Hitchhiking into Hell - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
You are reading Hitchhiking into Hell, Chapter 2: Chapter 2. Read more chapters of Hitchhiking into Hell.
People passed by now and then, their eyes skimming over me like I was invisible—or maybe they just pretended not to see. A year ago, this would've sent a rush through me.
Now? Nothing.
The voice on the other end of the call kept coaxing, pushing, and I nodded along, numb. Just as I hitched up my skirt to start recording, a woman stepped into view. Her lips curled into a smirk.
"Seriously? This is your idea of fun? Pathetic."
She was gorgeous—and familiar. Another one of Dr. Langley's patients.
Talk about hypocrisy.
Face burning, I ended the call and yanked my clothes back into place. "Oh yeah? Got a better suggestion?"
Her name was Vanessa. That same day, she added me on Messenger and dragged me into a group.
Twenty, maybe thirty women filled the chat.
Vanessa explained—all of them, just like us, were fighting hypersexual disorder.
And sure enough, the messages were filthy. Videos, photos, confessions that made my skin prickle just reading them.
But it was electric.
Because the women in those clips weren't strangers. They were them—doing things I'd only ever fantasized about.
Something dark and hungry uncoiled inside me.
For the first time, I didn't feel like a freak. I wasn't alone.
Vanessa's message popped up: So? You in?
She claimed it was doctor-approved. Exposure therapy, or some twisted version of it. Once you've gone far enough, maybe the obsession burns itself out.
Some of the women had already "graduated," she said.
It made a sick kind of sense—even if it was the opposite of what my therapist preached.
But those videos… God. Compared to the lifeless guys I'd been trading messages with, my attempts were laughably tame. No wonder I'd stopped feeling anything.
I exhaled, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Fine. I'm in.
Now? Nothing.
The voice on the other end of the call kept coaxing, pushing, and I nodded along, numb. Just as I hitched up my skirt to start recording, a woman stepped into view. Her lips curled into a smirk.
"Seriously? This is your idea of fun? Pathetic."
She was gorgeous—and familiar. Another one of Dr. Langley's patients.
Talk about hypocrisy.
Face burning, I ended the call and yanked my clothes back into place. "Oh yeah? Got a better suggestion?"
Her name was Vanessa. That same day, she added me on Messenger and dragged me into a group.
Twenty, maybe thirty women filled the chat.
Vanessa explained—all of them, just like us, were fighting hypersexual disorder.
And sure enough, the messages were filthy. Videos, photos, confessions that made my skin prickle just reading them.
But it was electric.
Because the women in those clips weren't strangers. They were them—doing things I'd only ever fantasized about.
Something dark and hungry uncoiled inside me.
For the first time, I didn't feel like a freak. I wasn't alone.
Vanessa's message popped up: So? You in?
She claimed it was doctor-approved. Exposure therapy, or some twisted version of it. Once you've gone far enough, maybe the obsession burns itself out.
Some of the women had already "graduated," she said.
It made a sick kind of sense—even if it was the opposite of what my therapist preached.
But those videos… God. Compared to the lifeless guys I'd been trading messages with, my attempts were laughably tame. No wonder I'd stopped feeling anything.
I exhaled, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Fine. I'm in.
End of Hitchhiking into Hell Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Hitchhiking into Hell book page.