I held out my phone to M.J. as I always did—with a hopeful, innocent smile. They looked up at me from their desk chair as they always did—pretending to be annoyed, knowing this was the natural state of things.

"Can you help clear more space?" I asked.

M.J. was the computer tech major, and I was the English major—if I needed anything fixed or updated on my phone, they handled it. If they needed help writing an essay, I had their back.

As roommates, we were opposites in nearly every way—M.J. liked going to parties, dating, alcohol, sex. I, on the other hand, grew up being taught to avoid all of it—especially that last one—and part of why I was excited to be assigned a nonbinary roommate was to expand my worldview.

M.J. took my phone and sighed. "You really need to get a phone with more storage."

They turned away and got to work, scrolling and tapping, while I settled onto my bed. I could see the back of their head, their shaggy, black-dyed hair, which they refused to let me style despite my insistence.

I pulled a literary journal from my side table and stretched out.

After reading two stories, I lowered the magazine. M.J. seemed to be taking longer than usual to transfer my photos to the cloud.

I tossed the magazine onto the floor. "What's taking so long?"

M.J. didn't respond. They stayed hunched over my phone, seemingly enraptured.

I rolled onto my side. "Hello? M.J., what's up?"

Finally, M.J. slowly spun their chair around, their face bright and flushed, their eyes wide.

I wrinkled my brow. "What's wrong?"

A strange, sly smile crept across their face. "Do you want to tell me?" they said, then turned the phone around to show me the screen. "What all of these are?"

It took me a second to make out what I was looking at. When I did, I sat bolt upright, my legs dangling off the bed.

M.J. dragged a finger across the screen, scrolling through the images and videos of me—completely nude, completely exposed, completely mortifying.

"Oh, my god." I clapped a hand over my mouth, fighting back a scream. "I thought—I thought I deleted those."

M.J.'s grin widened. "Not from the cloud."

"Fuck."

"Fuck is right," they said, turning the phone back so they could see it again.

Everyone called me a prude, but what they didn't know—what I never imagined or wanted anyone to ever know—was that I loved filming myself naked. I loved looking at photos of myself naked. I loved touching myself as I looked at them.

And I took a lot of them.

My mind reeled as the images and videos flashed through my memory: close-ups of my fingers spreading my pussy lips, reels of me grinding my pillow, shot after shot of me squeezing my C-cup tits. 

I sprang off the bed and lunged for my phone, but M.J. rolled their chair back, dodging me. "You've seen enough," I said.

"I absolutely have not." M.J. reclined, as if reading a newspaper, and kept scrolling.

I considered making another grab for it, then realized there was no use—M.J. had already seen every part of me, up close and in high definition.

"You're dirtier than I thought, Cassie," they said.

"Shut up!" I slumped back against their desk, burying my burning face in my hands.

"No wonder you're always running out of storage."

"Shut up, shut up."

M.J. chuckled, once and deeply. "This whole time, I thought you were so vanilla."

I let out a groan. The chair wheels shifted, and I lifted my gaze.

M.J. rose from the chair, brown eyes glistening. They clicked their tongue and shook their head. "I've never been happier to be wrong."

I dragged in a sharp breath, gripped by both shame and a sudden, surprising spark of something else—arousal.

Thrown and desperate to shift the energy, I said, "Please, can I have my phone back?"

M.J. folded their arms across their skinny chest, my phone dangling from one hand. "So you can take more photos? We can't have that. It seems like you're addicted."

I choked out a laugh that was half sob. "M.J., come on, this has already been embarrassing enough. Just give me back my phone."

I held out my hand, but M.J. shook their head, slower this time, and tucked my phone into their back pocket. I let out what I can only describe as a whimper, a sound I couldn't remember making since childhood.

"I'm not sure you can be trusted with a phone," M.J. said. 

"You're being ridiculous," I said, crossing the room to my bed.

I sat down. M.J. didn't budge.

"I'm being ridiculous?" They crossed their arms again, that teasing smile back on their face. "You're the one taking photos of your fingers inside your pussy."

My skin went hot. At first I thought it was anger, but when I felt myself get wet, the thought dissolved.

The word—pussy—coming out of my roommate's mouth was something I didn't think I'd want to hear. But their lips wrapped around the two syllables as if savoring them, sucking each one.

Then I remembered why M.J. was saying it, what they had seen, and reality crashed back.

"Just delete them, and we'll move on," I said, knowing that wasn't going to happen. The look on M.J.'s face made that abundantly clear.

"Oh, I can delete them," they said, pulling my phone from their back pocket.

I sighed with relief—then caught my breath again as M.J. set the phone on their desk and dropped into their chair. They leaned back and pressed their fingertips together, a business owner working out a deal.

"But I don't think you should be recording yourself anymore."

You're not my mother, I wanted to say. Instead I said nothing; M.J.'s eyes had gone dark as pitch, their seriousness silencing me.

"I'll be doing it for you from now on," they said.

My heart dropped into my stomach. "What? No, you won't."

"You obviously like being filmed," M.J. said, stepping closer. "Now let's see if you like being watched."

I almost laughed, but their expression didn't move. "You're serious?"

M.J. nodded once. "You don't want everyone to know about what I've found, right?"

I scoffed. The idea of my conservative friend group learning about my secret recordings made my stomach turn. "You wouldn't," I said, my skin boiling now.

M.J. lowered their chin. "Do you want to chance it? Besides, I'm doing this for your own good. I'll record them and store them safely—since you don't know how."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Just a hitched breath. M.J. held my gaze, their lean, angular frame as relaxed as a monarch's on their throne.

And that was the thing I couldn't explain, even to myself: the threat should have made me furious. It had made me furious, thirty seconds ago. But somewhere between their back pocket and their throne, the anger had curdled into something warmer, something that pooled low in my belly. I kept waiting for the outrage to come back. It didn't. What came instead was the memory of that little red light, and how badly I'd wished, in every one of the videos M.J. had just scrolled through, for someone—anyone—to be the one holding it.

This is insane, I told myself, in the prim, careful voice I'd been raised with—the voice that had kept me on the safe side of every line for nineteen years.

My resolution from when I came to college resurfaced—expand my worldview, experience new things, open up.

Well, if this wasn't opening up…

I looked at M.J., really looked—the flush still high on their cheeks, their eyes steady on me, the phone already waiting in their hand—and somewhere under my ribs I made the choice, even as I let myself pretend it was being made for me.

I was wearing only a simple black slip dress, so there wasn't much to remove. I couldn't decide if that was good or bad.

Either way, I slid off the bed and rested my fingers on the hem of my dress. They hesitated there, even as pleasure already tingled across my skin. Fear and freedom seemed to freeze me.

"Don't be shy now," M.J. said.

I could see their eyes over the top of the phone, piercing me, controlling me.

I drew a deep breath, lifted my dress, and pulled it over my head, tossing it onto the bed behind me. Now I wore only a pair of plain white cotton underwear. I could already feel them dampening, blooming beneath M.J.'s focus.

M.J.'s breath deepened, their chest lifting, their nipples hardening to studs beneath a thin black tee. I could have teased them back for it—but my own nipples were just as hard and just as open to them, and I was growing more and more convinced I'd enjoy this as much as they would. What leg did I truly have to stand on?

"The panties," M.J. said, nodding toward me.

I looked down, suddenly remembering I hadn't shaved in several weeks. And why would I? I hadn't planned for my roommate to film it in 4K.

But I was in too deep now, with no going back. M.J. wet their lips, and it was the only encouragement I needed.

I hooked my fingers into the waistband and started to pull, but M.J. said, "Slowly." They leaned forward, bending to catch a lower angle. "And turn around. I want to see that plump ass."

I swallowed another whimper and did exactly as they asked. Facing the bed, I eased my panties down centimeter by centimeter. The whole time, I felt the phone behind me, sensed the red light glowing, the timer running on the screen. I felt M.J.'s eyes on my ass and the underside of my throbbing lips, and by the time my panties reached the floor, I was already halfway to an orgasm.

"Fuck, that's hot," M.J. said.

I kicked the panties aside and turned to face them. M.J. held the phone directly in front of my bare pussy.

"Going natural, are we?"

"Shut up," I said through clenched teeth, anger and arousal blending again.

"I love it," M.J. said, tongue flicking over their lips. "Lie back. Open your legs and let me see all of it."

Their stern command raised goosebumps all over my body. I was overwhelmed by warring desires—to bolt from the room in shame and never face M.J. again, or to stay as long as they liked, doing whatever they wanted—but it didn't matter, because I followed my body, and my body told me to lie back on the bed.

So I did.

M.J.'s eyes widened again as I bent my knees and opened my legs. They leaned in, the phone now only inches from my throbbing, hairy sex.

"Fuck, you're so wet," M.J. said, that sly grin returning. "You fucking love this."

I moaned, hands fisting the bedspread. Part of me didn't want them to know the truth of that; the other part knew that ship had sailed.

"If I'd known all it took to get you wet was to take out my camera," M.J. said, voice gone husky, "I'd have done it a long time ago."

My hips tilted up, and I seized both breasts, squeezing hard.

"Yes, keep doing that." M.J. loomed over me, the phone aimed at my chest. "Jesus, your nipples are so dark and hard. Flick them for me."

Whatever hesitation I'd had flung itself out the window. I obeyed at once, fingers teasing my nipples, the sensation rippling outward and down. My hips quickened.

"Stroke your pussy with one hand," M.J. said, nearly breathless.

Again, I did as told—gladly.

M.J. tracked my right hand as it flew to my pussy. I arched my back and groaned, fingers moving fast and greedy through my slick, hairy slit. M.J. stood right in front of me, and I stared straight into the lens. My hips bucked.

"That's it," M.J. said, chest heaving. "Rock those fucking hips. Just like in your video."

I whimpered loudly now, feeling myself fill to the brim.

God, M.J. was wrong, I thought. I didn't like being watched—I loved it.

"Spread yourself for me." M.J. stepped closer and knelt between my open legs. "Now put your fingers inside that perfect pussy."

If they hadn't asked, I'd have done it anyway.

I used my left hand to peel my soaking lips open and slid my middle finger inside. I choked back a howl as my index finger joined, both slipping in and out of the tight space with more urgency than ever before.

"You're so fucking sexy," M.J. said, still kneeling like a servant at my steaming sex. "No wonder you film yourself."

I squeezed my left breast hard, my right hand still doing what it was made to do, fingers curling inside me until I saw stars.

And right now, I was a supernova about to reach its end stage.

"Fuck, M.J., I'm gonna come."

"Do it," they said, voice deeper and more insistent than I'd ever heard. "Do it for the camera. Come on, baby."

My hand blurred, fingers now working the outside of my sopping pussy, swiping side to side until I thought my wrist might break. I sucked in a huge breath as my mound crested, looked straight into the lens between my legs, and let it out as I came all over my hand, my juices dripping between my sodden fingers.

An animalistic moan tore out of me—one that startled even me—and I didn't care who else in the dorm heard. This—the sight of M.J. biting their lip, the flash of the camera, the toe-curling percussion rippling through every part of me—was all that mattered.

My old self had shattered, and this new self—whoever she was—had been unleashed.

As the waves subsided and my palm pressed over my aching pussy, I watched M.J. rise from the floor and thumb the phone off.

"Cut," they said. Then their lips curled back into that ornery grin. "For now."