Page 25 of Masked Sins
Ugh, what the heck is wrong with me?
I don’t check my phone for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE REPLY
Orion
“Where is pretty girl?” Earl asks, squawking from his aviary.
I sigh and set my keys and wallet on the side table before walking over to Earl’s elaborate setup. When I bought this penthouse from Chase a couple of years ago, I made sure I could put Earl somewhere safe. I’d hired a professional to build him a state-of-the-art aviary complete with a small pond, an actual, live tree, heating and cooling, as well as plenty of room to fly around. It even has automatic shades for nighttime. He also gets the fanciest pellets and seeds as well as spring water.
He is the most spoiled African grey out there—and probably the smartest, too.
Before we lived in downtown Crestwood, I’d rented a large loft in downtown Los Angeles. I was drinking a lot at the time, and I’d talked about Layla once when I’d gotten home from seeing her, calling herpretty girl.Earl remembered—and now he asks me whenever I come home.
Somehow, my fucking bird managed to imprint on my stepsister, sight unseen.
Damn the intelligence of parrots. It’s fucking creepy sometimes.
“She’s not here,” I tell him, walking over to the door of his aviary. Unlatching and opening it, he squawks again.
“Thanks, Master,” he says, flying off somewhere.
On top of building him an aviary fit for a king, I also hired the best trainer to ensure he doesn’t leave the penthouse and only goes to the bathroom in his designated place in the aviary. I have to admit, it’s very convenient.
I turn the lights on and walk to the kitchen, which is located at the back of the penthouse. I hadn’t changed anything after Chase moved out, and though it was a nice enough place, it didn’t quite feel like home. Still, being so close to all my businesses is convenient: two regular bars and now Inferno, the kink club, all in or near downtown Crestwood.
Opening the refrigerator, I grab a strawberry sparkling water and sip it while leaning against the counter. The clock on the oven tells me it’s just past ten p.m. Still early, yet too late to go out for anythinggood, per se.
I crack my knuckles—a nervous habit I picked up after I gave up alcohol—before pulling my phone out from my pocket. I click over to the app where I last posted a video. I’m inundated with notifications—thousands of comments already, shares, likes, and reposts. My messages are always at “99+” because I don’t have the time or energy to read all of them, but I still open it from time to time.
I understand the appeal of Starboy1997. The “no speaking” thing is mysterious, as is my all-black outfit. I’m asafeDom in their eyes because I’ve given my followers signs to look out for with fake Doms. They have a parasocial relationship with me. They know Starboy. They trust him. And in a world of men constantly taking advantage of women, that’s important. I neverwant to betray that trust because what I do—and the things I teach—matters.
Clicking over to the messages, I scroll through all of the inappropriate requests and photos, the kink-shaming religious nuts, and the requests for interviews. I quickly scroll down to make sure I didn’t miss anything important, and then my heart nearly jumps out of my chest when I see a message request from someone with the username of LittleDancer.
Layla.
I know it’s her because, of fucking course, I check out her profile. Maybe not every day, but close.
There’s no fucking way?—
My thumb clicks through to the message request quickly, and before I know it, I’m slamming my La Croix down. My heart pounds as her words appear on my screen. I verify it’s actually her profile, and everything inside me tenses.
Running a hand over my face, I slowly read my stepsister’s message to Starboy.
LittleDancer
I’m interested in a specific kink. But I’ve never done it in real life… I’ve only read about it. I’m interested in learning more, but I’m a total noob, and I don’t know where to go from here. Thanks! I love your videos.
I’m grinning, and my face is burning by the time I finish reading the short message. She loves my videos? Well, fuck. How long has she been following me? If I’d known…
Before I can think, I’m typing out a response.
Hello, little dancer.
I hold my breath, waiting for a response, but after several minutes, it doesn’t come.
