33. Chapter 31
Emery
My head has been spinning ever since brunch.
After the initial interrogation was completed, I was able to relax a little, letting their conversation flow over me as I ate, contributing encouraging nods and noises of agreement as required.
Thankfully, after the initial shock of meeting the red gift box recipient had died down, so had the invasive catiness.
Two hours had flown by, and I actually laughed through parts of it, listening to some of the crazy stories they told.
From being whisked off to Paris for a last-minute dinner and dance, to being on a date with a daddy, only to have his wife show up with her own sugar baby.
Apparently they’d both continued on with their dates after a pleasant hello to each other, which sounds awkward as fuck, if you ask me, but I’m not here to yuck anyone else’s yum.
Oakley didn’t have a great deal to contribute during that part of the conversation, considering most of her dates are phone calls, dinners, and shopping sprees. Whereas, the other three are happy to do the slightly edgier date types.
I was the outlier, it would seem, considering they all stuck to solo sugar dates.
Yay, me.
It wasn’t until right at the end that Krissy mentioned that another sugar baby, Layla, had told her the updates to the Live Cam function had been implemented. Something about pre-purchased gifts and also being able to schedule private rooms.
I vaguely remember seeing something about it when Oakley showed me the SugarLife app, but after that first night with my daddies, I haven’t done much looking around. Just occasionally checking my profile, messages, and any requests. And my vault.
Now we’re back at the dorm, and I’m back to being trapped in my bedroom, since Xavier’s presence is taking up the main area. I snuck into the bathroom a few minutes ago, only to find it steam-filled and smelling like his bodywash. And his toothbrush was in my cup, right next to my brush.
It’s like he thinks just because he is all up in my space, I’m going to give in and let him back into my life.
With my pillows propping me up and my legs under my blankets, I scroll through the knowledge-based article I found that explains Live Cams and how to use them.
It seems pretty simple; you can choose to go public or private, and you can schedule a live session publicly or privately.
Other app users can request a private live.
You can add a wish list to your live, so instead of monetary gifts, the people watching can purchase you something you want, which is apparently a part of the new update.
Oh, and you have to rate your live for how much explicit content you will be providing.
The scale has several points on it, but it basically comes down to “not at all” or “completely.”
Scrolling down farther, I get to the comments and read through a few of those, my pulse speeding up at the idea that I might actually do this. I could do lives and let people watch me for money.
I wouldn’t have to find a new daddy to supplement my spending money.
I wouldn’t have to create a roster of daddies so that I could remain financially secure without getting attached.
I wouldn’t have to deal with someone leaving me again.
I could perform for a few anonymous people on the internet, get paid, and then go about my day.
…this actually seems feasible.
With a few swipes and taps of my thumb, I’m back in my profile, and I click on the Live Cam button, figuring I’ll take a look around at all the settings, gather some info about how it works, then figure out what I want to do if I ever actually decide to go live.
The top half of my face appears on the screen immediately, big hazel eyes staring back at me. Well, that’s weird. I adjust the angle of the phone down a little, which isn’t much better since now my jaw looks way out of proportion to the rest of my face.
The right hand side of the screen has a bunch of options, and I slowly work my way down them.
Filters.
Text banners.
Voice modulators.
Timers and games.
An option to reverse my camera, and then a bunch of other things that I’ve already lost interest in.
At the bottom of the screen, the options for ratings, privacy, and introduction content are all visible. Opening the rating option, it appears on the screen with a numbered horizontal bar. The words are all squished up weird, so I rotate my phone into landscape.
Each rating is like the knowledge article, so I select the lowest rating and then the green tick to lock it in. The privacy option pops up and it is set to public via default. Clicking the green tick progresses me across to the introduction content.
The textbox has default text—Just a sugar baby waiting for you to watch.
I snort and click the tick, figuring I’ll come back to fix that cheesey-as-fuck intro later.
Except that’s when a countdown appears on the screen, and my stomach drops into my ass.
Three.
Two.
One.
I don’t need even a second more to realize exactly what has happened.
I’m fucking live.
I’m a fucking cam girl.
My resume can officially say that I have done cam work.
Fuck my life.
“Oh shit,” I mutter, frantically scanning the screen, trying to figure out how to end the live, but in my panic, nothing is standing out.
I sit up straighter and just start tapping on anything that looks remotely like an option, but the only thing that changes on the screen is that the right-hand side of the screen starts filling up with line after line of notifications to tell me people are joining.
And not just a few. I’ve been live for exactly twenty seconds, and there are eighteen people watching me right now.
Fuck, I should say something, right? Like, explain what’s going on, then ask for help shutting it off? Worst-case, I’ll power down my phone.
Okay, yep, I can do this.
“Ah, hi, sorry. I didn’t mean to go live. I was taking a look at the settings and somehow ended up here. I’m so sorry. I’m just going to figure out how to turn it off, and then I’m going to go.”
Nervously, I dart my gaze over to what I now recognize as the activity feed and hope to see the number of people watching start to go down, but it does the fucking opposite.
Does that say thirty-eight?
Holy shitballs.
The content of the feed changes and comments start showing up.
HappyD51: Please don’t go, tell us about your day.
ConstructionDaddy: You’re okay, baby, take a deep breath.
Xoxo66: There is nothing to apologize for. Just getting to have your pretty face on my screen has brightened up my day. X
It takes effort, but I manage to keep my face neutral as even more comments come in, the view count rising. My palms feel way too sweaty to be holding my phone, so I reach for two of my teddies and try to arrange them in a way that they hold it up.
My first try ends up with the phone flopping forward, face-first into my duvet. “Shit.”
I quickly pick it back up and readjust things, getting it right this time.
“Sorry about that,” I start as I stare at myself on the screen. And then, before I can control my brain to mouth filter… “Fuck, this is weird, talking to myself like this. Oh, shit, wait, I probably shouldn’t have cursed. Sorry.”
Am I blushing? I touch my cheeks with my fingertips and yep, definitely warm. Dammit.
I glance back at the chat, and it’s lit up with concern about my wrist. Frowning, I look at the little black dot where my camera belongs. “You want to know about my brace?” I hold it up and receive a lot of replies that amount to a yes.
“Ah, okay, last week when I was walking back to my dorm, I was rushing, missed the step, and landed on my hand. No broken bones, just a ligament that isn’t happy with me.”
There is a flurry of comments, but I’m totally distracted as a new thing catches my eye. Gifts. I’m being sent gifts. Virtual bouquets, kisses, little boxes that look like presents, hearts.
Is that…is that money? Holy shit, it is money.
Why? Because I hurt my arm?
“Ah, please, no, don’t send me gifts. This live was an accident. My wrist is fine. You know what? I’m going to end it here. Thank you!”
I notice a cross in the top right-hand corner, but just before I end the live, I glance at the comments and see one that catches my eye.
EyesOnYou: Does that mean you’re a college student? If you live in the dorms?
“Yeah, I am,” I reply, tucking some hair behind my ear. “A college student.”
EyesOnYou: Let them gift you. College students are notoriously low on cash. Sit here and study, I’m sure they would all love to fund your education for you.
That seems wrong, especially because I’m not low on cash.
I’m exceptionally deep in the pocket for a college student.
The other viewers start commenting similar things, but I wait for the next message from EyesOnYou; something about the way they are talking is making me want to pay attention to them.
It’s almost like they are giving me an order I need to follow, even though it’s definitely just a suggestion. And as I have recently discovered, I don’t exactly mind being given orders.
EyesOnYou: I’d love to sit here watching you while I reply to a few emails.
I sneak a look at my laptop on my desk, then eye the camera again. I had been planning to study now, anyway, so why not do it while strangers watch? They can send gifts or not. EyesOnYou said they had a few emails to reply to, so what, like thirty minutes of watching me?
EyesOnYou: Grab your laptop, open it up to whichever assignment is due next, and start working on it. If you get an A on it, I’ll purchase three things from your wish list.
“I don’t have a wish list,” I respond without thinking it through.
EyesOnYou: Make one after this live and send me the link. But for now, grab that laptop and start working.
I blink several times, then do as I’m told. I have to readjust everything so that I can lie on my stomach, with the camera kind of off to the side so the top half of my body is visible, as well as my laptop.
Then I open the assignment for Hudson’s class and take a look at the drafted outline I left for myself, thankful that past-Emery did present-Emery a solid by leaving a few references in place of paragraphs.
With one final glance at the camera, I focus on my laptop and get to work.