Chapter 4
brIELLE
My thighs are on fire from this position, and I think all the blood in my body has flowed to my brain.
With one foot—the nails freshly painted black—propped up on the side of the claw-foot tub and the other balancing my entire body weight, it’s only a matter of time before I collapse.
The steady buzz of the razor in my hands is starting to make my wrist tingle.
I blow out a harsh breath meant to get the stray hairs out of my face before focusing again.
I’m wholeheartedly pro-bush. I figure keeping hair on my pussy is a personality trait at this point with how proudly I boast about it on anti-bush online forums. It’s there for a reason, after all, so why are we giving in to the desires of men and getting ourselves waxed or shaved?
I couldn’t care less if a man wanted me to be bald down there.
On the other hand, I can appreciate a woman who knows what she wants aesthetically and does it for herself. As long as it’s her choice and not to please the eye of the same men who expect us to go searching for their eggs in a sloppy nest of hair.
Not in this lifetime, baby.
Blinking at the hand poised between my legs, I remind myself that I’m not shaving.
I’m designing, and there’s a very distinct difference.
While I’m pro-pubic hair, I do like to keep mine groomed neatly, and when I’m feeling like it, I’ll either create a landing stripe or, like today, something as ridiculous as a heart.
My stomach swirls when I remember that I’m doing this only because I’m taking a personalized video, not because I want to impress an online stranger.
I guide the electric razor down to create the peak of the heart before flicking the switch and turning it off. Lifting my head, I feel my limbs refill with blood and get dizzy for a beat. I toss the razor on the counter and rinse myself off before doing the same to the tub.
My new lingerie is already laid out on my vanity stool, and I eye it like I’m afraid it might jump off and pounce at me. But shit, it’s a really beautiful set.
The pearls decorating the sheer cups of the bra and dancing down the garter and front of the thong glimmer in the bathroom light.
My eyes linger on the tiny black bows on the front of the panties that match the one on the back.
A long, soft ribbon came with the set, and I can only imagine that’s supposed to be tied somewhere so it can be unwrapped.
Unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to unwrap myself.
After sighing dramatically, I finish in the bath and dry off with a thick towel. My hair tumbles from the foam rod I’d looped it around earlier and creates soft waves around my face. Then . . . I finally reach for the lingerie.
It goes on easily, as if I were tugging on pyjamas rather than intimates that cost far too much. The black fabric makes my skin appear paler than usual, which is one of the reasons I tend to avoid it. Maybe I should have, regardless of this being his favourite colour.
I’m doing this for myself, not him.
Right. Or is it a mix of both?
I attempt to shut my mind up long enough to finish getting ready. My hands move on autopilot then, applying my makeup and shimmering lotion the way I like. The last few things I grab before setting up the camera, hitting Record, and sitting on the edge of my bed come from the nightstand drawer.
The pressure that comes with recording myself usually turns me on, not freaks me out.
It doesn’t matter if I’m filming something for all of my subscribers or a rare personal video.
The adrenaline that causes that telltale throb between my legs is why I do this when I don’t necessarily need the money from it.
My genuine enjoyment keeps me in this business.
So why am I nervous? Surely, it isn’t just because we shared a few nonchalant messages?
The pressure to create something worth Quiethours’ time is an unwanted distraction as I crawl up the bed and sneak a few calming breaths. My tongue glides over my bottom lip while I spread my legs a bit and lean against the propped pillows.
He didn’t give me anything to go off here, so I’m winging it. I’ll be able to crop myself from the shoulders up when I edit the footage, so I don’t pay much attention to the fact that I’m not hiding right now. I need to relax, and not worrying about how to position myself helps with that.
Biting my lip, I reach for my phone and open up After Hours. It’s late, so maybe, just maybe, he’ll be online right now.
Our conversation remains the only one without an unread message as I click on it and blow out a slow breath.
Crushedvelvet
Do you ever feel nervous?
What kind of question is that? I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, reeling myself back in. When I open them again, they latch onto the typing bubble. My stomach swoops so low I have to press down on my belly to settle myself.
Quiethours
Yes. Why? Are you nervous?
Crushedvelvet
I don’t do requests often.
It’s both a truth and a lie.
Quiethours
Nothing you could do would disappoint me. You’re beautiful.
Crushedvelvet
So, I could just sit here fully clothed and you wouldn’t demand a refund?
Quiethours
Yes. But then we’d be here again, because I’d request another.
I reread the message five times. Each time my eyes scroll over the words, I feel my nervousness slipping further away until finally, I’m typing back with a familiar sense of confidence.
Crushedvelvet
Keep an eye out.
Before I have the chance to see his reply—if he even sends one—I close out of the app and toss my phone aside.
Avoiding looking at the camera, I touch my thighs and slowly bring my palms up a few inches. My lungs tighten as I squeeze and lightly scrape my nails over my skin, teasing myself. I focus on that touch and search for the part of me that loves this, knowing I’m being watched.
A heavy puff of air escapes me. It borders on a soft moan.
I feel the fabric of my garter and relax into the mattress as my lips tug at the corner in a lazy smile. Heat sinks into my core, melting the nerves until they’ve transformed into need. Releasing the garter, I bring my hands to my stomach, skipping the dampening thong between my legs.
My breath skips as sparks erupt beneath my touch, and I chase them with the tips of my nails.
Without thinking about it, I cup my breasts and squeeze, feeling my nipples dig into my palms. My head drops deeper into the pillows as I pant.
I tighten my grip and use two fingers to pinch the left one, giving it a rough tug.
My legs snap open further while I press into the mattress and repeat the motion. Forcing my eyes open, I stare into the camera, knowing whoever is going to watch this later won’t be able to see the pleasure in them. I release a whimper and drop a hand to my pussy, holding it.
It’s second nature to grind into the touch, seeking more. The electric zap that spreads when I rub my clit drives me deeper in the haze I’ve jumped into, grateful for the familiar feeling.
I don’t realize that I’ve pulled one breast from my bra until I feel the cool air against it.
My flushed skin battles against the cold, drawing another moan up my throat.
I let it fall into the otherwise silent room and reach for one of the items I freed from my nightstand.
The sharp bite of the clamp stings when I place it on my nipple and then tug my panties aside.
It’s a desperate move that I know doesn’t show off the work I put in earlier, but right now, I don’t care.
Suddenly, I’m burning alive.
Closing my eyes again, I drag a finger through my sex and smear the sticky wetness up to my clit.
I gasp when I finally touch the swollen bud and give it a gentle stroke.
The pleasure erupts in a mess of high-pitched noises and lifting hips.
I grab the unused, vibrating dildo from the bed beside me and turn it on.
“Shit!” I cry out when I bring the soft, round tip to my pussy. The shocks are instant, spidering down my legs and up to my heart. “Oh, God.”
The moment I sink the first inch inside myself, I’m tensing and digging my nails into the silicone shaft. It’s thick and long, but not too much that I can’t take it. That’s what encourages me to push it deeper, forcing myself to stretch around the intrusion.
In the back of my mind, I know I’m recording.
I need to put on a show, but right now, the only thing I can think of is coming.
Driving this fake cock all the way inside and fucking myself with it.
That’s what encourages me to flip onto my knees, my back facing the camera. A first for me since starting this job.
The new position opens me further and gives me the space to lower myself onto the dildo.
I whine as every inch moves inside of me and reach between my legs to hold the base.
My cheeks smash into the pillows as I start riding the silicone, my arousal dripping down to where I’m gripping it, coating my fingers.
Faster and faster, I work myself closer to the brink.
My arm muscles scream from use, but I ignore them, too close to stop.
I can taste the inevitable pleasure on my tongue, as thick as honey.
My eyes squeeze shut as I press my forehead into the pillow and bring a second hand to my pussy.
My clit throbs beneath my touch as I rub it in time with the thrusts of the dildo.
“Ah! Fuck—fuck me. So close,” I slur, the words muffled.
I’m drooling into the pillowcase when I finally come. My head snaps up, and I balance my arm on the mattress. I leave the dildo buried inside and begin to shake, my back bowing as the pleasure rips through me, melting my brain. The release is overwhelming in the best way, leaving me gooey and weak.
I gasp for air when my lungs stop seizing, and I start to regain my sense of self. My throat is dry, so I swallow and work the silicone free. It falls to the bed as I roll back over onto my ass and push my sweaty hair from my forehead.
Jesus, I’m hot. I can feel beads of sweat rolling down my throat and spine, adding to the dampness I feel on my inner thighs.
A couple of minutes pass as I collect myself. Only once I feel confident enough to roll off the bed do I reach over and end the video. I check my phone and read through the viewable notifications I missed before setting it on the bed beside me and grinning.
Quiethours
I am. Enjoy yourself.
It’s a silly, ridiculous smile, but one that I allow myself after all of that. Because I did it, and I did it well. And now, I’m in for a long night of editing it before sending it off and hopefully putting an end to this edginess I’ve been feeling since this request was put in.
I like to look at these videos as work tasks, and I’ve completed the one that intimidated me most. Now, there’s nothing left to do besides show off my work and accept the praise for it.
Which is exactly what I do six hours later.
Wearing much more than earlier, with a baggy sweatshirt drooping off my shoulder and a pair of spandex shorts beneath it, I upload the video to our conversation, along with a message beneath it.
Crushedvelvet
All done. I hope it was everything you were wanting it to be.
I yawn and stretch my arms above my head. There’s a lingering soreness between my legs that hasn’t quite dulled yet. I didn’t know I had been so rough with myself until I sat down on the couch to edit the video and found myself wincing.
A few minutes pass without a reply, which isn’t exactly surprising. He won’t see that I’ve sent the video until he checks his messages, and this late at night isn’t a usual time for me to be active on here.
My cheeks warm at that thought. Yeah, maybe I’ve been paying attention to his constant presence every single time I go live, as if he’s jotted my schedule down or something. Again, it’s ridiculous. Nobody cares that much about a faceless woman on the internet.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel at least a little bit cocky, though, if that did have a bit of truth in it.
I’m only human, after all.