Chapter 1 preview
NIKITA
Tits out, pussy waxed, a set of killer heels.
This Omega was built for the good life.
I know for certain that I look and feel my sexiest in a pair of blood red stilettos… while wearing nothing else.
My fans agree.
Some girls dream of being lavished with diamonds or flowers. I fantasize about slipping on a buttery-soft-hand-crafted-in-Italy size 6, straight out of the box.
That new car smell—but make it shoes.
These pointed-toe pumps are my current favorites, and they certainly make it easy to feel myself in front of the camera. They cost me a pretty penny, mind you, so the thousand-dollar price tag had better earn mama plenty of cash tips tonight.
Or wait, is it technically already morning?
I roll over, dangling the high heel on my right foot as I glance toward the clock at my bedside. Oh, it’s officially the witching hour, alright. 1.45 a.m glows back at me… how time flies when you’ve got an audience with a voracious appetite to satisfy.
“Thank you for keeping me company so late, darling.” I purr, making sure my voice is a little raspier than usual.
I’ve perfected the art of the husky enchantress routine over the past three years.
If anything, I have to remember not to drift into sounding like I smoke a pack a day in my regular life.
Those two worlds can absolutely, under no circumstances whatsoever, collide.
“It’s always so lonely without you. I’ll be going to sleep dreaming of your smile.” I won’t. It’s all lies, of course, but they like to think it’s them I think about when I’m offline.
They tell me all the time in comments, private chats, and premium tier one-on-ones.
They tell me how much they love me, how they want to take care of me, and most importantly, they tell me how obsessed they are with the true stars of this whole game.
Two money-makers I’m blessed with, that I could never take for granted.
My feet.
After the sun goes down, my perfect pedicure is regularly ogled by several thousand viewers each night.
Anywhere from two to ten thousand horny, sexed up foot enthusiasts join PediPrincessPurrs, where I entertain, I titillate, and most importantly, I treat them like I’m their own Omega who is waiting for them to come home at the end of the day.
No two sessions are the same for me. Sometimes I’ll drop in for a live stream, like this evening, where I get to lounge in bed completely naked while trying on different pairs of shoes… on other nights I’ll post pre-recorded videos or share fan requests, while spending time responding to comments.
They don’t get to see every part of me. That’s a hard line, one that I never cross. But I create the illusion of being naked in bed with them.
The tease is the fun part.
I hold my arm across my breasts when I roll to change position in bed.
I lie face down, kicking my heels up in the air, so that they can see the side profile, offering just enough hint of my ass cheek.
I sometimes get a little more generous, allowing a peek at my side boob while flicking one heel off with a forefinger.
My job is to allude to sex… crafting a persona of the perfect Omega dream girl.
Sure, I’m up against other accounts far more X-rated than mine. Omegas are out here literally getting dicked down on camera for money. But my audience is more niche. They want mental stimulation as much as the carnal lusting over my body.
Maybe in another life, I would have been a burlesque dancer, performing a whole routine, until I hit my mark center stage.
Right at the moment when all eyes are on me, I’d cue the lights to cut out just as the music peaks, in the split-second I finally drop my feather fan. What would my cute punny stage name be?
Oh-me-garter belt? Oh-me-gaga? Oh-me-gasoline?
Setting my audience on fire with my performance feels very on brand. The game in all of this is carefully crafted peeks at bare skin, offering the titillation of curves, without ever showing everything.
I give them the perfect Omega they can’t stop drooling over, and they eat it up.
This body was designed to be naked and adored. Omega-cam lets me unashamedly ride that high of attention and affection, without having to worry about dating creeps or weirdos who see me as an experiment, or something to tick off a bucket list.
No. In this, I have control.
Playing dress up while talking them through it, and hearing the constant chime of money landing right in my checking account? That’s the sweetest of sweet spots.
The food? Less so. It pays well, but, yeah, okay, that always weirds me out a little.
Honey or maple syrup, I can tolerate by imagining that it’s some kind of gooey, high-end spa formula for their boutique foot scrub.
But the squishy, creamy texture of banana or cake frosting between my toes is…
ew. That’s my least favorite part about this gig.
Although I have more than a few high rollers who just about pee themselves whenever a can of whipped cream comes out. They froth at the mouth over seeing me wriggle my toes and coat my feet in the stuff, all while my app pings with new payment notifications.
An Omega’s gotta eat, and I’m ravenous for the luxury this app affords me.
There’s no way a scholarship student, who volunteers teaching ice skating lessons at the local Willow Falls rink, can afford a wardrobe like mine.
Discovering the online world of Omega-cam took me from a life of instant noodles and relying on extended pack family hand-me-downs—horrid smells to get rid of, and all—to the freedom of being able to eat what I want, shop for what I want, and build myself a healthy bank account for my future while I’m at it.
“Time for me to get ready for bed.” As I speak, I make sure to glide one foot up the curve of my other calf.
The dim light and rustle of the sheets give a perfect surround sound experience.
I’ve learned that the more sensory I can make it, the more I earn, and my member retention rate increases.
This is a purposefully slow seduction for every eye that is on me right now to enjoy.
“Are you gonna touch yourself while I walk around? Are you so desperate for me that you can’t wait until I climb back into bed?”
The chat starts moving rapidly. Love hearts bubble on the screen. I probably have an inbox full of a new bunch of unsolicited dick pics.
“Oh, you’re bad… I can see you’re already leaking for me.”
As I swing my legs off the side of the bed, I let the camera linger for just a second on the place where my thighs press together.
Just enough flesh, but nothing too close to my pussy that I might actually flash the camera.
Even though I know several thousand viewers are probably praying that I’ll slip up one of these days.
“Mmm, I know where I want you.” I use my free hand to drag a fingernail ever so slowly down to my knee, then bend over to catch both heels off my feet.
“You make the sexiest noises ever when you watch me undress for you.” I stifle a silent yawn off camera using the back of my hand. At least my class schedule is stacked in the afternoons this semester, so I can sleep in tomorrow.
“I know you’re watching my ass. You can’t ever drag your eyes away, can you?” I carry the phone while recording and walk to my shoe closet.
Okay, this is the grand finale. The moment my fans know it’s the big climax for the night before I go offline.
Sure, half of them probably rubbed one out within the first five minutes, but I hear from my fans all the time telling me how they love the slow build-up, they love the anticipation, and they especially love edging themselves until the final minute.
“Ohhh… listen to you. So desperate. Do you like it when I do this?” I carefully slide the pretty shoes one by one into their spot on the shelf. To really add to the effect, I stroke them and linger with a little gentle caress over the pointed toe.
It’s certainly no cock, but I rub a few circles with my thumb and trust that their imagination will carry them the rest of the way.
“It’s such a tight fit.” I make my voice go extra breathy. “It’s so hard to make it all fit.” My whisper is as sultry as I can muster the energy for.
Just another Wednesday night for Nikita Kaur. Pretending to give a hand job to a shoe while putting on my best porn star impersonation.
My phone explodes with more tips. I’m guessing the vast majority of viewers just erupted in a different way. There’s always a post-nut flood of cash on these live sessions. I’m grinning to myself, already mentally banking it all.
But I’m not quite done yet; I still need to give them the final show.
I do a well-rehearsed routine, and bring the phone close to my mouth before flipping the camera.
It focuses on my lips and a little glimpse of my chin.
It’s the few seconds I give at the end of every live like this, where they catch sight of my mouth and from what I’ve been told—sometimes in far too graphic detail, but whatever—is that the sight of my mouth, painted with lipstick, makes them fall apart.
“That’s it. Right there.” With a drag of my tongue across my bottom lip, I leave a shiny track of wetness while breathing heavily. “Oh god, that feels so good…” I give a little hum, allowing my mouth to hang open as if I’m struggling to take it.
“You can go harder.” I bite down on my bottom lip and add the flourish of my best fake moan. “Yes. Just like that. I like it hard. I like it when you give me everything.”
Judging by the way the chat is a flurry of emojis and comments moving too fast for me to keep up with, I’d say my audience has had a good time tonight.
“Dream of me. I’ll be dreaming of you.” I blow a kiss, then end the video.