Page 3 of Hidden Desires

The chat is already busy, my regulars falling over themselves to be first noticed. There’s BigBen82 (“GODDESS, HOW WAS YOUR DAY?” in all-caps, always), and QuickSpooner, who never says anything except emoji but tips like he’s buying influence in a banana republic. Then there’s HughRules. I have a complicated relationship with that username. He pays for private sessions, but only to watch. He never types, never even throws a tip until the show is half over, but when he does, it’s a bomb—one hundred dollars, boom, just for a full view of my arching spine or the curve of my hand on a bottle of lube.

Tonight, I want to give them a real show. I start by running my palms up my thighs, letting the camera catch the shimmer of my stockings and the way the lace edges bite into my hips. I say, “Hi, darlings. Hope you’re hungry,” in a tone that would get me fired before the echo died at Gibson Grant. My voice is part promise, part dare.

They eat it up. The room goes from thirty viewers to seventy in less than three minutes. Tips pop up at the bottom, twenty here, five there, another thirty for a special request. I move slow, letting them get their money’s worth, always keeping my chin dipped, hair falling to shadow what little the camera might betray of me.

BigBen82 says, “Can you use the big one tonight?”

I know exactly what he’s talking about. With a sultry smile, I reach down, slow as honey, and pull a fat purple dildo from my prop drawer. It’s intentionally ridiculous, a challenge to physics and modesty alike. The chat goes wild with pings, emojis of fat dollar bags appearing. I trail the tip up the inside of my thigh, making a production of shivering at the contact, and say, “You want this, Ben? It’s gonna take work. I hope you’re patient.”

Another fifty comes in, this time from a lurker I haven’t seen before. I acknowledge it with a wink and a “Thanks, mysterious stranger,” then lube the thing up, caressing the ten inch length with my fingers while turning it so the light glistens across its bulbous head.

In real life, I’m methodical and organized to a fault, but here, I let myself get messy. My moans are real, and attuned to the frequency of the room. I massage the dildo sensuously with my fingers before lifting it to my lips for a taste, my breath coming faster as the chat fills with filth and additional dings. I keep an eye on the little preview window, make sure I’m never showing anything above the bottom of my nose. Control is everything, even when I’m being watched by a hundred anonymous eyes.

QuickSpooner wants the show to move faster. He wants to see the dildo stretching my pussy, and he tips ten, then another ten, piling it up until it’s clear he’s not going to stop until I deliver. I oblige, giving the dildo one last hungry lick, and then press it between my legs, letting the tiny head tease my wet hole.

The messages start to blur together: “FUCK THATS HOT,” “QUEEN OF TEASE,” “how much for a custom vid?” I let them all ride, laughing breathlessly into the mic and dragging out every syllable. Every minute is money, and every money is a step further from the life I’m supposed to be living.

Then, with another coy smile at the camera, I press the purple head against my little hole and let out a breathless moan as it slips in one inch, and then two. I throw my head back, golden strands flying, and moan sensuously.

“Oooh, that’s so big, my little pussy’s being fucked by a big dick, unnnh!”

Hey, there’s no need to be an Academy Award-winner in this line of work. The hot moans and filthy words do it, and soon, I’ve got the entire length jammed in my wet twat as I pant and twist, juicing wetly between my legs.

“It’s so big!” I squeal. “Unnnh, I can’t get it out!”

But of course, I can, and soon I’m fucking myself with the massive toy, all to the sounds of constant dings from the screen.

“MORE,” one man writes. I know what he wants, and gently insert one of my fingers into my vag along with the dildo.

“Is that good for you?” I purr. “Is that what you want, Daddy?”

The answering cha-ching is music to my ears.

Another man texts me to use more lube, and I do by opening my mouth and letting a long string of saliva drip from my lower lip to where the dildo’s penetrating my stretched vag.

“Mmm, feels good,” I moan breathily. “You feel so good in me, Daddy.”

Of course, the men know that I’m not specifically speaking to any one of them. How can I be? Yet the fantasy goes on, and the tips keep rolling in. I pause between acts to check the balance. The ticker says $387, which is enough to pay for a haul from Sephora, or maybe that new Supersonic hair dryer that costs an arm and a leg. I feel light, untouchable. Here, the only opinions that matter are digital and fleeting, and I can shut them off whenever I want.

I finish the show with the grand finale: pumping the purple monster into me with both hands, writhing and gasping as I let out a full-bodied scream of release. It’s not entirely faked. I genuinely get off when I’m being slutty and whorish, and the sound of strangers grunting with appreciation turns me on. Their hunger is the ultimate aphrodisiac, making me bolder than I ever am in daylight, and I lose it as my pussy convulses, the dildo jammed deep inside.

“Mmmm!” I whimper, head tossed back as my big boobies shake. The tremors of my cunt are visible, squeezing and milking the giant purple dildo inside, and there’s female nectar slick and shiny all over my thighs. “Mmm, mmm!” I shriek again. “That feels so good!”

Slowly, however, the show rolls to an end. I come to and smile coyly at the camera as the sound of dings fills my ears. My skin’s flushed and glowing, big breasts heaving from exertion, and of course, the dildo’s still jammed deep inside. With one last sultry smile, I pull it out of my twat, letting the purple length reappear from my cunt lips, slick and shiny with ambrosia. When it’s done, I wave one last time at my audience, close the chat, let the credits roll in the form of final tips and lingering messages. I sign off with a last, “Night, sweethearts. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and click the window closed. I’m shaking, adrenaline on a tightrope with relief.

Cleanup is as precise as my office work: disinfect the toys, power down the lights, coil the cords, and slide everything back into the secret compartment in my closet. The makeup comes off with baby wipes, and I run a Q-tip along my eyelids to be sure nothing remains. I change into sweats and a ratty T-shirt from a Science Olympiad my junior year. The transformation is so complete that if my mother burst in right now, she’d see nothing but her overachieving, slightly neurotic daughter cramming for a late-night brief.

I check my phone. There’s a new message from HughRules, just an emoji: a heart. I roll my eyes, but my hand lingers on the screen, and I think about messaging him back. Not tonight, though. I’m tired, and tomorrow I have to go be the most competent version of myself again.

Before I unlock my door, I give the room a last once-over. No trace of the show left, no evidence to break the spell. Just Eliza Shaw, paralegal, daughter, “good girl,” and whatever else I have to be.

I pad down the hallway to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and listen to the comforting murmur of the television downstairs. How in the world do my parents not hear anything? After all, I was almost screaming during some parts. But Gerald and Nancy both wear hearing aids, and let’s be honest: they’re blissfully unaware middle-aged people. I don’t even know that they’ve ever heard of a thing called “camming.” Heck, they’re still using flip phones, and only check email once a month from their joint account. Yes, my parents share an email account, and it’s cute, to be honest. Plus, to them, I’m still the good little girl that I always have been.

With that, I go to bed with a smile and a secret, because I love my life … and tomorrow, the naughty version of Eliza is coming out to play once more.

2

CHAPTER 2 – AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR