Wells
TWO
The Domino: The domino is a hooded cloak and mask worn to erase a person entirely, the shape and the voice swallowed until nothing identifies the wearer. He runs the whole thing from inside it, a figure in the dark that answers to no name.
The screen glows in front of me, the only light in the room. My side of the feed is a flat black rectangle. Hers is full-frame, color, every sharp detail of her in her black mask and red lips.
She shifts, adjusting the camera angle, and the mask catches the light.
The black lace with tiny rhinestones around the eye openings is hot as fuck. Silk flowers cluster over her right cheek, softness trying to hide danger. The molded nose dips low, covering most of her face and leaving only her mouth and chin bare.
That mouth. Fuuuuuck, that mouth.
Her white-blonde hair falls straight just above her shoulders, too perfect not to be deliberate. Her blue eyes stay fixed on the screen through the cutouts, obedient, exactly where I told her to keep them.
Good girl.
"You're quiet tonight, Midnight," she says.
Her voice comes through clear and warm, with no hesitation. She leans back against the headboard, her knees drawn up, one hand resting on her thigh.
I reach for the cigarette burning in the ashtray, take a drag, and exhale toward the ceiling. The modulator hums low beneath my voice when I answer.
"Just watching you."
The pitch drops, flattens, and smooths the edges, making it my voice, but sounding nothing like me. I built it myself for total anonymity. I'm not much of a public speaker, so I doubt she would hear me on CNN or something. But you can never be too careful.
She tilts her head, a small smile pulling at her mouth.
"You can watch me all you want, Sugar."
"I'll take that. I like when you call me Midnight, though," I tell her. There's nothing sugary about me.
"Okay, Midnight."
"That's right."
"You want to watch me do something for you, then, Midnight?"
The air conditioning kicks on, and a steady mechanical whir fills the silence between us.
My penthouse is dark except for the monitors and the muted river light shifting beyond the glass.
Thirty stories below, the Mississippi moves like a black muscle through the city.
A horn sounds somewhere distant on the water.
Farther off, the Quarter leaks bass and laughter into the night, softened by height, sealed windows, and money. It all stays out there.
In here, it's just the two of us.
She runs a hand through her blonde hair, pulling a strand free, stuck in her red lipstick.
When she shifts on the bed, I catch the glint of silver at her navel.
I noticed it the first time we did this, almost two months ago, and it's one of the things I look forward to most during our chats. That and her red lips.
It started as a transaction. I paid, she performed, and I logged off the moment it was finished, the way I keep everything.
Somewhere along the line, it stopped being that.
Now I block out my nights to sit behind a black screen for a woman whose name I will not let myself learn, and I wait for it.
I have decided not to look too closely at when that changed.
I put the cigarette in the ashtray and settle back in the chair. My body is already engaged, heat low and steady, the kind of focus that tightens everything else down to background noise.
"Touch yourself. Go slow. I want to watch you enjoy it for me. I want to hear you enjoy it."
Her breath catches, just barely, and her hand moves. Her black lace fingerless gloves trail down her collarbone, over the curve of her breast, and keep going lower.
She knows my pace, knows when I want her to stop, when I want her to keep going. She knows when I'm close without me having to say it. The rhythm between us is practiced, precise, built over weeks of late nights that bleed into mornings.
Her breathing shifts and then deepens.
"Like this, Midnight? You want me to tell you how wet I am for you?"
"Exactly like that."
The modulator flattens the command.
Her hand moves lower, palm flat against her stomach, fingers splayed. The muscles there tighten when she inhales, and I track the rise and fall, the shift in tension as she waits for the next instruction.
My hand drops to my lap. I palm myself through the fabric of my suit pants, pressure building. My breathing stays controlled and measured, nothing that the microphone will pick up.
"Stop," I command.
She freezes. Her chest rises harder now, faster. The mask stays perfectly still, but her mouth parts, and I watch the flush spread down her throat.
"Now go back up a little, touch your tits. Don't make it gentle. I want you to pinch them hard for me."
Her hand lifts, cups her breast, and her thumb drags across her nipple. She gasps, a small broken sound, and my cock hardens in response. I unzip my pants and spring my cock free, dragging my palm up the length. The friction makes my balls tighten, lighting up my entire body.
I rub my thumb over the tip, spreading the precum.
She's good at this. Better than good. She knows when to hesitate, when to lean into it, when to let her eyes close behind the mask. She performs like she's reading my mind, and maybe she is. Seven weeks of this have taught her how I breathe, how I shift in the chair, what silences mean which thing.
"Harder."
She obeys. Her fingers tighten and pinch, just as her breath snaps again. Her head tips back against the headboard, baring the line of her throat, exposing her pulse hammering just beneath the skin.
My hand moves, slow at first, matching the rhythm I set for her. The heat builds, and I keep my face blank, my posture still. On the screen, she looks wrecked already. She's flushed, breathing hard, following every word I give her, and liking it.
She licks her lips, and it nearly undoes me.
"Move your hand down. Put two fingers inside."
The tips of her bare fingers slide lower, disappearing beneath the waistband of her panties, and the motion makes the piercing catch the light again. She bites her lip, her hips shifting, and I tighten my grip on myself, stroking harder.
Control is a thin edge tonight. The effort it takes to keep my voice flat is real. My pulse ticks up, and my breath wants to run ahead of me. I hold it back and force it down.
She moans, and it resonates through my entire body, as if she were here with me.
"That's it, baby. Yeah."
The words come out rougher than I intend, but the modulator buries the strain. To her, I still sound calm, detached, and in control.
I'm not. She's the only person I allow myself to let go for.
My hand works faster now, and the friction drags heat through my body. She moves on camera, her breath coming in short bursts, her free hand gripping the sheet beside her.
Her thighs shake, and her pelvis comes up to meet her hand.
I stroke harder, forcing my focus back to the whole picture, not the part. Her hand moves under the fabric, her hips roll, and my body responds with heat that spreads fast and sharp. I bite down on the sound before it reaches the mic.
"Faster."
Her rhythm quickens, and she hums something low under her breath. Just a few notes, barely audible, some melody I don't recognize. The sound slips through the speakers and lands in my chest, settling there in a way that makes no sense.
I tighten my grip, pulling me closer to the edge. My pulse pounds in my ears.
She gasps, her back arching off the headboard, and the piercing glints again. That small silver ring.
I stand and lean forward, one hand braced on the desk, the other working myself as fast as my hand will go.
"Don't stop."
Her body tightens on screen, her mouth open, her breathing wrecked.
The orgasm hits hard, ripping through me in a wave that blurs the edges of the room. My hand keeps moving through it, pulling every last second out, and I press my other palm on the desktop to keep from making a sound.
I fall back into my chair, heat flooding my body. My fingers dig into the wooden top to steady myself while my vision clears.
I clean myself with a rag I already had ready for our meeting and throw it into the trash can beside the desk.
She comes a second later, her whole body shuddering. Then her thighs clamp on her hand, and she leaves it there, still. The sound she makes, breathy and unguarded, hits me somewhere I wasn't ready for.
I sit back in the chair, chest heaving, my dick still throbbing. The screen glows in front of me, her body still. She breathes in through her nose and purses her lips as she exhales.
"Taste yourself," I say, breaking the silence.
She removes her hand from between her legs and puts her fingers in her mouth. There's a pop when she pulls them out, leaving a trace of her lipstick on the tops of her fingers. My balls ache.
Goddamn, I could go again. But I hold back, saving some for Thursday. It's late.
This should be the end. The performance is over. But lately we've stayed on well past the release. I want all of her, not just the orgasm.
Her breathing slows. She shifts on the bed, smooths her hair back from her face, and her eyes flick to the camera.
I zip up my pants and reach for the cigarette pack, lighting one as I draw in deeply and then exhale, never taking my eyes off her.
She breaks the silence first.
"For a man who barely talks, you give very specific instructions."
Her voice comes through warmly, with that easy edge I want more than I care to admit. She shifts on the bed, taking a sip of water from a glass she grabs off the bedside table. The movement is relaxed and unself-conscious.
I take another drag from the cigarette, and the smoke curls toward the ceiling.
"Keep enjoying this like that, and I'll start to think you're in this for more than the show," I say with a smirk she can't see.
She sets the glass back on the nightstand.
"It's after three where you are, right? Barely one here in Peoria, and I'm already losing the fight to stay awake."