CHAPTER 10 – COMING CLEAN
Jack
I’m in my usual spot at the computer, whiskey glass sweating on a coaster, half-watching a YouTube video about hypersonic flight and half-heartedly scrolling through whatever bottomless pit of content the modern world serves up.
The night is thick and dull, the kind that makes you want to open a fresh bottle or send a doomed text to someone you know you shouldn’t.
That’s when the ad appears, pixel-bright in the corner of my screen:
***”Sensual Cam Girls—Live Right Now!”***
A cheap banner, girl-next-door in a polka dot bra, biting her finger.
I’ve ignored a thousand of these before—clickbait, malware, instant regret—but this one feels like a dare.
Maybe it’s the dull ache between my legs, or the boredom, or the fact that I haven’t seen Eliza in four days and she’s all I can think about. I click.
Just like that, I’m on the landing page, all pinks and neons, thumbnails of grinning girls arranged like a snack sampler for the horny and the lonely. Each square pulses with “LIVE,” the way a cockpit glows at night, too bright and slightly sickening.
I hover over a few: one chick with a nose ring and more tattoos than a Yakuza; another with “cosplay” in the description and a bright blue wig. None of them hold my attention for more than a heartbeat.
Until I see her.
There’s no face, just the back of a young woman kneeling on a white comforter, ass arched, blonde hair cascading down to the small of her back.
Something about the posture—the curve of the spine, the tilt of the head, even the color of the sheets—hits me like turbulence. The username reads “BunnySnowGirl.”
No. Fucking. Way.
I click through, heart already knocking.
The feed is high-def, every pixel sharp.
She’s on her hands and knees, back to the camera, hips swaying with a slow, expert rhythm.
The pink toy in her hand is impossibly large, and the sounds she makes—low, breathy moans—are all too familiar.
They spill out of my speakers and fill the room with heat.
There’s still no face, but as she shifts, I see more that I recognize: the side of a big, luscious breast; the tips of her sunkissed hair; that bottom lip I’ve kissed a hundred times. There’s a little beauty mark on her left hip, just like the one I’ve traced with my tongue. My throat goes dry.
I sit there, paralyzed. My first reaction is laughter—loud, desperate, this-can’t-be-real laughter. But it’s not funny, not even a little. My hands start to shake, just enough to rattle the ice in my glass.
Eliza. My sweet, brilliant, secret girlfriend. She’s here, in my living room, but also not. She’s streaming to hundreds, maybe thousands of men, and as I watch this live stream, every second, more names fill the chat box, their words as vulgar as a locker room after PT.
BunnySnowGirl: “You like my new toy, Daddy? Tip if you want to see it in my ass.”
The text scrolls by, a parade of digital filth, and the number next to “Current Viewers” ticks upward with each breath.
Tips pour in—tokens, hearts, little animated dollar signs.
She smiles, adjusts her angle, and uses both hands now, one on the dildo, the other spreading herself for the camera so that viewers can see exactly where it enters her swollen pussy.
The sight makes my cock twitch, even as my brain howls with a storm of emotions: lust, confusion, anger, pride (because Jesus, she’s good at it), and a gnawing sense of betrayal.
I want to close the tab, but I can’t. I lean in, squinting, looking for proof. Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s some digital deepfake, or a lookalike, or a sick cosmic joke. But I know every inch of her body, every scar, every freckle, and the more I watch, the more certain I am.
She’s not even hiding it. Her face stays turned away, but everything else is on display: the curves, the giggle, the little hitch in her breath when she’s about to come.
My eyes drift to the chat. It’s the usual mob: drooling guys with usernames like “BigBadWolf69” and “Lawyer4Life.” They’re throwing tokens, egging her on, begging for more.
She reads some of the messages, giggles, and does what they ask.
She lets one hand drift back to her ass, presses a finger inside, and moans as she double-penetrated.
The room fills with wet, obscene sounds as she rides the toy like a pro.
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen—and the most devastating.
Suddenly, Eliza arches, her moan bright and sharp, and her orgasm is unmistakable, a real one, not the kind you fake for strangers. Her body trembles, then collapses forward, spent and luminous, strands of hair plastered to her back with sweat.
The chat explodes. Tips flood in. Someone posts a gif of fireworks.
I close the tab.
I sit back, rub my hands over my face, and try to process what the fuck just happened. My heart is racing like I just pulled ten G’s, and my stomach is somewhere in my boots.
I pour another whiskey, neat this time. My hands are still trembling, and I watch the glass slosh like a rookie.
What do I do now? Confront her? Pretend it never happened? Secretly bankroll her so she never has to do this again? The absurdity makes me laugh again, loud and bitter.
I can’t get Eliza’s image out of my head though. The way she smiled, the little flutter of her fingers when she thanked her customers. The way she came, sweet and erotic, for a crowd of men who have no idea what she’s really like—her intelligence, her wit, her heart.
I check the clock. It’s almost midnight. My first instinct is to call, but that’s insane. There’s no playbook for this. No protocol.
So I do what I always do: I plan.
I pull up my phone, thumb hovering over her name in the contacts.
Finally, I type:
“Dinner at my place tomorrow? 7pm? Wear something you want me to rip off.”
She replies in seconds: “Absolutely, Commander. Can’t wait.”
I put the phone down and stare at the blank wall, the afterimages of her body still burning in my eyes.
The house is silent. I listen to the fridge cycle, the ice machine spit cubes into the tray, the faint click of the heating system.
I pour one more drink and wait for morning.
There’s a weird fugue that sets in after a shock.
In war, it’s called shell-shock or PTSD or a dozen other acronyms, but at home, it’s just numbness: the way your brain floats above the facts, refusing to deal until forced by reality.
I spend the day in a haze, cleaning the house until every surface is spotless, then setting out steaks, wine, and a wedge salad so perfect it could star in a cooking magazine.
I check the oven twice, arrange the silverware in careful formation, then stare at the clock and will it to run out of minutes.
At 6:57, headlights flash through the window. My chest tightens. I force myself to breathe steady, like I’m prepping for a jump.
The knock is soft, and when I open the door, she’s there—Eliza, glowing with impossible youth, eyes huge and lips glossy.
She’s dressed up, blonde hair curled, a dark coat that skims her curves and ends just below the knee.
She’s even wearing heels. My heart does a weird skip, like maybe this is just a nightmare and everything’s normal.
She steps in, shivering in the cold. “You look handsome,” she coos, pressing close to kiss my cheek. “Is this a special occasion, or do you always set the table like you’re about to host a presidential dinner?”
I can’t help smiling, even now. “I clean up when it matters,” I mutter around the frog in my throat.
But Eliza doesn’t notice. She follows me into the kitchen, shedding her coat and revealing a line of bare shoulder that makes my cock twitch, even as my stomach roils.
She moves around the kitchen, light and confident, stealing a carrot from the salad and popping it between her teeth with a sassy crunch.
I pour wine and hand her a glass. Her fingers brush mine, linger a second longer than normal, and it takes all my willpower not to yank her in and demand answers right then.
Instead, I set the steaks to sizzle and keep my eyes on the stove.
Eliza leans against the counter, sipping her wine. “You okay, Commander?” she asks, head tilted. “You seem… I don’t know. Distant.”
I grunt. “Long day. Had some weird dreams last night.”
She watches me, searching my face. “Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head and flip the steaks. The sizzle is loud, masking the pounding of my pulse.
Dinner is smooth, but it takes every ounce of my energy to hide my nerves.
The food is perfect, but it tastes like cardboard.
I try to ask her about work, but the words stick in my throat.
Fortunately, Eliza fills the silence, telling a story about a lawyer who accidentally emailed a sex tape to an entire listserv, but even that doesn’t land.
I just nod and mumble responses, waiting for her to call me on my bullshit.
She sets her fork down, eyes wide and hurt. “Jack. Seriously. What’s wrong? You’re on edge tonight.”
I drink half my wine in one go. “Nothing. I’m just distracted.”
She leans in, her hand on my forearm. “Is it me? Did I do something?”
The words hang in the air, daring me to say them. I want to chicken out. I want to pretend I saw nothing, that I can keep going like it doesn’t matter. But the image of my girl, nude and gorgeous on some stranger’s computer, will never leave me.
I clear my throat. “Can we sit in the living room?”
She nods, eyes full of concern.
I pour us each more wine, and we move to the couch, a foot of space between us at first. I let the silence stretch, wanting her to confess, but she just looks at me, searching for a crack in my armor.
Finally, I can’t take it. I turn to face her, and the words come out, flat and deadly:
“I saw you online last night.”
She blinks. “Online?”
“On a cam site,” I say, letting the words hit like a bomb.
Her wine glass slips, sloshing red across her hand. Her face goes white, then red, then white again. “What… what do you mean?”