“Do you follow directions?” The first anonymous tipper of the night asked in a private message.

 

Torrin always kept his private messages open to those who tipped while broadcasting on his sex cam page. This user hadn’t tipped much, but it all helped reach his tip goal before the big finish. It was the viewer’s money spent on his show, after all. Keeping private message requests open to anyone was the least he could do.

 

“If you mean submissive, then, yes.” Torrin topped the message off with a mischievous, purple devil emoji. The ellipsis phased in and out, signaling the anonymous viewer’s reply. Torrin eagerly waited, more than halfway through his Thursday night broadcast. Anticipation ignited his adrenaline, throbbing in hand, and his eyes dashed wildly on the computer screen. 

 

“You will do exactly as told,” the message read. Torrin’s pulse raced at the sudden directness of this stranger. Never one to shy away from a kink, this was one of his favorites. “Do you understand?”

 

“I do, sir,” Torrin said.

 

“Cut the broadcast,” the tipper said.

 

“What?” Torrin couldn’t stop the sudden furrow of his eyebrows. Once he saw himself on the screen, the gut reaction to the order, he loosened his body and focused on staying hard. “Did you want to private?”

 

“No private show.” They said. “Cut the broadcast in two minutes. More instructions to follow.”

 

“I’m more than halfway to goal. I need to finish the show.” Torrin pushed. “Plus, my ratings—”

 

Three minutes had passed since Torrin sent his message. No one else tipped or commented, aside from Spambots littering the main chat. Twenty minutes passed; Torrin watched his viewer numbers alarmingly drop. It wasn’t just anonymous users but loyal viewers who always stayed for the big finish. Still, he had at least twenty others watching. Torrin checked the colors of each username. 

 

Ugh. All anonymous with no coins in their account, Torrin thought. Instead of watching the rest of his numbers dwindle, he took to social media to promote his room. Some joined for a few seconds but left just as quickly. Torrin ignored his broadcast and scrolled through porn blogs he followed to stay hard. Nothing killed a room faster, not even the odd broadcast night he was having, then joining a room to a soft cock. That indicated that neither Torrin nor the viewers were interested in the show.

 

His private messages tab blinked steadily, signaling some action in the broadcast. It was the anonymous tipper from earlier.

 

“You did not follow directions.” Torrin dealt with his share of potential boner killers during broadcasts—if he didn’t show his feet when someone asked, send clothes he worked out in or the likes. Torrin saw it all over the years. Nothing, though, not even the anonymous body shamer, shocked him out of the sexy mood than this message. Nothing made him feel more threatened, either.

 

Bells and whistles blasted in his headphones, making Torrin and his cock jump. The anonymous tipper paid double what his base goal was to finish. The prostate toy he used that reacted to the tips vibrated and sent Torrin hurdling back with a raging hard-on.

 

“Thank YOU!” Torrin responded verbally, leaning into every euphoric wave of the toy. Once the toy stopped vibrating, he messaged the anonymous tipper privately. “So generous to a sub who doesn’t do as he’s told.” Torrin winked at the camera. 

 

In a matter of seconds, the broadcast room cleared out and left the two alone. Torrin squinted, hand still jerking as not to upset this anonymous tipper again. Hmm.

 

“Do not finish.” They said. “Cut the broadcast. Check your email. Follow the directions.”

 

“How do you have my email?” Torrin chewed on the side of his mouth. He could go on camera, face in view, and jerk off for hundreds of viewers with no problem. Someone finding his email? That felt uncomfortably personal in comparison.

 

“Two minutes. Cut the broadcast. Do not disobey again.” The tipper left Torrin alone in his room. 

 

Part of him wanted to wait and see if anyone else joined. He watched the clock tick down from the two-minute mark, unsure if this was just a very generous clown or someone who took his role all too seriously. 

 

One minute and thirty seconds.

 

This is way too creepy. I’m just going to log off and go to sleep.

 

One minute.

 

How did they find my email? Well, maybe I’m not as tech-savvy as I thought I was.

 

Thirty seconds.

 

He did tip double what I was asking for the night.

 

Twenty seconds.

 

Hell, maybe I’ll enjoy this? It’s not like I can go to sleep with blue balls, anyways.

 

Ten seconds.

 

I don’t know.

 

Five seconds.

 

Torrin, chill out. You’re so dramatic.

 

Torrin ended the broadcast just before the two-minute mark. He laid in his bed, lighting set perfectly for a broadcast on that chilly October night and waited. As promised, his inbox pinged, and a new email popped up from an unknown sender. Torrin read through the instructions, typed in a blocky font. The first bullet point:

 

• Follow all directions in the order they appear.

 

 

The next day, Torrin logged back on and started broadcasting as directed. His bed was stripped of the sheets, wall art was taken down, and not a pillow could be found in sight—anything at all that would identify the room as Torrin’s was removed and stacked out of the camera’s view.

 

The anonymous tipper joined and requested a private viewing session. Torrin accepted the request.

 

“Did you make the clone?” They asked.

 

“Of course,” Torrin brought out the clone he made of his dick with a kit the email instructed him to purchase with last night’s earnings. Whatever this person wanted, Torrin thought, it better be worth the wait.

 

“Did you add the extra ingredients to the silicone mixture?” They asked.

 

“Yes.” Torrin was losing his patience for the theatrics.

 

“Place it horizontally on the bed.”

 

“Okay, now what?” Torrin waited a moment. Nothing. Minutes passed, the coin clock ticking away and his bank increasing. “Hello?” Torrin wrote back. 

 

The screen flickered once. It happened so fast that Torrin almost missed it. Then again. And again until the colors inverted and the light of his camera flashed red. Screeching sounds echoed from the laptop speakers and his headphones. He grunted, throwing the headphones off and onto the floor. He leaned up to fix the laptop but couldn’t move from his place on the bed. The sound increased, thumping in a rhythmic pattern of a drum. His red camera light pulsed with the beat. Torrin’s arms, legs, and body pounded against the bed with it.

 

“What is happening?” Torrin’s mouth felt like he swallowed sand. Through the dryness, he felt the sharp taste of metallic on his tongue as it dripped down his throat. Smoke slithered from each post of the bed, wrapping around Torrin’s ankles and wrists and clouding his eyes. Torrin spat to clear his mouth, only clear spit hitting the clone instead of suspected blood.

 

“What are you doing?! Torrin struggled to talk, murmuring behind a smoke gag. The cloned cock glowed red, illuminating the room as this private broadcast recorded every bit of the show.

 

Their laugh electrified the space and bounced off all four walls, shattering his bedroom window. The wind shrieked and chilled the room; Torrin’s muffled screaming was nearly lost in the chaos. Elevated feet off his bed, bound by smoke, Torrin craned his neck to look at the laptop. The booming, wicked laugh of the anonymous tipper dissolved into the wind, and the sound of broken glass settled on his floor. Fear in his eyes, he watched the broadcast shift from private to public. Suspended in silence, Torrin saw the viewer count reach one thousand in a matter of seconds. He mumbled for anyone to help, forgetting the last bulleted direction in the email.

 

• Do not ask for help.

 

The broadcast flashed bright red to black. Electronic whizzing buzzed first, like the sound of a camera charging to take a photo. The broadcast light illuminated the room; Torrin’s bed was made, art hung back on the wall, pillows neatly set on the bed, and the clone of his dick where he set it.

 

Torrin was nowhere to be found.

 

The broadcast rolled and rolled until all one thousand viewers dwindled to one anonymous tipper. The camera light faded. Only the light of the blood moon illuminated the empty bedroom. 

 

“You did not follow directions.” The computer dinged, a red coin passing through the screen and landing next to the clone of Torrin’s dick.

 

The model has ended the broadcast.