4. #3
"I just need a way out," she whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "I'm so tired of being poor."
"I know," I said, putting my arm around her, hugging her tight. "Me too."
I finally crawled into my narrow twin bed at 3 AM. The apartment was freezing, the heat turned off to save money. I pulled the thin comforter up to my chin, shivering.
I was exhausted, my ankle was throbbing, and I was dreading the morning when I would have to hand over most of my hard-earned cash to Tyler. But as I lay there in the dark, my mind wouldn't shut off.
I thought about the booster in the kitchen. A thousand dollars. It would have taken ten minutes. I could have paid my electric bill, filled my gas tank, and bought groceries for a month. And Tyler would never have known.
I thought about Jessica’s suggestion. OnlyFans. Girl-on-girl. I pictured myself and Jessica on my bed, setting up a ring light. I imagined kissing her again, touching her breasts for a camera, knowing anonymous men were paying to watch us perform.
I squeezed my thighs together.
I couldn’t live with the idea of the internet keeping it forever, but the actual act ... the idea of performing, of monetizing my pussy and naming my price ...
Jesus. That was hot.
I reached down, slipping my hand past the waistband of my cheap cotton underwear. I found my clit, swollen and aching.
I started to rub, thinking about the thousand dollars. Thinking about all the men who could buy me if they wanted to. Thinking about Jessica and Only Fans.
My fingers moved in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm, chasing the sudden, shocking spike of heat between my legs. That bastard’s thousand dollars was an aphrodisiac I couldn't ignore. But it was Jessica that pushed me over the edge into full-blown fantasy.
I closed my eyes and pictured the cramped, dingy space of her bedroom, or mine. In my mind, it wasn't dark. It was illuminated by the harsh, clinical glare of a ring light.
I imagined Jessica lying next to me on the narrow twin bed.
I pictured her still in her cheer uniform, the pleated skirt hiked up around her waist, her thighs pale and exposed.
I imagined the red light of the camera blinking, recording us, broadcasting us to a hundred anonymous men who had paid for the privilege of watching the B-squad perform.
My breathing grew ragged, loud in the quiet room. I pressed my palm hard against my clit, grinding my hips up into my own hand. The friction was intense, almost painful, but I needed it.
I imagined leaning over Jessica. The taste of her lip gloss, sticky and sweet, just like it had been at that frat party. But this time, there was no quarterback telling us what to do. There were just the invisible eyes of paying customers.
“Show them,” I whispered to her in the dark.
I imagined trailing my fingers down her stomach, pulling the elastic of her panties aside.
I pictured dipping my head down, burying my face between her legs, tasting her heat while she arched her back for the camera.
I imagined the comments scrolling down a screen, men I’d never meet typing out their filthy, demanding fantasies, tipping us ten dollars, twenty dollars, fifty dollars to go deeper, to be dirtier.
The idea was terrifying, but it was incredibly, undeniably hot. It felt like tearing off a suffocating mask, and embracing the sick, twisted relief of giving up and admitting I was just a piece of ass that anyone could rent.
My cunt was soaking wet. The slickness coated my fingers, making the rhythmic sliding against my clit faster, sharper.
I imagined turning to the camera, my mouth shiny with Jessica’s juices, spreading my own legs wide for the lens.
I imagined pushing two fingers inside my own aching hole, staring dead into the camera, knowing that businessmen in high-rises and frat boys in dorms were jerking off to the sight of me degrading myself for their tips.
"Oh god," I whimpered into my lumpy pillow, my hips bucking off the cheap mattress.
The tension coiled in my lower belly, tight and screaming. I pumped my fingers faster, digging into my clit, chasing the release. The image of the red blinking light and the raining digital cash filled my mind.
I hit the precipice.
And I shattered.
My spine arched and locked, and my thighs clamped down hard, my wet hole spasming frantically around nothing as the climax ripped through me, pulsing with wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure.
I bit down hard on the pillowcase to keep from screaming, my whole body trembling as the climax wracked my exhausted frame.
I rode the aftershocks down, twitching beneath the cheap blanket, gasping for air as the climax finally let me go.
And when it was done, I lay there in the freezing, dark room, my hand sticky with my own juices, the smell of my pussy in the air, and the fantasy faded, leaving behind the stark reality of my life: the red overdue notice on the corkboard, the pain in my ankle, and the fact that I had to wake up in five hours to give my hard-earned cash to an idiot boy who was using me.