Chapter 44 Roni
Roni
Ihate when people manage to get under my skin.
I don't give people access to me. At least not the real me.
But something about the last thing Simon sent had me reeling.
Spun back two years ago, running through the woods, fleeing for my life.
Back to when I was captive, held in a stall like livestock, where I was raped and tortured and beaten into submission, forced to play their sick game.
But it's partly why I do what I do. To take back my power.
To show these men what they can't have. What they can't touch.
What they can only pine over while I bleed them dry of their cash.
I just need to remind myself no matter how far I go, there's a world between me and whoever's on the other end.
They can't get to me. I'm safe. My husband, Phoenix, despite his growing discontent, will not let anything happen to me.
Simon hasn't pushed too far. He hasn't been rude. He hasn't been demanding. And he hasn't acted entitled. The type of money he throws at me, even when I tell him to stop, is greater than anything I've experienced in my time on camera.
Sometimes I need to remind myself why I’m here. Because fuck these men. These takers. I’m sure it’s cruel, but I want to see how deep those pockets go.
The studio light hums as it flickers to life, casting a cold halo around me like a saint fallen from grace.
The fishnet bodysuit tugs tight over curves I no longer hide with each stretch of my limbs. Every diamond-shaped gap teases ink and skin, and the chill of the air kisses me through the mesh. I like the contrast. Hard light. Soft breath. A body caught between worship and war.
My platform sneakers hit the floor with a confident stomp as I cross the room, each step loud enough to echo into the microphone. I run my hands through my dark hair, tussled and slightly damp from the shower, a scent of sweetness and danger still clinging to me.
The fingerless black-leather gloves finally give way to hard tug and grip my hands tightly. I sit on the edge of the chaise, staring into the camera's glass eye. There's something holy about the way I unravel here. Pixel by pixel. I become something more feral. A promise.
My fans are already waiting on the other side of the stream, hungry for a glimpse. A word. A breath. They don't know I'm just as ravenous.
“…I am enough, exactly as I am.”
I press the button. Go live. The screen floods with hearts and usernames. A digital pulse beneath my fingertips. They see a fantasy. I see control. And in this velvet corner of the internet, I am both sin and salvation.