Twelve

CORA

There’s a coffeehouse in Adams Morgan called Tryst. It’s one of my favorite places in DC, not because the coffee is particularly special, but because two and a half years ago, I met Valeria and Essie here.

The three of us had orbited each other in camming circles for months, but it was Essie who made the connection. Tentative and sweet, she’d messaged, asking if we’d be interested in discussing a collaboration. We ended up talking for seven hours straight until Tryst closed, and then went to the bar next door and drunk-danced for three more. Now, the way I love those two makes most marriages look like casual pen pals. I would kill for them, die for them…

…actually, I need a better way of putting it, seeing as I would also die for a guy I hate (sort of).

But there’s friendship, there’s sisterhood, and then there’s this . Before I dropped out of my PhD program and went no-contact with my parents, I had a gigantic family, lots of friends, and a few exes, but none of those relationships ever compared to Valeria and Essie. I know our friendship is baffling to some people. Unconventional. After all, most people haven’t fucked their best friends and livestreamed it for an audience. But we’re sex workers; nothing in our lives is conventional.

Plus, convention is just a thing —like an elegant way of calling something normal.

And ironically, “normal” is such a weird concept. Take this morning, for example. In what may be my most sacred place in DC, I’m seated across from a fifth-generation politician at a table by the window, and aside from being preternaturally handsome, he seems entirely normal. He’s dressed in a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled above his forearms. His slacks are cream-colored and pressed. His boat shoes are pristine. All in all, he’s the epitome of a privileged, DC politics wonk.

And yet this guy isn’t normal at all. He’s far from it, I know, because last night, he tipped me three hundred dollars cash after he watched me masturbate one-handed.

Practice like a good girl. Prep for me. Because you know whatever that toy does for you, I’ll do it better.

I thought about Everett’s words all night. Fixated on them. Reread them. Came to them when I couldn’t sleep.

…I am so utterly fucked.

“There’s supposed to be a vegan cookie here,” Everett is muttering while he peers at his phone, eyes narrowed. “I read about it on a DC vegan blog.” He frowns. “Whatever. I’ll just ask.”

He places his phone on the table and reclines in his kitschy wooden café chair. His bandages are gone, and he’s tapping his bruised hand on the tabletop. I study his fingers and the expensive watch on his wrist before I look at my own hands—at the nails I scrubbed free of black polish this morning. These hands don’t look like my hands.

I’m not wearing half of my piercings today either. My nose stud is in because I can’t risk it closing, and I flipped my septum piercing so it’s less visible, but my eyebrow piercing is out and there’s nothing in my ears. My body piercings are intact, and that’s a small consolation, but they’re hidden under the pale pink sweater I borrowed from Valeria’s closet.

A few minutes ago, Everett did a double take when he saw me. It was subtle, but I caught it. He didn’t say anything though. And now, he continues to stare at me across the table, quietly assessing me until he asks, “How are you feeling, princess?”

I meet his eyes and sigh. “How long do we have to stay here?”

“I could use a coffee,” he mentions, ignoring my question. “What about you?”

I’m tempted to ask for a big glass of arsenic, but I know Everett doesn’t want to be on this PR-mandated outing either. He’s just remarkably skilled at pretending this is the highlight of his day.

“Fine,” I agree.

A couple minutes later, he returns with coffees and two pastries. He sits down, sips, and says to me, “So, I’m two for two. Are you proud of me?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“The things you said I had to do to get you. I apologized—”

“Barely.”

“—and I became a customer—”

“You watched one stream .”

“And then I watched thirty old ones,” Everett counters. “The one with you riding a Sybian…fucking hell.”

You’re perfect. Such a perfect little slut. You make me so proud.

Everett’s praise shouldn’t affect me, but it does. A flutter of a thrill fills my chest. Still, I force myself to scoff. “You didn’t watch thirty streams in one night.”

His expression is so haughty that I’m not surprised when he says, “I don’t half-ass anything. Surely I’m your best customer by now.”

Look at all your gorgeous little holes lined up like that, tight and ready for me to put something in them.

“My real customers actually like what I do.”

“I love what you do.” His gaze drops to my hands. “I’ve always respected it. Now, I know you’re exceptional at it.”

“Always? I find that very hard to believe. When we met, you didn’t hide your disgust.”

“Elaborate.”

“‘ If you think I’m going to risk a shot at the White House to take naked pictures of a camgirl I met in a bar, you’re out of your fucking mind ,’” I recite.

He raises an eyebrow. “Where’s the disgust?”

What the fuck is he talking about? I parse the words, ready to…oh. Okay, fine. Technically, he didn’t say camming was disgusting or an unworthy career, and yes, he was probably weighing the implications from a political standpoint, but…

“You have more to prove,” I remind him. “I’ve already told you: Earn it.”

“I will. We don’t have to fuck yet. But if I’ve learned anything from the thirty streams I watched during my all-nighter, it’s that you don’t need to get dicked to enjoy yourself.” His expression is nothing short of devious.

Nice try, baby boy.

“Cute, but it’s,” I check my phone, “two o’clock on a Friday, so I’m good in the orgasm department. You go right ahead though.”

“I bet last night’s show wasn’t enough for you.” Everett’s expression is wry when he leans over the table and murmurs, “You’re sitting there wearing a sweet little campaign-approved outfit when we both know your body is pierced and yearning for me.” His eyes lower to my chest like he can see my nipple piercings through the fabric.

“You’re pathetic,” I force myself to say. “As if I’d fool around in a coffee shop with someone who looks like he cried tears of joy into the sleeve of his Ralph Lauren button-down when he saw Vampire Weekend perform live for the first time.”

Everett presses his lips together and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “Alright, how about this,” he offers. “Go to the bathroom, take off your panties, and bring them back to me.”

My brow tightens. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because if you got a taste of how fun it is to sneak around, these mandated outings might feel less painful. Obviously, we both want to fuck—”

“Cocky.”

“—and we both have to be on these outings. Fine. Let’s make them less miserable.”

“Other than mild entertainment, what do I get if I do?”

“A nice tip,” he replies, grinning outright. “A very nice tip. Only the best for my good little…”

Whore . The essence of the unspoken word lingers in the insinuation like a morning fog, vaporous and translucent and inexplicably mesmerizing. Everett is willing to say it, but because he’s a good boy, he’s waiting for permission.

And I so want to give him permission.

I’ve always had a degradation kink. Even when I was a teenager, doing my calculus homework at the kitchen table and pretending to use my phone as a calculator, I was really texting my then-boyfriend, goading him to call me a slut. The taboo enticed me. The juxtaposition thrilled me. Cora Flores was the perfect daughter: flawless SAT scores, the valedictorian, and Harvard-bound—as far as most people knew. The real Cora was anything but perfect.

Felix was the first boyfriend to degrade me to my face. It made him uneasy, but he loved me, he claimed, so he did it. Fuck me like a whore, Cora. Fuck me like the slut you are . He never put much behind it—perfunctory at best—and gave me exactly what someone would find if they typed “best degradation phrases” into Google and clicked the first result.

Everett claims he’s a high achiever. Well, he can prove it to me.

“Just my panties?” I clarify, exhaling like this is tedious—a favor to him, even.

My question makes his face brighten. “Yes, princess.”

“And a tip?”

His expression is smug. “Of course,” he confirms, dragging his hand through his hair. Naturally, the motion catches the attention of no less than four other patrons. The guy at the next table even stares slack-jawed at Everett for three whole seconds until he notices my glare.

Everett, on his part, is staring right at me, waiting.

“Fine. I’ll be back.”

I walk through Tryst, trying to keep my face straight. Part of me knows this is silly. He’s obviously going to stop me. Obviously .

But another part of me hopes he won’t—the same part still fixating on what he wrote in my chat.

I’m going to think about this night forever—especially when I fill those needy, slutty holes with my cum.

I take the bathroom key from the corkboard outside the door, unlock, and open it to reveal a small, single restroom.

The door stops before I can close it.

When I turn around, Everett is sliding through the doorway. He locks the door before he faces me and slants back against the teal wood. He’s quiet. In the low bathroom lights, the shadows on his face amount to a fair impersonation of a marble bust of a Roman emperor.

This man is magnificent to look at—and I wonder if he tastes as good as he looks.

“I couldn’t wait,” he informs me, voice low and thick like honey. “Panties off.”