“Tell me what you’ve been dreaming about,” I coax, slipping my thumb under one strap and letting it slide down my shoulder, slowly, inch by inch, until it hangs loose. My skin glows under the ring light, flushed pink. I feel every beat of my heart pulsing between my legs.
BegForMe:Fix the lighting, baby. It’s too dark to see you.
BegForMe:Come closer. Show Daddy those tits.
BegForMe:Fuck these losers. Private chat. Now.
BegForMe:What are you waiting for?
My entire body goes rigid. For a second, my hands freeze mid-motion.
He doesn’t get to make those kinds of demands. Not when I can still see the headlines, the photos that gutted me, and I’m still nursing the hangover he drove me to. Not when I’m half-dressed, live on camera, with hundreds of eyes watching my every reaction. He doesn’t get to come in here and claim me like this. Not anymore.
I force my lips into a coy smile, even as my pulse thunders so hard it makes my chest ache.
“Someone’s in a mood tonight,” I laugh, lowering my voice to a silken thread edged with steel. “Miss me that much, baby?”
My fingers hover over the keys, frozen for a heartbeat as indecision tears at me.
Every instinct screams both fight and submit, and the contradiction tightens my chest. I tell myself to breathe, to remember who I am, but the words burn on my tongue before I can shape them.
My pulse hammers in my ears, mingling with the muted chatter of the room, the faint whir of my computer fan, the glow of the ring light illuminating every curve he’s ever memorised.
CometoDaddy:Who pissed in his cereal?
MistressE:Watch your tone, Beg. You’re ruining the vibe.
JimsCuntDestroyer:Yeah, fuck off if you’re not gonna share.
BegForMe:Shut up.
BegForMe:This stream isn’t for you.
BegForMe:It’s mine.
BegForMe:She’s mine.
That does it.
A shiver races down my spine, heat clashing with something colder and more dangerous. Even through a screen, I can feel him spiralling. I know that tone, that jagged edge that used to make my pulse pound. And God help me, it still sets my blood on fire.
Because if he’s spiralling… it means he still cares.
And I hate that some secret, wicked part of me lights up at the thought.
Because this is our sickness, isn’t it? The push and pull. The wanting and the denial. The dance that started in the shadows and never really ended. And even as I keep telling myself I’m over him, my body remembers every reason I’m not.
But I don’t reward tantrums. Not anymore.
Not when I’ve clawed my way to this stage, these lights, this adoring crowd. He doesn’t get to tear it down just because he can’t stand watching me belong to anyone else. He lost any right to claim me as his a long time ago.
I lean closer to the camera, giving the viewers a perfect view of my glossy lips, and my half-fallen strap. My cleavage is right there for the taking and my tip jar spikes higher.
“Sorry, Beg,” I whisper, voice dripping saccharine sweetness. “Private sessions are closed tonight.”
The chat explodes:
MistressE:Oh shit.
