Chapter 1

Leah

“That feels so good.” I tip my head back, getting into it more. “Mmmm.”

“My good girl likes making me happy, doesn’t she?”

I bite my bottom lip and nod eagerly. “Mmm hmm.” I playfully squeal while sticking my other foot in the shallow container. No, I don’t enjoy what I’m doing, but this guy has paid five hundred bucks to watch me slather my pedicured feet in a vat of peanut butter, so I will happily fake my pleasure. “It’s so creamy.”

His bright blue eyes intensify with desire. Seeing how turned on he is, how his yearning translates to lustful excitement when I do things for him in our private sessions, empowers me.

“I love your toes painted pink.” He repositions, likely so he can pull out his dick, and leans into the camera. “Give me a closer look, Daisy.”

Most guys don’t let me see their face, but Mr. C always does. He’s not bad looking, maybe mid-thirties, dark brown hair clipped tight to his head, brilliant blue eyes, nice mouth. The veins in his temple always pop out when he’s close to coming, so I can tell he’s about a minute away from blowing his load.

I tip the camera, making my feet take up the entire screen and wiggle my toes. Groaning like it’s going to give me an O, I run my fingers through the peanut butter and smear it up my ankles. “I wish you were here to lick all this off me, Mr. C.”

He grunts as he orgasms, and I kind of wish I could see his face right now. To watch him come undone at the sight of my little piggies slathered in creamy peanut butter, while he fantasizes about touching them, licking them. Sucking on them. Bet it’s hot. He sounds sexy when he comes. I’m an aural girlie, so listening to people come drives me wild.

I’m never one to kink shame, and though not all kinks are my cup of tea, I enjoy having a connection with my patrons like this. It’s fun.

And lucrative.

However, being dressed as a pink-haired bunny with my toes slathered in PB has me questioning if I’m charging enough for these sessions. Foot worship is one of the most popular kinks out there and I need to capitalize on it better.

“Such a good little bunny,” Mr. C says, out of breath. “I’ll see you next week, right?” The lift in his tone at the end breaks my heart a bit. Bless him, I think he’s getting attached. And damn me, because I’m happy to have a steady client who pays so well.

The bangs of my wig fall into my eyes as I tip the camera back up to my face. “I’ll be counting down the days.”

He flashes me a big, post-orgasm smile. “Thanks, baby.”

Blowing him a kiss, I wave goodbye and end the chat.

That was my first session for the day, but my next one isn’t until tonight. Mr. C is the only one who gets me at the ass crack of dawn, and since it’s only a couple days out of the month, I’m not about to complain. But how the fuck am I going to get all this mess off my feet now?

Fucking damnit, I left the towel in the kitchen when I was preparing for this session!

Sliding onto the floor, I crawl into the kitchen with my feet up as high as I can get them. In my bunny suit.

“ Ching !” The sound of Mr. C’s tip coming through makes up for it.

After getting most of the peanut butter off my feet and out from between my toes, I wash them thoroughly in the kitchen sink, then strip out of my outfit, pull off my wig, and rewash my entire bottom half in the tub. I don’t have time for a whole scrub down because this call took longer than I thought it would and now it’s time for my other job.

Shoving into an old t-shirt and shorts, I pluck my cell off the floor and check my messages on the app.

Mr. C : Next week I want honey .

Great. That’s going to be so sticky and messy. My annoyance fades when I see he’s tipped me another five hundred for this morning, though.

A grand for a half hour of slathering peanut butter on my feet? Not too shabby. Bet I can up it to two grand next month and he’ll pay it.

Some people may wonder why I clean houses for a living when I make bank being a camgirl, and the truth is I need a backup plan. Something reliable and enjoyable that pays my bills.

Hey, I like being watched. I like sex. I like being wanted and adored and fantasied about. I like it when other people get off. But this line of sex work isn’t sustainable. One day my clients will move on, or I’ll get bored, or I won’t be desirable anymore. Coming up with fresh content all the time is fucking exhausting, too.

House cleaning is hard work, and it’s not for everyone, but I love it. It satisfies me in a way nothing else does. Why not capitalize on that and charge rich people lots of money to clean the homes they barely use any way?

Case in point: Today I go to Mason Finch’s condo. It’s huge, modern, and basically empty. He’s rarely there but insists on it being cleaned once a month. I’ve never seen this guy in my life, but I picture him as a skinny old dude who spends a lot of time in opera houses and has an extensive collection of bow ties. No clue why. That’s just how my imagination works. All I know is, he’s the easiest house I’m going to clean all week, and he never fails to make his payment and give a sizable tip.

My cell rings and it’s my bestie, Mak. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Hey, you off to work yet?”

“Just about to leave.” Grabbing my keys, I head out and lock my front door.

“How many houses you got today?”

“Four.” Which is why being punctual or early is important.

“Want to have dinner with me and Carson later?”

“Hells yes!” I love hanging with them. Carson’s a blast, and I’ll never say no to Mak. “When and where, baby?”

“There’s a place I’m dying to try called Maestros.”

“Ohhh that fancy place on the east side?”

“Yup!” Mak chirps. “Seven okay?”

“Can we make it like seven thirty or eight? I’ll need to come home and shower the scuzz off me and will probably hit traffic.”

“Eight it is. See you then.”

“Hey wait.” I scramble towards my car. “How was the sex club last night?”

“Ahhh-maaaa-zzzzing.”

“Nice!” I wish my sex life was as fantastic as my bestie’s, but for the past couple of years it’s just been me, myself, and my online audience. “Tell Carson I said hi. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

After hanging up, I fly down the road and end up having to park half a block away from the café I love, which means I’m sprinting to the nectar of the Gods. Hey, nothing’s stopping me from getting my daily double espresso, even if I’m crunched on time. I have priorities, people.

With a little speeding, I still make it to Mason’s condo five minutes early.

Pulling out my collapsible cart, I load it with all my preferred cleaning supplies and head inside the swanky building.

“Hey!” I wave at the doorman. This guy knows me. I’m here every month. Why’s he looking at me weird? “Cleaning Condo 207.”

“Uhh. Yeah. Go on up.” Why does he look so amused?

I don’t know what he thinks is so funny about a woman pulling a heavy ass cart around. I’m already sweating, and I haven’t even started. Annoyed, I drag my shit to the elevator, flustered because now I think he’s making fun of me for being a housemaid.

The doors open just as I’m about to hit the button and out pops a gentleman in a suit that likely costs over three months’ rent for me. Our gazes meet and he gawks for a moment, then moves past me as if I have the plague.

Asshole.

Time to dig out my music and put myself in a better mood because clearly the double espresso hasn’t kicked into my system enough for all this bullshit.

Earbuds in. Playlist on. Time to clean house.

The instant I open the door to Mason’s condo, the scents of bergamot, cloves, and leather hit my nose. Damn, did he put a candle or something in here since the last time I cleaned? It smells divine. This place is beautifully built but lacks décor and color. Unless you call that signed baseball jersey framed in the foyer artwork, there’s nothing here to make it homey.

Shutting the door, I wheel my cart into the galley kitchen and get to work. Spray, scrub, swipe, repeat. I make my way through the kitchen quickly and head to the bathroom next. This is one of my favorite houses to clean because the owner rarely uses this place, which means it’s never dirty.

Unlike the house I have after this, that has four kids, two dogs, and six cats.

Singing into my microphone—the mop handle—I bump and grind to my tunes.

The bathroom is bright and sweet smelling. Deep in my zone, putting on a full performance with twerking and air humping, I squeeze my eyes shut and belt out the high notes until I’ve run out of air.

Nailed it!

Popping my eyes open, my reflection scares the shit out of me. Screaming, hands flying, I accidentally knock the earbuds out of my head.

Dear god, I’m still wearing the makeup and whiskers from this morning!

And that’s not the worst part.

Someone else is in this bathroom.

And he’s huge .

“Stay back!” I swing my mop like a baseball bat at him. The guy catches it with ease, and I can’t rip it out of his grip. Fear spikes in my system and I scramble back, tripping on the rug by the sink. Arms pinwheeling, I gasp, pitching backwards.

Before my ass hits the tile floor, the man catches me. “Easy does it,” he says in a low timbre. He shifts me so I can stand again and cocks his eyebrow. “You good?”

Not at all. I’m horrified. “You’re…”

“Mason Finch.”

I shake my head as my eyes sail south. “No, you’re… you’re naked.”

And his big dick is as hard as steel.