Chapter 4
My viewers don’t pay to watch me curl up with a fever. They pay for the fantasy of an eager Omega ready to please. Tonight, that fantasy will just take a little more effort than usual.
I drag the tripod closer to the bed, positioning the camera to capture the toys lined up on the nightstand, cleaned, sanitized, and ready.
My hands shake as I arrange them in order of size, knowing I’ll use only one tonight. The slender black dildo with a small knot at the base, big enough to satisfy but not so demanding that my weakened body can’t handle it.
The laptop screen blurs as I check the chat room settings. Five minutes until showtime, and already, viewers wait in the lobby, their usernames crawling across my monitor. I swallow two more cold-and-flu pills, chasing them with lukewarm water that tastes metallic on my tongue.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, the sound scraping my raw throat. “One hour. Then rest.”
The money matters. Rent matters. Heat suppressants matter. I can’t afford a night off, not with prices climbing and the unanticipated expense of changing my PO Box. My bank account didn’t need the cost of breaking one lease and starting up a new one.
When the clock hits nine, I click the button to start the stream. The red recording light blinks on, and I force my mouth into the practiced curve of seduction.
“Hello, loves,” I purr, the words dragging through my throat like nettles. “Who’s ready for a special show tonight?”
The chat floods with greetings and demands, their words swimming across the screen until I blink them back into focus.
CHAT COMMENTS
DaddyBrooks: Looking fine tonight, Elliot
SweetTooth44: yaaay ur here!
BlueJay77: been waiting all day baby
“I’ve planned a different kind of show for tonight,” I announce, steadier than I feel. “You’re always watching me, but tonight I want to imagine you behind me.”
My viewers eat it up, not realizing the angle serves to hide my flushed face and glassy eyes. I turn my back to the camera, kneeling on the bed. The position sends a wave of dizziness through me, the room tilting before settling into uneasy equilibrium.
“You like this view?” I ask over my shoulder, watching the chat explode with approval, and the ding of donations fills the room.
I reach for the lube, squeezing too hard in my clumsy state. The cool liquid spills over my fingers, dripping onto the sheets below, and the scent of artificial cherry fills my nostrils, cloyingly sweet.
My hand slips between my legs, putting on a show of preparation, the familiar movement requiring concentration I struggle to muster. My skin burns everywhere I touch, the fever causing hypersensitivity.
When I reach for the dildo, my fingers fumble twice before grasping it properly. The silicone settles cold and unyielding within my hold, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my body.
“Imagine it’s you,” I tell the viewers in a husky whisper to hide my growing sore throat. “Imagine these are your hands.”
The chat scrolls faster.
CHAT COMMENTS
HeartEyes92: OMG so hot
SkyKing69: deeper!!
LoneWolf88: wish that was me behind you
Sweat trickles down my spine as I position the toy, my movements mechanical rather than fluid. Thank goodness for lube, because my body isn’t producing even a hint of slick.
The fever wraps my mind in a fog, every action requiring thought. The dildo slides inside, my body responding on autopilot despite my illness. My muscles tense at the intrusion, a gasp escaping my lips that viewers will interpret as pleasure rather than discomfort.
I rock back my hips on the toy, establishing a rhythm that takes all my concentration to maintain. My thighs tremble with the effort of holding myself upright. Behind me, the chat continues its chorus of approval and demands, the notification sounds of tips blending into white noise.
TIP NOTIFICATIONS
DaddyBrooks tipped 150 tokens — “So fucking hot”
SilverFox sent 75 tokens — “Beautiful as always”
A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I wipe it away when I’m sure the camera won’t catch it, my hand coming away slick and hot. My hair sticks to my forehead, and I toss my head back, disguising necessity as performance.
“You’re so big,” I moan, the words empty of meaning. My body moves through memorized motions while my mind floats somewhere above, detached and drifting.
The room spins as I increase my pace, knowing I need to end this soon. My breathing grows ragged, but not from arousal. My lungs struggle to expand, each inhale shorter than it should be. The fever climbs higher, my skin burning everywhere the air touches.
I reach down to stroke myself, the touch sending electric currents of discomfort rather than pleasure through my overstimulated nerves. The chat demands more, harder, faster, their words blurring into meaningless symbols on the screen.
“I’m close,” I lie, straining to finish the show. “So close for you.”
My free hand grips the sheets as another wave of dizziness crashes over me. I need to finish this now, before my body betrays me completely. I force my hips to move faster, my hand working in tandem, putting on the performance they expect.
“Oh god,” I cry out, manufacturing the familiar crescendo. “Yes, right there, don’t stop!”
I arch my back, tensing my muscles in a pantomime of orgasm that’s miles away from my feverish reality.
My body shudders convincingly, years of practice selling the deception despite my condition.
I let out a final cry and collapse forward onto the bed, the toy slipping free as I turn my face away from the camera.
“Mmm,” I murmur, reaching for a tissue to clean up nonexistent evidence. “That was incredible.”
The chat floods with appreciation and virtual applause.
CHAT COMMENTS
BlueJay77: holy shit that was hot
SweetTooth44: u look amazing baby
DaddyBrooks: Worth every token
HeartEyes92: encore!!!
“Sorry, loves,” I manage to say. “That’s all for tonight. Special thanks to my tippers. Until next time.”
I blow a kiss toward the camera, maintaining the facade until the last possible second. Then I reach forward, clicking the button to end the stream.
The red light blinks off, and I collapse fully onto the mattress. The silence rushes in, broken only by my labored breathing. My body shakes with chills despite the heat radiating from my skin. The toy lies forgotten beside me, a prop in a performance that drained what little energy I had left.
The screen continues to glow in the dimness of my bedroom, illuminating the sweat-dampened sheets and my trembling form.
I want nothing more than to give in to gravity and sink into the mattress, but I should clean up.
I should shower. I should call Saint, because this fever isn’t going down with generic cold medicine.
For now, though, I close my eyes to block out the spinning room and allow myself thirty seconds of rest.
Then I need to get ready for GentlemanX’s private session.
The thirty seconds stretch into three minutes before I peel myself off the mattress. My limbs weigh double, every movement requiring effort as I gather the dildo and lube from the tangled sheets.
GentlemanX deserves better than this half-dead version of me, but canceling means losing two hundred dollars I desperately need.
I shuffle to the bathroom, toys in hand.
When I flip the switch, the fluorescent light stabs my eyes, sending a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach.
In the reflection in the mirror, my flushed cheeks, hair plastered to my forehead, and pupils dilated with fever stop me cold.
I hardly recognize the person staring back.
“Keep it together,” I mumble, turning on the hot water.
The steam rises as I wash the toy with antibacterial soap, moving through the routine while my mind drifts. When I’m done, I set it on a clean towel to dry and use a washcloth to clean the lube from my body as best I can.
Back in the bedroom, I wipe down the camera lens and tripod with sanitizing cloths, my hands trembling. Every movement drags, as if pushing through molasses, each action taking twice as long as it should.
My laptop chimes with a notification about GentlemanX’s private session. Twenty minutes until our scheduled time, an eternity, and the sound freezes me in place, cloth suspended mid-wipe as reality crashes in.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at the screen. The logical choice would be to cancel. To message him with an apology and promise to reschedule when I’m not burning up with fever. My finger hovers over the keyboard, ready to type the words that would release me from this obligation.
But I feel horrible, and I selfishly want GentlemanX to comfort me. To pretend for two hours that someone cares whether I’ve eaten dinner, whether I’m happy, whether I exist beyond the fantasy I sell.
I can always offer to give him a discount if he complains.
Decision made, I push myself to my feet and stagger to the bathroom.
It’s only been an hour since my last dose, but I take another round of fever reducers and a packet of cold medicine.
The chalky tablets coat my tongue in a bitter film as I chew them, grimacing at the artificial cherry flavor that coats my mouth.
I cup my hands under the faucet, bringing cool water to my lips to wash away the medicinal residue. It splashes down my chin, droplets falling onto my bare chest.
I should put on my show outfit, the lingerie and accessories chosen to maximize tips. But I can’t bear the thought of synthetic fabric on my fevered flesh. Instead, I shuffle to the dresser in search of comfort.
The oversized sweater comes from the bottom drawer, soft with age and countless washings. It’s the color of oatmeal, completely unremarkable, but GentlemanX once commented that it made me appear soft. I pull it over my head, wincing as my aching muscles protest.