Make her play with herself

You type, your fingers clumsy on the keys: "Touch yourself."

She smiles, a slow, knowing curve of her lips that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Anything for you, {mc}." Her hands, with long, painted nails, slide down her stomach. The movement is fluid, practiced. She's done this a thousand times. Her eyes stay locked on the camera, a vacant, professional heat in them. This isn't pleasure, it's a service. She's your little whore for these next sweet moments.

You watch, the rational part of your brain screaming this is wrong, this is pathetic, this is a rented fantasy. But your body doesn't care. The heat in your gut intensifies. You unzip your jeans again, the sound swallowed by the quiet hum of the computer. Your hand finds its familiar rhythm, syncing with the motions on the screen. For a few minutes, it works. You're not {mc}, the tired father with a failing daughter and a worried wife. You're JohnDoe42, the anonymous client, the one in control.

Then she speaks, her breathy moans perfectly timed. "You like watching your little girl, {mc}? You like seeing how wet I get for you?"

The word '{mc}' crashes through the fragile wall of your fantasy. It's no longer a generic term from a porn script. It's Kyler's face, tear-streaked and ashamed, whispering "I'm so sorry." It's Jason, looking to you for guidance. It's Elsa, with her rebellious smirk, testing your boundaries. The word is loaded with a lifetime of responsibility, love, and failure.

The pleasure vanishes, replaced by a cold wave of nausea. The girl on screen is just a girl, a stranger earning a living. But she's using the word that defines your entire life, and reducing it to this. A cheap thrill in a dark room.

"Rub your pussy slut." You order. You're in control, not the cheap petite brat. "Then use that long purple dildo to stretched your hole open for me. And call me master you dumb little cheap bitch."

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