1. Gilli #2
I force myself to smile as my stomach drops further. “Someone is a naughty boy.”
I have no way of knowing if it’s really a man behind the username or not. That’s the beauty of the internet: You can be anyone you want to be.
Maxxx8U: How much do you want to use the handle? 50? 1000? Better yet, grab a kitchen knife.
Maxxx8U: I want to see you bleed.
Maxxx8U: I want to see you dripping blood and nectar down those sweet thighs.
The queasy warmth in my stomach shifts to ice. The premium question rose to the top of the chat and was guaranteed to get him an answer despite the way my gorge rises.
A few more months of this and I’ll be able to get my debts paid down.
The credit cards, the loans… I might even be able to afford to start my own veterinarian practice in the near future. In order to get the time to do all that, I need cash.
I need to answer horrible questions like this one.
A notification pings with a request for a private room, from Maxxx8U .
I barely blink before declining the notification, even though it would be an easy 300 bucks.
“I don’t want anything. Maybe it’s not the night for a flogger. There are other toys we can all enjoy.”
I set down the whip and reach for one of my vibrators instead, a massive purple beast with two heads that work in tandem.
The computer dings again and another premium question rises to the top, from the same user.
Maxxx8U: You want money? 25,000 right now to slice your slit with a kitchen knife.
Maxxx8U: Accept the private room.
Maxxx8U: Now.
The notification pings again and I decline it just as fast, my fingers trembling. This isn’t one of the usual men trying their best to figure out who I am. This isn’t personal. This is vile.
I cluck my tongue and move to the chair, sliding down the back and widening my legs with the vibrator on and poised above my belly button.
“There’s no waterworks or blood play on my channel, sweetheart,” I force myself to say. “I don’t want money for that. Sorry.”
The tip totals are fine. I don’t need this dude to threaten me, no matter how much he offers.
The computer dings and when I glance over, I see the $25,000 tip show up in the chat. Right there, large as day. The bottom drops out from underneath me and I lose my grip on the vibrator.
The head of the rotating purple cock bounces off my knee.
I fumble to retrieve the thing. “Ah, sorry about that.” I clear my throat. “While I appreciate you sending so much, Maxxx8U , I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline it all, honey. It’s bad business practice to maim the moneymaker, don’t you think?”
My voice trembles and I wait for the others in the chat to come to my defense. A few of them do right off the bat, claiming the guy is a sick psychopath.
Still, others are curious .
It’s too early for me to breathe a sigh of relief.
“I’ll refund you,” I whisper.
Maxxx8U: Don’t you dare refund. Slice your slit or you’ll be sorry . I can make you pay.
Okay, now, this is getting ridiculous. Terror rises up sharp inside of me and drags its claws down my bones. This goes beyond simply deflecting the questions. This is serious money and a life altering situation.
Maxxx8U: I’ll come for you if you don’t do as you're told, stupid girl .
Maxxx8U: You be good and accept it. No one tells me no. No one.
Maxxx8U: I’ll find you. It will take time, but I can track you down.
Maxxx8U: I’ll know who you are.
My heart stops.
I’ve never had to block a user before. I’ve gotten pretty decent at working my way around things that made me uncomfortable. It’s the kind of thing you have to get used to doing or else you’re not going to make it long in this business…or life in general.
I shake my head. “Sorry. There are times I’m a good girl and other times I’m nothing but bad. I don’t always follow orders.”
I lean in closer to right click his username and eject him from the room.
Still, the sickening slime of fear sticks with me and coats my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I’ll have to figure out what to do to return the money. There’s no way I’m going to keep it. Morally speaking?—
I cut off that line of thinking and force myself to take my place in front of the camera again.
“We’re still rolling, guys. Hopefully we can all have a great night.”
Thank god they can’t see that I’m shaking.
I’ve had some weird requests before but none of them involved genital mutilation. Isn’t that what he wanted? For me to hurt myself? Cut myself open while he watched?
What kind of person asks those things, and has the money to back the request?
I finish up the work for the rest of the night and click off with a kiss to the camera.
“See you next Tuesday, all you naughty guys and gals.”
The remote is tucked in a small pouch looped to the back of the chair and I grab it, clicking off the live feed and waiting for the red camera light to die.
Once it does, once I know I’m free, I slam the laptop screen down, flick the camera across the room, and suck in a breath that burns all the way down.
Christ Almighty.
I yank off the wig and toss it aside, out of sight, before dropping onto the bed. Goosebumps blanket my arms and the tops of my thighs.
“Shit.” My voice trembles, adrenaline crashing through me.
Fumbling for the nightstand, I grab my glasses, pushing them on my nose so I can go back to being Gillian Kerrigan rather than a cam girl. Without the red wig, and without the help of a straightener, my hair is a normal wavy brown.
I need the cash but is the cost too high?
What did Mom always say? Some cliché about if you stand for nothing you fall for everything? Feels like an empty platitude right now.
I try not to think about my family while I’m doing my work but right now, thinking about her is a comfort when I need one.
I force myself to double check the locks on the door. The area might not be in the best place but locks on the doors and windows go a long way for peace of mind.
The dude’s threat sticks with me. It plasters to the inside of my mind when I’m in bed, freshly showered and dressed in my pajamas, staring at the cobweb-like cracks on the ceiling.
The job pays well enough and gives me time during the day to work at the clinic. You’ve got to take the good with the bad, right?
And the bad can sometimes be excessively bad.
It’s given me enough of a financial break to be able to rent this place. It’s the first apartment I've ever had to myself, in an okay neighborhood, where I have the privacy I need for my account, and no roommates.
So who would even know if I needed help?
No one.
The splintering crack of shattered wood rouses me out of sleep. Swimming up through unconsciousness, it could be a dream.
It could also be a neighbor in another apartment, or a television amped up for the hearing impaired, or random noise from the street. It could be anything.
I turn over and try to go back to sleep.
Until it comes again, louder this time.
My heart lodges upward, cut the air off from my lungs. Sitting up, I stare into the permanent gloom, the street lights outside casting murky shadows.
Somewhere in the distance a car horn rips through the night but it isn’t nearly as loud as the sound of the metal chain on my door snapping.