Something's different.

I wake up to the beeping of my 7:30 alarm feeling like I slept for a year.

Reaching for my phone to shut off the sound, I sit up and stretch deeply. This is the reason I fell into my schedule of doing my Omegle shows on Sunday nights: I always sleep great after them, and it makes Monday a breeze. Hopping out of bed, I put on my glasses and head for the kitchen, not bothering to dress any further. Perks of living alone.

Breakfast is coffee from my Keurig and cornflakes with banana. Bathroom, toothbrush, back to the bedroom for makeup. I don't wear much—concealer, natural lipstick, a little black eyeliner. To accessorize, my silver chain necklace with the big blue agate pendant, statement but not too ostentatious, I think. Turning to my closet, I frown over my small shoe collection for a moment before deciding on something a little special today: my black stilettos with the pointy toes, the ones I've always thought could serve equally well as office formal or slutty-elegant.

Turning to the full-length mounted on the door, I survey the look. I might be an anxious exhibitionist, but it's not because I'm ashamed of my body, far from it. While I was a bit gangly as a teenager, and felt it, I was blessed with a belated visit from the hormone fairy near the end of senior year, and she seemed determined to make up for the delay. At five-three without the heels, I'm not hugely stacked, but my firm C-cups and softly flared hips go well with my slender limbs, and I have an easy time keeping in shape with a couple visits to the gym each week. My once mousy brown hair turned out to just need a little extra TLC, blossoming into its thick, glossy state with a conditioner upgrade, and while I'm still a little on the pale side, my teenage acne is just a bad memory now. One sight that makes me especially happy is that of the freshly trimmed landing strip leading down toward my plump outer lips. I always shave on Sundays, to look my best for my audience.

Putting on a sultry look, I strike a couple of poses, legs apart and hand on hip. "Fuck, I'm hot," I find myself saying. "Yes I am." Turning around to thrust my butt toward the mirror, I lay a slap on it, the sting drawing a soft gasp from my lungs. That's a little strange—I'm not above some mirror narcissism, but I'm usually a little more chill about it. But hey, apparently I'm feeling myself today. Shrugging, I grab my work bag, toss my phone inside, and head for the apartment door.

As I reach for the knob, it suddenly occurs to me that I still haven't put on any actual clothes.

I stop, my hand hovering awkwardly halfway toward the door. Hang on.... Something doesn't feel quite right.

I look down at myself. Sure enough, there I am, standing in my living room about to walk out of my apartment, naked except for my glasses, necklace, and shoes. That's...weird. Sure, I can be absentminded sometimes, but not usually enough to do something like forgetting to get dressed before leaving for work.

Slowly, I turn back towards my bedroom door. Something's still not adding up. It's like some cable in my brain has been disconnected. I'm standing here, hovering in between the bedroom and the front door, and there's this voice in my head that wants to know what the hell I'm doing, that's telling me to quit acting crazy, go back, and get dressed properly. That I can't go outside like this, obviously, why would I even be thinking about it? But although I can hear that voice, the voice of my rational brain, clear and reasonable as ever, somehow the things it's saying just aren't reaching the places they need to go to actually make me obey. Like someone's redirected that connection to a different part of my brain entirely. And I know exactly which part that is: the part that tells me to get naked and jill off on video calls with strangers every Sunday night. The part that thinks it would be an absolutely swell idea to turn around again and walk out the front door right now, just like this. To feel the fresh air and sun on my bare skin. To let everyone who passes by, everyone at the office, see me in all my naked glory, and not give a flying fuck what anyone thinks about it.

The part that, I suddenly realize, has been in charge all morning.

A frown pulls at my lips. This is...this is...what? The rational voice, the one that should be in control, is starting to panic. This is insane, that's what it is, something's clearly wrong with me, and I need to stop, right now, before I do anything really crazy. But somehow, even though I know I should be freaked out, I just can't manage it. Just like its urgent warnings to put on some fucking clothes before going outside, rational brain's alerts about something being very wrong just aren't getting where they need to go. All that's going through are horny brain's confirmations that this is all very, very right and all stations should proceed full speed ahead.

I turn back around, open the front door, and step outside.