Chapter 4
LATE NIGHTS AND DARK SECRETS
Lety
The days pass in a blur of meetings, paperwork, and spreadsheets.
I’m exhausted by the time I leave the office—late, of course.
César has stayed with me every night, either working silently by my desk, or feeding me dinner from another one of my favorite food trucks.
By the third day, it hit me that César never stays late to work on his own tasks.
He only sticks around to help me with mine.
Which led me to believe he was there for me… but why?
As much as I hated to admit it, I liked the attention and knowing César cared about my safety.
Because of the long days at the office, I’ve completely ignored my DesireDen account.
I’ve popped on a few times to respond to comments and messages, and posted a few half-dressed selfies, but that’s all I’ve had the energy for.
I’ve started to miss my live shows—and, of course, the amazing orgasms that come with preforming—so I’ve vowed to make time for a live show on DesireDen.
Judging by the reaction from my audience when I posted I’d have a show tonight, they had missed my performances as well.
However, in order to get ready for tonight, I had to call in sick for work. The people-pleaser in me felt bad for leaving César without help, but his response had been…unexpected after my text.
I’m sending over lunch. Take it easy and don’t you dare open your work computer.
I won’t.
Good girl.
Good girl? The fucking man is going to be the death of me. Does he even know what he said and the effect it has on women? He has to. That asshole.
True to his word, César sends a small feast that could feed a family of five, as well as dessert, since he knows I have a sweet tooth.
“Oh, César, the man you are,” I murmur between bites of picadillo. Once again, he knows exactly what I would order, as if he’s been secretly studying me for months. I don’t know if I should be flattered or concerned. I’m leaning toward the former, though.
Pushing all thoughts of my boss out of my mind, I get ready for my live, opting to wear the new angel lingerie costume I bought. Seems fitting since I’m going with a good girl theme—totally not inspired by César at all. Just a happy coincidence.
I also don’t think about César when I start the camera, my boobs filling the screen. I watch as the number of viewers rises to levels I haven’t seen in a while. I must have been away longer than I thought.
I don’t think of César when I take my vibrator out from the nightside table.
I definitely don’t think of him when I place it against my clit, letting the vibrations create undeniable pleasure.
And I don’t think about him when I come on my fingers. His brown eyes aren't looking back at me when I close my eyes.
I don’t think about it because it would be highly inappropriate of me to get off on the thoughts of my boss.
Messages flood my inbox the moment I end the short livestream, right after promising a private session to the top bidder.
Notifications chime in one after another, and I glance at my DesireDen wallet.
My jaw nearly drops. The balance leaps from a few hundred to several thousand in seconds, skyrocketing the moment a familiar username appears: DineroDaddy.
I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s been my top contributor for months now, always first to tip, first to comment, and first to slide into my DMs. Of course he’d win the private chat.
His bid crushed the others without even trying.
Still, there’s a strange twist in my stomach when I think about how much he’s sent me over time.
Thousands. And tonight alone? Enough to make me blink twice.
I don’t usually feel guilty about taking money from men who willingly hand it over.
But there’s something about DineroDaddy—something that makes me pause.
Then again, with a name like that, I doubt he’s hurting for cash, so I clamp the guilt deep down.
This is my job, after all, and the money is given willingly.
CurvyBabe: Hi, DineroDaddy. Looks like you are the top contributor again. You’ve won the private show. Just give me a minute to change into something cozier and I’ll be back.
I type out the message and hit send, my heart ticking just a little faster.
From across the room, the red negligée hanging in my closet seems to beckon me—a barely-there lace bra, matching panties, and a sheer robe that leaves little to the imagination.
I’m just about to stand to go slip it on when my phone buzzes. His reply makes me freeze mid-motion.
DineroDaddy: No need, mi reina. I just want to talk.
Talk? I nearly laugh at the absurdity of the request.
CurvyBabe: You sure spent a lot of money just to talk. It won’t take me long to slip into something you’d like and turn on my camera.
DineroDaddy: Tempting. So goddamned tempting. But I just want to talk to you.
I’ve had odd requests in the past. People wanting to see my feet, wanting to see me go to the bathroom, and one that wanted me to dress up as a cat. Not a sexy cat, no, a full-on cat costume. But no one has ever just wanted to talk. It was odd…yet refreshing.
CurvyBabe: Okay, Daddy. What do you want to talk about?
DineroDaddy: Fuck, maybe I do want to hear you call me Daddy on camera.
CurvyBabe: Still time to change your mind…
DineroDaddy: You are tempting, mi reina. So damn tempting, like a siren. But I’ll stick with my original plan. Get to know you. Tell me anything about you.
I can’t help the wave of disappointment that washes over me. Until I remember how much he’s spending just to talk, then I perk right back up. Still, I have to carefully navigate this conversation because keeping my identity a secret is important to me.
CurvyBabe: Well, I like to read. Usually books that will make my grandma roll over in her grave. And I also love superhero movies. For the aesthetics, of course.
Thank God for spandex and hot asses. I mean, why else watch a superhero movie?
DineroDaddy: Does your boyfriend make you watch those movies?
I hesitate, rereading his message again.
It’s not uncommon for my viewers to ask about my personal life.
They all want to know if my partner knows I pleasure myself for strangers online.
As if a girl can’t have a hobby without asking permission.
I’m not certain this is information I want to divulge yet, so I play with him like a cat to a mouse.
CurvyBabe: Bold of you to assume I have a boyfriend.
DineroDaddy: Girlfriend, then.
I know he’s fishing for information, and normally, I’d steer the conversation somewhere else.
I’ve always been careful about what I share, keeping parts of myself tucked away for the sake of privacy and safety.
But with DineroDaddy, it feels different, since no one has ever just wanted to talk.
I can’t fully explain it, and I definitely can’t justify it, but something about it has me lowering my guard.
Maybe it’s the way he’s consistently shown up—always at the top of my contributor list, always commenting, liking, engaging during lives like he’s actually listening.
His steady presence makes him feel like someone I know—someone who sees more of me than just the show.
It’s not something I feel with the others.
Again, I realize this is delusional and probably stupid, but feelings rarely make logical sense. And sometimes fighting those feelings takes too much energy to manage.
CurvyBabe: No girlfriend either. I prefer the single life and my freedom. I’ve had my share of bad relationships, and I’m perfectly content with being alone. Besides, a girlfriend who is a sex worker would intimidate most men. Don’t you think?
DineroDaddy: Seems to me you’ve dated weak men.
Despite myself, I laugh. He’s not wrong, but he didn’t have to call me out like that. Damn. In my defense, my past boyfriends felt like knights in shining armor at the start of our relationships. But don’t they always until they have to prove themselves worth your time?
CurvyBabe: Hence why I’m by myself, Daddy. I get to talk to sexy men like you and give myself amazing orgasms. Much better than being disappointed by a man who thinks three minutes is gold medal worthy.
DineroDaddy: How do you know I’m sexy?
CurvyBabe: You got big dick energy. That makes you sexy. Obviously.
DineroDaddy: Careful, mi reina. Keep talking like that and I will change my mind about that private show.
I smirk at the screen, a familiar flutter stirring low in my belly again.
Part of me still hopes for that private show.
It would be fun. He has this way of toeing the line—flirty without being crude, dominant without being demanding.
It’s a rare combo in this line of work. Most men crash through boundaries like angry bulls, but not him.
DineroDaddy is smooth with his words. Too damn smooth. Two can play that game, though.
CurvyBabe: Then maybe I want you to change your mind.
I send the message before I can overthink it, before I can remind myself that I don’t actually know this man.
Even if I feel like I do. That no matter how sweet or consistent he seems online, he’s still a stranger.
I was taught stranger danger in school, so I should know better.
But something in me is leaning in, curious, maybe even reckless, and I’m letting the feeling lead me.
His typing bubble appears immediately, then disappears. Appears again. Whatever he’s writing, he’s rewriting. Thinking. Is his heart beating as fast as mine? God, I hope it is.
When his message finally lands, it’s not what I expect.
DineroDaddy: You ever think about settling down? Have the online persona and the romantic partner? Someone who respects and celebrates every part of you?
I blink at the question. My throat tightens a little.
It’s not that I’ve never thought about it.
Of course I have. But finding a partner that will accept this part of my life seems impossible.
I refuse to choose between my work and a man.
Perhaps that makes me selfish, but I don’t care.
I crave the thrill and validation cam life brings me.
It’s addictive in its own right. Not to mention how empowered I feel.
Plus, this is my own creative outlet, and for now, it’s where I want to put my energy into.
But no one’s ever asked me that. Not like this. Not like they actually cared about the answer.
CurvyBabe: Sometimes. But this life gives me freedom. I don’t owe anyone shit. I get to feel sexually fulfilled.
The dots appear again. Typing… stop… typing. My leg bounces with anticipation, a nervous habit I’ve never grown out of.
DineroDaddy: And is that enough for you?
My stomach twists as a mix of confusion and despair wash through me. I don’t know why his question hits so hard. Maybe because no one’s ever asked before. I love my job. But…is it enough?
Deep down, I’m not certain it is because part of me wants this life, but the other part of me wants a life with a partner to cuddle up with at night. And I can’t fathom having both.
I lean back in my chair, eyes scanning over his message again and again, like it might mean something more than it says. Like he knows something about me I haven’t told him.
And maybe that’s what unsettles me most. How seen I feel. Fuck this bastard.
CurvyBabe: You talk like a man who’s got answers.
DineroDaddy: Maybe I’ve lived a little. Loved enough women to know they deserve better.
CurvyBabe: Sounds like player behavior.
DineroDaddy: Touché. But I meant it. I see you, mi reina. Not just the performance. You.
My breath hitches. My fingers glide over the keyboard, at a loss of what to say next.
I should end the chat. Log off. Tell him I’m tired, make up an excuse—hell, even pretend my Wi-Fi dropped. But I don’t, because I can’t. I don’t want to. Instead, I type something that feels a little too raw.
CurvyBabe: Sometimes I wish I could run away to a cabin and be in my own little world. Just me and someone I love. You keep saying you see me, but I don’t even know what you look like. Or anything about you.
It’s my version of fishing. A way to pull back the curtain without fully yanking it down. It’s wrong and opens up far too much shit that I’m not prepared to face yet. Or ever.
His reply comes slower this time.
DineroDaddy: Does it matter?
CurvyBabe: It might.
It doesn’t. But in that same breath, it does, because I want to know more about this man who has me spilling my deepest desires and secrets tonight.
Silence stretches. Too long. I imagine him on the other side of the screen, weighing every word, or realizing I’m not worth the effort. The reality is, no matter how good he makes me feel, I still don’t know who he is, and he’s just some high-paying client.
But he knows me. Kind of. He knows what I wear, what I sound like when I come, what I hide behind the mask. He knows what I read, and my little confessions. That imbalance has always been there. I just didn’t feel it until now.
Finally, the screen lights up again.
DineroDaddy: Let’s just say I’m closer than you think.
My skin prickles. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Is this threatening or something else entirely?
CurvyBabe: What’s that supposed to mean?
No reply.
Not right away.
My heart pounds, a mix of curiosity and something darker threading through the cracks. I stare at the screen, waiting. Wanting. Dreading.
And then finally:
DineroDaddy: You’ll see. Soon.
I don’t know if it’s a promise or a threat. I don’t know if I should feel scared or not.
But I know this: I won’t be sleeping tonight.