5. Chapter 5 #2
I check the camera angle, adjust the lighting, and set up my laptop to monitor the chat. Everything is perfect, professional, controlled. Nothing like the vulnerability of camming from home, where shadows outside my window might hide watching eyes.
Here, I'm safe. Here, I'm powerful.
I take a deep breath and hit the button to go live. The screen flickers to life. The counter ticks up as viewers join.
The first tips start rolling in before I even move.
ObsidianWolf tipped $50: "Ready for perfection."
NeedleAndVice tipped $100: "The anticipation is almost unbearable."
CamKing77 logged in: "Excited for tonight!"
VantablackVoid tipped $111: "You know the rules. Hands above your head, goddess."
LoverBoy tipped $50: "Looking amazing already!"
Dreamer logged in: "Let's have some fun!"
GlassHouse tipped $200: "New setting. Not sure I like it. Show me something special tonight to make it worth it."
I tilt my head, letting the light catch on my mask's jewels.
Tonight, his message doesn't unnerve me quite as much. Not with solid walls around me and security at the door.
I lean back, letting the bodysuit's sheer panels reveal glimpses of skin. My hand trails slowly up my thigh, and I smile behind my mask as the tips increase.
Tonight, I perform on my terms. In my space. With my rules.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow I'll start planning how to bring Wasteland Chronicles to life—a fantasy world where I can control every variable, every outcome.
Unlike the real world, where shadows move outside windows and messages arrive from unknown numbers.
I shift my approach, wanting to give my audience something different tonight.
The bodysuit clings to my curves as I turn away from the camera, looking back over my shoulder with a sultry gaze.
I let my fingertips trail down my spine, then slowly bend forward at the waist, giving them a view that makes the chat explode with tips and comments.
The angle is perfect—the sheer fabric stretching across my ass, the curve of my back arched just so.
I maintain eye contact with the camera over my shoulder, letting them see the intensity in my gaze behind the mask.
My hair falls in a dark curtain to one side as I reach between my legs, teasing myself through the thin material.
ObsidianWolf tipped $250: "Breathtaking view."
NeedleAndVice tipped $250: "This is what dreams are made of."
The fabric is already damp beneath my fingers.
I slide the thin material aside, exposing myself to the camera's unblinking eye.
My movements are deliberate, unhurried, as I circle my clit with two fingers, my breath catching audibly.
The chat scrolls faster now, a blur of usernames and dollar amounts.
I dip my fingers inside myself, then bring them back to my swollen clit, spreading the wetness. My thighs begin to tremble slightly as I find my rhythm. The position—bent over, exposed, vulnerable yet in complete control—sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the money pouring in.
GlassHouse tipped $300: "Move the microphone. I want to hear everything."
I oblige, adjusting the microphone so that it catches my breathing, the soft, involuntary sounds that escape my throat as my fingers work faster. My other hand grips the edge of the table for support, knuckles whitening as the pressure builds inside me.
VantablackVoid tipped $222: "Make yourself come for us."
The command in that message sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. My fingers move with more urgency, circling and pressing in the way I know will push me over the edge. I'm not faking anymore—the pleasure is real, building in waves that make my legs shake.
When it hits, it's powerful enough to make me cry out. I arch my back further, still looking over my shoulder at the camera as I come on my fingers, my body clenching and pulsing. The moan that escapes me is soft but genuine, a sound I rarely allow myself to make even in these sessions.
For several moments, I stay there, trembling, letting them see the aftermath—the flush spreading across my skin, the slight sheen of sweat, the way my chest rises and falls with each ragged breath.
ObsidianWolf tipped $400: "Perfection."
I slowly straighten, turning back to face the camera. My fingers glisten in the studio lights as I bring them to my lips, tasting myself with a teasing motion that makes the chat explode again.
NeedleAndVice tipped $300: "Goddamn perfection."
I savor the moment, letting my breathing slow as I regain my composure. The high from the orgasm mingles with the satisfaction of a performance well executed. I reach for a small towel I'd placed nearby, cleaning my fingers with unhurried movements while maintaining eye contact with the camera.
By the time I bring myself to orgasm for the third time, my thighs are trembling and my throat feels raw from the soft moans I've been letting escape.
The chat is going wild, tips flooding in faster than I can track them.
This is the part I love—when I've given them exactly what they want while still keeping my boundaries intact.
When I've created the perfect illusion of intimacy without sacrificing an ounce of my real self.
Nothing beats that initial rush of power when I see the final tip count, knowing I've earned every dollar through calculated moves and carefully crafted personas. I smile one last time at the camera, blow a kiss, and then reach forward to end the stream.
The red recording light blinks off, and just like that, Vanta disappears.
I sit back in the chair, suddenly aware of the ache in my lower back and the dampness between my thighs. My heart rate slowly returns to normal as I gaze around the empty studio. The silence feels heavy after all those pinging notifications.
I peel off the wig first, letting my pink hair fall free. It's damp with sweat at the roots, sticking to my neck and forehead. Then I pull off the mask and pack my things into my bag, and I'm just me again—tired, achy, and surprisingly empty.
The transition from Vanta to Wren always hits like this. One moment I'm a fantasy, the next I'm just a girl with pink hair and too many secrets, sitting alone in a studio with sore thighs and an emotional hangover.