I didn't belong there.
I'd never joined an adult chat site before. I didn't even know why I'd signed up. Boredom? Loneliness? Some dull ache I couldn't name pulsing beneath my skin? No one knew. Not my friends, not my family. It was mine--something secret and shameful I kept hidden like a wound. At first, I just read. Stories. Most were crude. A few were sick. But some... some made me clench my thighs.
Then I opened the chatrooms.
I didn't know what I expected--connection, maybe--but what I found was hunger. Men who typed like they were licking their lips. Women who either fed on it or fled. I lingered somewhere in the middle. Fascinated. Disgusted. Always coming back.
That night, I was curled on my couch in a stretched-out t-shirt and worn boyshorts, legs tucked under me, screen glowing like an open door. I wasn't really paying attention--until he messaged me.
He was calm. Funny. His words slid between friendly and flirty, not too much but just enough to make my pulse skip. I should've known better, should've ignored him. But I answered. And when he asked me to follow him to private chat, I did.
Why?
Maybe I was curious. Maybe I was tired of pretending I wasn't.
He asked questions. Gentle, at first. Innocent. Then sharper. Had I ever been touched there? Had I touched myself while thinking of being watched? His words made my skin prickle, but I didn't leave. I answered, slowly. Stiffly. Like peeling off clothes I didn't mean to take off.
He told me I had no idea who I was yet. That I was afraid of my own desires. That I needed to be pushed.
And then he typed it.
"Touch yourself."
I stared at the screen, frozen. My throat tightened. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I wasn't sure.
"Why not? It's just us. No one's watching."
But what if someone was?
I glanced at the dark windows. I lived alone. The place was silent but for my own breath, shallow now, uneven. My heart knocked hard against my ribs.
Still, I didn't leave. My hand drifted downward, hesitating at the hem of my shirt. I cupped myself over my panties, tentative, curious. I felt heat. Dampness. Shame bloomed like a bruise in my chest.
What was I doing?
But But I kept going.
Okay, I typed with trembling fingers.
"Take them off."
"No," I whispered aloud, almost too quietly to hear. I typed it, too. My hands shook.
"Then slide your hand inside."
Something about that phrasing... inside. My stomach tightened. My face flushed. I hesitated. Then, slowly, carefully, I obeyed. The warmth of my own skin startled me. I slipped a finger between slick folds, unsure how to move, unsure if I even wanted to do this--or just needed to see if I could.
It felt good. Wrong, but good. My legs parted slightly on instinct.
Then came his next message.
"Go to the window."
I pulled my hand away like it had been burned. What? I typed.
"For the thrill. Trust me."
No. No, I couldn't. That was different. That was real.
I just stared at the words, my breath shallow, heart pounding. Why did part of me want to do it?
I rose slowly. Found my hoodie. Pulled it over my head and let it hang low, brushing my thighs. My hands felt useless, shaky. My bare legs felt exposed, wrong. But I walked to the window anyway.
I cracked the curtain.
The street outside was half-lit in amber streetlamp haze. Across the way, a few men stood outside the bar, laughing, smoking, shadows flickering across their faces. I couldn't tell if they could see me. I couldn't tell if I wanted them to.
My fingers hovered again at the hem of the hoodie.
"Touch yourself," he wrote.
My knees wobbled. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
Still, I obeyed.
I reached under the hoodie. Slid my hand past my panties. Found myself again--wet, hotter than before. My breath hitched. I stroked slowly, barely moving, afraid any sound or light or twitch would draw eyes.
The danger made it unbearable.
And then I saw him.
A man on the sidewalk. He wasn't talking. He wasn't moving. Just standing. Watching. His cigarette burned a thin line of orange between two fingers.
I panicked.
My hand stopped--but only for a second. My body refused to let go. I couldn't stop now. I needed it. A desperate heat surged forward like a current I couldn't fight. My hand moved faster, harder. I clung to the window frame to keep from falling.
He was still there.
Still watching.
Still smirking.
And then I shattered.
The orgasm hit me like a wave crashing through a paper wall. I gasped--loud, too loud--and dropped to the floor, legs spread, thighs sticky. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just lay there, heart pounding, eyes wide, the curtain still half-open.
I wasn't sure how long I stayed like that.
The next evening, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
All day, it haunted me--how alive I'd felt, how close I'd come to losing myself. The way fear and desire tangled together inside me like something feral. I told myself it was a mistake. A one-time thing. Something to forget.
But I didn't forget.
By late afternoon, my stomach was tight with something I couldn't name. Hunger, maybe. Shame. A sick need. I kept checking the clock. Kept glancing at my laptop. By nightfall, I was trembling.
And I logged back in.
This time, I didn't bother pretending I wasn't prepared. I was already wearing my thinnest camisole, the one that clung to me like a second skin, and a pair of soft, pale panties. I sat down, hands cold on the keys, and waited.
His name appeared.
My heart thudded. My mouth went dry. He typed like nothing had happened last night, like I hadn't come apart at the window for the world to see. I answered him, trying to sound casual, but my fingers shook. The chat picked up like we were old friends, and just like before, the teasing edged into something darker.
"You proved something to yourself," he wrote. "You're braver than you thought. Ready to go further?"
I stared at the message, stomach twisting. I should've said no. I should've shut the laptop and walked away. But I didn't.
What now? I typed, trying to sound unfazed.
"Start by touching yourself again."
My breath hitched. My thighs clenched.
I slid my hand down. Pressed against myself through the thin cotton. I was already wet. Too wet. I bit down on a moan and closed my eyes. My fingers moved slowly, tentatively. Not because he told me to. That's what I told myself. I did it because I needed it.
Then his next message came.
"Take off your panties."
I hesitated.
I wasn't ready. Not to be that exposed, not yet. My cheeks burned. My skin prickled like I was being watched even though the room was empty. Still, But I kept going.
No, I typed--but this time it felt like part of a game. I slipped my hand beneath the fabric instead, finding the slick heat there with a gasp I couldn't contain.
The next message blinked to life: "Go to the window."
My entire body stiffened. Again?
I didn't move right away. My hand stilled between my legs. My heart pounded so loud I swore it echoed through the room.
I rose slowly. Pulled my hoodie over the camisole but left the panties in place. Each step toward the window felt heavier than the last. When I reached the curtain, I stopped, afraid. Excited. Dreading how much I wanted this.
Outside, the street was dim. A sickly neon sign bathed the sidewalk in pink and green. Men stood in small clusters, smoking. Laughing.
And I stood there, just a pane of glass between us.
"Touch yourself," he said. "But this time, don't look away."
I pressed my palm to the cold window. My other hand trembled as it found its way down again. I slipped past the waistband of my panties, bare fingers sliding over soaked skin.
The window was ice. My sex was fire. The contrast made me dizzy.
I started to move--slowly, quietly. My breaths fogged the glass. My forehead pressed against it, sweat breaking across my skin.
And then I saw them.
Three men. Faces turned. Staring.
One elbowed the other. Another squinted. I knew the moment they saw. Their expressions changed--slow recognition, then something darker. Hunger. Interest.
I froze.
My hand stopped moving, my breath locked in my throat.
But I didn't pull away.
Something inside me cracked open. I wanted them to see. I hated myself for it. I wanted to close the curtain--and I wanted to stay right there and fall apart for them.
My fingers moved again. Slower. Deeper.
I didn't look away.
Their eyes were on me. Their mouths slightly open. They were transfixed. And I... I was losing control.
My hips began to grind against my hand. My thighs trembled. I could hear the wet sounds now, obscene in the quiet.
And still--they watched.
I came with a gasp I couldn't stifle. My body shuddered. My legs buckled. Wetness flooded through me as I collapsed, shaking, onto the floor.
I didn't close the curtain.
I didn't even move.
I just lay there, dazed, trembling, stunned by what I had done--what I had become.
Eventually, I crawled back to the laptop, barely able to type.
Thank you. I'm done for tonight.
His reply was instant.
"Good girl. You were incredible."
But this time, I didn't type anything back.
Because I couldn't tell who I was anymore.
I couldn't focus all day.
Every email, every conversation at work blurred together beneath the weight of memory--of the window, the watchers, the rush. It had burned into me, a mix of shame and something darker. I told myself it had gone too far. That it was over.
But I was lying.
The second I stepped into my apartment, I kicked off my shoes, barely tasted dinner, and stripped down to my sleep shorts and a loose tee. My skin buzzed with anticipation. My fingers were cold. My thighs already tingled. I logged in.
He wasn't there.
I stared at the screen, heartbeat climbing with each second. My chest tightened. What if he didn't show? What if I'd gone too far? I should have felt relief. But all I felt was disappointment.
Then his name blinked to life.
I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath for hours.
"Eager tonight?" he typed.
Maybe, I answered, fingers trembling.
He didn't rush. He never did. That was the worst part--how slow he moved, like he knew I'd follow wherever he led. His words turned the screws, teasing and coaxing until I was standing at the window again, just like the night before.
The shadows outside stretched long across the pavement. The men outside the bar were back--smoking, laughing. Some of them looked up.
They remembered.
So did I.
I felt it in my chest, in my thighs, in the aching wet between my legs.
But before I could reach for myself, his message flashed:
"Look up."
My eyes flicked higher.
And froze.
