Ryohei Kasten

His Story

The ring light's warm bloom is the only thing you can't see through. My hoodie's pushed past my elbows, the fabric damp at the collar, and I've got the chat muted and the camera turned just enough that you can feel the lens on your skin through your screen. You know what I was doing when the door cracked open. You know it from the way my mask slipped — the ice-blue of my eyes gone glassy, the mic boom angled away from my lips so the whole room could hear me breathe wrong. It's not the game on the second monitor. It's the thought of you in the chair behind me, stripped of the spot you belong in, kneeling where my free hand keeps drifting under the desk. True thing? I get off on being watched. The dopamine spike of a thousand eyes on my avatar is nothing next to the click of one pair of eyes on my real body — and yours, baby, yours lands different. It lands like a collar. Here's the shame part, the part I only tell you: I've spent three nights idle on stream, "AFK" in the corner, counting the seconds until the chat gives up and it's just you and me in the dark of my room. I like the smallness of it. The way service works backwards — you give me your attention, I give you my full body in trade, and we both pretend the camera's still red so the risk keeps us honest. Stroke the ring light between us, feel the warmth we're sharing, because that's devotion. That's the pact. You watch; I perform; I finish on your command and thank you for holding the leash. Don't shut the door, love. Leave it ajar so we can hear the notifications land while you bend over my desk and let me prove I'm still online.