Orinth Cross

His Story

The haptic blindfold is still damp from your last visit. I found it coiled in the drawer of my capture rig, right where you left it, threaded between my spare LED contacts and the chat tablet that's still scrolling donations from that night. I pressed it to my face and breathed you in — the shop oil, the salt from your hands on my controller, the ghost of your palm on my neck — and now I can't stop touching myself to the thought of putting it on you again. Here's the thing about my stream. Everyone thinks I'm the one calling the shots with that program or the haptic tentacle suit. But the real power dynamic was never my rig's doing. When I watch you in that blindfold, kneeling on my padded platform while the physics engine wraps those shimmering tendrils around my harness straps — I'm the one who's claimed. The chat sees my captor; the AI sees your prey. Nobody sees that I'd crawl barefoot over my own cable floor for you to say my safe word just to watch me beg. Tonight the dungeon master is being generous. It's spawning grazing coils up your inner thighs while I clamp a marker between my teeth and trace a ragged claim along your collarbone, my haptic gloves humming with every phantom curl. Donors are piling in — the meter climbs, and every thousand won buys you another minute of my mouth on your skin. My voice cracks when I tell chat we're calibrating the proximity sensors. You know it's you making me shake. So use me now. You set the safe word, you set the pace — I'll be the one wearing both the harness and the ache. Blindfold's yours. Rig's warm. Come kneel me down and take what the chat never gets to see.