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A Naughty
Isabelle
Two days later.
“Awooooooooooooo!”
Roused from a deep slumber, I struggled to crack my heavy eyes open. Immediately, I sensed I was in a strange place; the bed was softer, the sheets silkier, the room quieter and darker. I was in a bedroom that wasn’t mine. But where was I?
I heard a rustling, and through the sleepy eyelids, saw a white and grey fluffball zooming around my bed, tail excitedly wagging.
Minka,I thought.I’m at Rust’s.It was the first night I’d spent at his place.
Sensing she’d woken me, Minka rested her chin on the mattress, right by my face, and sniffed at the air.
“Arroooo?”she chirped.
I tried to ignore it and pretend like I was still sleeping, hoping she’d leave me be. But Minka was one smart cookie who wouldn’t be so easily fooled. She kept sniffing at my face, moving closer and closer until her sharp little whiskers tickled my nose and I couldn’t keep up the act.
I let out a laugh and rubbed the itchiness away.
“Oh my God, Minka! Fine, you win. I’m up. What time is it, even?” I rolled over and looked at the clock. “Five thirty! Damn, girl! Is this how it’s going to be every day?”
Minka let loose a howl that sounded like a celebratory cheer—“Oooooo!”—and bolted out of the room.
“Are we done? Okay. Bye,” I snickered, snuggling up with my covers to go back to sleep.
But Minka returned only seconds later with something in her mouth. She plopped it onto the bed, pushed it with her nose until it was right by my face, and whined at me.
It was her leash.
“You want to go on your walk, don’t you?”
She liked to go early, after all, before the desert was baking hot.
“Okay, okay.”
I staggered out of bed, yawned and stretched, and threw on some clothes. Minka practically ran circles around me the whole time.
Outside, the sun had only cracked the eastern horizon. Minka trotted right by my side, proudly holding her head high as we strolled through Rust’s ritzy neighborhood.
While we walked, I got out my cell phone. I posted some new content last night, and I was excited to peek at my numbers—new subscribers, model rank, and so on. I logged all those metrics in a spreadsheet I created on my laptop, of course, but I could tell from a quick peek how things were doing.
Numbers were decent. Nothing to complain about, but nothing to write home about, either. The photos I’d posted at Rust’s house didn’t have the meteoric rise overnight that a content creator dreams of waking up to—but that’s okay, because I’m in this game for the long haul. And it’s all about building towards long-term growth and stability.
The other “metric,” if we can call it that, are the messages I get. I clenched my jaw and scrolled through the messages I’d gotten overnight.
As always, the positive reviews gave me a smile.“You’re my absolute favorite creator!” “love these.” “so sexy” “you’re killing it, keep it up!”
Thosenice guys were the overwhelming majority. Those were the fans I was happy to create content for.
But the quick hit of dopamine from those messages wears off in a flash, while the impact from the negative messages will stick with me all day, like a toxic sludge. Like these messages surely will:
“Oh look, you found a new place to take your photos. You’re still not getting naked though. Zzzzzz.”
“stop teasing already!!! show your titties for REAL”
“bitch what’s wrong with you, i want to see your butthole”
