Eighteen

It's Thursday night and Valeria and I haven't spoken in over a week. The last time we spoke, she was sashaying out of my closet—and as far as she was concerned, my life as well.

I still can't get over how badly she played me. The more I think about it, the more I love it. I mean, I could do without the blue balls, but the way she flipped my scheme back on me? I've never respected anyone more.

My next move will be an important one.

Scheme number four: Be a good boy and follow directions. Contribute to her income instead of fucking with it.

When I concocted this plan earlier in the week, I was excited for tonight, but now that I'm home from work, my enthusiasm has waned. The day was shit. In addition to twelve hours of work, Frank made me redo my resume and asked for a summary of my accomplishments over my four years working at the firm. That's ridiculous. For anyone counting, four years of eighty-hour weeks is roughly two years of nonstop work. I could write a War and Peace-length novel on the last week alone.

Your father was the one who came up with this requirement. He would have high expectations for your summary, Lander.

Sitting at my table next to my abandoned, half-eaten dinner, I type until my fingers ache. I'm barely a quarter of the way done when I stop out of frustration.

I need to see her. I need to.

I log on to her stream right after she starts, and the sight of her brightens my mood considerably. She's wearing some kind of iridescent pink swimsuit, except there's no way she could wear it in public—or water—because it's completely sheer. The thing would disintegrate. In fact, it's so translucent, I can see the layers of glitter on her breasts, and shit, I think I love it. This cellophane swimsuit thingy? I love it.

But the thing that's going to kill me—the thing that's going to finally put me out of my misery—is the black leather choker wrapped around the elegant column of her neck.

I bought her that choker.

Of course, when she originally got it, it was a gift from some random, horny dude named Abraham who picked it off her wish list. But it was me—I was the random, horny dude.

Something about her wry smile as she starts her playlist and begins answering the questions in the chat makes me suspect she wore it for me.

Correction: She wore it to fuck with me.

"The weather has been so humid lately," she muses while tracing the thin sliver of black wrapped around her neck. "When I woke up this morning, I had taken off all my clothes while I was asleep. I was totally naked. Can you believe that?"

Her eyes train on her laptop screen, and I know she's getting tons of responses.

"I touched myself a little," she goes on, raising her shoulders like she's embarrassed. "No, of course I didn't make myself come! I didn't know what to do. It's so hard for me to get in the mood without one of you here with me. I'm glad you're here now. Will you tell me what to do?"

The sound of vibrations buzzes in her bedroom—and not the fun kind. A phone. Valeria freezes and glances to the side before reaching off-camera.

"Sorry," she apologizes, smiling when she returns to her spot in the center of the bed. "Anyway, I was thinking about—"

More buzzing.

"One second," she requests, holding up a finger shortly before a generic gray screen pops up on my laptop. Stream paused! This performer will be right back ;)

I hear talking on the other side of the wall. It's Valeria, obviously, but she's getting louder. Angrier. The words are too muffled for me to hear, but it's something like, "I'm not bringing him! How many—"

And then there's a frustrated exhale and a clatter like she threw something. Her phone?

Before I can speculate, Valeria appears back onscreen. Now, however, her cheeks are flushed red and she isn't smiling. In fact, she looks downright solemn.

"I'm going to get started," she announces before reaching between her legs.

Oh, fuck yes. There, under the strip of iridescent pink covering her pussy, is a protruding sliver of hot pink silicone.

Valeria has worn this tip-activated vibrator before. When viewers tip, the vibrator turns on for a set amount of time. For five dollars, it pulses for thirty seconds. Ten dollars gets ninety seconds. A hundred bucks does three straight minutes of high-powered vibrations, and so on. If the tip is higher, so is the level of control. A thousand dollars does five minutes where the tipper gets to control the intensity and pattern. It's about as close to fucking her as any viewer could get without being…me.

Usually, she giggles and gasps like she's surprised every time someone tips her. Usually, she's amazing at this, milking it for all it's worth. But a couple minutes in, I realize something is wrong. I have no idea what happened off-camera, but there's a distance in her demeanor. No giggles. No gasps.

She pushes the shoulder of her swimsuit thing down, revealing both of her luscious breasts. The sight thrills me, although I can't help but notice it's earlier than usual for her tits to be out. And when she presses up her soft, pillowy breasts and massages them, her motions are perfunctory, absent of her usual coyness.

It dawns on me: She's trying to rush through this.

Immediately, I send my first tip: a hundred bucks. I was always going to tip her, but I'd originally planned to wait so the other viewers could pony up as well.

Valeria's eyebrows climb when my tokens roll in, and her exhale isn't anticipatory, it's relieved. For the next three minutes, she doesn't have to say anything or hustle. She just lays back and takes it while squeezing her breasts and moaning.

When the time is up, the minuscule strip of pink covering her pussy is soaked with her arousal, tight and straining over her wet lips.

"That was so fun," she mews in the melodic, high-pitched camming voice she uses—but the levity isn't there. It sounds forced for once. She's still not enjoying this. "I just—"

I don't wait for her to finish speaking. I buy another three minutes and watch her grip the pillow at her side, gasping, "Fuck." There's a delay before she realizes she swore—something Aurora Amada never does—and she covers her mouth with her hand. "That slipped out!" she remarks, panting. "Maybe if we…"

But she trails off and closes her eyes. Her expression is anguished, pained even, and I hate it.

"Fuck," she murmurs again, keeping her eyes closed tight. "Fuck it. I just want to feel good."

She's only eight minutes into the stream, but the frustration in her voice is palpable. She needs an out—and I can give her one.

If this isn't supporting her career, I don't know what is.

I send her three thousand dollars—enough to make this short stream worth her while. For the next fifteen minutes, I get to control the pattern and the intensity of the vibrator. I don't care if it takes fifteen though. If I get her there in the next two minutes, fine by me.

It only takes seven.

Body quivering, Valeria cries out, climaxing so loudly I can hear her through our walls. There's a tinge of rawness to her orgasm, something I haven't heard since my cock was in her pussy. It's as close to real as she's ever given her viewers, I realize. As much as I want to enjoy it, I can't—not when I know something is upsetting her.

When she's done, she doesn't linger for the comedown. Once she has her post-orgasm bearings, the stream cuts out and the room closes.

Almost immediately, there's a knock at my front door.