CHAPTER 5 – CONFIDING IN A FRIEND #2
Tara shoots me a silly smile. “No, you know that’s not what I’m saying. It’s too soon for that! But I am saying that age is nothing but a number, and if you really feel it with this man, then by all means go for it. Just don’t get pregnant by accident.”
I laugh, heart fluttering in my chest. “You’re insane. I’m not going to get pregnant!”
“You don’t know that,” she shoots back. “We’re young, Eliza, and in our fertile years. Plus, it only takes one drop, and you’ve been getting gallons recently.”
At that naughty joke, we both crack up, but then Tara gets practical. “Okay, ground rules. If you’re going to date your dad’s BFF, you have to be smart. Don’t do PDA. Don’t tell your mom. And for the love of god, don’t act all moony around him.”
I nod.
“I’ll try not to.”
She goes on, ticking off points on her fingers. “Meet in public, but not too public. He can’t pick you up at the house. Use Signal or Telegram, not regular texts.”
“Are you joking?” I demand. “We’re not selling drugs, girlfriend. It’s just dating.”
Tara grins. “Well, I’m just saying if your parents find your phone, everyone knows how to accesss your text app. Meanwhile, most Boomers have never even heard of Signal or Telegram.”
I shake my head.
“OMG, I’m in a detective movie. Or a John Le Carre spy novel.”
With that, we both burst into giggles and the conversation loops back and forth a few more times between practicalities and fantasy.
Tara offers to be my emergency contact (“If it goes bad, I’ll bail you out or, failing that, torch his car”).
I agree to keep her in the loop, and to tell her everything that happens between me and Jack.
When the check arrives, Tara snatches it before I can reach. “My treat,” she says, “as long as you spill all the deets later.”
I roll my eyes, but let her pay.
As we stand to leave, Tara pulls me into a quick, tight hug. “I mean it,” she says, voice soft. “Whatever happens, I’m on your side. I’ll never judge.”
I squeeze her back, and for a moment, I almost cry. It’s stupid, but having someone in my corner feels like armor.
We step out into the bright, blinding street, arms linked, two girls who know exactly what they want and are determined to get it.
Before we part, Tara lifts her sunglass, winks, and says: “To Eliza’s generous, romantic spirit. May you never take no for an answer.”
We hug again, and for the first time all week, I feel like maybe—just maybe—everything is going to work out.
When I get home, my parents are making lasagna, which means the house will reek of garlic and scorched cheese until Tuesday.
I sneak past the kitchen, up the stairs, and into my room, like a lab rat avoiding the bad end of a psychology experiment.
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I exhale.
I have exactly thirty minutes to do my side hustle and get ready for my real date, and I don’t plan to waste a second.
I don’t really feel like camming, to be honest, but that’s the thing.
My work is content-driven, and that means that I have to put out a steady stream of new material all the time.
So even if I have only twenty minutes to spare, I’m always filming, editing, or chatting with customers on line.
Today is no different. I haven’t put out anything in a few days now, and my customers are growing impatient.
The ritual is always the same. Lock the door.
Drag the ring light out from under the floorboards and clamp it to the desk.
Tripod goes next, feet planted on a precarious stack of textbooks.
Laptop, perched at the foot of the bed, gets a quick password jab.
Webcam, checked twice. External mic, plugged in and tested with a whisper: “Test, test. Is Daddy watching?” I giggle at my own joke.
Then the mask. Today, I don’t have time to do the kind of editing I usually put in, so I don a ski mask to hide my features.
It’s matte black, and makes me look like an intruder.
Even more importantly, it covers everything above my lips and below my hairline, leaving my mouth free to sell whatever fantasy the crowd’s buying tonight.
For years, I thought that no one would pay me if I didn’t show my face.
But actually, a lot of guys don’t care because the anonymity is part of the show.
They’re able to transform me into some fantasy girl who lives in their mind when they can’t see my face.
It’s the cold, hard reality of my business, and I’ve made good money by understanding the nuances of what I do.
But I need to get ready stat. I peel off my dress, fold it carefully, and choose a lacy pink bra and panty set—nothing too wild, but the color flatters my skin and the chat loves a “good girl gone bad” aesthetic.
I pose on the bed, arching my back for the preview shot.
The room is dim except for the ring light’s warm glow, and I see myself on the laptop screen: curvy, big tits, narrow waist, legs splayed. I look like I’m waiting to be devoured.
I cue up the cam site. Ten regulars are already in the waiting room, usernames a roll call of the degenerate and the desperate: WetBandit, Sixgun, Daddy_Mayor.
Some are silent lurkers; others tip early, eager for the show to start.
I smile coquettishly, lean close to the camera, and purr, “Hey, big boy. Miss me?”
The chat explodes. More tips, more demands.
I toy with my hair, dragging it over my shoulder, and let the mask slip to just above my nose.
I can do this in my sleep, and sometimes I do.
The routine is always the same: slow build, tease, never show more than you have to until the money’s right.
I ride the first ten minutes on autopilot, legs crossed, lips parted in a little moue of fake innocence.
But tonight, something’s different. Maybe it’s the lingering thrill of Jack’s hands on my body, or maybe it’s the promise of seeing him later.
Either way, I can’t help myself: every time I say “Daddy,” I think of him, the way his voice rumbles when he loses control, the way his breath hitches when I push him too far.
I start narrating my own fantasy, like I always do.
Only this time, the story includes Jack.
I tell the camera about a “very dominant, older Daddy” who’s so big it hurts, who calls me his baby and makes me beg for it.
I go off-script, let the words get raw and filthy.
“My Daddy’s cock is so big,” I murmur, “I have to open up really wide for him. But I love it when he stretches me. I want it. I want to be a good girl for him, even if he breaks me.”
The chat goes nuts. Tips roll in, more than I’ve seen all month. “Take it deep, pretty girl,” they type. “Show us how bad you want it.” The energy is infectious, and I can’t help it because I do want it. I want Jack, and I want the whole world to see.
With eager hands, I grab my biggest dildo from the toy chest—a monster, deep purple, thick as my wrist. The chat eggs me on.
I lick it, slide the tip between my lips, make a show of struggling to take it deep.
“Do you think I can fit this in my secret spot, Daddy?” I whisper, and the room explodes: YES, YES, DO IT.
I take my time, drag it out, moaning low and hungry as I work the dildo into my tight vag.
The ring light is hot on my skin; the ski mask feels suffocating, but I leave it on, the pressure making my head swim.
Every stroke, every inch, I think of Jack’s hands on my hips, his voice in my ear as he pushes that giant member into my tiny channel.
“That’s it, baby. Take it all.” I moan, just for him. The words feel real.
Meanwhile, the tips are going insane when my orgasm hits fast and brutal, the kind that leaves your toes tingling and your vision edged in white.
“Ohhhh!” I scream, the sound muffled slightly by the ski mask. “Ummmm, yes Daddy!”
My pussy convulses wildly with the big dildo crammed deep inside.
I scream and cry out some more, Jack’s name on the tip of my tongue as waves crash into my form, my insides going hot and wild.
I ride it out, clutching the sheets, as the chat floods with applause and money.
For a second, I forget there’s anyone else watching.
It’s just me and the man that I’m attracted to, and I want to stay here forever.
But the afterglow is short-lived because actually, the real Jack is waiting for me.
Yes, I still have my date with the alpha male tonight, and flash a quick smile and wave at the camera before thanking my viewers.
Then, I log off and wipe down, pull off the mask, and stare at myself in the mirror.
My eyes are wild, my golden locks a mess.
But I look happy because in my mind, I was with Jack.
With quivering fingers, I close the laptop and flop back on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
The feeling in my chest is too much to process—guilt, want, need, and something that tastes like hope.
Could it be true? Do I have high hopes about a real relationship developing between me and the older man?
Don’t be silly, the voice in my head speaks. He’s a vet who’s about honor and dignity. What you just did is about the most undignified thing ever. You did it for money too, which makes it worse.
Regret crashes over my form, and I close my eyes, tears smarting at my lids.
I know the voice is right. I know that Jack would never approve of my cam-girl lifestyle.
But for now, he doesn’t know, and I have a date to get to. I take a deep breath and then sit up. I’m Eliza Shaw, who works hard and can make anything happen. Right now, I want to see my dad’s best friend … and for now, he wants to see me too.