Here you go.
A moth to the flame
A Thin Line
I never knew where the job would take me, but I certainly never expected this. My name is Detective Valerie Caine, and I’ve been with the cyber crimes unit for six years now. Six years of wading through the filth of humanity, catching predators, fraudsters, and the occasional black-hat hacker. But nothing, nothing, prepared me for the red room investigation.
It started two months ago when a string of videos began circulating on the darkest corners of the web. Sadistic acts. Murder, live-streamed for a sick audience. As a cop, it was my duty to track the source, identify the participants, and stop them. But as a person… as a woman… it was my shame to admit that I sometimes lingered too long on the footage, my heart racing in ways I couldn’t entirely attribute to horror. At night I thought of the things I saw on the darknet when I played with my pussy.
The Video
The case became personal two days ago. A young woman named Gina Morales had gone missing in our medium sized New Mexico town. Twenty-two years old, bright smile, worked at the diner down the street from the station. When her family reported her missing, I was involved in the case. I spoke to potential witnesses. No one had useful information.
That was before I saw the video.
It was late. The office was dim, the hum of the monitor the only sound. I had been combing through forums when the notification popped up: LIVE NOW. NEW FEED. THE CLEAVER. That was his handle, the one whose broadcasts were the worst of the worst.
With a deep breath, I clicked the link.
At first, the camera angle was odd. Dim lighting, a concrete room. But then I saw her—Gina, stripped and cuffed to some kind of metal frame. It was her, I recognized her face right away. Her face was streaked with tears, and she was screaming into the gag. A huge pole was slowly rising between her spread legs, towards her ass. And then… the impalement began.
I won’t describe it. I can’t. But I’ll admit something I’ve never told anyone else: it wasn’t just disgust that I felt. As the camera zoomed in on her anguish, the blood, the sounds… I felt a pulse of something else deep inside me, something dark and forbidden. I resisted the urge to turn the feed off before it finished, bile rising in my throat. It ended with the pole emerging from her mouth, blood gushing from both her mouth and her ass. She cramped and spasmed for a couple of minutes more, and then it was over.
That night I could not sleep. I could also not stop playing with my pussy, while I watched the recording again and again. I could not count the orgasms.
The Plan
The next day, I argued with my captain about going undercover.
“Valerie, absolutely not,” he snapped. “You’ve been on edge since you took this case. I can see it in your eyes. You're too close to this. You will mess it up.”
“But Captain, I’m the only one who understands how these people think!” I protested. “I can get them to trust me.”
“No. End of discussion.”
But it wasn’t. I couldn’t let it go. That night, I made a fake profile and entered the chatrooms. My username was Prey77. I posted a comment on the video. I wish I could be in her footsteps. Short, but telling everything I needed to tell. Within hours, The Cleaver messaged me.
“Fresh meat?”
The conversation was slow at first. He tested me, asked what I wanted, why I was there. I played my part—fragile, broken, searching for something dark to fill the void. And when he asked, I said I’d seen his videos.
“Which one?” he pressed.
“The impaled girl on the frame,” I replied, my fingers trembling. “I recognized her. She was on posters all over town. It was… like my dreams coming true.”
His response chilled me to the bone: “Meet me and you’re next.”
That night I didn’t sleep much, and the next morning my pussy was sore from the endless toying.
The Meeting
I planned to arrest him, I swear. That was the goal. I dressed up as if I was planning to seduce him. Pencil skirt. A top that revealed my navel and a lot of cleavage. Red satin push up bra, making my firm cup C look like D at least. A matching string. My highest heels. I looked at the mirror and saw a stunning beauty looking back. It would distract him, giving me the advantage. But when the hour came, and I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, I made a choice that I still can’t fully explain. I left my gun in the drawer. My badge too. If I was going to do this, I told myself, I had to make it convincing. But deep down, I knew the truth: a part of me didn’t want to stop him. A part of me wanted to know what Gina had felt in those last moments.
The meeting point was an abandoned warehouse in a rundown industrial area, on the outskirts of town. I walked in, the cool air biting my skin through my thin top. He was waiting for me, an at first glance unremarkable average man, with as only difference his leather mask. His eyes were glittering behind the slits.
“Detective,” he said, his voice low and mocking. He knew. He knew.
I was off guard. I didn’t resist as he grabbed my wrists, twisted them behind my back and took my handcuffs from my handbag. He locked me in my own police handcuffs, the cold steel biting so deep into my skin that it cut off circulation. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I told myself I was waiting for the right moment to fight back.
But when he dragged me deeper into the warehouse, when I saw the frame and the pole waiting for me, I realized I wasn’t going to resist. Even if I could, with my hands cuffed behind my back. Not a chance. Like a moth to the flame, I was drawn towards my doom.
