Chapter Text
The time of year has come again when finals are swiftly and mercilessly approaching, and if Cait weren’t so precious about her hair, she’d be tearing herself completely bald.
She’s a good student, really. She’s never had problems with procrastination, she’s never had difficulty understanding assignments, and her notebooks are color-coded and neatly margined as if they were printed on. This semester, however, it seems she’s bitten off more than she can chew.
Perhaps it was hubris that led her to be crouched over her tiny school-issued desk in her single suite dorm, surrounded by textbooks, crumpled papers, and crushed cans of long eradicated energy drink. She hated the taste more than anything, but she would rather associate the sour battery acid taste with schoolwork rather than the rich flavor of coffee– that of which she quite liked, and preferred to keep it that way. She has never faltered in the face of Piltover University’s barbaric finals season, and now that she is submerged up to her brow in a seemingly endless sea of schoolwork, she’s not entirely sure what to do with herself.
Cait forces down the last gnarly sips of her drink, squeezing the can in her fist and tossing it behind her. Despite the revolting elixir she’d just consumed, her vision is blurring at its edges, and her thoughts are continuously interrupted by yawns. Worried that any more caffeine would send her into a heart attack, and frustrated at letters and numbers jumbling between each other as she fights to keep herself upright, she lays her head down on her desk and plummets inelegantly into an entirely dreamless sleep.
“Holy shit, Cait, you look terrible.” Cait’s fog of sleep deprivation is sliced through by the voice of Jayce, a family friend that had graduated a few years ahead of her and will not stop reminding her. She agreed to meet with him and his girlfriend, Mel, before she got back to work as a way to force herself out of her dorm, and was regretfully dozing repeatedly at a counter near the window of her local coffee shop.
“Just… finals. I have so much more work than I anticipated, I just shouldn’t have taken that extra class…” she falls into a senseless self-pitying ramble as Jayce tears open sugar packets to dump into his coffee.
“How much work do you have left?”
“Well, I mean,” Cait stirs her own drink with a small plastic straw, staring at its ripples. “It’s not all assignments. I have to study, too. But other than that, three essays with a full annotated bibliography and outline for each one, two 10 minute long presentations, and two open ended prompts from days I was absent. Plus a 6x4 foot charcoal drawing for that stupid fucking art requirement–”
“God, I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with finals anymore.”
“Oh, fuck yourself.”
“Woah, what’s going on?” A slender hand rests on Jayce’s shoulder, placing an iced drink down on the counter in front of them. Mel looks a hundred times more radiant than anyone should be able to at 7 in the morning; her slim cut collared shirt is bright white and neatly pressed, and the way her hair is perfectly placed into a voluminous high bun with golden clips and charms littered throughout makes Cait embarrassedly smooth her own unbrushed hair into the hood of her sweatshirt. “Oh my god, Caitlyn, are you okay?”
“No,” the voices of Cait and Jayce announce in near perfect unison. Mel, with a sweet smile on her face, tucks a loose strand of Cait’s hair behind her ear and bends over to speak closely.
“You need a self care day.” Cait chuckles, scoffing at the thought of doing anything but work.
“Yeah, that’d be nice.” Mel’s expression hardens, her back straightening and her eyes glaring down at Cait.
“Caitlyn.” She looks up at Mel, head tilted, threatening to dip back into the crook of her elbow as it has been all morning. “I’m going to take you shopping.” With the authority of a monarch, she shuts down Cait’s subsequent inhale of protest quicker than any single word could leave her mouth. “Do you seriously think you’re going to get any work done in this state?”
“I could do it. I’ll just– I’ll just get some sleep after.”
“What’s 12 times 13?” Cait stares at Mel, brows furrowed, angry that Mel could even insinuate that she didn’t know her basic multiplication. It was obvious, an equation for children . Of course, 12 times 13 is…
Huh. “Exactly.”
Mel is an expert shopper, sampling creams and perfumes on designated patches of skin that she remembers perfectly and by name. Leaving the latest store of bath products she smells like a spectrum of sweet, floral, and deeply woody smells all attacking the nostrils at once. Though this was supposedly a shopping trip for Cait, an array of small and medium bags adorn Mel’s arms from elbow to wrist, and Cait clutches a couple of small bags. She had reluctantly bought a face mask, a pair of moisturizing gloves, a bath bomb and a lavender scented cream in a small tub. She figures it’s definitely for the best, as she hasn’t showered in longer than she’d like to admit, and she always enjoys spending time with Mel. She’s very funny, knowledgeable about every trinket and product Cait points out, and just her presence is assuring and strengthening. Some people have confidence that’s contagious, almost like the feeling of being seen next to someone so beautiful and undaunted is akin to the feeling of being that way oneself. For the first time in about a week, Cait felt pretty nice.
“We’ve got one more stop,” Mel says, grinning quite impishly. Confused, Cait shrugs to herself and follows Mel to the bottom floor of the mall, snaking through its hallways to a dark looking shop set up in the innermost corner of the building. “Here.”
“What is this? What could we possibly need from here,” Cait asks, laughing at the ridiculousness of someone like her and Mel shopping in a place like this. The windows are deeply tinted, the only information towards its contents being blaring rock music from the heart of the store.
“This,” Mel smiles, “is the ultimate form of self care.” She drags an unwilling Cait by her hand into the tall doors, and the sight of what’s inside makes Cait all but tremble.
The first to catch her eyes are the metal glint of floor-to-ceiling whips, chains, buckles and belts. Then bottles, then boxes, then a host of brightly colored silicone in bulbous, organic shapes. The reality of where she is hits her, and she begins to redden furiously.
Mel notices, of course, and squeezes her hand, giggling elegantly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Cait. I go here all the time,” she says, casually waving to the employee stocking shelves that waves back, gleefully addressing her by name. Cait’s eyes dart around, an almost comedic look of discomposure condemning her face.
“This– I don’t– I-I’m alright, thank you,” she shoves out, fervently making her way to the door. Mel shrugs, letting it go, and begins to browse the shelves herself, making neighborly small talk with the woman who now stands behind the counter. Cait leans against the wall outside of the store, her palms against her cheeks in a futile attempt to calm the redness and heat flushing across them. God, why is this sending her into such a frenzy? She’s an adult, so why is a sex shop making her blush like a teenager?
The truth, the sad, embarrassing truth that she’d rather no one at all know, is that she wasn’t particularly one to have that specific type of “alone time.” She’d tried plenty of times. It was unsatisfying, unrewarding, and it made her feel dirty. So when she felt an urge hit her, or a classmate would stretch and reveal the soft skin of her stomach, or anything happened that made her feel like crossing her legs, she resorted to distraction above all else. She did wonder what it would feel like, though, especially in times of stress and frustration. When the feelings wouldn’t leave, and all she could think of was touching herself, she would imagine letting herself do it, letting herself slide her own hand down past the waist of her pants and relieve years worth of pressure. And, if she’s being honest with herself, she’s found herself imagining it lately more than ever. Add that to the growing list of things making schoolwork completely impossible.
So, she thinks, what if she did go back in with Mel, and bought one of those colorful gadgets? What if she really bought it, and took it home? What if it felt so good… and, most of all, after giving in to indulgence just this once, what if she could finally do her work?
So she’ll try it. She’ll try anything. And it’s just stress relief, right? She’s not a pervert, she’s not a deviant. She’s a college student at the end of her rope, standing at the counter of a sex shop about to slide her credit card on her first vibrator. Mel’s smile stretches brightly to each end of her face, and as the employee hands the bag over, she mouths discreetly to Cait, you’ll thank me.
Caitlyn sits at the dead center of her bed, staring at the far wall with a dark solemness normally reserved for widows and war veterans. The vibrator, now out of its box, burns a hole in her right hand as she turns it on and off, gathering the courage to try it out. She hears remnant’s of Mel’s melodic voice ring in her head; just think of someone really hot, and it’ll work itself out from there. She brainstorms as if it’s another assignment: what is Cait’s dream girl? She’s never been picky, though her standards are high. She’d ideally like someone confident, someone self assured and secure. She admires strength, physical and emotional, but both adorned with hints of softness. And she’s always looked upon athletic women with a feeling that she, though begrudgingly, would not dispute referring to as lust. She imagined a woman, her thoughts hazy from sleeplessness, a foggy figure with broad shoulders beneath a thin cotton undershirt. The woman comes close to her, smiling, softly blowing breath in her ear as if whispering without words. She lets herself revel in the dream of well-built arms snaking around her waist, rough hands sliding over the plane of her thigh, gently squeezing. She imagines her own delicate fingers are the hardy touch of her imaginary companion, timidly slipping them beneath her waistband and approaching her center with anything but confidence. She touches lightly, brushing along the seams of her underwear, her breath growing hot and ragged. Her head spinning, she grabs the vibrator from the bed beside her and places it right over herself, clicking the button on the center top. What follows is an overwhelming burst of sensation that sends a violent jolt all the way up Cait’s spine, a piercing, involuntary yelp, and the prompt and ungraceful removal of the toy from her pants. She lays propped up on her elbows, gasping, her head reeling from the shock of such an uncharted sensation. So, maybe that was too much. Maybe she needs to start smaller. She squeezes her eyes shut again after collecting her breath, beckoning the transparent image of her theoretical lover back into her mind. The curves of her waist, the contours of her arms, and how they move when she does. She feels herself sigh into her mattress, reveling in her voyeurism toward her own mental creation. Just as the heat begins to return to her cheeks and her breath begins to quicken, the edges of the form start to blur, the lines abstracting into a jumble that unravels despite any of Cait’s best efforts to hold it together. She can’t stop thinking about school, about herself, about watching herself do something so filthy from some kind of bird’s eye view of her own bedroom. Desperately clinging to the remains of her fantasy, it disappears into nothingness, and Cait is resentfully grounded into reality once more. Cursing under her breath, she huffs over to her desk, snatching her laptop out of its charger and throwing herself back into bed. This doesn’t have to stop her, she thinks. All she needs is a clearer image. She opens Google.
Muscular woman
She feels pretty ridiculous typing this in the search bar, almost adolescent. But she presses on. The search yields unsatisfying results, bodybuilders, old 80s workout stars, advertisements for gym plans. And besides, she’s not an animal . Just a photo could never be enough for her, she knew that. Swallowing the dense softball of her pride, she forces herself to edit her search.
Muscular woman sexy
She scoffs at herself, as if to appease an invisible audience. I’m not actually like this, I promise. I find this ridiculous, too. As if anyone is there to judge her but herself.
One link catches her eye, among a sea of video links and online forums. A live stream website, one where she could talk and interact . She gulps.
Another embarrassing truth that Cait holds deep inside her chest is that she has never had sex, not once. It’s not that she didn’t want to, or that no one else wanted to, she just… never had the time. The stars never aligned. Truly, she wasn’t sure why. Things just didn’t work out for her in that way. Her first girlfriend dumped her before things got to that point, and her drunken attempt at a party rebound was interrupted by her tearfully vomiting all over her potential lover, which would understandably kill the mood for anyone. To her defense, she was a massive lightweight, and no one had ever told her just how much alcohol the giant batch mixed drinks at those parties had contained.
All of that to say, the thought of interacting with a real woman in a sexual context made Cait squirm in her seat. She couldn’t, though. She wouldn’t know what to say, how to say it. But something other than herself moved her fingers anyway, opening the link before she could think any more.
Before she could see anyone, the site prompted her to make an account. That way, she could save streams, follow girls, and donate. The thought of throwing money at a woman to make her do unspeakable things makes Cait shiver, unsure whether it’s from disgust or arousal. She thinks that maybe they’re closer to one another than she’d initially thought.
After a short moment of contemplation toward her username, she decides on CipherCait , a play on her minor in forensics that she often used on various anonymous forums. Before clicking enter, she realizes that if anyone finds out she’s on a cam girl website, she will crawl into a hole and die, so she removes the “i” from her name, hopefully creating a functioning alias. CipherCat . It’s cute, she thinks. Upon hitting enter, she is greeted with rows upon rows of women, every possible variation, twisted and stretched into positions and angles she’d never even thought possible. She hovers her mouse over one of them, loud and rattling moans suddenly blaring from her laptop speaker as the girl on the screen slowly lowers herself onto a gargantuan silicone tentacle. She jumps at the sudden sound, cringing at the size of it. She figures someone is into it, and continues scrolling through the buffet of women.
Her motivation begins to dwindle as she scrolls for minutes upon minutes. Page after page of such similar girls in such uncanny arrangements seemingly meant to maximise sexiness, though all it does for Cait is make her feel bad for them. How could someone get off to this when they all look so… uncomfortable? Under such bright lights, in such unnatural states? Porn probably isn’t for her, she thinks. Maybe none of this is. She takes one last half-hearted scroll before beginning to close her laptop, stopping halfway as her eye is seized by the sight of a woman completely different from the rest on the website. A dim lit room backdropping a strong, hearty butch with a black tank top slyly covering her expanse of industrial looking tattoos. Cait’s eyes lock onto her, her shoulders, her back, eyeing her movements as she slowly turns and sits in a chair, clothed legs spread wide and domineering. She feels a rouge begin to build in her cheeks, spreading out to her ears and neck. She feels hypnotized by her, watching the muscles in her neck stretch as she throws her head back in a sultry laugh, the camera just low enough to deprive Caitlyn of her face. She hovers over the window to hear the stream’s sound. She speaks, and her voice is like velvet. Smooth, husky and low, lulling Cait into pleasant heat as if she’s talking directly into her ear. Arousal humming beneath her skin, she pushes her mouse toward the link to open, reading the woman’s name.
Violet Leather
A shiver runs across her scalp, and she clicks to enter.
Violet stands in the center of her dark room, subtly flexing and playfully conversing with her audience. A small ping chirps from the speaker signifying Cait has joined, and Violet stops what she’s doing to hover close to the screen to read her name.
“Cipher… Cat. Is that your name, Cat?” Cait feels low lying panic as she scrambles to type a response before she moves on to other commenters.
CipherCat: Yes
It’s short, but she can’t think of anything else. A smile creeps along Violet’s face. “Welcome, Cat. I’m assuming you’re a lady?”
CipherCat: I am
“Sweet. Men don’t tend to like me very much. Just as well, though. I don’t like them very much either.” Her hands brace on her hips as she lowers back into her seat, resting her ankle on the opposite knee in an imperious stature. Her grin begins to widen. “I like girls like you, Cat. Shy.”
CipherCat: I’m not shy.
Violet scoffs. “Really? You seem a little stifled there, cupcake. You gonna give me a response that’s more than three words?”
CipherCat: You haven’t done anything worth responding to.
Caitlyn feels her arousal paired with growing annoyance, staring ceaselessly at the woman before her whose shoulders stretch as wide as her arrogance. Violet leans forward in her chair as she plants both feet on the ground, rolling herself close to the camera once more. “Is that so, Cat?” A playful growl overlays her words. She turns her head slightly, then breathes, “Well, looks like it’s just us in here. So, princess, what do you want me to do?” Cait’s eyes dart over to the list of guests, discovering it really is just them. The feeling of intimacy between them multiplies, a pulsing unease flooding Cait’s chest as she types.
I want… What does she want? What would she want to see? She doesn’t know if she wants to see her naked legs spread apart and hands busy pleasuring herself like the other women on the website. At least… not yet. What she feels now is curiosity, a desire to lift the mystery away from the woman on her screen. She stares at the tattoos creeping up the edges of her shoulders, angular designs that resemble gears and wires. She follows it as Violet leans over to a shelf to grab a sip of water, paying attention to the inked lines warping and stretching with the movement of her body. She knows what she wants, now. She types.
CipherCat: Take off your shirt and turn around
She cringes miserably at the perversion she’s spewing at this stranger, but not enough to stop. The grins and chuckles she earns from Violet are intoxicating, her honeyed voice melting away any shame she feels. “You’re demanding, aren’t you? It’s gonna cost, you know,” Violet purrs. Flustered, Cait scrambles to think through how much to send over. She’s deeply terrified of sending too little or too much, and wishes she could just ask; but she knows that doing that would undoubtedly reveal her inexperience with this sort of thing. Deciding to err on the side of caution, she wires over $50. “Shit, Cat,” Violet scoffs, smirking. “For that, I’d do anything you want.”
CipherCat: Just the shirt, thank you
Violet’s grin twitches confusedly as after a small shrug, she kicks the rolling chair behind her as she stands up and rotates herself around, lifting up her shirt from the bottom hem. Cait gulps as she watches intently, following the line of the fabric up the contours of Violets muscled back. She almost forgets the reason she asked for this, completely disregarding the designs inked into her skin until the shirt is completely off, displaying every inch and corner of Violet’s elaborate back piece.
“Like what you see?” Cait catches herself nodding as if she’s in the room with her, almost in a trance. She forgot why she even came here in the first place. The thought of touching herself felt so far away from her now; she felt different. Hungry. She wanted more than anything to phase through the screen, pressing herself against her heavily inked back, running her hands along the contours of her arms. Violet rolls her shoulders, flexing the muscles in her back, cycling through poses between lewd comments toward Cait that only strengthen the flush that seems to cover her from head to toe. “Can I ask you a question, Cat?” Even though it’s not her real name, the sound of something so close leaving Violet’s lips makes her squeeze her thighs together.
CipherCat: ?
“Are you touching yourself right now, looking at me?” Cait’s eyes widen, white-hot blood shooting through her limbs.
CipherCat: No
She’s not lying. Though her legs are crossed tightly, and her hips mindlessly roll over themselves as she types, her hands grip the sides of her laptop, white knuckled.
“Aw, that’s too bad.” Cait sees the plump shape of her lips and the smallest hint of her nose’s round tip as she leers over her right shoulder at Cait. At the camera, rather. “Could you start for me?” Cait’s legs tense further as she takes in a sharp breath at the thought of masturbating at the command of the mesmeric woman that stands in the center of her screen. Puppeted by furious desire, her right hand shakily breaches the tight band of her sweatpants once more, glazing over the surface of her underwear with delicacy that makes her squirm beneath herself. “Are you doing it?” She types sloppily with her free hand,
CipherCat: Yws
Her misspelling sends Violet into a smug chuckle, breaking her pose and turning toward the camera to reveal her naked torso, a side Cait hadn’t even thought of getting to see. She stares slack jawed at the smooth lines of her large, round breasts sitting neatly atop a strong pectoral foundation, picking up her own pace as her eyes follow the lines of her abs down to the diagonal ledges of hip bones whose path is interrupted by the waistband of her tight black jeans. She wishes she could tug at that waistband with wanting fingers, follow every contour down to her center. More, more, she wants to see more . She’s never felt this kind of craving before, like hands reaching through her stomach wishing to ravenously grab at every inch of Violet, consuming her entirely.
Her breaths grow hot and impatient, gasping and stifling quiet moans for fear of someone hearing her through the door. Closer to the microphone than Cait can bear, Violet hums sweetly, “That's it, princess. Keep going.” Cait cries out almost involuntarily, and as if she could hear her, a rasping “good girl” from Violet sends a white bolt of freezing cold down Cait’s back right to her tailbone, the magnitude of pleasure disgusting and terrifying her. She stops, breath hitching violently, fingers and toes numb. She should’ve known this would happen, but it doesn’t stop her immediate disappointment. Every time she’d come close to orgasm in the past she’d become too intimidated, the fear overwhelming the pleasure in one ruining instant. She sits with her eyes fixed on violet, who is still encouraging her as if she hadn’t stopped at all. “You’re close, aren’t you?”
She slams her laptop shut, storming over to her shower and tearing her clothes off. With the water set as cold as she could make it, she lets herself shiver beneath the arctic downpour until her mind is clear, and sits defeated at her desk, once again submerging herself in hours of work.
She tries not to think about Violet, and it works, for a few hours at least. But when she rests her head uncomfortably on her pillow for what should be a long awaited restful embrace, she is utterly sleepless at the looming image of broad, tattooed shoulders, her short dreams plagued by softly falling wisps of red.