(A horror story about technology.)
He’s making me write about what he’s done. Maybe it’s a form of entertainment. Maybe it’s to force me to relive the terrible things I’ve been through. No matter the reason, if you’re reading this, you need to know I am not in control. I’m just his puppet. His slave. He is wearing me.
I’ve been a camgirl since January 5th, 2016. The first year was lovely, and I say that without sarcasm. I made decent money and developed connections. I networked with other girls and guys and we got to learn the business together. There was little competition among us; it was all very supportive. Sometimes we even collaborated and put on a couples show for our regulars. Clients were happy to pay extra for that kinda stuff.
I learned pretty quickly how to avoid the creeps. The abusers. The ones who’d spam the chat room with requests for dangerous insertions or disgusting, illegal pairings. They could be blocked. Most of the time, they’d move on.
Some were more persistent, though. chewchewchewchewchewchewchew Some masked their IP addresses and used VPNs and did all sorts of other technical things to keep popping up, despite being blocked. It was something we all had to live with.
bite down nicole
One creep in particular, who went by the oh-so-clever handle “Fistington,” terrorized me for almost four months. No matter what I was doing, if I wasn’t in a private session, he’d enter the room and spam some of the most hideous, violent, misogynistic material I’d ever read. I will not repeat it.
My regulars did their best to ignore him, but their own chats and requests would get bogged down by violent spam. I lost subscribers. My income decreased.
On the one-year anniversary of my channel, I’d planned to have a special, public show for my fans and for anyone else who wanted to watch. It was free, and for that night only, I was offering the kind of performance I only give to paying customers: bottomless, mild insertions, etc.
It was all going well. I had a lot of new eyes on me and donations were rolling in. Then that piece of shit Fistington came into the room and ruined everything. The number of people in my channel dwindled. I didn’t blame them. It’s hard to be turned on when you’re forced to read the types of things he was saying.
As the last of the viewers left, I started to cry. I’d never cried on cam. I’d never had a reason to. I’d been frustrated, sure, but never brought to grief. And all Fistington did was laugh. His “lol”s poured down the page as tears poured down my cheeks.
I closed the channel, wept for a little while longer, and went to bed.
chewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchew down to the pulp
In the morning, I woke up to an email from one of my regulars. Stephan from Austria. I’d never met him or anything, but he’d been a fan of my channel from the beginning and had contributed over a thousand dollars in donations over that period of time. He made his requests, and while graphic, they were never anything I objected to. Never anything that compromised my dignity.
His email was short and to the point. I’ll paraphrase:
“Nicole, I apologize for the cruelty of my fellow men. Please accept this donation, and expect a gift in your post office box in the near future. I hope you haven’t been discouraged. You are beautiful and deserve happiness. Trust me. Sincerely, Stephan”
The donation was for five thousand dollars. It was more than any one person had ever given me. Way more. I wrote a heartfelt reply, thanking him for his kindness and generosity. I assured him I wouldn’t give up what I was doing, but I needed to take a few days off. I composed a short, personal video of his favorite things, attached it to the email, and sent it off.
Three days later, I received a notification from the post office that a package had been received. I picked it up and brought it home. It was from an address in Austria. The name on the tag was Stephan M. W. My friend.
At home, I unwrapped the package. Inside was a small jewelry box and a note containing the words, “I look forward to being close to you soon.” I sighed, worrying the poor man was falling for me. I unclasped the ornate, golden lock on the box and opened it. A scream erupted from my throat. The thing inside, resembling a milky-white leech with the legs of a millipede, leapt at me and entered my open mouth.
I dropped the box and clawed at my tongue, but the creature’s sharp legs propelled it further back into my throat. I felt it sliding into me, but not down my esophagus. It crawled up from the back of my tonsils, into my sinuses. I couldn’t stop shrieking and I began punching my hand into my throat, hoping to reach it with the tips of my fingers.
It was no use. I collapsed on the floor as a bout of intense dizziness tore through me. The room spun and I felt chitinous legs wandering behind my eyes.
Everything went black.
chewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchew thank you for telling them how we met now tell them about our adventures
I woke up in my dark kitchen. I felt a lump of pressure against my forehead, as if something were pressing against the bone from the inside. I knew what it was.
Fresh panic bloomed throughout my chest and I knew I needed to get up and call 911, but as hard as I tried to get off the floor, my body wouldn’t react. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even blink. I attempted to adjust my breathing, but my lungs wouldn’t obey. Regardless, my chest still rose and fell. I was getting air. And I could see. I wondered if I’d been paralyzed.
Without prompting, my legs moved under me and I was hauled into a standing position. My body walked down the hall and sat on my bed, in front of my laptop. My brain was reeling. Nothing was under my control. Everything was moving for me, and no matter how much effort I put into regaining my own motion, I was locked out.
I saw my hands reach out and type in a web address. It was one of the cam girl sites. Not the standard one I used. It was a fetish site operating somewhere in Eastern Europe. I’d heard about it early on in my career and I’d visited it once. Only once. It was too dark for me. Too hardcore.
tell them nicole
tell them nicole
I entered a username and password I’d never seen before. I entered a channel. My webcam turned on.
There’s a moment of identity-shattering horror the first time you see yourself through the eyes of a stranger. I recognized the woman on the screen as me, but she felt like someone else. Like someone wearing a mask of my skin. I tried to squirm. It was no use.
On the side of the page, there was one name occupying the chat room. Stephan.
“I’ve wanted to be inside you since the moment I saw your face, Nicole. It’s a strange sensation to split myself in this way; part of me in you, part of me in me. But it’s so warm in you. So young and smooth.”
“My friends are coming to watch you now. Well, watch us.”
The chatroom began to fill. Aside from Stephan, none of the accounts had names. They were random strings of letters and numbers. The terror already ravaging me grew another growling, snapping head. Fake real names would have brought some level of comfort. Of humanity. This was entirely anonymous. Entirely alien.
I didn’t recognize any of the words being typed within the room. I could tell most of it was Russian, but there was some of what looked like German and maybe Romanian or Hungarian. It didn’t matter. My mouth was opening and I was conversing with these people in their languages.
I rose from the chair and was walked back to the kitchen. I opened the freezer, removed the trays of ice, and went back to the computer. I set down the trays and stripped naked.
The chat activity picked up.
I picked up an ice cube and brought my mouth close to the camera and microphone embedded in the monitor. I inserted the ice and closed my teeth around it. The cube splintered into shards. A pang of discomfort shot through my jaw. The ice had been rock hard.
Over and over I masticated the remains of the cube until nothing remained but slushy water. It dribbled down my chin onto my chest. I was shivering.
I repeated the process until the ice cube trays were empty. On the last cube, I felt a filling in my molar crack and fall out. Chewing the frozen shards with that tooth made me want to shout with pain, but my body wouldn’t allow it. All it would do was what the thing in my head – that piece of Stephan – told it to.
Days went by. Weeks. Months. Stephan controlled my every movement. He forced me to perform on my regular cam site for donations in the early evenings. After, we moved on to the fetish one for his own sick entertainment.
and the entertainment of my friends nicole
tell them about what we do now
I am now known in some fetish circles as Elsa. It’s a reference to the movie Frozen. I perform for men with ice. These last months have been torturous, not only because of my stolen autonomy, but because of the physical pain.
The remains of my teeth are loose shards of enamel protruding from the puffy, bloody pulp of my gums. Each attempt to bite down on ice sends convulsive waves of pain through me; waves that, to any other person, would send them sobbing to the hospital for some kind of relief.
I get no relief. chewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchewchew I get no respite. Stephan forces me to watch my videos after the sessions have ended. He has me edit the recordings to amplify the sound of crunching. He tells me it’s what people love most. The tactility. The “stim.” My nightly performances now have close to twenty-thousand viewers from all over the world. I assume Stephan receives the donations.
if only you could hear it through our ears nicole
if only you could
Last night, instead of chewing my last ice cube, Stephan had me bite off my left pinky finger. I started right below the nail and worked my way down, knuckle by knuckle, until I reached my hand. The pain was indescribable. The crunch was sickening. Blood poured down my mouth and chunks of bone from my finger embedded themselves in the root-filled holes where my molars once stood.
The viewership was never higher.
That’s likely the reason why I’m being allowed to tell this story. Not just for him to brag, but because he won’t be able to brag through me for much longer.
Throughout the course of my writing this, he’s traced my fingers around my front teeth, sometimes nibbling, sometimes forcing an incisor under a nail bed. Always hurting, but never biting. I assume that’s for later. And I assume I won’t be able to type anything again in nine days. As for what happens after that, only Stephan knows. I am powerless.
smart girl nicole
smart and warm and smooth and young
such a good little elsa