Twenty-Six

"Hey, Lander. Don't get your hopes up; this isn't a dirty video. I just finished working out and it got me thinking about the time I saw you in the lobby when I was coming back from a run. I was sweaty and felt hideous, but you looked up and did a double take. At first, I was mortified, but you gave me the barest hint of a smile. It made my day. You smile at me every day now, and I really can't describe how good it makes me feel. There's so much love inside you, Lander. I want you to know, I'll gladly take any and all love you send my way. Nothing has ever felt better."

I replay the video for the tenth time, mostly for the sake of hearing Valeria's voice. She only sent it an hour ago, around the time I arrived at the office, but I've already memorized it. I'm good with my words, but not like Valeria.

I'll gladly take any and all love you send my way.

It's odd to hear someone talk about how much love I have in me when I'm plunking out condescending emails with the clip and precision of a well-engineered assembly line, and yet I've never felt so seen before.

When we meet up later, we have the longest fuck of my life. Sweating, panting, and both of us edging each other into oblivion, our bodies come together in a tangle of limbs I'd be content to never untie. When I come inside of her, deeply and fully, her lips drag along the shell of my ear and she whispers, "You're going to have to work so hard to stop me from keeping you, Lander Dawson."

The weekend feels more grounded once I'm no longer achingly desperate to be inside of her. On Saturday, brunch and a quick stop for coffee after Valeria's Muay Thai lesson turns into three hours where we talk nonstop. Later that night, she goes out with Cora and Essie before showing up at my door after midnight, giggling and hanging on the frame for dear life. She begs me to fuck her drunk, but I won't unless she asks me again when she's sober. On Sunday morning, she awakens refreshed and only slightly hungover, and makes quick work of her clothes before she climbs over me, naked and ready. The first words out of her mouth are, "If I show up at your door on a Saturday night and ask for that dick, you better give me that dick, Lander."

I listen. I will.

I watch her stream on Sunday night and she saves her orgasm for me again. The one she fakes for the camera is delicate and tentative, like a tulip opening after months of frost. The real one, the one that happens with her face shoved into the mattress while I slam into her from behind, is throaty and disorderly. Once we're done, my priority is holding her while she tells me I make her feel wanted. My second priority is memorizing every millisecond of the evening.

Monday is unbearable.

I force myself out of bed, downright miserable to unwind myself from Valeria's curvy thighs and smooth skin and the bedsheets knotted around us. My work phone buzzes with activity, and I wonder if it could survive a trip down the disposal in the kitchen. In the name of science, I'm strongly tempted to test it out.

I return to my bedroom, dressed in my suit, prepared to drop a goodbye kiss on the red apple globe of Valeria's cheek while she sleeps. Instead, I find her awake.

"I've spent an ungodly amount of time staring at you, and I'm still taken aback by how ridiculously fine you are," she tells me when I walk into the room.

I'm rendered speechless, a rarity in my life, but a common occurrence with Valeria around. I tilt onto the bed over her, full suit, not caring that it's custom-made. I want her under me.

Her hands roam. They tug at the tucked edges of my dress shirt, loosen my tie, and finger the buttons keeping everything together. I let her. She's going to make me late for work, and I don't give a flying fuck.

"You don't let anyone else see this," she murmurs, dragging her fingertip over my heart. She traces the letters of her name on my skin.

I melt. I die.

I die very, very happy.

By Thursday, I'm a man possessed. Her stream is tonight and it's all I can think about, not only because I'm excited to see her use the toy I bought her, but also because this is a monumental night for her—a stream years in the making.

This is her Stafford. And as I rush through the lobby of the Halcyon, it occurs to me that I'm far more excited about her Stafford than my own.

I log on as soon as I'm home. Tonight, she"s wearing a silk robe over a bra and thong set that straddles the line between gray and purple. Her hair is down, no pigtails, no haloes. Valeria's hair isn't black, I realized a few days ago. It's actually brown, a shade so dark it looks raven. The white glow from the ring light at the end of her bed illuminates the hints of umber. She's effervescent.

Tonight's stream is different. She's using her DSLR rather than her laptop camera and she's not engaging in the chat as usual. I know it's because she's nervous. She'll sacrifice tips by not engaging, I've learned, but the money doesn't matter right now.

She begins by touching herself, looking down while she glides her hand over the curve of her neck. Her fingertips drag in the tight space between her breasts where her bra presses them against each other. It's slow. It's killing me. The tease is more agonizing than ever because I know what she tastes like now. I know what she smells like. I know how her skin feels when it's damp with sweat.

But tonight isn't about me. Tonight isn't about any of us—except for her.

When she takes off her robe, Valeria's smile is so broad, I can't help but smile at the screen too. She gets it, I figure—that her body is something special. I like that about her: She looked at herself, realized she could make a killing looking the way she does, and went for it.

I would too if I looked like her.

The bra and the panties go next, and that's where the tease ends. She doesn't draw anything out for tips. All of us watching? We may as well not even be here. She's in her own world tonight.

The dildo has been resting next to her on the bed, waiting patiently for its moment in the spotlight. It's big. Performance size is what the packaging said. When I purchased it, the cashier's eyebrows shot up and he gave me a once over and then an eyebrow wiggle.

She picks it up, finally, and drags it over her lips, daring a suck at the tip. Her tongue emerges, sliding over the head and wetting it. The sight of her licking it is delicious—but for what she has planned, spit alone won't be enough.

The way she coats it with lube is a spectacle in and of itself. Her hand moves slowly, indulgently, sliding along the shaft of the dildo and coating it until it's glossy. The motions are practiced. Anyone watching, regardless of whether they believed she was actually a virgin camgirl, can see she's done this before. Somehow, that makes it feel more special to me—like she's letting us in on a secret she's harbored for years.

Satisfied, Valeria lays on her back and spreads her knees, showing off her bare pussy. Her fingers dip first, venturing inside and fucking lackadaisically, not wasting effort and energy on the opening act. The main event is starting—and my heart is pounding.

Her hand, gripping the dildo, lowers between her legs. With a deep inhale, Valeria presses the tip into her body and pauses, adjusting, before she works it in deeper. Once she has an inch inside of her, she pauses once more and takes another breath. Her expression relaxes. And there it is—a smile forming on her lips—a contented, satisfied smile.

The next few minutes are methodical. Push, pull, push, wait. She does it again and again, repeating the motion and letting her body stretch with each thrust. Gentle groans pass over her lips and her breathing grows harder, heavier. Steadily, those groans become less gentle and more frequent; simultaneously, more of the dildo disappears into her.

Ten minutes in, she bends her wrist one more time and stops. The base of the toy touches her pussy, and that's it. She took the entire thing.

Now, a smile spreads over her face, beaming and entirely unabashed. Her cheeks are pink and dewy sweat layers her forehead, but she's gorgeous—and happy. All I can think about, watching as she begins to work the toy in and out, is how she never smiles like this when she streams.

This is the smile I see when I fuck her.

Valeria is twisting the toy now, pulling it out halfway and plunging it back in. Even over livestream, the sound of her arousal is audible, wet and slick with every thrust. Her back bows, she releases a moan, and her free hand rises to clutch her bare breast. When she grips it, the skin bulges in the space between her fingers—a testament to how roughly she's treating herself for once. Aurora Amada's fragility is nowhere to be found.

"Fuck," she groans, pulling her hand back further. The thrusts grow more frantic now, eight, nine, all ten inches in and out with each swing of her hand. She's outright fucking herself, bucking her hips to meet the dildo. Her hand flies from her breast to her clit and she runs her fingertips over the sensitive bud.

Both of her hands are busy with her pussy now, one furiously strumming her clit and the other working the gigantic toy. My only thought, outside of sheer captivation, is how badly I wish I could be in the bedroom with her. My tongue could be licking against hers, kissing her senseless while she crests towards an earth-shattering climax. My hand could replace hers, rubbing that perfect pink clit with all my fingertips, spreading her pussy open and making space for the dildo I bought her. My lips could be wrapped around one of her impossibly hard nipples, along for the ride while her breasts sway and shake with her body's motions. I could be a prop for her, yet another toy working in service of her pleasure—and everyone could fucking watch me do it.

A frown forms between her eyebrows and there it is—the telltale lick of her lips. She's close—mouth open, hand moving so fast it's a blur, and moan after moan of pleasure nonsense streaming from her lips. Her legs quiver. Her toes curl. Her back arches and she's fucking herself faster than ever.

And then she screams.

Behind that scream, behind the open mouth and parted lips, there's a laugh—and a thrill rising in the very sinews of my muscles. A tear slides down Valeria's reddened cheek, but she's laughing, her motions growing less wild as her orgasm subsides.

Her chest is heavy as she collapses onto her bed, and her hands go back to her sensitive breasts—because she always needs them touched after she comes.

And the dildo she left inside of her body slides out, propelled by her inner muscles, and rolls onto the bedspread: wet, obscene, and creamy with her arousal. I've never seen anything so sexy or impressive in my life, and it takes a few beats for me to realize I was holding my breath.

Valeria exhales—and so do I.

Tonight, it's not Aurora Amada onscreen. It's Valeria Fuentes.

And I am so gone for her.