Page 29 of A Smile Full of Lies
@BoundaryHammer: If you can’t enjoy MaskTok content without turning the creator into your personal sex object, you’re the problem.
Andthatwas what made my guilt crawl higher.
Because there were real men out there creating masked thirst traps. I knew that. They were content creators. Men who put themselves out there — feral and anonymous and dripping with sex appeal — and some people treated them like nothing more than sex objects for it.
It made me sick. I worried that just by watching… just by my body reacting the way it did in the privacy of my own home, without me ever even interacting with the video beyond viewing it, I somehow crossed a line, that it made me one of the people @BoundaryHammer was talking about.
I sat up slowly, dragging the blanket tighter around my body. Then I tugged my laptop back into my lap, my fingers hesitating on the trackpad.
The anonymous forum window was still open. My gaze strayed back to my DMs with StrayDog777, still open and waiting for me to respond. I didn’t type anything.
Instead, I opened a new tab and typed “MaskTok boundaries” into the search bar.
It was the only way I’d feel okay about this… if I did it right. If I made sure I wasn’t crossing any lines. That I wasn’t treating people like a kink vending machine just because their content turned me on.
Within seconds, I was watching stitched videos from creators — women mostly — talking about the etiquette of MaskTok.
Don’t DM them unless they’ve said it’s okay.
Don’t assume thirst content means consent.
Don’t assume they want to know what you think they taste like.
Don’t be a fucking creep.
The message was loud and clear: MaskTok wasn’t porn. It wastheater. It wasperformance. It was curated intensity, meant to titillate, not invite.
And it was sacred.
I nodded to myself and adjusted my blanket. Okay. Okay. I could do that. I could be respectful. I wouldn’t DM anyone. Wouldn’t comment. Wouldn’t even let my fingers hover over the keyboard.
I’d just watch, scroll, and leave a like when something really made my breath catch.
I could be good. Iwantedto be good.
The first few videos I found were… fine. Slick. Intense. Well-lit and well-edited. I saw a few mask types I recognized; classic slasher types, sleek anonymity hoods, stylized horror. Some of the guys were shirtless. Some spoke in altered voices. One had claws.
I flushed watching it, but not because it hit the spot. Because it didn’t.
It stirred something in me, but it wasn’tthething. It didn’t quite reach the itch I needed scratched. It was too artful. The whole thing was tooawareof itself.
I bit my lip and kept scrolling, going deeper down the rabbit hole.
Some creators used night vision. Others set scenes in the woods, the sound of leaves crunching under booted feet sending shivers up my spine. A few whispered.
None of them whispered like I imagined StrayDog777 might.My hand brushed over the laptop keyboard, hovering as I replayed StrayDog777’s words in my mind.
…if I had a familiar body, hands you’ve seen before, and a voice you know… if I were there…
God, whatwasthat? Who said things like that? And why the fuck did it make me feel like someone had cracked open my ribs and reached inside my chest?
Knox’s face flashed through my mind, and I choked back a hysterical giggle.
No, ma’am, we’re not going there.
It wasn’t just the words. It was the precision of them. The intimacy.
I clicked on another video. This one had low light, a dim blue tone, and a breathy voice saying “run” right before the clip cut out.
