Chapter 36
Roni
Istill can’t believe this is my reality. Not after what it took to get here. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how it happened. I don’t want to question a good thing.
It’s been just over two years since Phoenix found me out there in the woods.
I don’t think I’ll ever understand what he was doing there, but I’m thankful he was.
I woke up in a stunning bed days later and freaked the fuck out.
He explained he took me home and got me expert medical attention.
That I’m safe and always will be. I’m still pretty fucked in the head.
But I married him. And I’m mostly happy when I’m not spiraling.
We live in this crazy house now. The entire place is a fortress of glass, not the flimsy type where a random stone might crack it.
In fact, I’m not even sure a missile hitting this thing would cause damage.
Probably not, knowing the way Phoenix thinks things through.
But there’s a view in every direction. The only walls which exist are the ones installed intentionally for privacy, like my small office, where I spend most of my time while Phoenix is working.
He leaves security in place. One man in particular.
Vic. The one assigned to keep tabs on me while he’s gone.
He’s paranoid about me being taken. About me being put through everything that happened at the abbey.
He told me I’m free to do what I want during the day, but the babysitter assures me he feels differently.
I’ve turned part of the house into a video-streaming studio.
I broadcast under an account where I decide who participates and how.
I’m not okay with not being in control anymore.
I don’t think I ever will be. Only with Phoenix, and even then, not always.
You don’t get subjected to the kinds of things those men did to me against my will and come away unscarred.
Things you can’t see or stop. But being a camgirl allows me to fleece some of the skeeziest men on the planet for thousands of dollars, and all I have to do is let them look at me while I touch myself.
Sure, some will have wild custom requests which cost extra, but I’m free to say no.
It’s not often I do, though. Not for the kind of money these buffoons will throw at me.
Phoenix doesn’t love how I spend my time while he’s away.
He constantly reminds me we don’t need the money.
That we’re loaded. But he won’t tell me to stop.
The money doesn’t matter much to me either.
I use what I make to upgrade the show, and donate most of the rest of it to a group of charities working to stop human trafficking.
He won’t admit it when I ask, but Phoenix is worried he’ll break me.
Though it hasn’t stopped him from fucking me senseless whenever one of us has the urge.
He likes when I let him lead, and I’m doing a lot better with that now.
But he does his best to be what I need when the terror and paranoia takes over.
He was gone early today, off to give a presentation to one of his software clients.
I’ve already had my coffee and a shower.
With a sense of determination, I decide to dive into the day's tasks.
I grab another latte and my giant sippy jug, and get right to work.
Just down the hallway from our cozy bedroom lies the first white wall, an imposing barrier signifying the start of my workspace.
The door, equipped with a sleek biometric lock, requires a scan of my thumbprint to grant access.
As the device recognizes my print with a soft beep, I swiftly enter and close the door behind me, feeling the quiet hum of anticipation in the air.
I know Vic will take a seat outside to make sure nobody gets near me as well, though there’s not another soul within miles of our home.
Just one more layer of safety. Phoenix’s ultimate goal for me.
I put my drinks off to the side, then go to the closet.
I drag my hands across the hangers, my fingers touching silk, velvet, leather, until something jumps out at me.
A black and pink corset, which means I need to grab the matching thong and garters, and my high-waisted pleated miniskirt crafted from supple leather.
I fish out a pair of ripped fishnet stockings, because the intact ones rarely survive to see a second show, and my pink-laced heels. The fit for today.
The mirror never lies, but tonight I plan to make it tell a prettier truth. My streaming audience deserves nothing less than perfection.
I lay out my supplies with practiced precision. Foundation, concealer, setting powder, three eyeshadow palettes, eyeliner, mascara, contour, blush, highlighter, and three different lip products. My vanity looks like a makeup counter exploded, but there's a method to this madness.
I start with my skin prep—toner, serum, moisturizer—patting each in with gentle fingertips.
The cool liquid sinks into my skin, creating the perfect canvas.
Next comes primer, smoothing away any texture with circular motions.
Foundation follows, applied with a damp beauty sponge in bouncing motions.
I build it up slowly, ensuring there's no line of demarcation along my jawline.
The concealer comes next, a shade lighter than my foundation to brighten my under-eyes. I dab it in a triangular shape, blending with the same sponge until it melds seamlessly with my base. For extra insurance against creasing, I dust a light layer of translucent powder underneath my eyes.
“And now for the fun part,” I whisper to myself.
I reach for my eyeshadow palette. The limited edition one which sold out in minutes.
I dip my fluffy brush into a warm transition shade.
With windshield-wiper motions, I build definition in my crease, periodically leaning back to check the symmetry.
The camera is unforgiving. What looks balanced in person can appear lopsided on screen.
My phone buzzes with a notification. I ignore it. Perfection can't be rushed.
I reach for my favorite shimmer shade, rose gold with flecks of copper which catches the light beautifully on camera. With my ring finger, I press it onto the center of my lid, then blend the edges with a clean brush. The transformation is already happening.
The winged liner comes next. My signature look and the one thing my viewers always comment on.
I steady my elbow on the table, taking a deep breath before drawing the perfect flick in one smooth motion.
Left eye, then right. I check them against each other, making minor adjustments until they're identical twins, not distant cousins.
I dust bronzer along my temples and the hollows of my cheeks, creating depth and dimension where the studio light would otherwise flatten my features.
Then comes the blush. A soft peachy-pink that makes me look naturally flushed, as if I've just finished a light jog rather than sitting in front of my vanity for the last forty-five minutes.
A liberal dusting of highlighter follows.
Cheekbones, brow bone, cupid's bow, and the tip of my nose.
The glow is subtle in person but will give me the extra sparkle on camera.
My viewers always ask what highlighter I use, and I never tell them.
A girl has to keep some secrets. Besides, I doubt any of those men are interested in playing dress-up.
I finish with a nude lip liner, slightly overdrawn, followed by a dark and creamy lipstick and a dab of gloss in the center. The effect is plump, pouty lips which look natural but enhanced. Perfect for the thumbnail I'll capture later.
With a final spritz of setting spray, I lean back and assess my work. The girl in the mirror hardly resembles the one who sat down an hour ago. This version of me is polished, perfected, camera-ready.
“I am not my imperfections.
I am not my worst decisions.
I am not the horrors I’ve endured.
I am enough, exactly as I am.”
The mantra I repeat to myself before I share this version of me with the world. A reminder I have value, and I’m doing this with a purpose that isn’t derived from a need.
I sign into my account, and the first thing I do is check my inbox. I have some regulars who always send me little “hellos” and “hey dears.” They’re a little late today, probably because I’m not often on at this hour.
Then there's one from @RICO6969. It's not the cleverest username, but I click on it and my screen fills with a close-up of veiny flesh.
Harsh bathroom lighting makes it look waxy and almost artificial.
He tips me fifty bucks to tell him he has a tiny dick while he jerks off.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before I type.
@Unhinged: Look at that little pencil dick. Can you even stroke that thing?
I open a couple more similar pictures. One with a gaudy gold watch visible in the frame.
Another with tacky floral shower curtains in the background.
I, of course, respond with variations of breathless enthusiasm.
By 9:30 a.m. my screen is a gallery of strangers' anatomy.
I close several tabs with a sigh and pull up my content folder, organized by theme and outfit into neat subfolders.
All filled with me pouting, moaning, and arching my back in calculated angles.
Phoenix's unpredictable work weeks have given me plenty of time to build my arsenal.
I get the camera set up and going. There's a couple hundred users already online waiting for me.
They're always here. The addicts. The male scum waiting to tell me what to do.
A couple of tips come in immediately. Five bucks to bend over and shove my whole fist in my ass, and then five more to scream “yes daddy” while I do it.
“You boys know a lady never jumps into fisting.”
I won’t tell them I have no intention of fist fucking my asshole at any point. They’ll find something else to get off to and become drunk before they remember they asked.
I sway back and forth in front of the camera, letting people get used to the fact I'm here.
It's me. And this is what we're working with today. A tip comes in for $25 asking if I'll show my tits. I look square in the camera. “Sure, baby, but it’s $50 to see my tits. I’ll even lose the corset. Keep it off for a bit.”
Three accounts throw in another $50. Suckers. It's great they can't see each other’s bids. I love that about MostlyFools. Tell one guy to give me fifty bucks and I end up with three times as much.
I loosen the corset I'm wearing, shifting it down until it hangs right at my hips. The air feels good on my breasts this morning. So freeing, especially knowing I'll be the only one touching them. Unless Phoenix comes home and has ideas in his head.
I squeeze them and knead them. Lift them a little. Then look at the camera to give another long, enticing stare. Another tip comes in. $500. It's impossible to miss. It never happens. Not this early. Not that much. Especially not without a demand. And from someone I don't know. @SIMPleSimon.