Page 44 of Hidden Desires

The walls are closing in, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep my lives apart.

But for now, I just need to breathe and get to work.

I just hope I don’t blow everything up before I figure out what the hell I’m doing.

10

CHAPTER 10 – COMING CLEAN

Jack

The best part of retirement is the noise level: zero. There’s no 6 a.m. reveille, no jets howling overhead, not even a neighbor dumb enough to run a leaf blower past sundown. In this slice of the American Midwest, the only nighttime sound is the faint, arctic hum of my fridge and the occasional wild coyote trying to mate with a mailbox. Most nights, the silence is like a trophy—something I earned, something I’m damn proud to own.

I’m in my usual spot at the computer, whiskey glass sweating on a coaster, half-watching a YouTube video about hypersonic flight and half-heartedly scrolling through whatever bottomless pit of content the modern world serves up. The night is thick and dull, the kind that makes you want to open a fresh bottle or send a doomed text to someone you know you shouldn’t.

That’s when the ad appears, pixel-bright in the corner of my screen:

***”Sensual Cam Girls—Live Right Now!”***

A cheap banner, girl-next-door in a polka dot bra, biting her finger. I’ve ignored a thousand of these before—clickbait, malware, instant regret—but this one feels like a dare. Maybe it’s the dull ache between my legs, or the boredom, or the fact that I haven’t seen Eliza in four days and she’s all I can think about. I click.

Just like that, I’m on the landing page, all pinks and neons, thumbnails of grinning girls arranged like a snack sampler for the horny and the lonely. Each square pulses with “LIVE,” the way a cockpit glows at night, too bright and slightly sickening.

I hover over a few: one chick with a nose ring and more tattoos than a Yakuza; another with “cosplay” in the description and a bright blue wig. None of them hold my attention for more than a heartbeat.

Until I see her.

There’s no face, just the back of a young woman kneeling on a white comforter, ass arched, blonde hair cascading down to the small of her back. Something about the posture—the curve of the spine, the tilt of the head, even the color of the sheets—hits me like turbulence. The username reads “BunnySnowGirl.”

No. Fucking. Way.

I click through, heart already knocking. The feed is high-def, every pixel sharp. She’s on her hands and knees, back to the camera, hips swaying with a slow, expert rhythm. The pink toy in her hand is impossibly large, and the sounds she makes—low, breathy moans—are all too familiar. They spill out of my speakers and fill the room with heat.

There’s still no face, but as she shifts, I see more that I recognize: the side of a big, luscious breast; the tips of her sunkissed hair; that bottom lip I’ve kissed a hundred times. There’s a little beauty mark on her left hip, just like the one I’ve traced with my tongue. My throat goes dry.

I sit there, paralyzed. My first reaction is laughter—loud, desperate, this-can’t-be-real laughter. But it’s not funny, not even a little. My hands start to shake, just enough to rattle the ice in my glass.

Eliza. My sweet, brilliant, secret girlfriend. She’s here, in my living room, but also not. She’s streaming to hundreds, maybe thousands of men, and as I watch this live stream, every second, more names fill the chat box, their words as vulgar as a locker room after PT.

BunnySnowGirl: “You like my new toy, Daddy? Tip if you want to see it in my ass.”

The text scrolls by, a parade of digital filth, and the number next to “Current Viewers” ticks upward with each breath. Tips pour in—tokens, hearts, little animated dollar signs. She smiles, adjusts her angle, and uses both hands now, one on the dildo, the other spreading herself for the camera so that viewers can see exactly where it enters her swollen pussy. The sight makes my cock twitch, even as my brain howls with a storm of emotions: lust, confusion, anger, pride (because Jesus, she’s good at it), and a gnawing sense of betrayal.

I want to close the tab, but I can’t. I lean in, squinting, looking for proof. Maybe it’s not her. Maybe it’s some digital deepfake, or a lookalike, or a sick cosmic joke. But I know every inch of her body, every scar, every freckle, and the more I watch, the more certain I am.

She’s not even hiding it. Her face stays turned away, but everything else is on display: the curves, the giggle, the little hitch in her breath when she’s about to come.

My eyes drift to the chat. It’s the usual mob: drooling guys with usernames like “BigBadWolf69” and “Lawyer4Life.” They’re throwing tokens, egging her on, begging for more. She reads some of the messages, giggles, and does what they ask. She lets one hand drift back to her ass, presses a finger inside, and moans as she double-penetrated. The room fills with wet, obscene sounds as she rides the toy like a pro.

It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen—and the most devastating.

Suddenly, Eliza arches, her moan bright and sharp, and her orgasm is unmistakable, a real one, not the kind you fake for strangers. Her body trembles, then collapses forward, spent and luminous, strands of hair plastered to her back with sweat.

The chat explodes. Tips flood in. Someone posts a gif of fireworks.

I close the tab.

I sit back, rub my hands over my face, and try to process what the fuck just happened. My heart is racing like I just pulled ten G’s, and my stomach is somewhere in my boots.