“Did you miss me this weekend?” My voice drops to a velvet whisper, lips curving into a pout as I glance at the camera from under my lashes. “I know I missed you.” I shift my knees just enough to flash them a teasing glimpse of what’s to come.
Lurker69:Best end to the weekend ever.
BegForMe:Christ, you’re perfect.
I tilt my head, reading the chat with a smirk as their requests get more and more desperate by the second.
“You know the rules,” I purr.
“Play nice, tip for extras, and maybe, I’ll make it worth it.” I smile, leaning into the act of seducing them—every click, every ping a tiny electric satisfaction that earns them more skin, more breathy promises, and heightens my arousal.
CometoDaddy:Show us your cunt.
CometoDaddy:Play with it for Daddy.
“You know that’s gonna cost you,” I tease them, cocking a brow in challenge and watching as the tip jar gets fuller without me lifting a finger. Playing men for the hungry fools they are never gets old.
As time ticks on, the chat melts into a single, hungry voice; their demands melding together as I feed them a slow, deliberate show—shrugging the mesh strap off one shoulder so the light skates over skin, tilting my head, biting my lower lip like it’s a secret I’m only half letting go of. Every small movement is a promise; every pause is a dare.
BegForMe:You’re killing me.
MistressE:Lose the other strap, darling.
BegForMe:Do it slowly.
SeeingBegForMelight up my screen sends a hot reel of last night flickering through me—the way he dropped to his knees, the taste of him, the broken sounds that tore out of him.
He knows I’ve recognised him, and that knowing unravels me; it tugs at a thread I want to let him pull until it all comes undone.
There’s no hiding between us anymore, and the honesty of it feels intoxicating.
Dragging my nails over the mesh cups of my bra, the tips of my acrylics catch on my piercings, and my LED lights reflect off the metal. My pulse spikes not from the touch but from the knowledge that he’s watching me the same way he used to watch me in rooms where cameras weren’t involved—a look that stripped me bare without a single word. Here, though, he’s reduced to nothing more than a username; there’s safety in the distance and a kind of pain in the restraint that I’m not ready to face.
His request for a private stream doesn't come as a surprise, but it does still steal my breath.
“Alright,” I murmur to the camera, voice low, velvet-thick. “Looks like I’m being stolen away, but don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
I blow a kiss and wink as the chat explodes in betrayal and pleading, half of them already scheming to get in next time.
They think they’ve earned a piece of me.
Some have.
Most haven’t.
Some of them might be ready to burn through their entire bank account, but no one else gets a private session. Not tonight, not tomorrow, never.
Over the years, I’ve learned how to manage that disappointment. When someone tries to request a private stream, I deny them gently, but I never leave them empty-handed. Instead, I give them something special in the main stream—a wink, a tease, a fleeting show that satisfies the craving without offering up more than I’m willing to give. They leave thinking they’ve touched a part of me, but the truth is, I’ve kept myself exactly where I want—safe, untouchable, untangled.
The screen flickers to black for a split second, and my hands tremble, not from fear, but from the rush of the taboo and relief wrapping around my ribs as I wait for him to join me.
Matt’s camera clicks on, his face filling the screen. His jaw is tense, hair mussed, but the hard line of his mouth softens when his eyes find mine. Seeing him like this—desperate for whatever pieces of me I’ll give—makes my spine straighten, confidence settling like heat in my veins.
He’s stripped of his anonymity now, laid bare behind a face I know better than my own reflection. The sight makes my breath hitch and steels something sharp inside me. If he’s exposed, then maybe I can find out how much pressure it takes before he cracks.
He meets my gaze without flinching, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth, darkness flickering in his eyes. It isn’t indulgent. It’s a challenge. And seeing it again reminds me just how intense things always are when he’s around.
“You know,” he rasps, voice rough and low through the speakers, “you’re doing that thing where you bite your lip and try to look all innocent, but I don’t buy the act for one second, sweetheart.”
