Push My Buttons (Behind the Lens #10)

1. Chapter 1

Wren

Not everyone needs to wear a mask.

I'm not talking about the metaphorical kind. What I mean is the physical kind—the one you put on to hide your face from the world.

I never imagined I'd need one.

But when your brother is a wanted serial killer, invisibility becomes less of a lifestyle choice and more of a survival strategy.

Glamorous, right? Especially when the media makes it their life's mission to plaster every personal picture and scrap of family history across every platform known to man. They were so far up my ass, I’m honestly surprised they didn’t think he was hiding in there.

I spend my days sliding by unnoticed, tucked away in a small café in a busy tech sector of the city, pouring mediocre coffee and forcing polite smiles for minimum wage while contemplating the various ways to commit caffeine-related homicide.

It's just enough to scrape by, barely enough to pay the rent, and not nearly enough to feel safe.

So, for a few hours each week, I become someone else entirely.

Hidden beneath a long, sleek black wig and a jewel-studded face mask, I log on to perform for an audience that knows me only as Vanta. The internet’s favorite silent sin.

It's a controlled performance, carefully curated to hold their attention without giving away too much. I don't speak—not that I can, I haven't been able to in eighteen months—but I can tease with a glance, flirt with a gesture, and moan enough to keep them tipping generously.

Tonight's session begins the way it always does: dim lights, the soft glow of a candle, sheer black fabric framing the space, and silence. Comfortable, practiced silence. I sit on the velvet chair centered in the frame, legs crossed, robe draped just loosely enough to promise a reveal.

The first tip pings before I even move.

GlazedAndConfused tipped $50: "Oil your thighs tonight?"

DaddyDeluxe tipped $25: "Those stockings again, please."

I tilt my head slightly, pretending to consider their requests. My fingers drift to the small bottle beside me, letting the anticipation build. The camera loves slow, deliberate movement. The longer I wait, the more they tip.

The familiar rhythm of the session takes over—measured touches, controlled reveals. A shoulder here. A glimpse of bare skin there. The sound of my breath, soft and steady, synced with the gentle crackle of candle wax.

Most subscribers blur into one another; they're names on a screen, messages too thirsty to distinguish. A digital thirst trap parade with delusions of intimacy.

But a few usernames show up regularly—big tippers who never fail to make their presence known.

ObsidianWolf tipped $200: "Perfection, as always."

NeedleAndVice tipped $100: "Everyone else is begging. Don't let them have it."

GlassHouse tipped $250: "I want the sound of you unraveling tonight. Don't make me ask twice."

That last one draws a slight frown.

GlassHouse always tips high. Always just a little too specific. A little too controlling. A little too "I've memorized your apartment layout."

I shift my posture, brushing off the unease. It's part of the job—dealing with the ones who think money buys them a piece of you. It doesn't. Not with me. But they’re welcome to keep trying. Their desperation pays my electricity bill.

Still, my gaze lingers on the message longer than I intend. I’m not used to threats being that direct. Or that expensive.

I lean back in the chair, letting the silky robe slip slowly down my shoulders. My fingers trail softly along the curve of my collarbone, over the delicate lace covering my chest, pausing at the sensitive skin beneath my belly button.

More tips pour in. Flashes of usernames and numbers, a blur of wants and needs and imagined entitlement.

CamKing77: "Closer, baby. Want to see every inch."

HeartbreakerX: "Choker and gag night? Say yes."

Another name flashes on the screen.

VantablackVoid tipped $222: “Back arch. Hands above your head. You know the pose.”

I pause. That’s a new one.

The name is clearly a play on Vanta . Which…

bold choice. Weirdly intimate. A little too clever.

And the tip amount? Not just a flex—it’s a message, though I don’t know what.

All twos. Very precise. I don’t know them.

They’ve never tipped before. But something about the way the message is worded feels… off.

Not in the creepy, stalker way like GlassHouse. Not yet.

But there’s a tone—commanding. Overly familiar.

I push it aside.

My hands move in smooth, practiced circles. I dip them just under the lace at my hips, enough to draw a few gasp emojis in the chat. The robe slides down my arms, pooling at my elbows. The glow from the candle bathes everything in low, honeyed warmth.

Some nights I can forget what’s outside of this studio. The news stories. The past. The name I don’t say aloud anymore. The mask does more than hide me—it transforms me into a goddess wrapped in silk and plausible deniability.

I’m not Wren when I’m here.

I’m Vanta.

Silent. Untouchable. Desired. And not remotely interested in your unsolicited dick pic.

I don’t think about the subscribers. Not really.

But occasionally, there’s something different about the way a message is worded. The cadence. The confidence. Something that makes it feel almost familiar, like a word spoken across a crowded room that you can’t quite place.

ObsidianWolf: "You're art."

NeedleAndVice: "Let them beg. I just want to watch you tease that beautiful body."

Not flattering. Not desperate. Just… steady. Certain. Like they know I’ll read it. Like they know I’ll respond.

I shift again, sliding my hand lower beneath the lace. My breath catches in my throat—louder this time, just barely audible. Enough to make the tips come faster.

And they do.

The camera is a constant, reflecting my activity. My chat is chaos.

It always is when I do this. When I let it get close. Real. Just enough to blur the line between performance and pleasure.

I moan—muffled and low, throat tightening with restraint—and tilt my head to one side, hair spilling over my shoulder.

I imagine what I look like to them. The way the mask catches the light.

The glint of jewels against candlelight, the light reflecting like rainbows.

The fingers between my thighs that they only get hints of beneath the sheer material.

The chat explodes again.

NeedleAndVice tipped $200.

VantablackVoid tipped $222.

GlassHouse tipped $300.

I pause, chest rising and falling. I wonder if they think I will finally speak to them. Of course, I don’t. I can’t. The chat always pauses when I hold still, like they’re waiting for a miracle.

But all they’ll get is the sound of my breath and the shape of my body beneath the lace.

They don’t know who I am. Where I live. What my real voice might sound like if I ever spoke.

And I don’t know them.

Except I kind of do.

I know ObsidianWolf never uses emojis. His sentences are short, clipped, confident.

I know NeedleAndVice likes to watch. He never asks. Just… encourages.

And GlassHouse? He’s the reason I double-check the locks before every stream.

There’s something about the timing of his tips. The specificity. He once tipped with a message that mentioned a detail only visible if you could see into the studio before I went live.

That shouldn’t be possible.

I told Lorna, my boss at Behind the Lens, about it. She said not to worry. That some subscribers like to push boundaries.

She would know, I guess, since she is the OG cam girl.

I pause as I remind myself of what she said. Just for a moment. Long enough for the energy in the chat to shift.

More tips. More comments. More requests.

I force a smile and lean forward again, brushing the black wig over my bare shoulder, hand drifting slowly down the curve of my thigh.

Back in character.

The show goes on.

My breathing deepens as I trail one finger just beneath the lace edge of my panties, dragging the moment out, letting the tension simmer in the chat.

I glance up through my lashes at the camera, shifting slightly so the light grazes across the curve of my breasts.

Slowly, I reach for the delicate lace at the center of my bra.

One hand slips beneath the fabric.

Then I tug.

The lace glides over my nipples, baring them to the screen—hard and flushed under the warm candlelight like sinful cherries on a sundae from hell. The tips spike instantly—comment bubbles flooding upward like a pervy parade.

I tease one breast with my fingertips, circling and tugging as the other hand slips lower. A new tip flashes.

CamKing77 tipped $400: “Use that glass one. Let us see you take it.”

I hesitate just long enough to make them wait. Then I reach beside me, fingertips curling around the thick glass toy I’d warmed earlier. Smooth and weighty, it catches the candlelight as I hold it up—translucent and undeniably intimidating.

The chat reacts instantly, comment bubbles going full-blown caps-lock meltdown.

I slide the lace panties aside with two fingers, revealing slick heat and swollen folds already twitching in anticipation—a result of a little prep work earlier.

I'd known tonight would be intense, and let's just say I came into this with a head start and an agenda.

I angle my body toward the camera just enough to let them see.

Not everything. Just enough to drive them batshit.

And then I press the toy against my entrance.

Slow.

Stretching.

I ease the thick glass inside inch by inch, hips trembling as the fullness builds. My body resists, then yields, slick and shuddering as I take it all the way.

The sound I make is quiet but real—muffled pleasure and strain. The mask hides my expression, but my body tells the story. Chapter and verse.

I start to move the toy, slow and steady, my free hand teasing my nipple, breathing ragged now. Every shift, every thrust makes the lace shift and stretch. I ride it with rising tension, hips grinding, thighs shaking as the pressure coils tighter.

Until—

Release.

My moans break free, rough and desperate, as I clench around the toy, breath catching and back arching. The mask nearly slips as I tip my head back, black strands falling over my face, my thighs twitching through every pulse.

And still, I don’t let go of the toy.

Not until the very end, when the last wave crests and my muscles go limp.

Only then do I slowly slide it free, glistening in the candlelight. I hold it up for them to see, turning it slowly so the light catches every slick curve. A final tease. A trophy. A parting gift that sends the chat spiraling one last time.

Then I slowly reach forward and click the stream offline.

The light from the screen fades. The quiet returns.

I sit in the chair for a long time after the camera shuts off. One leg draped over the side, hand still resting against my stomach like I’m trying to hold the heat in. Still dressed in lace and shadows. Still bathed in the warm flicker of that candle.

My body hums from the high. Not just from touch—but from power. From control. From knowing that all those eyes were on me, tipping like desperate little simps, and not a single one of them will ever see the truth.

They don’t know the girl who works at the café. The one with chipped nails, too much caffeine in her system, and an eye twitch that flares up every time someone orders a caramel soy matcha with three pumps of something unholy.

They don’t know that she used to be someone else—before everything went up in flames. Before her last name became poison, broadcasted like a goddamn horror headline across every newsfeed from here to oblivion.

I push the wig back and scrub my fingers through the sweaty strands of pink underneath. Hello Kitty pink. Too bright. Too memorable. But something else that's completely different from the girl I used to be.

But in the dark, behind the screen, I get to be anyone I want. A fantasy wrapped in lace, untouchable and utterly uninterested in real-world bullshit.

For now, that’s enough.

I remove the mask and gently place it aside before I rise, drape the robe around my shoulders, and blow out the candle. The scent lingers—black orchid and something smoky. Something that feels like another life.

And just as I step away from the setup, my phone buzzes.

I don’t know the number. And there’s no name. Just a message.

[I saw you tonight. Not through the screen.]

I freeze.

The darkness suddenly feels heavier.

I check my subscribers. The number isn’t connected to any of them.

Then my phone buzzes again.

This time a photo.

Of me.

In my costume.

Taken from the outside of my apartment window.

My stomach drops.

I move slowly, turning to look at the covered glass. The curtain is drawn. It was drawn before I went live. I know it was.

The chill down my spine is sharp enough to make me bleed.

For a moment, I just stand there, listening for anything—movement, breathing, footsteps.

Nothing.

Just the hum of electronics winding down.

Then another buzz.

[You hide well. But I see you. I always have. I will always find you.]

I don’t scream.

I don’t run.

I just slide the phone into my drawer, turn off the rest of the lights and triple check all my locks. Then, I grab my other laptop and sit on the bed with my back to the wall as I search for yet another apartment.

Because I know something no one else does.

You can hide your face.

You can keep disappearing.

But some things?

Some things always bleed through the cracks.