Chapter 8
At Matt’s demand for me to strip out of the bodysuit—that took countless hours to hand-sew—filters across my screen, I have to bite back the smirk clawing at my lips. Seeing him this close to snapping never gets less thrilling.
Looking up at the camera through lowered lashes, I finger the front clasp of the mesh cups that do nothing to hide my full breasts as they strain against the delicate fabric.
Front closures are a must in this business for easy removal and have the added benefit of allowing me to tease my subscribers with the idea that at any second, I might just snap it open.
“What do you think? Should I take this off?” I ask, pouting as I toy with the silky material, letting it stretch tight over my chest. My glossed lips shine under the ring light, and I press them together, resisting the grin bubbling up when the chat explodes in needy demands from everyone except Matt.
Who, instead, fades into the background. Silent. Watching. Always fucking watching.
I flip my hair over one shoulder, then slowly undo the clasp with a little sigh, as if I’m exhaling tension.
Though the truth is, I’m wound as tight as piano wire.
The cups fall open, and cool air kisses my nipples, already stiff and aching.
I press my breasts together with a teasing moan, fingers grazing my nipples, remembering how he would nip the delicate skin with his teeth.
I don’t have to fake the sound that escapes me at the memory.
My body remembers him too well—the way he used to drive me right to the edge of too much, only to show me how devastatingly good pain could feel when mixed with pleasure.
I wonder what it would feel like for him to play with my piercings.
I let my head fall back, spine arching slightly, then look into the camera again. My smile is the kind that makes men forget things—passwords, morals, girlfriends.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” I breathe, my voice soaked in honey and edged with need. “I wish it were your mouth, baby. I want your tongue… your teeth. Don’t you want to taste me?”
Underneath it all, my blood is roaring. Because I know he’s watching. And I know what it’s costing him.
Flirting with him has always been a terrible idea. But that’s never stopped me before.
A twist to my nipple piercing sends a sharp jolt rocketing straight to my core, and the gasp I let out is anything but fake. Heat rushes through me, pulsing between my legs, leaving me soaked and restless.
But it still isn’t enough.
From beside me, I lift tonight’s toy—a sleek pink dildo, chosen to match tonight's outfit and mask. Everything has to be perfect. After all, aesthetics are everything in this game. Men are simple, visual creatures. Give them a fantasy, and they’ll come crawling.
I stroke the silicone with both hands, slow and worshipful, as if I’m dying to feel it inside me.
I let my nails scratch lightly over its length, imagining it warm and alive.
The camera catches every greedy caress, and I can practically hear the ragged breaths of men losing their minds on the other side of the screen.
“What do you think, MistressE?” I ask, rolling the toy in my palm and biting my lower lip. “Will this toy do the job?”
The chat lights up.
MistressE: Oh, that is a work of beauty. Show us what you can do with that, gorgeous.
JimsCuntDestroyer: I want to see that cock stretching you open.
AdamsLadder: Warming you up for us.
CometoDaddy: Christ, I need to see that cunt gape.
FuckMePlease: Strip for us, slut.
BegForMe: You heard them.
That cool, clipped phrasing slices through the noise. Just enough edge to make me freeze. Just enough heat to make my pussy throb.
I can see him, even now—suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened but still hanging like a noose around his neck. His jaw tight, watching me from his flat, one eye on the stream, the other on his phone lighting up with messages he can’t ignore, and a drink in hand.
From the moment I met him, it’s been clear he’s torn in a thousand directions. It used to make me feel so stupidly special when he’d drop everything to come to me when I needed him.
He always knew how to cut through the noise. How to say just a few words that could make my body go soft and molten. No matter how many times I try to forget, my body remembers every fucking thing he ever did to me, and worse, everything I wish he’d do again.
And I’m going to make him fucking suffer for it.
The next half hour dissolves into slow, exquisite torture. I don’t rush it. I let the tension build, coaxing it higher and higher, until it hangs heavy in the air—thick with sweat and want. Every moan, every sigh is deliberate, an arrow aimed right at his control.
Because it’s him I’m really performing for.
BegForMe goes quiet for long stretches, but I can feel him there anyway, tucked into the dark corners of the chat. Holding himself rigid, pretending—desperately—that he doesn’t still want me.
And yet, I don’t let on I know who’s behind the account. Not yet.
He wants to watch? He wants to hide behind anonymity?
Fine. I’ll give him a show that’ll haunt his dreams and make him ache for what he threw away.
I’ll play into every filthy fantasy so well, he’ll wonder if I know it’s him behind the screen.
Let him stew in that delicious tension until he cracks. It’s the least he deserves.
Maybe that’s the real thrill of this—the pretending. Pretending I don’t see through the mask. Pretending I haven’t memorised the taste of his skin, the burn of his stubble against my inner thighs, the way his voice would deepen right before he fucked me so hard I forgot my own name.
I shift, draping one arm beneath my breasts, pressing them together to deepen the curve. Every inch of soft skin, every stretch mark, on display as I give the camera a languid, sinful smile.
“Look at how wet I am for you,” I moan, sliding the dildo slowly between my thighs, dragging out the motion until my back arches and my hair spills over my pillows like dark silk. “You really do know how to get me wet, don’t you? Do you think you can help me come, hmm?”
The chat goes wild, but it barely registers.
Because my mind is in London. In the alley near his father’s house, where Matt used to pin me against the wall every chance he got. Where he’d undress me without saying a word. Where I once cried into his neck after trying on my bridesmaid dress for his future wedding.
Cora and Abbie think it was all about sex. About sneaking around and having a bit of fun until the fun turned ugly. But the truth is we’ve always been tethered together in ways they’ll never understand.
When I had no one, I had him.
When no one was in his corner, I was there, ready to do anything it took to get him out of that stupid fucking contract.
And when his private request flashes across my screen, my pulse kicks.
Game on.
I accept without hesitation, my body already trembling and slick from riding the edge for thirty torturous minutes. The screen switches over to a private session, and in seconds, it’s just us.
Me and my stepbrother.
My number one fan.
“Miss me?” I coo, sinking onto my knees with a lazy kind of grace, fingertips gliding over the curve of my breasts. I lean closer to the lens, letting my voice drop—silky, laced with heat, like a secret meant for no one but him.
“I’ve been thinking about you all night…”
BegForMe: You look fucking stunning.
BegForMe: Turn around for me, baby.
BegForMe: Show Daddy those pretty holes.
My pulse stutters.
I obey because of course I do. Because that voice, even in text, still owns the part of me I swore I buried.
I twist to face the camera over my shoulder, lowering myself onto all fours with slow, practiced ease. My ass lifts into the air, framed perfectly by the soft curve of my back and the glint of the emerald plug still inside me.
Reaching back, I spread myself open just for him.
“What do you think of my surprise, Daddy?” I ask, feigning innocence that’s long since burned away. My voice is velvet-dipped sin as I glance over my shoulder to read his response.
BegForMe: I think you’re just begging to be put over my knee.
BegForMe: But then again, a little whore like you would love that, wouldn’t you?
God. Every part of me clenches.
I widen my stance, knees pressing into the mattress, spine arching deeper as I reach back to grip the jewel. The cool metal shifts, and a molten jolt of sensation courses through me.
“I’ve been such a good girl for you tonight,” I gasp, every syllable honeyed and breathless. “Don’t you think I deserve a reward?”
BegForMe: Show me how bad you need it.
A reckless thrill slices down my spine. I bite my lip, then tug the plug free. The stretch as it slips free makes me moan, raw and real, and my thighs tremble.
I set the plug aside, then glance toward the camera again, knowing the exact image I’m giving him—flushed, breathless, hole winking open slightly as if already aching to be filled again.
Reaching for the toy I saved just for this—longer, thicker, with a curved base that hits deep, I also grab the bottle of lube. My impatience has me fumbling with the lid for a second, but soon enough, the toy is slippery in my hands.
“Think I can take it, Daddy?” I ask, guiding the wet tip to my tight hole, my voice wobbling with anticipation. “Think I can be your good little anal whore?”
I lower myself slowly, inch by inch, until the toy breaches me. My breath catches, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure builds, blinding and exquisite. I pause, then push deeper, my hands gripping the sheets.
“Oh fuck—” I cry out, voice cracking. “It’s so big… I forgot how much it burns at first.”
But that burn is everything. That stretch, that raw ache. That delicious reminder of every time he made me take it, even when I said I couldn’t. Of the games we used to play, the thrill of getting caught heightening our every encounter.
I roll my hips, grinding down until I’ve taken it all, until I feel full—stretched and aching and fucking ruined.
“I want it to be you,” I admit, a gasp tumbling from my lips. “I want your cock inside me instead. I want to ride you like this, taking every inch until I cry.”
I move slowly at first, grinding in lazy circles, the toy dragging against every nerve ending. Pleasure builds like a storm, savage and low, tightening through my core until I’m panting, desperate for more.
“Fuck me in the ass, Daddy,” I whimper, glancing at the screen to see his response. “Say it. Say you want to destroy this tight little hole.”
BegForMe: I want to split you open on my cock.
BegForMe: I want you ruined for anyone else.
BegForMe: You were made to take me there. No one else, just me.
A sob punches from my chest.
Because it’s not just arousal anymore—it’s him. The way he ruins me without even touching me. The way I still let him.
“I want your cock,” I moan, reaching up to tug on my nipple piercings. “I need you to fuck me open and show me who owns me.”
I ride the dildo like it’s the only thing keeping me sane—deep and relentless, rolling my hips so my thighs quiver. I let myself get lost in it, imagining it’s his cock filling me, stretching me open, fucking me the way he used to when he couldn’t hold back anymore.
When I come, it’s sharp and messy, a guttural cry torn from my throat, raw and soaked in memories I can’t outrun. My muscles seize around the toy, wetness flooding my thighs. My hair sticks to my temples, my chest heaving.
I collapse onto my back and look back into the camera, dazed and flushed, tears shining in my lashes.
BegForMe: Fuck.
BegForMe: You’re my perfect little whore.
The words hit the screen like a slap, and my pulse stutters, quickening without permission. I hesitate, hovering over the keyboard, my fingers twitching as if they might obey a command I haven’t given. The cursor blinks at me, a heartbeat stretched into eternity.
BegForMe: Don’t forget who you belong to.
And then the screen goes dark.
Private session: Ended.
I lean back, letting the quiet wash over me, tasting the thrill of his need for control, the sharp edge of his composure cracking just enough for me to savour it.
He thinks he’s the one holding the reins, but he doesn't realise that the game has just shifted. I’m not done with him yet. Not by a long shot.
And he sure as hell isn’t done with me.