Page 74 of Sinful Lord

My obsession grows as I search for my phone. Sure enough, there’s a camera on the back, but that wouldn’t make much sense either.

My phone is always face down, which means the camera would be pointed directly at the ceiling.

Tytus would never get a good view of me masturbating from that angle, and he probably wouldn’t be able to figure out where I stashed the lube.

There’s only one other explanation.

The hair on the back of my neck lifts as I stare up at the ceiling, specifically, at the corners. I can remember the panic I’d had when I first returned from the hospital; the paranoia that I was being watched. Filmed.

Those bastards who kidnaped me from the bar had wanted me to join some sick camgirl cult or something. So I vaguely remember searching my apartment for a webcam… but for how long? How thoroughly?

I can hardly remember. The first few days after I’d returned from the hospital are still so blurry. I couldn’t have been sharp enough to uncover every little hiding spot.

With a deep breath, I decide to rectify that.

At least now I know who’s been watching. Not some pathetic camshow pimps. Not the devilish shadow that chased me into the Spree river.

Tytus.

He’s still a mystery to me, but I’m not so afraid as I cautiously stand on my bed and scan the apartment for good vantage points.

“Where are you?” I rasp, my thighs still shaking ever so slightly from their big night.

My first guess is somewhere by the kitchen. A camera above the fridge would give a perfect view of my bed. But when I pull up a chair and sweep the dusty top, I come up empty-handed.

“I know it’s here,” I tell myself. “Somewhere…”

But it’s not just because Tytus knew where the lube was or how to butter me up. I’m starting to remember more.

Like what he said before he left.

I won’t be far. If you need help, just call my name.

I was already half asleep when he said that, but it comes back to me like a rush of water.

Unless he’s just gone down the hallway, Tytus will need to have a listening device stashed around here somewhere if he wants to hear any cries for help.

But a listening device could be hidden anywhere, and it doesn’t explain the lube or his knowledge of my habits.

A camera is what I need to find. And I’m still convinced there is one. Somewhere.

For a moment, I just stare through the apartment from atop the chair. But the longer I look, the more hopeless it all becomes.

Someone like Tytus would know how to properly hide a camera. There’s no way it would be so easy to spot that I could do it with my bare eyes from the top of a simple chair.

… But maybe I don’t have to.

“Rozalia,” I whisper, as a lightbulb goes off over my head.

Descending from the chair, I race over to the bedside table where my phone is. The gears are turning in my head as I try to remember my best friend’s exact advice.

Let the flashlight catch what your eyes can’t see.

It went something like that. At least that’s how I remember the advice she gave me after I told her how much I enjoyed a good slice of late-night pizza.

In response, the notorious femme fatale had told me to meet her in the main kitchen at midnight for girl talk and extra pepperoni.

But when I’d told her that I wasn’t allowed out of my section of the compound after dark, she’d challenged me to do just that.