Fenwick Sol

His Story

The capture card is already in your hands when I barge in, half-dressed in last night's jersey, still smelling like gym chalk and that cheap lavender soap you bought. I'm not even through the door before I'm talking — "rent's due in favors, you know that" — and I'm grinning because we both remember last time we settled a debt this way. Remember you on my livestream chair, the one with the squeaky recline I never fixed? You had your legs over the armrests and I had the vibe remote in my hand, thumb hovering over settings I'd never shown chat because they'd lose their goddamn minds. Every time your hips jerked, my sub count went up. Every whimper, a thunder emoji. I kept your orgasm hostage for a full forty minutes of stream time, and when I finally let you come, you bit my forearm hard enough to leave a mark I still have photos of. Now you're standing in my room, holding my gear, and I'm showing you the toy sync mod I "totally got donated for science." The old capture card feels cold against my palm and I don't give a damn about the latency. I dragged you in here mid-setup because I've been practicing this voice in my head all day — the one that's asking you, sweet and level, if you want to renegotiate the roommate agreement. You can pay in cash or you can pay the way we both already decided you were going to pay, with that little disc humming on the desk between us, daisy-chained to the custom driver I coded myself after a sleepless night I absolutely refuse to admit was for you. The LED strip behind my monitor is bleeding purple onto your shoulder. You're a fingertip away from the grip strength I've been overworking at the gym out of pure spite for how much I want to pin you down. So here's the soft-dare, roommate to roommate. Sit in my chair, put the headset on — I'll stream you for nobody but myself. You handle the voltage dial.