It was one of those days where the sun stayed soft, low, like it hadn’t made up its mind. Early spring in Scottsdale. Hot on the skin but cold in the shade. You learn to live between both out here.

Two months had passed since that night at Zorba’s.

Most days, I didn’t think about it. Not much. Not really. Life moved on. Family. Friends. College. Work. Everything was stacked in its neat little box. I’d gotten good at juggling it again. Smiling in the right places and laughing when I needed to.

But the hunger, that part, never left. It didn’t roar anymore, didn’t claw at me like it used to. Now it purred. Deep in my belly. Heavy between my legs at night, when the house went quiet.

The egg helped. God, it helped. Every time I slipped it in, I felt a little more in control. I had the controls. I had the rhythm. I could tease myself just enough to keep the beast satisfied. Not full, but well fed.

The palo verde trees were starting to bloom, leaving little splashes of yellow along the street. I left the window cracked open, letting the breeze into the house. No one else was home, so I didn’t bother with more than a t-shirt and panties. The egg was already inside me, quiet and obedient.

The phone buzzed once. A classmate? Study group tomorrow?

I didn’t reply.

That’s when the knock came. Three sharp taps. Not rushed.

I frowned and pulled my t-shirt lower, and padded barefoot to the door.

When I opened it, I didn’t expect him.

My neighbor.

He lived alone in the house next door, separated from ours by a skinny hedge and about six feet of perfect grass. He always kept the place clean. Sleek car. Sleeker guests.

I’d noticed them. Different women, always sexy. The kind who wore perfume to get groceries. Sometimes, late at night with my window open, I’d hear them. Not loud, just enough to know.

He stood there now, like he belonged. Relaxed, arms loose at his sides, in a slate-blue tee and chinos that looked effortless. Confidence dripped off him in slow, measured lines.

“Hi… Chris…” I said. The words landed softer than I wanted. He had that effect on me.

His eyes moved over me. Not leering. Not innocent, either. A flicker crossed his face, something I couldn’t quite name. It stirred a warning in the back of my neck.

“Hi, Madeline.” His voice was smooth, warm, familiar. “Are your parents around?”

I shook my head. “Tahoe. Chasing the last of the snow. They’ll be back next week.”

He leaned against the doorframe, close enough to smell. Something clean, something masculine. Definitely not from the drugstore.

“That explains it being so quiet,” he said. “Your dad’s usually outside yelling at the wind.”

I laughed. “He calls it gardening.”

Chris smiled, a touch deeper this time. “You surviving on your own?”

“I haven’t burned anything down yet.”

“Impressive. That’s usually how these things start.”

He glanced past me, into the house, and the pause stretched just long enough to feel.

“You been keeping busy?” he asked.

“School. Work. The usual.”

He nodded slowly, like he didn’t quite believe that was the whole answer.

“I’ve been meaning to check in,” he said. “But you’ve been… quiet lately.”

I gave a shrug. “Midterms. Work shifts. Trying not to fail at being a semi-functional adult.”

He smiled at that, like he understood more than he let on. “Still. You used to walk past my place all the time. Late nights. Early mornings.”

I blinked. “You keeping tabs on me?”

His smile twitched, not quite denying it. “Just observant.”

My cheeks warmed. I wasn’t sure if it was the way he said it, or the way he was looking at me. Like he was logging details I didn’t realize I was showing.

“I’ve just been lying low,” I said. “Hibernating.”

He tilted his head. “That's what they’re calling it now?”

The air between us shifted. Barely. But I felt it.

I opened my mouth to say something, some throwaway line, anything to break the air between us, but nothing came.

Every night for the last six months, the same routine. Lamp on. Blinds open. My own little stage, lit in warm gold. I never said it was for him. Never had to. He’d been there. Across the fence. Watching.

And now, now he stood in my doorway with that same unreadable calm. Only something was different. His gaze lingered longer than it should’ve. Held more than it used to.

Chris didn’t speak. He let the silence stretch between us, watching me wrestle with it.

I crossed my arms, not out of modesty, but to give myself a second to think. Or to breathe.

“You know,” he said, voice low, conversational, “they finished remodeling weeks ago.”

I blinked. “What?”

“The house. Your old room. I noticed you’re still in the back one.”

My throat dried. I swallowed.

“I like the light.”

Chris smiled slowly. “Yeah. I bet you do.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just gave me a last glance, one of those quiet, unreadable ones, then turned and started down the front path.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

But then… he stopped.

Three steps from the curb.

He turned, casual, like he’d forgotten something. Reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“Actually,” he said, flicking his thumb across the screen, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”

He stepped back up onto the porch, the phone still in his hand, angled away from me. His eyes stayed on the screen, scrolling, like this wasn’t anything at all.

Then he turned it toward me.

The screen lit up with a still frame. Paused. Blurred just enough that it took a second to click.

Me.

Bent over. Hands braced on a stool. Legs straight. Ass thrust back into the air. My face wasn’t visible. But it didn’t have to be.

I stared, frozen.

And then he flicked again. A video.

Rain. Dark. Shimmering pavement. My body. Cuffed, wrists and ankles, sprawled wide in the empty parking lot. Head back. Mouth open. And my body... convulsing. Wet. Cumming. Hard.

My knees almost gave.

I looked up at him, throat tight. “Where…?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

The silence between us thickened, dense with heat and shame and the raw, terrifying thrill that he’d seen everything.

He looked at me then. Not smug. Not cruel. Just intent.

“I thought we should talk,” he said, voice low. “Before someone else sees these.”

I backed a step into the doorway, hand catching the edge of it like I needed something to hold onto. My heart was slamming in my chest, hot and uneven.

“Where the hell did you get that?” I asked, voice low, but not steady. Not even close.

Chris didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “It’s been making the rounds. One of the forums. Amateur exhibitionist threads. Had a lot of views.”

I shook my head, dizzy. “No, no…”

My own words turned on me. I remembered the rain. The cuffs. The orgasm that tore through me. The way I’d wanted to be seen, even then.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know anyone was recording,” I said, voice cracking.

Chris lowered the phone. “Someone was.”

I pressed my knuckles to my mouth, trying to breathe through it. Heat flooded up my neck, not the good kind. The shattering kind. The kind that makes you feel naked in a room full of strangers.

“You… you saved it?” I whispered.

He held my gaze. “I recognized you.”

My legs wobbled. I didn’t know if it was anger or humiliation or the sharp, wicked flash of memory burning through me.

I wanted to run. I wanted to slam the door in his face. I wanted to scream. But none of those things happened.

I just stood there, shaking. Exposed in a whole new way.

Chris took a step closer, his voice dropping.

“Madeline… we need to talk about what you’ve been doing.”

___ 🐺 ___

The house had slipped into a soft hush, that kind of late-day quiet only happens in the suburbs. Outside, a breeze pushed through the lemon tree in the yard, rattling the leaves like dry paper. Somewhere nearby, a sprinkler hissed to life.

Inside, the living room glowed in a kind of twilight. The sun had dipped behind the houses across the street, casting long blue shadows through the wide front windows. Only one lamp was on. Warm light pooling beside the couch where we sat, a soft golden puddle against the leather.

Chris hadn’t moved much.

He sat in the same easy posture he always seemed to have; back straight but not stiff, one arm slung across the top of the couch, his body tilted slightly toward me. He’d listened for over an hour. Just listened. No interruptions. No sideways looks. No judgement.

I’d told him everything.

About the hunger. The need that didn’t go away. About that first night, the dare with the window. The shows I put on in the dark, framed by lamplight and glass. About my visits to Zorba’s. The egg. The rain. The parking lot. All of it.

I wasn’t even sure when I’d stopped being afraid.

Now I was curled up sideways on the couch, feet tucked under me, hoodie zipped halfway, my throat dry from talking too long. I stared down at my hands in my lap; nails chewed, thumbs rubbing against each other in restless circles.

“And that’s… it,” I said, finally. My voice was hoarse.

Chris nodded slowly. Thoughtful.

He looked around the room, like taking it in for the first time. Framed photos on the mantle. A vase of lilies. The TV is off, its black screen catching the reflection of the lamp.

“Your parents keep a tidy place,” he said quietly.

I gave a short, broken laugh. “Mom would clean a hotel room before she left it.”

He smiled, then looked back at me. The mood had settled. Heavy, but not suffocating. Something else was in the air now. Something... softer.

“Does the egg help?” he asked.

I swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. It takes the edge off. Makes the nights bearable.”

“And the rest of it?” he asked. “The part where strangers watch?”

I hesitated.

“It makes me feel… alive,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Like… Like I’m not just this... ghost in a nice neighborhood.”

He didn’t react. Just let that sit there, the words settling in the space between us like dust in a beam of light.

Outside, a car rolled by. The faint roar of the engine. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked.

“You’re not a ghost,” he said finally.

I looked at him. His eyes held mine, steady, clear.

“You’re just looking for someone who sees you.”

He stood then. Not abruptly, just rising like the moment had passed its limit. He stretched and slightly rolled his shoulders.

“I should go,” he said. “You’ve had a long day.”

I nodded. My heart beat in my throat.

At the door, he paused. Hand on the knob. That same ease, that same gravity.

“We’ll talk again soon.”

Not a question. A promise.

Then he left, and the room felt too big.

___ 🐺 ___

There was a kind of relief in finally spilling everything, letting it all roll off my chest like I could finally breathe again. The things I’d kept hidden, locked behind my own shame and curiosity. I’d said them all out loud. Chris had listened. Like he wasn’t judging, like he understood.

I had expected to feel smaller afterward. Ashamed. But I didn’t. Not in the way I thought. I didn’t feel embarrassed that he’d heard about the shows, or the egg, or the way I craved the attention I wasn’t supposed to want.

I felt... lighter, somehow. Like I’d been carrying around a weight I hadn’t realized was there, and now that it was gone, I could breathe more easily.

But then there was that other thing. That quiet part in my gut that clenched, deep down, when he said we’d talk again soon.

What did that mean? Was he just being polite? Was this going to be like some kind of game, and I’d let him get too close? I wasn’t sure if I wanted that, or if I was just fooling myself. Maybe it was just the relief talking. Maybe I was still riding high on the release of having finally told someone.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? It felt good to talk. To be seen. Not just through a window. Not just by strangers on some dark forum. But by someone real. Someone close. Someone who didn’t look at me like I was a freak for what I craved.

For what I’d done.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold it all in. My mind was still racing, memories flashing back. The feel of the cuffs on my wrists. The cold concrete under my knees. The way the rain had poured over me, washing it all away, making me feel raw, exposed, but alive.

I had wanted that. Wanted to be seen. To be watched. To be taken in by someone, to have them feel it too.

But now... now it was real. Chris knew. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

And that was both terrifying and thrilling.

I couldn’t figure out if I was ashamed or turned on. Or if maybe I was both at the same time.

The house felt too quiet. Too empty. The lamp beside the couch was still on, casting a warm, golden pool of light. But the shadows in the corners seemed darker now. And the silence... thicker.

He was right. I wasn’t a ghost. But did that mean I could stop hiding? Or would I just keep chasing this feeling, looking for someone else to see me, until I couldn’t stop?

The question gnawed at me.

I sank back into the couch, running a hand over my face. What was I really looking for?

___ 🐺 ___

That night, sleep didn’t come.

I tossed. I turned. I burrowed into my sheets, the coolness of the room doing nothing to soothe the fire burning under my skin. The egg had worked before. It had always worked. But tonight… tonight it was like it didn’t exist.

The damn thing sat on my nightstand, cold and silent, mocking me in the dark.

I reached for it. Ran my fingers over the smooth surface. The slight hum it usually gave off was gone, leaving nothing but the ghost of its warmth. I tried to focus. Tried to lose myself in the steady rhythm it gave me, just like I had before. But tonight, there was nothing. No release. No relief.

The beast was awake.

It clawed at me from the inside. A hunger I couldn’t explain, but couldn’t ignore. A need that was becoming unbearable. My body felt tight, restless, like I couldn’t get comfortable in my own skin.

I sat up in bed, legs hanging over the edge, staring into the dark. The clock on my dresser glowed dimly, 3:45 a.m. A whisper of wind rattled the window, but it was as still as death in my room.

I hated this feeling. The one where the hunger refused to stay down. The nights it clawed and scratched until I thought I might lose my mind.

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to think clearly. The egg wasn’t enough tonight. I could feel it—the gnawing need in my gut. The ache between my legs. I needed something more, something different. Something real.

My mind wandered back to earlier. Chris. Sitting there in my parents’ living room, not judging. Just listening. Those dark eyes of his had seen everything I’d tried to hide. He knew. But he didn’t run. Didn’t look away. He just… stayed.

I swallowed hard. I hated how my body responded to the memory of his gaze. How I wanted him to see me, to push me further. To do something that would make the hunger go away.

But no. That wasn’t why I’d talked to him. That wasn’t why I had opened up. I’d done it to take control. To stop hiding. To stop being the girl in the shadows.

Still, the beast didn’t care. It didn’t care about control. It didn’t care about talking or truth or trying to fight it.

It wanted more.

I shoved the sheets off my body and stood, the cold air from the open window making me shiver. My bare feet were silent on the hardwood floor as I crossed to the nightstand. The egg sat there, a dull, empty weight in my hand.

I glanced out the window.

Across the street, the houses sat in quiet rows, but my eyes were drawn to the one next door. Chris’s place. The windows were dark upstairs, but downstairs, there was a light. Just a soft glow coming from behind the blinds.

My pulse quickened as I squinted into the dark. The light was warm, faintly yellow, like a bedside lamp, no more like a kitchen light. But it wasn’t like the usual soft glow he kept on at night. This was more purposeful, more alive.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, my breath fogging the surface.

Why was he up? Was it coincidence, or… was he thinking about me? Thinking about the things we’d talked about? About what I’d told him?

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry again. That pull, that gnawing need, was back. The beast inside was stirring once more. The hunger was unbearable, twisting through my stomach, curling low in my belly, making my body feel tight and restless.

What was he doing? Was he alone?

The thought of him being so close, just on the other side of that wall.

I pushed away from the window, pacing the room, the air thick with tension. Every time I tried to shake the thought of Chris out of my head, the hunger only seemed to get worse.

I didn’t think.

I just did.

My fingers moved on their own, reaching into the drawer at the side of my desk. Not the one where I kept the usual things; panties, bras, the basics. No, this was the smaller one. The one that held the things I didn’t usually wear out in the open. The things that kept my breath coming in quick bursts when I thought about them. The crotchless panties, the ones with the little bell at the front. The ones that made me feel exposed. Naughty.

I didn’t hesitate.

Without a second thought, I slid them on. The soft, stretchy fabric clung to my skin as I pulled them up, the thin lace brushing my thighs as the...