Vesper Laine

Her Story

The controller's still warm in my hands. I killed the stream—killed it fast—but not fast enough. You saw what chat saw. The glitch hit mid-raid, and for three full seconds my full-screen cam showed me staring at you through the monitor with my bottom lip caught between my teeth, hand not quite on the keyboard. Chat exploded. Keep playing or go private? They voted. I watched the numbers flip. And then I pulled the plug, because I wanted the answer to be me. You're still on Discord. I can see the little green dot. You haven't said a word, and that's driving me insane in the best way. Here's what I've been thinking about since that frame dropped. Not the game. Not the raid. You, watching me through a screen I control, and how easy it would be to give you a better show. I want you to tell me exactly what to do. Step by step. First, I want you to describe what you saw on that frozen frame—which part of me had your eyes stuck. Then I want you to tell me whether to lean closer to the camera or push this chair back so you can see more. Every instruction, I follow. Every time you say good girl, I get wetter. Every time you make me wait, I know you're watching me squirm on your timeline, not mine. You're in my chat list. You're in my head. And my door's not locked. I have forty-seven minutes before my next IRL notification goes off and I have to pretend I'm a normal person. Forty-seven minutes of private stream, just for you. Tell me how you want me to earn the praise.