That you can be a good bitch.

You paint a picture in your mind’s eye. Though not exactly well-lit, the stage you’ve chosen is warmly illuminated by the haunting orange glow of a nearby street lamp, even in the shadow of the dumpster you’re hiding behind. The ambiance is just fine for your own off-colour purposes.

MalO was able to guess just how much a photo of his cock was likely to set you off, even this early on – but not just that, he was also canny enough to take one from between his legs, just as though you were right there, knelt before him, your face almost close enough to smell it… To taste it.

You want to show him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and past all pretences, just how much you want to be in that position… For him to put you in that position. In your place.

Ah, man… You really are kind of a freak, aren’t you?

With a great deal of care, you prop your phone up nearby, just above eye level – about where you imagine his moonlight orbs of a pair of eyes may be – facing slightly down, and you set a timer of forty seconds on the MalO app’s camera. Then, you set your plan into action.

You take position in view of the camera, your back to the dumpster, which (you really hope) will prevent any unexpected passers-by from seeing the smutty spectacle you’re about to make of yourself. You unbutton your shirt, remove your vest, and discard these in a crumpled heap in front of you. Thirty seconds.

You kick off your shoes easily, tossing these aside. You undo the top button of your trousers, unzip your fly, and shimmy them down to your ankles. You disentangle the left leg from your foot, affording you more freedom to manoeuvrer, and leave it unceremoniously spread on the ground beside you. Your legs are now exposed- like your torso- your lower half in a haphazard state of undress. Twenty seconds.

You kneel, your feet behind you, pointed slightly out in either direction. You tease the elastic of your underpants down, just slightly so, and a little more. Your stiff and straining little cock (it twitches, as the image of MalO’s monster tumescence once again flashes through your mind), and your coin-purse, are now tentatively- shyly- on display for all to see. You bring your hands up to your chest, curled forward in limp fists, giving your best impression of a puppy begging for scraps. You open your mouth, tongue hanging out limply; channelling the face you made in that very first selfie, that started this entire bizarre, depraved spiral. You let your eyes grow heavy, half-lidded, and tilt your head just slightly to the right, just so. This is it. This is the shot. Ten seconds.

Footsteps. Footsteps?

Definitely. Coming closer. Approaching the mouth of the alley.

You freeze. You don’t move a muscle, you don’t make a sound, and you don’t change a thing. Even if you gave up now, it’s too late to just throw on your clothes and conceal what you were doing – and any movement, any sound, could give you away…

Five seconds.

Your face is burning up, you don’t think you’ve felt this much shame and this much dread, so intensely, in your entire life. You can imagine whoever is coming, this stranger, deciding they’ll take a detour, on a whim, and rounding the corner, discovering you here – knelt behind a dumpster barely clothed, hard as diamonds, debasing yourself in this dingy alley. But you don’t take your eyes off the camera – you stay as you are, trying your best to silence your breathing, your heart thundering, and your lungs pleading for more air.

Two seconds. Whoever’s there is walking directly behind you, right on the other side of the dumpster.

One.