Fifty minutes later, the chat interrupted at one point with an automated request for more funds, he ends the chat, pulling a tissue from the box on his desk and wiping the length of his cock. “Everything” had been plenty. The girl had put in a ball gag. Spread her legs and fisted her pussy. Slapped herself across the face with the metal end of her handcuffs till her lip was busted and tears came. She got on all fours and barked like a dog when he told her to. Gagged on anal beads after having had them inside of her. Had brought herself to the point of tears by the time he had come. Seven dollars a minute had bought her self-respect and let him rip it to shreds.
He kept waiting for her hand to move, to push the button that Jess Reilly had wielded so easily. But she didn’t. She listened, she performed, she didn’t give him any lip. She was motherfucking boring, even when her lips were bleeding and her ass was being violated. He felt like he was at a donkey show, not the high-class pussy he was accustomed to. Jess Reilly, despite the stick up her ass, is quality. Is American, for God’s sake. Is what his cock, even now, post-orgasm, wants.
Shutting down his computer, he stands and heads to the shower to wash off the virtual feel of slut.
CHAPTER 29
CaliCouple111: hey
I LEAN FORWARD, wave to the camera, and call out an enthusiastic hello.
CaliCouple111: can we turn on our cam?
I don’t know why clients ask. It’s not an act that requires permission, and considering that my rate goes up when they share their cam… I can’t imagine why any cammer would respond with anything other than an enthusiastic YES! But their question reveals two things. One, there is more than one of them. Two, they are polite, unsure. New. I grin. “Of course! Send it! I can’t wait to see you guys.”
A window appears on my screen, showing me a bedroom, two figures perched on the edge of a bed, hands clasped. Fully dressed. Fully. Like, shoes and socks, the man wearing a tie, the woman wearing three layers of clothing and jewels. I smile broadly but examine every piece of the image, my mind working overtime.
Expensive backdrop.
Heavy wood, professionally decorated room, floor-to-ceiling drapes, paneled walls, the edge of a fireplace along the left side of the frame.
A high-quality camera, one that doesn’t lose focus, crisp, clean, and high-def.
Attractive couple. Late forties.
The woman’s cardigan hides an impossibly busty chest.
The man’s suit hangs well over a body that seems in shape. They look plucked from a Tommy Hilfiger ad, and seem a little too proper to be on a cam. I feel underdressed in my thin T-shirt and hot-pink thong.
The man speaks, a dark tone with words that roll out, laced with bits of prep school diplomas and breeding. I imagine he went to Dartmouth, works in a firm, drives a Mercedes. “Good evening, Jessica. My name is Ted, and this is Susannah.”
The woman smiles, and I return the gesture, sliding onto my side into a comfortable position. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. What are you guys interested in tonight?”
“Susannah would like to see me with another woman. We thought you might be a baby step to that goal.” I like his voice. It drags fingertips of sexuality up my skin and causes my thighs to tighten.
“Sounds fun,” I say softly. “Did you have a specific scenario in mind or would you like me to start?”
“I’ll start.” He stands, pulls off his jacket, and tosses it onto the bed. Starts the casual and sexy process of loosening his tie. I sit up, onto my knees, and take advantage of their distraction to move a toy into the eye-level attachment that affixes to my stand. “Susannah, kneel down before me.”
I fight a smile, his words matching my thoughts. I wait, his tone telling me enough. He is in control.
She kneels, her dress pants tight, and looks up into his face as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it. Nice. Muscular, trim. He works out but doesn’t obsess over it.
“Can you move the camera in a bit?” I move closer to the end of the bed and switch camera inputs, to a higher one that sits above the toy, one that looks down on me, much as he would.
She hops to her feet, moves offscreen, and then I see the camera pan in, see him turn to face me, the camera framing him in perfect clarity. He flips the leather of his belt out and yanks the clasp of his pants. A burst of arousal comes at the anticipation, as his wife kneels before him, a smile curving over his mouth as he palms the back of her head softly. Reaching forward, she places a tentative hand on his zipper and turns to me, looks into the camera and I stare a little bit into her soul.
We may be a hundred or two thousand miles apart, but it is amazing the connections that can occur on camera. I understand why the clients think they know me, have a right, a claim to me. I feel it too. But they are one of thousands to me, and I am—for many of them—the only one. It is a dangerous seesaw of inequality, one I balance on with no clear understanding of its butterfly effects.