Turn 39 of 228

Check reactions to te video and read te comments. Masturbate to them the rest of the work day.

The view count climbs while Lena watches. Twelve becomes thirty becomes sixty becomes a hundred and the notification pulses on her phone screen faster than she can refresh. She picks up the phone and scrolls the comments and they come in waves — *this is the most unhinged thing I've ever seen on this platform*, *I can smell this video through my screen*, *you shit on the floor of your OFFICE?*, *I've been following since the bikini and I didn't think you'd actually go there*, *this is either the bravest or the most destroyed person on the internet and I don't care which.* A thirty-dollar tip arrives with no comment. A fifty-dollar tip arrives with four words: *don't ever clean that office.* The subscriber count ticks — 107, 112, 118, 124 — and the numbers climb and the comments stack and Lena feels the heat building between her thighs before she decides to do anything about it.

She sets the phone against the monitor again, camera on, and doesn't announce it. She just starts. Her hand moves and her legs spread wider in the chair and the wet from earlier is still there and the mess from the video is still on the floor and the smell — piss and shit and vodka and food and her body — fills the small office and she breathes it in and reads the comments as they arrive. *You're actually getting off to us watching you, aren't you?* — and she is, she is, the words landing in her chest and her belly and between her legs where her fingers work and the heat builds. Another comment: *I've never seen someone stop pretending this hard.* She reads it and her breath catches and the orgasm rolls through her — quiet, deep, her belly tightening and releasing — and she keeps scrolling.

The afternoon becomes a loop. She reads comments and tips and messages and she comes and reads more and comes again and the office darkens as the sun moves past the window and the gray light turns to amber turns to shadow. At three o'clock the subscriber count reads 131. At four it reads 139. A message arrives in her inbox — not a comment, a private message: *I work in a building like yours. I lock my door too. Nobody knows what I do in there. Thank you for showing me what it looks like when someone stops hiding.* Lena reads it three times and comes again, slower this time, the orgasm rolling through her like something geological — deep and tectonic and unhurried — and she doesn't reply to the message. She just holds it.

At five o'clock the light is gone and the office is dark except for the phone screen on her belly and the glow of the monitor. She has come six times. The chair is wet beneath her. The carpet is layered — old stains and new stains and the mess from the video and the mess from the afternoon. Her thighs are slick and her belly is covered in crumbs and vodka drips and the smell is dense and thick and biological. The subscriber count reads 147. She stands and the chair peels from her skin and she looks at the phone one more time and a new comment sits at the top of the post: *you're not making content. you're documenting something. I don't know what it is yet and I don't think you do either.* She reads it and the wish hums beneath her ribs and the office holds her and she doesn't put on clothes and she doesn't clean up and she unlocks the door and walks into the hallway and takes the elevator down.