
She’s had her mouth around my cock for ten minutes, but I stopped feeling it about five minutes ago.
That’s not something I’m going to tell her because I’m not that far gone. I lean back against the headboard, controller in my hand, eyes on the screen, and let her do what she came up here to do while I wait for a lobby to load.
The party downstairs is still going. I can tell by the bass through the floor and the sound of about forty people who have nowhere better to be on a Saturday night. Not that I did either, but I live here and that’s also why I’m up here.
She’d been following me around since ten.
Not her fault exactly, I just have a bad habit of not discouraging things I should discourage.
By midnight she had her hand on my arm, and I had run out of reasons to move it, so here we are.
She’s pretty, I can’t even lie. Plus, she’s present and doing something that should have my full attention, but my full attention is somewhere else completely.
It’s been somewhere else for six weeks.
I found her by accident on a night when I had nothing to lose and made the mistake of letting chance decide what I was going to do with my dick that night.
One scroll led to one image that led to red hair like fire, eyes the color of bruises, and a mouth that promised my downfall.
That was all it took me. I went back the next night to find her again.
And the night after that. And every night since.
I don't bother lying to myself about what this is.
I know exactly what I'm doing. I know what the obsession, the checking, and the way I've memorized every frame of her, every curve, every expression says about me.
I've known since that first night that I should stop, but in some fucked up space between the second viewing and the hundredth, I made peace with the fact that I won't. She's become the only thing that makes sense anymore, and she’s so goddamn perfect I just need more.
RemiRose.
Cole found her three days after I did. Sent me a link at two in the morning with no caption, no context, just the URL sitting there in my notifications like a test I didn't know I was taking.
I stared at it for maybe ten seconds before I typed back telling him I knew and that was the entire conversation.
She posts twice a week, sometimes three, and I've watched everything she's ever uploaded.
Every frame of her is committed to memory that goes far beyond casual viewing, beyond the fourth video where she bites her bottom lip or the ninth where her breath catches.
Also, the one from two weeks ago where the angle of her neck was on repeat for three days straight.
I've learned to read her like she's the only text that matters, distinguishing the moments when she's performing for the camera from the ones where she forgets it's there entirely.
I've spent hours in those moments when she forgets the camera is there, when she's not performing for anyone.
That's the version I keep coming back to.
I've jerked off to her content so many times I stopped counting around the second week.
I had to stop because counting meant facing what I already knew, and I wasn't ready to look at it straight on.
I mean; I'm not doing it now either because she’s too fucking addicting.
Late at night when the apartment's quiet, or in the shower, or sometimes just walking through the kitchen, she's there and my body responds before my brain catches up.
I let it happen though because fighting it would be harder and I'm not interested in hard right now. What I’m interested in is getting my hands on her, to be in the same room where she can't pretend I don't exist, and to make her aware of me the way I'm aware of her.
That's what this is really about. It's not pretty and it's not excusable, but it's honest, and I'm past the point of pretending otherwise.
I'm not apologizing for it because that would mean I think there's something wrong with what I'm doing, and I could give a fuck less if it is.
Right and wrong are concepts for people who still believe they're going to be someone better than they are.
I'm not that person. I know what I am and I've made peace with it.
She holds herself well and she’s comfortable in her own skin. I respect that…. I also want to push her past her breaking point until she’s begging me to stop. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?
Then I found the stream.
I was watching one of her videos, the one where she's wearing black and her hair is down and she talks the entire time in that voice that sounds like she's letting you in on a secret.
She had mentioned she just got done streaming on Dead by Daylight, so off handed and casual like it didn't matter, she just didn’t know someone like me was watching.
I had enough of her voice in my head by then that when I went looking, I found DeadGirlAFK in under twenty minutes. I pulled up her stream, watched for about 10 minutes and I just knew.
It was the same energy, voice, and captivating eyes, except now she had a headset and a controller instead of her fingers in her pussy.
Six hundred people in her chat watched her run circles around a killer while she talked the entire time, completely in her element, and I sat there for two hours and didn't move.
That's when it changed.
Before, she was something I watched. After, she became something I could reach.
Not physically, but close enough that it keeps me up at night.
Because whether she did it on purpose or not, her location was on.
A small detail she didn't think mattered, but it does. Because now I know that she’s close enough that I could find her if I wanted to.
That she sees Cold_Saint in her chat and doesn't know it's me or that I've been in her world for weeks, studying how she moves, how she breathes, what makes her tick.
She has no idea what's coming or how close I already am.
The girl in my room makes a sound and I realize I've gone completely still forgetting she was even there. Controller in one hand, the other one frozen in the air like I forgot it was attached to me.
I set the controller down.
I’m not a good man, I know that. I don’t pretend otherwise, don’t perform something easier for the benefit of people who’d prefer it.
This girl came up here because she wanted to and I wanted my cock sucked.
Now I’m picturing RemiRose on her knees and trying to take all of me while this girl gets me off.
That says everything about me that needs to be said.
I push myself further down her throat trying to chase my release but it’s just not happening.
I pull her up and she looks at me with something hopeful in her face like she wants some sort of praise.
I feel a dull pang of something that might be guilt if I had emotions, but this girls just not doing it for me.
“You should go back to the party,” I say.
I don’t watch her leave as she leaves my room.
I pick the controller back up as the lobby loads. I check my phone once, no notification that she’s gone live so I put it face down on the mattress and start the match.
An hour later my phone lights up and DeadGirlAFK is live.
Fuck yeah. Time to grab a beer and finally enjoy my night.
The party downstairs is still at full volume when I get there, but no one has broken anything yet, so I’ll take it as a win.
I find the kitchen, grab a beer from the cooler someone dragged in, and crack it open while I scan the room. Cole clocks me the second I walk in, but doesn’t stop talking to a group of people, just cuts his eyes to me for half a second.
I lean against the doorframe while I drink my beer and let the party move around me and Cole breaks away from the group after a few minutes and crosses the room, beer in hand.
“How was the blonde?” he asks.
“Sent her back to the party.”
Cole looks at me. “You sent her back.”
“Yuuuuup.” I draw out.
“The one who’s been attached to you since ten o’clock.”
“That’s the one, Cole.”
He stares at me for a second and I know what’s coming next.
“She go live yet?” he asks.
“Queuing up now.”
He shakes his head like I’m a problem he finds genuinely funny, which is a fair read of the situation. “Go. Before you start vibrating.”
“I’m not vibrating.”
“Rio. Go.”
I push off the doorframe and head for the stairs.
Behind me I can hear Cole already at the center of whatever’s happening down there.
Cole and I have been doing this since we were sixteen, him in the middle of every room and me on the edge of it, and in that gap of it we figured out how to be friends.
He’s the only person I’ve never had to explain myself to.
The noise of the party fades behind me floor by floor. By the time I hit the top of the staircase it’s just the muffled bass and the quiet of the hallway and my own head.
My father crosses my mind.
Richard, who let me walk out of his house at eighteen without a single serious attempt to make me stay, and who has been reaching out in half measures ever since like consistent mediocrity cancels out the original failure.
He’s not a bad man; I’ve had enough years to say that without it costing me anything.
He’s just a man who lost his wife and handled it by going somewhere I couldn’t follow.
By the time he surfaced, I was already gone and didn’t see a reason to come back.
I don’t hold it against him though. I see more clearly now that grief can do unimaginable things to a person. I get that, I really do. But he wasn’t the only person who lost her.
I push my bedroom door open and sit at my desk, putting my feet up and finish cracking the next beer open.
I put my headphones on, lean back and let her voice fill up the space.
She’s mid match, already running her mouth at her chat about a Trapper who has the audacity to cut her off at the exit for the third time in a row.
I can hear the grin underneath the frustration, and I sit in the dark with my beer and just listen.
She doesn’t know I’m here.
Cold_Saint is in her chat, and she has no idea who that is, she just sees a username and another viewer.
I take a slow pull of my beer.
For now.