“Nothing really happened. We kissed. And he was hard. I haven’t … you know … it’s been a long time since I’ve kissed anyone. That’s all. It was nice.”
“Are you attracted to him?”
“Yes. He’s hot. And there was this brief moment—like when we first made eye contact—it was like a spark.”
“A spark?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know. That part is kind of fuzzy, because then I went all Xena Warrior Princess on his ass.” I grin, forgetting for a brief moment that he can’t see me.
“So what ended up happening?”
“We were kissing, on the floor, and I was doing good—not thinking about murder or death or anything. But then he touched me on my breast, and it was such a shock—so strange for me, just because no one has ever touched me there before. It broke the moment, and I could feel myself changing, could feel it coming …”
“What did you do, Deanna?”
“I told him to leave. Pushed him.”
“And he did?”
“Yeah. I think he was a little confused.”
“Why did you want him to leave?”
“Because I didn’t want to hurt him. Not that I could have. Since I’m so weak and pathetic.”
“This is a good step, Deanna. You had the chance to keep him there, to wait until your urges got the best of you, but you didn’t. You told him to leave.”
“That’s stupid. I always try to not hurt people. That’s why I’m locked away in this shithole to begin with!”
“But Deanna, you lock yourself up because you don’t trust yourself to control your urges. Today, in a sense, you did control your urges. When you told him to leave.”
I don’t say anything in response. I don’t tell him that I laid in bed for an hour after Jeremy left, systematically planning a way to lure him back inside and do a proper job of extinguishing his life. Derek is proud of me. It’s a rare moment, and I don’t want to spoil it.
CHAPTER 29: RalphMA35
PEDOPHILIA: Defined as a psychiatric disorder typically characterized by a primary or exclusive sexual interest toward prepubescent children, pedophilia involves feelings the individual has either acted on or which cause distress or interpersonal difficulty.6 The experience of sexual abuse as a child was previously thought to be a strong risk factor, but research does not show a casual relationship, as the vast majority of sexually abused children do not grow up to be adult offenders, nor do the majority of adult offenders report childhood sexual abuse. Offenders are more likely to be relatives or acquaintances of their victim than strangers.7
My finger moves on the mouse pad, hovering above the “block” button that all our chat rooms feature. I’m torn. I have blocked clients before—sometimes you’ll get an ass**le, sometimes you’ll get a stalker, and once someone recognized me from high school. But this block is one I am having trouble with. During the time of my indecision, the button disappears, and my software loads the new screen. I am now in a private chat, and the object of my indecision sits in front of me. Damn.
RalphMA35: hey bb
I smile brightly. “Hey Ralph.”
RalphMA35: you know what I want, right?
I nod, moving to the side of the bed, out of the camera’s view, and change into the outfit he has requested the last three times: a pink boa, cheap plastic crown, and pink silk gloves. Freak-a-zoid.
Later, I take another long, depressed shower, in which I try to figure out what to do about Ralph. The man is disturbed, wanting to f**k me, wanting me to squirm and moan and tell him it’s too big. He has an obsession with punishment, wanting to ‘fuck the bad out of me’ and ‘take my tight little hole ‘til I learn to behave.’ The worst was when he got on his cam, when the typing stopped and the speaking began. His tone was guttural, excited. Evil. Every time he called me ‘Annie’ I cringed inside. He is definitely blocking material—the worst type of client, one that throws me into a sea of depression after every session. I have no doubt that Annie is real. That somewhere, she is a sitting duck for this sick f**k. What I can’t figure out is if I am feeding his evil or satisfying it. If I am protecting her or endangering her further.
I come to a decision and turn off the water, stopping the pathetic, tepid flow. I dry off, dress in my pajamas, and log back online, looking for HackOffMyBigCock.
CHAPTER 30: HackOffMyBigCock
HackOffMyBigCock: what’s up sexy?
“I need to talk to you. Can I call you?”
HackOffMyBigCock: let’s move to Skype. I’ll hit u up there in 5
“Great. Thanks.”
One ridiculous invasion of privacy that Cams.com affords us models is the IP addresses of any client who enters our private or free chats. I didn’t write down the IP address of Ralph, but I do have a key logger program installed on my computer that takes a screenshot of my screen every thirty seconds. I log into the software and find the screenshots from earlier, RalphMA35’s IP address displayed clearly in the lower left section of the screen. I jot it on a sticky note and log into Skype. Mike is already there, waiting for me.
“What’cha got for me?” His voice comes through clearly, though he had turned off the camera.
“I need you to trace an IP address.”
“You want just a location—address?”
“I want everything you can get me.”
“Everything is a lot. You sure you want—”
“Everything. I’ll have more questions for you once I get that info.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“Two hundred bucks. And an anal show—twenty minutes.”
“How about three hundred and no anal? You know I hate that shit.”
He laughs, the mike distorting the sound. “That’s why I’m asking for it. Come on. You can choose the toy. Twenty minutes and two hundred bucks.”
“Ten minutes. You know I can get you off in that time period.”
“Ouch. But you have a point.” He pauses, and I wait, fighting the urge to bite my nails. “Okay. Email me the IP, and I’ll send you the info later tonight.”
I smile. “You’re the best.”
“I try. Night baby.”
“Night Mike.”
Mike is as good as promised. Within two hours I have a name, address, social security number and Ralph’s last two tax returns. I also have a complete dossier on the man, including employment records, medical reports, and a complete background check. I grab an apple from the kitchen and settle in to read the information.