Chapter 3
brIELLE
A mannequin wearing a glittery pink slip dress watches me from across my living room as I scroll through the comments on my latest video. I stick my tongue out at it. If it were possible for there to be judgment in a pair of empty eye sockets, that’s exactly how it would be looking at me right now.
It’s the same expression I imagine my brother would have if he ever found out what I do at night.
That his little sister uploads dirty videos of herself online for hundreds of people to see.
Well, they don’t know it’s me, so there’s that.
I’ve never once shared my face, and I make a serious effort to keep my surroundings discreet enough that if anyone I know in my personal life did stumble across my account, they’d have a harder time realizing it’s me.
Despite my anonymity, I’m not ashamed of what I do. It’s the opposite, actually.
There’s something incredibly liberating about owning your sexuality in such an outward way.
I’ve never felt sexier and more desired than when I’m exploring myself and the different things I’ve learned I enjoy for the camera.
It’s only been a few months, but I’ve dug so deep into the well of my kinks that I doubt there’s much left to be discovered.
Still, I’m aware of the risk that comes with doing this.
I’m not hurting for money or searching for reassurance from strangers on the internet.
I do this because I want to, and the older I get, the more I’m realizing that I don’t really give a shit what people think of me.
The only reason I’m not louder about it is for my brother’s sake.
His career means the world to him, and the last thing I want to do is ruin anything for him because his sister’s pussy is on the internet.
Sex work is still frowned upon by too many who don’t understand that work is work, regardless of your opinion or beliefs.
If you don’t like it, don’t think about it.
Nobody is forcing you to go online and stare at anyone naked.
You’ll never catch me dead judging anyone for doing what I am.
I drop my attention to my laptop and snort at the most recent comment. I’ve never been so jealous of a vibe before. Great to know, user smarterthanIlook.
There are a hundred more beneath that one.
It doesn’t matter that I only uploaded this morning.
I’m flattered that I’ve grown such a fan base, if I’d call it that.
I know that these commenters aren’t all here because they think I’m some sexual goddess, but that doesn’t bother me much.
There’s plenty of negativity woven into the positivity, and dare I say that I use those bitter comments to push myself harder.
Hate all you want, but I’m still the one getting paid to make myself come.
I roll my lip between my teeth as I continue scrolling, ignoring the more vulgar comments. There aren’t enough to let the creeps overshadow the admirers, so I don’t let them bother me.
It feels like forever before I find the username I was selfishly hoping would appear.
Quiethours. The comment beside the name sparks a thrill that races like cold fire up my spine.
Without hesitation, I click out of the video and open my messages tab.
The number of ones I haven’t responded to yet is jarring, to say the least. I charge my subscribers more for the option to direct message me, yet money hasn’t ever seemed to be an issue for this particular one.
Not from the extra donation amounts and consistent membership status that I absolutely have not been keeping an eye on.
Quiethours
Is this where video requests go?
Yeah, those are another perk I charge for.
With the five-hundred-dollar monthly fee, I was hoping to deter a few of the people only on my profile to leer and judge.
It’s worked pretty well so far, and I usually only get a handful of requests per month from serious users.
I don’t do anything that I’m not comfortable with, but I’ll admit that this aspect of what I do is where I started exploring my sexuality a bit more.
I adjust my laptop on my legs and begin typing a response.
Crushedvelvet
Yes. Do you have one in mind?
A part of me expects him not to answer. I don’t know this person past the username and the shiny black shoes in his profile photo. If I squint at the picture, they at least look fancy. Like the kind a businessman would wear while attending stuffy boardroom meetings.
A soft dinging noise comes from my lap.
Quiethours
Do you have specific criteria?
Crushedvelvet
No. If I don’t like what you ask for, I’ll either refuse, or give you a different suggestion that I’m comfortable with.
Orrrrrrrr . . . I could block him, I guess. We’ll see.
Quiethours
I don’t want anything entirely scandalous. Not in that sense.
Crushedvelvet
Colour me intrigued, Stranger.
I watch the bubbles appear that gives away that they’re typing and nearly bite the corner of my fingernail before sliding my hand beneath my thigh. Chewing my nails was too tough a habit to break.
Quiethours
I’d like you to film whatever you’d like to.
I scrunch my brows and reread the message a second time, then a third.
Crushedvelvet
That isn’t much of a special request then.
Quiethours
It is. I’d know you’re doing it for me and not the others on your page.
My pulse jumps. Genuine intrigue floods me as I take another look at the profile photo, searching for anything that may give something away.
I click on his profile name and get taken to a boring, empty profile.
I catch the he/him pronouns sandwiched between his username and the empty space where his name should be, so at least I’ve learned something.
With a few clicks, I’m staring back at our few messages.
Crushedvelvet
You want to pretend you have claim on me, then?
Quiethours
I suppose I do.
Crushedvelvet
That’ll work. Do you have any other requests? Outfits, props, something I should call you?
I nearly jump off the couch when I see a notification pop up beneath my message.
Quiethours has tipped you four hundred dollars.
Quiethours
Buy something new. Something you’ve never worn for anyone else before.
And something to use while you film.
Something new? Jesus, I have two dresser drawers full of lingerie and babydolls that cost a healthy penny, not to mention a tub full of toys.
Still, I’m not about to argue with the guy.
I’m stubborn, but not that stubborn. Plus, I think it’s actually really sexy that he’s so demanding.
At least I do since he’s not here in person, bossing me around.
Crushedvelvet
What’s your favourite colour?
Quiethours
Black.
I snort, already typing back.
Crushedvelvet
How very somber of you.
Quiethours
I think you mean boring.
Crushedvelvet
I didn’t say that. You could probably guess my favourite colour.
Quiethours
Pink?
Crushedvelvet
Boring but intuitive. I’m intrigued.
I frown after sending the message and shift my laptop to the couch cushion beside me.
The last thing I should be is intrigued by a stranger who’s only speaking with me because he wants to receive a dirty video. The safe, smart thing to do here is to end the conversation by explaining the time frame I can get the video done for him and then exiting the website altogether.
I don’t do chatting with my subscribers. I’m not selling a dating experience, nor am I interested in letting myself become friends with a stranger on the internet. Especially in this setting.
Another ding signals his reply. I look at the ceiling, then down at my fuzzy pink sweatpants. With a groan, I grab the laptop again and read the message.
Quiethours
I’ve been intrigued. Welcome to the party, Velvet.
Yep. That’s enough of that.
Without sending anything further, I close out of the messages and shut the laptop.
“Alright. What do you want to do now? You can’t pretend this didn’t happen, Aubrey. Not if it’s got you so worked up,” I say, trying to wrap my head around what I’ve just heard.
If I’m stubborn, then I don’t even have a proper word to give my best friend. Nobody’s invented anything accurate enough to describe her yet.
She takes long, heavy sips of her martini across the table from me, so clearly flustered I can’t help but be worried.
For a woman who’s used to being so confident and, at times, even a bit ruthless in her attempts to prove herself to everyone she meets, she’s starting to freak me out here.
I don’t remember the last time she’s let me see her so anxious, and there’s one very clear cause.
Finn Avery, a.k.a. my brother’s teammate and Aubrey’s best friend. Aside from me, of course.
He’s not only the reason my workaholic bestie took a half day from work—another first—but also why she’s been rambling since we got our drinks.
Apparently, all of this dating coaching they’ve been doing has really screwed with their friendship to the point that last night, Aubrey went to his house and kissed him.
Cue the meltdown in the middle of Pretty Little Pour, my latest venue obsession.
The recently opened cocktail bar is what my dreams are made of.
Pink lights, velvet furniture, and drinks with sparkles swirling inside.
There’s a beautiful lack of sports playing on the various TVs, and instead of club music, they opt for soft jazz that doesn’t force you to yell while having a conversation at your table.
This is where I insisted we go when I texted her earlier, needing a distraction from the video I still haven’t recorded for user Quiethours.
“I don’t want to ruin anything,” she whispers, fear clinging to her every word.
Without blinking, I reach over and squeeze her hand. My stacked silver rings press against her fingers, and I catch her glancing briefly at them.
“Who says you will? He kissed you back, didn’t he?” I ask.
“He’s too nice to have shoved me off, even if he didn’t want to kiss me.”
“Come on. Don’t be purposefully na?ve.”
“I’m not trying to be. But you can’t deny that he would do anything to spare my feelings.”
“You’re right. I still don’t think he’d have gone on with it unless all you did was give him a peck, which it doesn’t seem like is the case.”
Her cheeks flame beneath the pink-tinted lights. “It wasn’t a peck.”
“Exactly! Honestly, Aubrey, you need to just yank the Band-Aid off. The sooner you get it over with, the better it’ll be.”
“And how do I do that?”
I release her hand with a soft pat and grab the disco ball cup that houses my peach bellini.
“You tell him you liked kissing him. That way, he can either tell you he feels the same, or you can move on. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
You two kiss again to see if it was a fluke and then both decide you never want to do it again? ”
“That sounds more like the best-case scenario.”
I roll my eyes and take a sip of the fruity cocktail. “You say that now, but we both know you want him to tell you how much he loved kissing you.”
Honestly, this has been a long time coming. I may not have a lot of experience when it comes to growing up with a guy best friend, but come on. Aubrey’s the smartest person I know, only when it comes to Finn, she’s na?ve to her own feelings.
This has been building over the last seven years that I’ve known her, maybe even before then.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a know-it-all?” she asks, half grumbling.
“A handful of times, actually.”
She laughs and straightens a bit. Some of the weight has lifted from her shoulders, but not as much as I’d like. Still, she pushes forward like nothing’s wrong. Like a few lame words of advice from someone who hasn’t had a good, solid relationship in years was enough to soothe her worries.
“Let’s change the subject. Remember when you mentioned wanting to get boudoir photos done?”
I scrunch my nose. “Yes. I also remember that being after your blind date with the photographer dude.”
“Ew. Don’t remind me.” She taps a knuckle to the curve of her pink martini glass. “I mean, yeah, that is when we talked about it, but this doesn’t actually have anything to do with him.”
“This?”
“It turns out that Roman Shore’s niece is into photography.”
“The Havoc’s manager?”
“That Roman, yup. You’ve met Evie before, right?”
I lean back in the pink velour bar chair and nod. “His niece? Once, maybe. I don’t think I spoke with her for very long that day.”
It was a brief meeting after one of the team’s final games last season.
According to the rumours I’ve heard floating around, Roman’s ultraprotective of her, so she hardly goes to any games, let alone hangs out in the clubhouse with the rest of us.
Come to think of it, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen the man himself around the team off the field.
Aubrey waves me off before pulling her thick black hair over her shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. She’s apparently looking for volunteers who’ll pose for some boudoir photos to stack up her portfolio. The sessions are free as long as you’re okay with her using the photos afterward.”
“And you know this how? Are you getting some done?”
“God no. Could you imagine me in my underwear in front of someone I hardly know?”
“Honestly, yeah. You’re hot. Why wouldn’t you want to get some sexy photos taken of yourself? You’re going to want them when you’re eighty and reminiscing on what your body used to look like.”
She lowers her bright blue eyes to her cup. I swear I see her brow twitch like she’s thinking through what I said. “That’s fair. How about you go first, and if you have a good time, I’ll think about it.”
“That’s hardly an equal agreement, but fine.”
“So, you’ll do it?”
“Yes, Aubrey,” I muse, flashing a devious grin. “But only if you promise to put a blown-up picture of me in your place somewhere. I need to remind Finn who’s really in charge if you two keep canoodling.”
“God, Elle. Don’t say canoodling.”
“Alright. Once you start fucking, I need him to know that he still has to share you with me.”
Somehow, her cheeks get even redder. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” I wink.
“Just call her. I think you’d be a good client for her to have. You’re the most body-positive person I know.”
Something warm wiggles in my chest. “That’s really sweet, Bree.”
“It’s the truth,” she says, playing it off with a quick shrug.
“And it’s still sweet.”
A boudoir shoot has been on my radar for quite a while now. Not for After Hours, but for myself. I meant what I said to Aubrey about looking back and wishing we’d taken more pictures of ourselves. This is the perfect way to do that.
Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have another reason to wear the lingerie I bought this morning that won’t involve a stranger on the internet.