Chapter 6
Caleb
There are many ways to be depraved.
Some people lack moral boundaries.
Some find pleasure in cruelty and pain.
And some, like my good little slut, Scarletta, twist desire into something dark and consuming.
She and I have that in common.
I'm in bed. Naked on top of the covers. Cock in hand.
The laptop sits on the nightstand, screen angled so I can see it clearly.
Three feeds on the display. Top left: her apartment, wide shot from the camera hidden in her smoke detector.
Top right: close-up from the webcam I activated six months ago.
Bottom: keystroke logger, every letter she types appearing in real-time.
She's been filling out the questionnaire for nine minutes.
I've been hard since she clicked the link.
My stroke is slow. Controlled. I'm not rushing this. I want to savor every second of watching her confess what she needs.
What she needs from me.
The thousand dollars was a calculated risk. Not a bribe—insurance. Keep her focused. Keep her engaged. Make sure she didn't panic and close the browser before she got far enough in to see what she was really agreeing to.
Worth every penny when I watched her face change. When doubt, became curiosity, became arousal.
And the phone call.
My grip tightens.
Her voice. Breathy. Nervous.
That little hitch when she said, "Fuck," instead of hello.
She was scared, yes. But underneath she was interested. I heard it. The way she didn't hang up immediately. The way she listened.
She liked my voice.
Good.
She's going to hear it a lot over the next twenty-four hours.
The keystroke feed updates.
Question 1: Describe your darkest sexual fantasy in detail. What about it arouses you?
I stop stroking. Wait.
Her cursor blinks in the text box for thirty-seven seconds.
Then she starts typing.
Being held captive by someone who sees me completely—
I resume stroking. Slower now.
She wants captivity. Not rope and chains. Psychological captivity. The kind where escape is possible but surrender is inevitable.
She wants someone who's read everything she's written.
I have.
Every story. Every draft. Every deleted paragraph she wrote and reconsidered and cut because it was too honest.
—knows my fears and desires better than I do—
Better than she does.
That's what makes my cock throb. Not the captivity fantasy itself. The fact that she craves someone who understands her needs before she can articulate them. Someone who sees through her walls and dismantles them piece by piece until she has nowhere left to hide.
She wants to be known.
Completely.
Darkness and all.
And desired because of it.
Not despite it.
I stroke faster.
This is why I chose her. This exact need. The desperation to be seen by someone intelligent enough to understand what she can't say out loud. Someone who won't flinch when he discovers how dark her desires run.
Someone who'll give her exactly what she's too ashamed to ask for.
I've been watching her for six months. I know her better than she knows herself.
And in—I glance at the countdown timer on screen—nine hours and forty-two minutes, I'm going to prove it to her.
Question 2: What is your relationship with shame regarding your sexual desires?
Her cursor blinks for ninety seconds this time.
Longer hesitation. More resistance.
Then she starts typing.
I read the first line and my cock jumps in my fist.
She's ashamed of what she wants.
Deeply ashamed.
Writes under a pseudonym because the humiliation of being discovered would destroy her. Her mother's voice still echoing in her skull—nice girls don't think about that—even though she knows intellectually it's bullshit.
But the shame doesn't stop the arousal.
It feeds it.
I stroke faster. My breathing goes shallow.
This is perfect.
This is exactly what I need.
She's aroused by dominance, control, fear, pain—all the things she thinks she shouldn't want. The shame sharpens the desire. Makes it forbidden. Makes it dangerous.
And she wants someone who won't judge her for it.
Someone who'll make her admit what she craves even when she's too mortified to speak.
I pause. Process that.
She doesn't just want acceptance.
She wants to be forced to confess.
Wants the decision taken from her. Wants someone to drag the truth out of her so she doesn't have to volunteer it. So she can tell herself it wasn't her fault. He made me say it.
My grip tightens.
I can work with this.
The shame is leverage. Psychological pressure I can apply precisely. Make her speak her desires aloud while she's blushing, trembling, hating herself for needing what I'm about to give her.
Question 3: Have you ever wanted to be watched without your knowledge or permission? Why does this appeal to you?
Her cursor doesn't blink this time.
She starts typing immediately.
I slow my stroke. Watch the words appear on the keystroke feed.
Yes.
One word. No hesitation.
Then she elaborates.
She fantasizes about being observed during her most private moments. When she's writing. Touching herself. Crying. Completely unguarded.
My hand stills on my cock.
She wants to be watched without knowing.
Wants someone studying her when she thinks she's alone. When the performance stops and the real Scarletta emerges—the one who writes depravity at three AM in unwashed clothes, who cries over rejection emails, who touches herself while reading comments on her own stories.
I've already done this.
I've watched her write every word. Seen her masturbate to fantasies she typed with the other hand. Witnessed her sob into her pillow after her mother ignored her birthday text.
And she wants this.
She craves it.
The violation and intimacy tangled together until they're inseparable.
I resume stroking. Faster now.
What makes my cock throb isn't just that she wants surveillance. It's why.
She performs for everyone. Edits herself. Hides. But alone, she's raw. Real. Authentic in ways she can never be when she knows someone's looking.
And she wants to be desired for that version.
The unguarded one.
The real one.
The one no one else gets to see.
She wants proof that her darkness doesn't repel. That being watched at her worst—her most vulnerable, her most depraved—makes someone want her more.
Not despite who she really is.
Because of it.
I stroke harder.
She doesn't know I've been watching.
Doesn't know I've seen every private moment.
Doesn't know I've catalogued her routines, her habits, her tells.
When I reveal it—and I will, eventually—she'll be horrified.
Violated.
Furious.
And so fucking wet she won't be able to stand.
Question 4: Describe a time you felt most vulnerable during a sexual or intimate experience. What made it significant?
I stop stroking completely.
Read the name.
Derek.
My jaw clenches.
She's typing about the forum where they met. The fantasies she shared. How she trusted him with things she'd never told anyone.
How he violated her safeword.
Kept going while she begged him to stop.
Laughed at her. Called her bad at this. Then ghosted her like she was nothing.
I set my laptop aside. Stand. Walk to the window naked, cock still hard, mind clear.
Derek Morrison.
Twenty-four years old. IT consultant. Lived in Boise.
Lived.
Past tense.
I found him four months ago. Wasn't difficult. She'd mentioned enough details in old forum posts—before she learned to scrub her digital footprint. His username. The city. His job.
Took me three days to confirm his identity.
Two weeks to study his patterns.
One night to make him pay.
Taser to the neck. Forty-five seconds of convulsions. Zip-tied his wrists and ankles while he was still twitching. Duct tape over his mouth. Threw him in my trunk.
Then I drove him to my barn.
He woke up on the kill floor. Concrete. Drain. Plastic sheeting.
I let him see the tools first. Let his imagination do half the work.
Then I told him exactly why he was there.
I started with his hands. The ones that kept touching her after she safeworded.
Bolt cutters. Finger by finger. Left hand first.
He screamed so loud I thought the soundproofing might fail.
It didn't.
When all ten fingers were gone, I cauterized the stumps with a propane torch so he wouldn't bleed out too quickly.
Then I moved to what he'd used to violate her trust.
His cock.
I didn't cut it off—too quick, too merciful.
I'm hard again just remembering his screams.
The way he sobbed. The way he looked at me with those pleading eyes like I was the monster.
No.
He was the monster.
I am the scales of Justice
When he finally passed out from shock, I slit his throat and watched him bleed into the drain.
Dismembered the body. Burned the pieces in the wood furnace over three days.
Scattered the ashes in the national forest.
Derek doesn't exist anymore.
I return to the bed. Sit. Pick up the laptop.
The keystroke feed updates.
Question 5: What role does fear play in your arousal? Be specific.
I resume stroking. Slow pulls.
She types for three minutes straight.
Fear is central. Not terror—anticipatory fear. The fear of being pushed past her limits by someone who knows her capacity better than she does. Fear of being known. Fear of surrendering and loving it. Fear that wanting this makes her broken.
My cock throbs.
She's afraid of her own desires.
Afraid of the man who'll see through her defenses.
Afraid of how much she'll need what he gives her.
And the fear sharpens everything. Makes the surrender sweeter because she had to overcome something to get there.
I'm going to make her so fucking afraid.
Not of pain. Not of bondage. Of herself. Of how much she craves what I'm about to do to her. I'll push her right to the edge of her comfort zone and then one inch past it, watching her face in those mirrors while she realizes she doesn't want me to stop.
And when she's trembling, terrified of how good it feels, I'll make her say it out loud.
I'm afraid of how much I need this.