Watch Tracy Ch. 01

Another day shot dead. Catie stumbles in the front door, rips of her coat and throws it it on to the hanger. The hanger spins a bit, turns, almost falls, but it's just throwing a temper tantrum. It lands solidly with it's three wooden feet. Catie always hits the coat hanger. The coat hanger always spins. This happens everyday.

This also happens everyday: Catie puts down her bags, leans over the entryway dresser, and stares into her own eyes in a round mirror. It's a pool of loathing, and she's taking her daily dip. Great. You're eyes are tired, their bags show through your makeup, your black hair is frizzy, and that time you itched your eye you smudge your eyeliner. Also, you've forgotten to reapply your lipstick, and your nose is still crooked from the time you ran into a lamppost trying to reach the bus. No wonder. That was last month. Altogether, you look like an old plate you'd find in a forgotten cupboard at some grandmother's house. But you haven't faded, you're just like that. The paint is smudged. The design is ornate, endlessly complex, you can't even say that you're ugly, but it's just so normal. So old. So everyday. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you realize you could be anyone.

Catie isn't anyone though. Sure, in many ways she is average. Many people look in the mirror when they come home. Many slam a frozen dish in the oven, sigh, and collapse into the sofa. Lots of people stare at their phone in the evenings. Lots of people shift a bit, slide an arm up their back, and jimmy out of their bra. But when Catie does it, it's just so Catie. The way she tosses the bra against her bedroom door, the way it thuds against the floor. The way she slightly smiles every time it hits. It's the small things which reveal the person hidden behind the habits.

Catie works at the Software Factory. At least, that's what she calls it. She doesn't like thinking about it, because it's too good to complain, yet she doesn't like it enough to go around praising it. It's a good job, sure. Hammering code together isn't too bad. But is it really what she wants to do with her life? Is this her dream? Maybe if she was a cool hacker or something, but she isn't. She's not writing code for Linux, she doesn't work for one of the Biggies, she's not hacking governments or developing open source packages, at least, not any people actually use. Basically, she works an office job where she makes code for other offices doing other office work. It's not bad. It's a good craft. It's useful. But is it really Catie?

She scrolls around on her phone. Got to get the daily meters in. She doesn't really know what she's looking at. She's not really looking at it. She's just staring, thinking about something else, taking a break to look at the Funny screen, and scrolling away. Sometimes the screen is Angry. Sometimes it's Sad. Sometimes it's Sexy. Sometimes she closes it, sees her own reflection in the void, it's Catie, and she thinks about what she really wants to be doing. You got to do something, sometime, sweetie. Something has to happen. Just do something. Why don't you do something, you stupid bitch?

Ding! The oven always dings at about this time. She leans backwards and jumps out of the sofa and stumbles over to the oven. Dinner. She just needs a bite to eat, that's all. Just gotta meet your needs, babe. Tonight, something with fish. At least it looks like fish, and it does say fish on the packet, but who really knows nowadays? She gets out a box of nondescript pop from the fridge due to a lack of sponsorship deals and sits down to eat at her table. She's got an old copy of War and Peace, every time she eats dinner she takes it and uses it to prop up her phone. The book is heavy enough to hold up a tablet. Today she is watching someone talk at the camera. It doesn't really matter about what. Really, it's like watching a documentary. You don't have to care about the thing they're talking about. Sometimes it's just fun to learn. The food even tastes a bit like fish. The soda tastes like something definite yet nondescript too. She especially likes the way it's cold and bubbly, and the way it tastes like that thing she likes. Classic something-soda.

Soon, she's watching on the sofa. The video is nearing it's end, which is just as well, because it's a bit boring now. It was interesting, sure, but it's just a bit long. It's just some video, just some soda, just something to do. Pretending not to notice, she starts sliding her fingertips up against her inner thigh. Hey, what else is she gonna do? Might as well. Might as well slip out of her pants. Hits the door again, nice. Might as well drag her soft palm up inside her sweater, she feels it hitch up against the edge of her forearm, feels her soft palm against her yielding flesh as she just barely touches her breast.

Might as well find something else to watch. And in this case, that something else is always Tracy. Every night Catie ends up watching Tracy. Lots of people watch Tracy. But most of them don't know her personally.

Tracy had changed a lot since college. They met taking a course in Industrial Agronomic Logistics before taking several extracurricular courses in the Female Orgasm together. It never became anything more, however. To each other they were merely accessible, not passionate. Tracy was plainer back then, not that that had anything to do with it, it's not like she looked bad then anyway. She just looked like anyone. The type who wouldn't stick out in a crowd. The only difference was that Catie still looked like that, or, that's at least how she feels.

Recently Catie has been looking differently as her pictures. Tracy has changed, and so has their relationship. Before, they were estranged friends, acquaintances drifting apart, fleeting fragments of life who had merely happened to cross upon another for a time, before drifting apart, lovers in an endless dance, falling leaves in autumn. It's not that they didn't like each other, it's just that they somehow had a mutual understanding of this not being their time. Perhaps in another life. But recently the dynamics of their relationship had changed. Fucking yourself silly to triple X pics and vids of someone tends to do that.

That's important to note. It's not like Catie is ravaging herself staring at normal pictures of Tracy, she's not like on the top of a hill in hiking gear or sitting in a restaurant. Let's be fair, these pictures are the types of pictures you're supposed to fuck yourself to. It's the only reason anyone would take pictures like these. So, what's changed? Tracy didn't make porn in college. She wasn't so fucking hot, either. And Catie didn't use to think about her every time she touched herself.

At this point Catie has her right breast cupped in her palm, softly like dough as not to break it, and she drags her thumb ever so slightly over her nipple. She traces around it with her nail, it's sharp, but her touch is oh-so light, and as she doubles back she lets the finger itself caress her nipple. She lets her hand slip down her stomach like hot water, it explores her like a sleeping melody, ready to rise into action as she feels the flesh of her stomach, the fullness of her thighs, the curves just before her cunt. She traces the edge of her panties as her fingers glide down, down and past the outer edge of her labia, a slight stroke which tingles and makes her left leg spasm ever so slightly. In her left arm a blue screen fills her consciousness.

Tracy stares into the camera. A ring light illuminates her eyes, giving her soul an angelic touch, but then she looks to the side, and the light follows. When she looks back it is clear that the ring lights were really the irises of her eyes, and the viewer notices that her eyes simply consist of a flat pink iris and white pupil. In the back colored lights shine on a white surface, making it seem like she is floating in nothingness. Her pink hair -- a bob, ending just before it touches her shoulders -- rustles as she shakes her head and smiles into the camera. She's got on 'fuck-me'-fake eyelashes, only that they might not be fake. Her plump lips are covered with pink lipstick, a shade darker and more saturated than her hair. She opens her mouth in a wide gape, her mouth going from a line -- well, as close to a line as it gets, which is not very -- to an o, and finally to the shape of a zero as she extends her jaw as far as she can. She sticks her tongue out, letting some spit drool off it, and a big transparent red dildo enters the frame. It keeps entering the frame, but is simply too big to fit. Tracy has to maneuver it around and film herself and the totem from the side to get a shot of her licking her tongue up from the base, kissing the head, before showing the entire thing down her throat. The only sound on the video is her mouth against the dildo -- the kiss, spit slurping as she throat-fucks herself and gagging as the thing enters her throat. She gives the camera jazz-hands -- one hand has short and black nails, while the other is cybernetic; shiny chrome claws with glowing neon inlets. And then she winks into the camera.

Catie feels her lower lip twitch as she breathes heavily. She feels the air enter her as her chest rises up against her sweater. Her breathing feels like tension, anticipation slamming down the sides of her neck. She puts her phone down on the couch, and drags the sweater off. It's cotton, firm yet relenting, and as she feels the fabric drag over her nipples she breathes in sharply and archs her back. She's breathing properly now, biting the side of her lower lip like a good girl. She doesn't even bother tossing the sweater at the door. Instead, she puts the arches of her feet hard against the floor and raises her crotch upward, grabbing the sides of her panties and slipping them off, a line of grool hangs her and her garment, some honey stuck on the lid, but she slides them off uncaring, in the end kicking them off with a hurried spasm. They land somewhere. She picks up her phone again, and lets herself more properly tease her treasure.

The frame shows an empty room. A blond wood dresser can be seen in the background. Tracy rolls into the frame on a black office chair. She's leaning over it, resting her arms on the top, her tits barely hidden. In this shot it is clear that her entire right forearm is cybernetic, and that her left is almost entirely covered in tattoos. Her chins are blushing slightly, and she gives a cocky smile, before putting one of her eight-inch purple heels down into the floor, spinning her around. First you can see her sideboob, before the chair keeps spinning, revealing that's she's been sitting on a fuck-machine all along. She's arching her back, making her ass look bigger, which isn't really necessary in any way other than the pose itself implying lust and fuckability. Most of her weight rests at the sides of the machine, ensuring that a vibrating surface is in tight contact with her clit and pussy, while a white and smooth dildo slowly fucks her asshole. Her ass shakes as her lower body twitches, she can't quite hold still against the industrial rapture whirring underneath her, and a small black-heart tattoo on her right cheek vibrates up and down in a hypnotic rhythm. She drags her stiletto heels in the floor, slowing the chair down, ensuring that the camera captures a good view of the action, before she kicks herself around again, and clicks it hard into the floor when she is facing the camera again. A link to the full video is included in the description, and is accessible to all platinum tier subscribers like Catie for no extra charge, or 9.99 Neu-Euro for free-tier followers.

Catie breathes determinately as she gets up and walks into her bedroom. She feels her wetness against her thighs, and opens the bedroom door with her elbow to avoid getting her slobber over the handle. On the way in she hooks into her clothes and kicks them into the bedroom, and they land here-and-there. She puts the phone down on the bed, it shines like a blue beacon in the dark room, and the sound of Tracy moaning brings a measure of time into the room. Catie drags her messy hand against her outer thigh, knowing well that it's only helping a little bit, before opening her closet. In the bottom, she has a box filled with fun stuff. She drags out a red bra, or, at least something like the outline of one. She puts it on, a triangular hole shows her c-cups perhaps more nakedly than if she was just naked, and the slight frills along it make it clear that she is perfectly aware of this effect. Similarly, she slips on a red garter, and struts over to a standing mirror. She does the spin in the distant light of Tracy, and shrugs. She shifts her torso from side to side to see her body from different angles. Ok, Catie. Don't compare yourself too much with Tracy. She's a pornstar. You're a programmer. Besides, you're perfectly fuckable in your own right. You're just not a supermodel, but that's not really why you are comparing yourself with her, is it? It's not so much that Tracy is hot, like, whatever, tons of people are hot, you're hot too. It's more that she is something, isn't it? That she chose something, that she chose to make herself hot, that she chose to make her appearance say something, that she chose to fuck herself on camera, while your still drifting along the stream of your life. Sure, Tracy is putting on an act for the camera, it's not all real, of course! But in choosing to do so she betrays something, she dares to be an individual, while you could just be anyone. Why don't you at least put a pin in your bag or something?

Catie frowns and crawls into bed, clutching her shining phone in her hand. Perhaps she'll feel better if she cums really hard.

Tracy is clad in a white skimpy dress. The material flows like silk, and the way it rests on her breasts, nipples, hips and mons pubis leaves very little to the imagination. The material is fastened with a skimpy strap over her shoulders, but more importantly by merely resting on her body. A line curves down between her tits, leading up to where they're anchored to her perky nipples. Similarly, the flowy material is still tight enough that you can tell exactly where her pussy is, even if isn't actually visible. There's a roof mounted shower in the background. She turns around. The material rests on her ass similarly to her tits, the curves of her cheeks make smiley-shaped creases appear down the middle. She kicks on leg up, showing of her white stilettos, and kicking the material up from her ass, showing just enough to make it clear that she isn't wearing any underwear. She turns around to face the camera again, and backs into the shower. She claps her hands, and water starts raining down from the shower. At the same time a song starts playing, the type best fit for nightclubs and more explicit orgies. She slowly starts dancing, moving her body to the rhythm of the music. Slowly, the water makes the material sit tight against her body like cling film, and slowly it turns perfectly transparent, more like an aura than an article of clothing. She turns around and goes low, twerking -- which is a bit cliché, but anyone who's watched this much of the video are too horny to art critics anyway -- before getting up as the song ends. At that point two of the tiles in the shower open, one in the wall in the left of the frame, and one in the floor. Out extends three dildos -- one from the wall, two from the floor, all already vibrating. She positions herself to mount them, her weight resting on her knees, and the video ends for free-tier viewers.

Claire is really starting to get into it now. She is revved up and the sensations of her body move from sharp spikes of electricity to a strong current, she brings her middle finger up along her pussy, letting her finger explore beyond the border of her outer labia, it brushes against her inner as she spreads her legs, she arches her back to the sensation and feels her ass push down into the soft fabric of the sheets, her feet slide along them and she feels the pleasant sensation of silk passing between her toes. She drags her finger over her clitoral hood and passes just under the tower bell, circling it like a raptor, before very gently bringing her finger over her button, almost more a presence than a touch. Even then she pushes her head down into the sheets and shuffles her torso slightly before playing again.

Tracy is laying down on top of her bedsheets. The camera looks down at her, as she smiles back. Her cybernetic hand lies against her cheek, and her other hand is holding the camera. The view pans down her body, pausing at her breasts. She moves her chest back and forth, causing her breasts to jiggle. The camera keeps moving down, but as it reaches the full extent of her arm, the angle shifts from a birds eye view to looking up at the rest of Tracy's body from her hips. Her face is obscured by her perky breasts, only some pink hair can be seen, but the focus of the scene is really Tracy's pussy, in clear view and main focus of the camera. She slowly moves her robotic hand down her body, dragging some fingers of her right breast and gently tugging her nipple. The hand keeps moving down, crawling down her stomach like a predator, before she gently pushes it into her right thigh. She parts her legs, moving the right to the side while the other remains mostly straight. She's dripping wet, a line of drool extends between her pussy and her inner thigh and the sheets are stained with her arousal. She brings her fingers onto her clip, rubbing it gently, before exploring further down, pushing three fingers into her cunt, one in her ass and one resting on her clit. She shuffles her body, ensuring that she is lying down comfortably. Then her arm starts vibrating. The 'durrr' of the arm is slowly followed by more rapid breathing, the sounds of her shifting in the sheets, she begins to moan and soon she archs her back, holding it as such, before it falls down as she moans -- "fuck" -- but it's not over, she archs her back again, and again, and again, before she finally lands from the heights of her climax. But she's still fucking herself with her arm, and the video has barely started...

How would that feel? Her hand against Claire's parts, the weight of Tracy's body upon her, a hand around her neck holding her down as she writhes in the sheets. Claire would moan and Tracy would spit in her mouth before kissing her, playfully biting her lip as she breaks the kiss. In reality Claire keeps her eyes locked on the screen as she sits up and slides off the bed, still staring she rummages through her fun box to find something for her funner box. She pulls up up something pink and phallic - she can tell that much from the corner of her eye - and her thumb finds a button. She nearly drops it as it begins to shake, but she grasps around it's base more firmly and turns it off. She jumps back into bed, and puts a pillow under her lower spine, arching her hips nicely while her body can relax. She pushes the electronic shake-a-cock against her opening, drags it's tip against her, before slowly pushing it inside. Even with the pillow she archs. Breathing once or twice in preparation, her thumb finds the button, and she turns it on.

Tracy is wearing denim shorts, the type that is so short that you can both see the inside of her pockets sticking out and her g-string raise up and over her hipbones. She's wearing a crop-top which isn't even trying to cover her breasts fully, so short that her nipples are barely hidden with half of her areola visible. The doorbell rings, and she opens the door. A woman, much more conservatively dressed in working denim jeans and a normal red t-shirt walks in. She is holding a pizza box. Tracy says she doesn't have her wallet on her, and at this point the experienced connoisseur will predict that the pizza will be paid for in flesh. Tracy moves to the other end of the room, bends over -- her shorts disappearing like a g-string between her ass cheeks, the ruffled edges barely visible behind the curve of her callipygian gravity -- and finds her phone, and quickly wires money to the pizza-woman. The pizza-woman leaves, and Tracy sits down and eats the pizza. The viewer gets a good view of her chewing. She talks about her day.