Watching You Suffer [English Version]

Always those looks, those pleading eyes in front of the webcam, those trembling bodies, mouths hungry for words and shaky sighs. Hands flutter on both sides of the screen. Our pulsations are the same, the urge intact. I tell myself that I'm fucking her, that I smell her scent, her heat and that this is what keeps me in a state of false excitement.

The dirt clings to my fingers, I can no longer really reach the keys of my keyboard. The dust has mixed with the secretions, the pitiful smell of nights without sleep, without satiated desire, the screen itself is rancid. Yet I no longer pay attention to this. The climax is finally approaching, but she comes before I do. My hands tighten, I hurt myself when frustration crushes the piece of flesh which suddenly softens.

The young woman gets her breath back, then laughs, her head thrown back. I see her throat, her hands around her own neck. She caresses herself again, more gently, then looks at me through the eye of her camera. She asks if it was good for me too. I lie, I wipe my hand on my pants and I write back. On the screen, in the frame, Yvan replies that he got his rocks off, then she goes on to continue the conversation as if nothing had happened, while I put my yearning away. She stands up to get her pack of cigarettes; suddenly her nakedness sickens me. I want it to be over as possible, but Yvan is a nice boy, a spotty teenager in love. Tina is thirty-five years old and driving a barely pubescent little wanker crazy seems to turn her on. I don't need her anymore and I am still looking through my contacts, on the chatrooms, for the thing that will do me good, a soul to listen to, that will pass through my balls and make me climax at last. "Young man looking for young woman with webcam for naughty exchange" - a bullshit phrase all ready-made for fast consumption and immediate satisfaction. Tina's chat window is flashing. I hear the alarm. The screen vibrates. She's trying to talk to me; I hear her calling with her microphone. "Fuck off!" I mute the sound, I delete her, I block her.

In an online private show, I meet Pénélope, I even chat with a certain Ingrid. The first is a lecherous pervert who sounds all hollow. She willingly gives me her age, gets lost in descriptions. Another hopeless old woman who gets everything off her chest, gives me her e-mail address after just two minutes of fictional conversation. "My name is Tristan". The bitch doesn't get it. Ingrid is nicer. "My name is Ted". She's not interested in the webcam game – I would be disappointed, according to her. This one is a liar: Ingrid is fifteen. I know it's a guy, but I let her blather on. She tells me she's doing this for the first time. She's afraid of these false appearances on the web. It's almost too ironic coming from her. The Internet is one more lie in her life. Ingrid makes me smile, while Penelope is disillusioned in front of her webcam, withered skin, glassy eyes, a broken soul; she reeks of dependence on this virtual world where she is no longer anything but a nobody, a lonely old woman. She's a whore who still wants to be able to make me hard. I tell her that I love her breasts, that I love her skin, those horrors that stare at me, decrepit. I'm on the verge of a coma, I feel sick when she shows me her crippled sex, an astonishingly vegetation tinged with pink which impresses me just enough to observe it for a few more seconds before I reduce her show to nothing. Ingrid sends a smiley face in the shape of a skull and rattles off some existential nonsense worthy of a depressed teen: "There is so much beauty in my world, nothing outside, I wish I could stay there". If I ask her where this special place is, I could be here all night.

Pénélope's window panics. She's crying, dripping with sincerity. It's painful to watch; I ask her to put her clothes back on. Her eyes stare at me: I'm suffering the wrath of a lost soul. I like her better when she's distraught, when her anger pierces me with these weapons, when she torments me with her contempt. Penelope disappears. She's offline, I don't need to check. I know she no longer exists in my contacts. Ingrid suddenly announces to me that I am the last person she's talking to. I think she's referring to suicide, maybe even tonight. However, I am so far away that it doesn't bother me. I just wish her a safe journey. I connect to another private show. " URGENT ! Seeking cam plan with young woman! ". I see Ingrid's window enlarge; her webcam is active. I'm suddenly interested. In the foreground, an unusual detail: I see sharp objects, razor blades, a long knife and a cutter, all ready on a lacy white cushion. For a moment, I feel like I'm witnessing something new and strange. Ingrid's delicate hands show me the objects one by one. She touches them delicately, presents them as unique items and then changes the position of her camera. I see her slender legs, her shaven thighs, a garter belt and an unmistakable shaft. Ingrid sits down, arranges the device so as to reveal her face. For a boy, she looked softer. The smoothness of her features could cause confusion: a blonde wig exaggerated her androgyny.

Do I disgust you?

No!

I don't want to die alone.

It doesn't really sink in for me. I'm so tired that I feel like I'm talking to the wrong person, that I'm watching a bad TV program. I no longer know if I'm in front of the screen, if it's a joke or not. Ingrid has this dazed look that excites me more than anything else. She writes me her real first name. I prefer Ingrid. "Yannick, will you stay with me until the end?". I did not see myself writing my own. I include a reality of my existence in this unreal sludge which nevertheless fascinates me. I suddenly feel stupid."Do you want to come, Yannick?" She reads and resumes my sentences back to me with a sly, coquettish air and, close by her, these instruments to go out on a high note.

Ingrid grabs a razor. She seems to own a bedside lamp which she points to the stage. Almost speechless, I feel the emotion in my blood. Ingrid stands up. I can only see half of her body. She stimulates herself for my benefit. She gently slides the razor over her cock, sways as if it were her lover caressing her. She soon tightens the fine skin to cut it lengthwise. This doesn't make me scream. On the contrary, the tension takes hold in the pit of my belly, electrifies me. This repulsive thing makes me hard. She staggers; the blood appears grey, purple at times. Her webcam surely isn't configured right, this lends a crazy side to her scenario, almost surreal.

Ingrid trembles. She peels her cock as if it were something singular, then waits for my reaction. I imagine her reddened fingers on the keyboard when she answers: "Are you really jerking off, Yannick?" This way of writing my name at the end of each question has a very attractive connotation. I even have the impression I can hear her, the feeling that it's me she's slicing up. I am really jerking off.

Ingrid grabs the kitchen knife. She sits before me, shows me the weapon, flicks her tongue on the blade, the illusion of a crazed angel smiling back at me under the light of those makeshift searchlights. Her lipstick seems black at times, which makes her look diabolical. Ingrid moves the cushion and other objects aside; again, she writes to me.

"This is my final sacrifice to the world, Yannick. I give it to you. You won't forget me, will you, Yannick?" I write her what she wants to hear. "I love you, Ingrid." It amuses her. She inches closer to plunge her bloody fingers into her mouth. She mimes a blowjob, swallows, nearly chokes. The saliva does not change anything: I remain frozen on the spot.

Ingrid has tears in her eyes. Nothing bothers me. I don't understand why the shock doesn't come. On the contrary, I find her mise en scène rather touching. She stops, wipes away her tears, the knife still in hand, then stands up again. She slaps her cock onto the table, like a vulgar piece of meat. I have a snapshot vision of a small bloody arm, then Ingrid's knife wanders over her ridiculous appendage. She begins her strange dance again, grazes herself once more with the knife, then she slices. My eyes widen, I move closer to the screen as if I could cross through it, if only to see better and participate. She slashes with incredible slowness – it's unimaginable. It repels me for a moment, but nothing stops my hand.

Once more, Ingrid sits down. She seems to be suffocating, her hands are clutching air. Then she looks at the screen, remembers that she' s being watched. Her chest rises and falls; like she's just run the hundred-meter dash. She drops the knife to hold herself. All the blood draining from her ends up on her body, her face. In a considerable effort, she grabs her cock to feel it again against her skin. She licks it, swallows it whole. I climax. Ingrid is bleeding, breathing, exhaling, dying, offering me ecstasy. I spurt all over my screen, my keyboard, my stomach, my thighs, Ingrid's dying face, her eyes rolling back into her head. She opens her mouth; I don't know if she's screaming, but she's still there, struggling to stand. Her gait is slow and uncertain.

Once she truly vanishes from the screen, I close her window, I delete her and block her. I sit up. My body's still trembling a little from the flush of my climax. I search for a tissue to wipe up everything. Nothing remains for me afterwards. I am disconnected from this world so I can dive back into mine: more pixels and wet slits, virtual slits, more Ingrid and others. My head's underwater and everything goes away. I emerge into another world, less chaotic and indefinable. No doubt tomorrow I'll look for something else, anything rather than boredom. Nothing bothers me, nothing troubles me anymore.

FRENCH VERSION HERE : http://welovewords.com/documents/te-regarder-souffrir