Page 95 of Horror and Chill

The chat blows up.

JasonWasHere:YES YES EXACTLY

DaddyVoid:Wiggle that ass, baby.

SoftlySadist:Spit on the floor and crawl in it.

I snort, straightening. “You’re insane.” My black lips pull into a grin, anyway. “But I love you for it.”

I grab the vintage phone prop from the nightstand I stole from my shoot with Chad and drag the cord across my body. “Mmm, hello? Yeah, I’ve been bad,” I say into the receiver, lowering my voice to a purr. “Are you gonna punish me?”

CreepCreepCreep:Bite the cord.

CasketCase:Choke yourself with it.

Heat spikes through me. Not because I want them. Because they wantme.

I loop the cord around my throat, tug until it digs into my skin. My voice comes out strangled when I moan into the receiver. “Yes. Harder. Please.”

The chat scrolls so fast it’s a blur.

ThroatCandy:Put on a mask and ride the chair.

PurpleTights:Say you’re ours.

Ghostface69:Call me father while you choke

My throat dries. That one hits too close. But I smile through it, swallowing the shiver.

“Alright, alright,” I say, dropping the phone. “You’re greedy tonight.”

My gray braids slide forward when I straddle the chair, pulling a Jason mask down over my face. The red backdrop flickers in the candlelight as I grind against the seat, the Pleasers digging into the rug.

“You like that, you little sickos?” My voice is muffled under the mask, but the chat lights up like fireworks.

Ghostface69:FUCK YES!

BloodPetal:Ride it harder.

PurpleTights:Scream for us.

I freeze for a second, because PurpleTights, of all goddamn names, is in the chat and keeps commenting. My stomach flips. Not a random username. Not tonight. I know that handle. Heat runs right through me, a stupid, dangerous warmth that has nothing to do with the camera and everything to do with them.It’s like being watched through a window you left open on purpose. My pulse picks up. My breath goes shallow. My fingers curl on the edge of the chair without meaning to.

It should make me want to run. It should make me panic. Instead, it turns me on in a raw, ridiculous way. The knowing that they’re here, waiting for me to unravel. The idea makes my skin slick.

I moan, low and needy, because the cameras and the chat and the horror-of-it-all blur into one thing: them.

I rock harder. The chat floods with emojis and caps. I come like a fist to the chest, loud and ugly and glorious. The sound I make is half animal, half human. The chat erupts, a thousand little fires popping all at once. I ride it out until my legs give and my breath stutters back into something that looks like normal.

Hands shaking, I yank the mask off and laugh. “Show’s over, horrors,” I tell the camera, spreading my palms like a trickster. “You’ll get your next fix soon.” I let the grin sit there for a second, let them keep wanting, then I click the button.

Red light goes dead.

My heart finally slows, pulse kicking down like I just ran. I stand, knees wobbling, and pad down the hall to my bedroom. I pull out a weekender bag from under my bed and start getting ready for this adventure.

Jeans, hoodie, socks—shit I can shove into the bag without thinking. I jam a knife in, just in case, tucking it down under the straps. A change of underwear—plain black, practical; pretty’s a joke when we’re doing this.

Before I zip the bag shut, I thumb a text.