Harold fairly sang through the next day. He had tried to help someone. He felt like Olivia’s hero yet slightly dirty because of the circumstances of their meeting. The only other valiant effort he made in life lately was to try and lift the crushing existential horror at work by telling people jokes and acting crazy. Work crazy, not crazy crazy. Luckily he had memorized jokes in the major categories that humans found humerous and was always ready with a zinger about work, sex, or farting, when the time came.
“How are you doing Harold?” The question came from Peter the Dwarf. Of course no one called him this but he was in fact very short in stature, and named Peter, so the name fit in Harold’s mind.
“Oh fine thanks, just finishing up this work.”
“Coming to the party this weekend Harold? All the boys will be there.”
If by, “the boys,” Peter meant the psychopathic group of probable date-rapists that comprised the database sales division, then he would have liked to miss it.
“Yes, Sir, of course I am coming. I will bring a ham.”
Harold had picked a random food object and said it out loud. Now he had to actually bring a ham. Awkward goodbyes were made between boss and employee, both cheering the imminent awesomeness of said party. Harold knew enough to appear sincere during this conversation. It is funny how easily a person with no actual sentiment towards life can survive it with relative ease. This was, he guessed, because modern times rewarded the curtailing of sentiment for the fulfillment of duty. Even if the duty was as shallow, and pointless, as buying a shitload of stuff one didn’t need, it had to be performed. This party had to be performed. He would bring a ham.
Home. Food. Cam.
“Hello honey, how was your day?” It was a very 50’s housewife thing to say. In actuality she looked like a 50’s prom queen, dressed casually in a school sweater with a pleated skirt and tight, white, socks. He particularly liked her polished shoes, the ribbons in her hair and the diner backdrop. Nice touches to bring to an apparently cheap medium.
“Ok. New day, new room, hey?”
“Yeah, there are a bunch of rooms. They look nice but nothing works.”
She pushed the buttons of the dead jukebox behind her for emphasis. She looked like the kind of girl those prototypical rock songs were written for, sitting there in on her chrome and red vinyl stool by the counter. He did want to hold her hand. He wanted to do more than that.
“Well you look nice anyway, and you seem to work.”
“Yeah, too much probably”
She sat straight-backed and cross-legged on her stool at the counter, flipping through a vintage muscle magazine, chewing bubblegum and flipping her hair. The effect was annoying, yet alluring. Always playing the fantasy archetype, thought Harold. He didn’t like the connotation of her working too much. He knew what kind of work she did, and he wanted to forget that she was working right now.
They never talked about money as the days went on. He put increasing dollar amounts on her Patreon before contacting her, and she had never asked for more. She had never again asked for help, or shown him any more videos of her plight since the first time. Harry was scared to see more, as the first one had sort of turned him on, and he hated that side of his nature.
“So can I take you on a date?,” The words came out stilted. Whether in public or private Harry was a mess on the mic. He wished the internet had never abandoned the text message format. At least he could appear somewhat coherent in written form.
“Sure daddy where to you want to go?”
He hated when she said that. He knew who else she said that to.
“Just call me Harold please. I would like to go the beach with you, can you make that happen?”
He wanted to drop the pretenses of porn stereotypes. He just wanted to walk along a beach holding her hand. He was falling for a goddamn cam girl.
“I don’t know, do you have a VR rig?”
This question snapped him out of his beach fantasy and into a quick Amazon search. The mid range model was 500 dollars. Not too expensive for him. Especially when it offered the chance to be closer to her.
“I just bought one, what can we do until it gets here?”
“What do you want to do?” She asked parting her legs slightly.
Harold started to sweat. Why did he have to desecrate that which he loved? It was never fast with her though, they always talked as old friends as she slowly took off her clothes. Sometimes Harry felt as though he were talking to a hairdresser, as he recounted his day and she drew him further into conversation. Her interest did not seem feigned however, and the slow removal of clothing added clear impetus to the interaction.
“I want to do everything to you” he said in his monotonous self-conscious drone. A half-whispered desire.
“Well then tell me that again, with feeling.”
“What?”
“You just asked me to show you my pussy with the feeling of a checkout clerk asking for the number of bags a customer wants.”
“Well, I uh.”
“What would you do to me?”
“I would fuck the shit out of you.” This time he said it as though he meant it but it came out as a creepy snarl. A guttural directive from his primitive Neanderthal past.
“That’s a little better. Do you think you actually could?”
Again with the questions. What the fuck was she getting at? He started to feel impatient and she was still fully clothed.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean could you actually fuck the shit out of me? I am a tall drink of water Harold.” As she said this she stood up and looked down into the camera. Her strong thighs were apparent under the short skirt. He knew that they both lead up to something more infinitely more tantalizing, but she didn’t want to show him that right now.
“I mean these guys probably could,” she said turning her magazine towards the camera and flipping a couple of pages, but could you? Do you deserve me?”
Harold was suddenly aware that he had long since turned on his camera and she could see him as well on her screen. He was sitting in Areo office chair, white undershirt clammy with sweat, staring feverishly. His eyes had black rings under them and seemed to sink into his doughy face. His body did not look much better, and his thin arms did little to dissuade the overall impression that his flesh was made of warm cheese dripping down his rickety skeleton.
He looked at the pictures she was showing him. Men not muscular by current movie standards but covered with the gloss of nostalgia they looked strong and good. Tight haircuts showed off their angular faces as they looked toward a glorious American future, biceps at the ready to face the challenges ahead. That future that had never been quite realized, thought Harold and he could feel anger and anxiety rising in his chest.
What was she trying to prove by showing him this? He had been bullied by assholes like this his whole life, only they usually wore saggy pants or power ties. He lived in a shitty neighbourhood in Jersey, and worked in Manhattan. This meant that he was bullied by black people near home, and by white people at work. His daily experience was that of the races unifying briefly to direct disrespect ,and derision towards him. He had always responded by rounding his shoulders, lowering his head and walking faster. She seemed to sense this.
“You like those dummies? Well that says a lot about you I guess.” Harold said, mustering the only defiance he had left.
“What does it say about me Harold? Are you telling me that you don’t like physical beauty?” As she said this she arched her back so that her tightly buttoned school sweater strained against her body. Fuck those buttons, he mused silently.
“Some people are just lucky I guess” said Harold, the most unsymmetrical man in the world.
“This isn’t just luck Harold. I work hard to look pretty for you. You probably wouldn’t like me if I was fat and wore shitty clothes.”
He tried to imagine a fat, scrubby Olivia, and gave up quickly. She was too perfect to fit that mold.
“So you are saying that I need to work out?” Going to the gym had always terrified him as it was the unofficial headquarters of the people that made his daily life hell. Sociopaths with tight shirts, Starbucks coffees, stretch pants and carefully messed up hair. Constantly squinting to give the off the impression of the tough, no nonsense, white guy.
“Yes, I want you to work out for me. Get down and do some push-ups. Put the cam on you so I can tell you aren’t cheating” She said all of this with no hint of joking or sarcasm.
What game was this? He had looked at dominatrix porn before but it had never appealed to him. His lack of power in reality had made him gravitate towards scenarios where he felt in control. “The Maid” archetype, capitalist slut servant that she was, was probably his favourite character. But Olivia was changing the situation. He was being told what to do by a cam girl. He didn’t have to take this. He paid her to take her clothes off. That was the deal.
“I don’t like you like this” he mumbled, feeling trapped.
“Well maybe I don’t like you like this Harold, you don’t seem happy.”
He tried to smile and refute her but failed quickly and ended up with a leering snarl more creepy than a frown.
“Do you want this pussy Harold?” She said, uncrossing and crossing her legs for effect.
“Yeah…” The blood was draining from his brain. Thoughts came slowly.
“Well get down and work for it then you little fucking maggot.”
Wow, where was this coming from? He was suddenly terrified of her. This last statement tapped into a part of Harold however, one that he either didn’t know existed and had never paid attention to. The part that was willing to kill to survive. All of a sudden he found himself readjusting his cam and getting into a pushup stance on the floor. His frail arms would not support him for more than ten reps and he failed on the last one, collapsing face down. He already knew he was an insect; a stick insect at that. Why was she doing this?
When he sat back in his chair, breathing slightly faster, she had taken her sweater off. Her shirt was straining to do the job her sweater had given up on, but the collar was high and he could see nothing of value.
“Just rest now Harold, you are going to give me more in a little bit.”
“Yeah,” he tried to catch his breath, panting in the blue light from the screen.
“I mean what if we go to the beach, and you can’t protect me? I’m yours Harold. What are you going to do to keep me?”
Keep paying you money to talk to me, said a bitter voice inside his brain, but he saw the fantasy she was trying to create and didn’t want to abandon it just yet. One more set of pushups, one more piece of clothing. Now she had taken off her skirt. It seemed like an odd choice, didn’t people take their shirt off first? Harold could now see the corset that was cutting her waist and pushing down her fantastic ass. The old fashioned garters ran right down to white high socks ending in black square high-heel shoes. How long would she keep the shoes on?
Harold was having trouble paying attention after the third set. The totally unfamiliar act of exercising was making him feel floaty and ill. He looked like Kermit the Frog in a tanktop. His arms looked like bendy straws. He couldn’t do any more. Her shirt had come off and her resplendent cleavage strained against an ancient looking bra.
“One more set you little bitch.”
He didn’t like the way she was talking to him, but he didn’t care enough to protest and went down another time. When he came back up she had taken off her bra and was leaning back in her chair. Her breast moved lazily as she breathed and shifted. She seemed to know this because she kept on shifting around. Now she was looking down at the camera like queen Cleopatra may have looked at the victim of a public sacrifice. Gone was schoolgirl act, her face carried the pain and cold of winter locked behind a wall of will.
“Now it gets serious Harold.”
He couldn’t do another set he thought. Already his almost-useless arms were filled with blood, he felt like he had pulled both triceps, and they dangled weakly by his sides.
“One hundred sit ups, let’s go.”
The fuck. Why had she turned into his middle school PE teacher? What the fuck was all this for? Harold thought of saying these things but didn’t. He just stared into her flashing eyes and thought she looked like Storm from the X-Men. A Storm more beautiful than Halley Berry. He continued with this fantasy until he caught his breath, and then he got down on the floor again.
Around sit-up 50 Harold broke. Something about the pointlessness of the whole charade had gotten to him and he quit in a heap on the ground.
“Come on Harold you can do it.”
Gone was the hard voice of before. Her voice became softer, encouraging, pleading with him to continue. He lay on his back hating Olivia and not moving.
“Harold look at me.”
She was laying back in the chair slowly stroking her clit while pushing up both breast with her other forearm. Harold just stared as though trying to read a foreign language. His head was pounding and he felt sick but the image made him go on. He slowly finished the next 50 situps in short desperate fits of activity. The whole time her squeals of desire were piped into his wireless earbuds, as though he was fucking her with every situp. This was the weirdest pep talk he had ever heard. As he finished the last situp she climaxed, or at least she sounded and looked like she had, writhing around in her chair like an animal caught in a trap, holding onto her pussy for dear life.
Harold just watched in silence as he waited for the sick feeling to go away. He felt the same way in some sense except he hadn’t orgasmed. The screen image looked clearer however and even his tinnitus seemed to quiet slightly. He lay on the floor and waited for her to open her eyes and look back at him. Before she ever did though the screen went blank. Olivia never seemed to give him the exact ending he wanted.
Harold groaned in pain and went to bed. He was not sure if he liked where this road was headed.
(To be continued in Pt 3. Thanks for the upvotes)
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticstories/comments/5u9x04/the_cam_girl_pt_2