Morgan’s Point of View
The mont my car door closes, I burst into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that makes my stomach hurt and tears stream down my face. I pound the steering wheel, gasping for breath between fits of hysterics.
“Oh my God!” I wheeze, barely able to see the road through my tears. “His face! His precious little face when I said I wasn’t asking to be in a relationship!”
I accelerate down the winding driveway, my laughter echoing inside the rcedes. The security gate opens automatically as I approach, and I’m still cackling as I rge onto the main road.
“The absolute devastation!” I gasp, wiping mascara from under my eyes. “He looked like I’d kicked his puppy! And he just told
he wasn’t ready for a relationship!”
n are so predictable. Tell them you want them, they run. Tell them you don’t, and suddenly, they’re desperate for your approval. Adam is no different, despite his sensitive facade.
And Adam is falling beautifully.
I pull my car into a nondescript strip mall about five minutes from my house, parking in front of a door marked “Digital Solutions.” The sign is intentionally vague. I paid extra for that touch of anonymity. No one ever questions what happens behind this door, which is exactly how I want it.
The key slides into the lock with a satisfying click. As I step inside and flip the switch, the room blooms to life, dozens of monitors lining the walls, each displaying a different angle of my ho. The familiar blue glow bathes my face as I settle into the ergonomic chair at the central desk, my sanctuary.
I’ve had these caras installed for months, long before Adam ever stepped foot in my house. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
There he is.
My breath catches as I spot him on the kitchen monitor, sleeves rolled up as he ticulously trims fat from a roast. His movents are so precise, so careful. I zoom in, watching his hands work the knife with unexpected skill. He’s humming sothing to himself, completely unaware of my gaze.
I reach out, fingers tracing his outline on the screen.
“Look at you,” I whisper, my voice echoing in the empty room. “Playing house so beautifully.”
I switch to another cara angle, this one capturing him from above, highlighting the concentration on his face. Sothing warm unfurls in my chest as I watch him work. This is so much better than watching through my phone. Here, I can see everything, control everything.
I pull up the bedroom feed, rewinding to earlier to see how he looked sprawled across my sheets this morning, vulnerable and confused. The marks I left on his skin, my marks, visible even through the cara’s lens.
“You’re mine now,” I murmur, tapping commands to cycle through more cara angles. “You just don’t know it yet.”
I check the bathroom cara, the one hidden in the vent above the shower. He hasn’t discovered any of them yet. Not the one in his bedroom lamp, not the ones in the kitchen fixtures, not even the tiny one embedded in the living room bookshelf.
In his defense, these caras weren’t cheap.
I laugh softly, leaning back in my chair. After last night, he’ll trust
even more. Sex is such a powerful tool for creating false intimacy. And Adam, sweet Adam, with his romantic heart and desperate need to be needed, he’s so perfect for this.
I pull up the feed with Adam in the kitchen. My fingers trace his image on the screen, and I feel that familiar warmth spreading through my chest. It’s almost funny how it all happened, how I found him after all this ti.
Four years ago, Lana was just another fresh-faced newcor to the industry. Pretty enough, I suppose, and she took direction well. We’d worked together a handful of tis, and I found her tolerable compared to most of the vapid little things that cycled through the studios. She was an easy scene partner, knew her angles, hit her marks, didn’t complain about the harder positions.
God, but she could whine. Every ti we had downti between takes, she’d drone on and on about her boyfriend, Leo. How he was annoying, how he was manipulative, how he was using her to advance his own career. The usual industry drama that I’d heard a thousand tis before.
Then one day, she bounced onto set practically glowing. I rember thinking she must have scored so premium pharmaceuticals, but no, she was just... happy. Genuinely happy in a way I’d never seen her.
“You seem different,” I said during our makeup session.
Her face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “I ran into my high school sweetheart! Can you believe it? After all these years!”
I nodded politely, expecting the usual vapid story about rekindled passion. But sothing in her voice caught my attention. The way she spoke about this man, Adam, was different from how she’d talked about Leo or her other ex-boyfriend.
“He cooks for ,” she said, her voice softening. “Real food, not takeout. He makes these little pasta dishes with all these fun little ingredients. And when I co ho from shoots, he runs
a bath and doesn’t even try to fuck . He just... takes care of .”
I rember feeling sothing shift inside
as she spoke. A strange, hollow ache I couldn’t quite identify.
“And he looks at
like I’m the only woman in the world,” she continued, oblivious to my growing discomfort. “Like what I do for a living doesn’t even matter.”
Sothing changed in
that day.
I’d been in this industry since I turned eighteen, fucked more n than I could count. Taken so many dicks I’d need a spreadsheet to keep track. And for what? Money? Fa? The hollow validation that cos from being desired by strangers?
But listening to Lana talk about this Adam, sothing splintered inside . I started making excuses to hear more about him. “How’s that boyfriend of yours?” I’d ask casually between scenes, pretending I was just making conversation when really I was collecting every detail like precious gems.
The first ti I tried his cooking was when Lana brought those little Tupperware containers to set. She had to much and asked if I wanted so. Nothing fancy, just homade pasta with a simple sauce and these ridiculous chocolate chip cookies that weren’t even that spectacular. The pasta was slightly overcooked, the sauce under-seasoned. But when I opened that container, I found a stupid little smiley face drawn in the sauce on top.
A fucking smiley face. For her.
And I realized what I was tasting wasn’t just food. It was care. Actual, genuine care. The kind I’d never experienced in my entire life.
My parents were hardly around. No siblings. My relationships had always been transactional. I fuck you, you give
status. I pretend to care about your boring stories, you buy
expensive gifts. I let you parade
around like a trophy, you advance my career.
But this... this was different. This man-made food with little smiles because he loved soone. He ran baths without expecting sex in return. He looked at Lana, fucking bimbo Lana of all people like she hung the moon.
And I felt jealous.
I deserved that. I deserved soone who would look at
that way. Who would draw stupid fucking smiley faces for . Who would care about
beyond what my body could do for them?
I deserved Adam.
So then Lana started talking about Adam’s writing. I didn’t care at first, just nodded along like I always did when she rambled. But then she ntioned how he wrote these little stories and shared them online.
“He’s actually really talented,” she gushed one day between scenes. “He writes this Pokemon fan fiction that has this small little following online.”
I nearly laughed in her face. A grown man writing Pokemon stories? It sounded pathetic. But sothing in the way her eyes lit up when she talked about it made
pause.
“He puts so much ti and effort into stories,” she continued, completely oblivious to my internal eye-rolling. “There’s this one called ‘Trainer’s Pet’ that has thousands of views. It’s about this guy who keeps getting... well, dominated by different gym leaders.”
That caught my attention. I rember raising an eyebrow, suddenly more interested. “Dominated how?”
Lana actually blushed. “You know... sexually. Against his will, technically, but it’s fiction, so...” She shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “I know it sounds weird, but there’s sothing really vulnerable about it. Like he’s working through sothing.”
That night, I found myself searching for his story. ‘Trainer’s Pet’ wasn’t hard to locate, it had quite the following on so fanfiction site. I settled in with a glass of wine, expecting to mock this man-child’s juvenile fantasies.
Three hours later, I was still reading.
It wasn’t Shakespeare, obviously. The prose was simple, occasionally clumsy. But there was sothing raw and honest beneath the surface. This man, hiding behind a Pokemon facade, was exploring his deepest desires, to be controlled, to be wanted so desperately that won would take him by force. Each gym leader was different, but they all wanted him with an obsessive hunger that leapt off the page.
I recognized sothing of myself in those fictional won.
“Fuck,” I whispered to my empty bedroom. “This is who Adam really is.”
The next day, I created a Discord account: RedheadloverX. It wasn’t subtle, but n rarely notice the obvious. I joined the server where he posted updates and discussed his stories with fans. He thought I was one of the boys.
It took patience, weeks of careful comnts, thoughtful analysis of his thes, gentle probing questions about his inspirations. But eventually, he noticed . Started responding directly to my comnts, even DMing
to thank
for my insights.
“No one’s ever understood my work like you do,” he wrote one night. “Not even my girlfriend.”
That was the mont. Sitting there in the blue glow of my computer screen, reading those words, I felt sothing crack open deep within . A perfect, ordinary man who just wanted to be understood, to be seen for who he really was.
I beca his confidant. Not just any confidant, his digital therapist. Every night, like clockwork, Adam would ssage RedheadloverX, pouring out thoughts he’d never dare voice aloud. His insecurities about Lana’s career, his deepest fantasies, his childhood traumas, all of it flowed to
through that glowing screen.
“I’ve never told anyone this stuff before,” he typed one night after sharing a particularly vulnerable story about his college years. “You’re really such a nice friend to let
dump all this on you.”
Sothing electric shot through
when I read those words. I was getting pieces of him that she’d never touch. Secret fragnts of his soul that belonged only to .
The more he shared, the more I craved. I found myself rushing ho from shoots, ignoring industry parties, just to be there when his userna appeared online. His ssages beca the highlight of my existence.
It wasn’t all one sided though. But what could I tell him, so i invented a fake little life to keep him updated on. He was so great about rembering boring things I made up like doctors appointnts or vacations.
It should have been pathetic, , Morgan Quinn, who’d had celebrities begging for my attention, obsessing over so average guy who wrote dumb stories and made pasta with smiley faces. But there was sothing so pure about Adam, so untainted by the world I’d inhabited for so long.
He started sending
drafts of stories he was too embarrassed to publish. Dark, twisted tales where the protagonist, always a thinly veiled version of himself, would watch his beloved being taken by stronger, more dominant n. The writing was raw, almost painful in its honesty.
“I’m terrified to tell bae about these thoughts,” he confessed one night. “What kind of man fantasizes about his girlfriend with other n?”
I wanted to reach through the screen and hold him. Tell him I understood. That his desires weren’t shaful but beautiful in their vulnerability.
Instead I did the friendly thing, I typed: “Have you considered she might understand? Maybe even enjoy exploring this with you?”
“No way,” ca his imdiate response. “She’s already insecure about her job. If she knew I sotis... get turned on by the porn of her I promised not to watch, she’d think I’m a freak.”
That’s when I knew. This beautiful, broken man needed soone who could embrace all of him, darkness and light. Soone who wouldn’t judge his fantasies but celebrate them. Soone like .
Three months ago, I made my decision.
“I’m going to take him,” I whispered to my laptop. “I’m going to make Adam mine.”
Not just because I wanted him, though God knows I did, but because I deserved him. Because he deserved soone who could see all of him and still want him. Because Lana was too simple, too basic to appreciate the complexity of the man she’d stumbled into.
I zoom in on Adam, watching his hands work the knife with precision as he chops carrots for the roast. There’s sothing hypnotic about the rhythmic movent, the careful attention he pays to each slice. So ordinary, so dostic.
A delicious heat blooms between my thighs.
“Look at you,” I whisper to the screen, trailing my fingers across his digital image. “Playing house so perfectly for .”
There’s sothing intensely arousing about watching him perform this mundane task in my kitchen, preparing food specifically for . Not for Lana, not for anyone else. For . After what we did last night after I claid him so thoroughly on that couch and in my bed.
I shift in my chair, pressing my thighs together as the mory of his desperation floods back. The way he clutched at , begged , surrendered completely. His need was primal, uncontrolled, nothing like the careful restraint he shows now, thodically preparing my dinner.
My hand slides beneath my skirt almost of its own volition. I’m not wearing underwear, haven’t since this morning when I left them deliberately in the bathroom for him to find. My fingers find slick heat as I watch him through the cara.
“That’s right, make it perfect for ,” I murmur, circling my clit slowly.
A thought flickers through my mind, wicked and thrilling. I stopped taking my birth control pills a couple of weeks ago, right before our scene together. Last night, I let him finish inside
repeatedly, felt his warm release flooding my unprotected womb. The possibility that he might have impregnated
sends an unexpected jolt of pleasure through my body.
Adam, forever mine through the most primal bond possible.
On-screen, he pauses his chopping to check sothing on his phone. I zoom in further and see he’s watching a cooking tutorial, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to match the chef’s technique. So earnest, so dedicated to pleasing .
“Such a good boy,” I whisper, my fingers moving faster now.
Suddenly as he focuses harder on the phone the knife cuts his index finger clean off from his hand. Blood imdiately pools on the cutting board, bright crimson against the white carrots. His face looks full of fear and panic.
“What the fuck?”
Morgan when she see's it:
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