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I’m not jealous. I’m not. It’s amazing that the guys who are my only real family have all found women who are perfect for them. An alert lights up my screen, and when I see the name of Greer’s employer scroll across the notifications, I realize she’s definitely not the delicate princess in an ivory tower I’d assumed she was.
I may have given up on finding a perfect woman like Hux, Benzo, and Whizz have. But maybe, Saint Nick will see fit to put a filthy little doll under my tree this year.
ChapterFour
Greer
For the past two days, the internet service to the building has been mysteriously unavailable. Yesterday, when I knocked on Zander’s door across the hall, he confirmed both his Wi-Fi and his ethernet internet access are down, just like mine. He’s the only other resident in the building I know, but when I ventured to the offices downstairs and asked the receptionist, she was baffled because theirs is working fine.
“Sort your shit, Gigi. Viewers care fuckall about your boohoo internet issues. Buy a hotspot, call your provider, pay whatever overdue bill you forgot to pay. I don’t give a shit what you do. Sort. Your. Shit.” No compassion from my agent. Ever. The guy’s responsible for handling my marketing and promotion, as well as ensuring the cam site I work on isn’t screwing me over. He also knows damn well my name’s not actually Gigi, but he only ever calls me by my stage name. Prick.
We’ve never met in person, but Chaz with a Z has handled the business end of things for me for years. He’s not kind, and he’s not friendly. What he is, though, is reliable and straightforward.
“You think I’m an idiot, Chaz? I already talked to the building management company, my internet provider, and my cell provider. The soonest anyone can get here to check things out is tomorrow. And my cell provider swears up and down that the hotspot I have is connected to the network and running just fine.”
I’ve spent hours on the phone with diagnostics, only for everything to look as if it’s running perfectly. The second I try to log into the site that hosts my camming, boom, no service.
“Time is money. I shouldn’t need to remind you of this, babe.” The endearment grates, but I know better than to complain. I may be a cash cow for Chaz, right now, but there’s plenty of talent in the vastness of the internet. While I could do what I do without him, Chaz running the administrative stuff frees up my time to do what I do best. Which is to make horny guys open their wallets.
“If the net’s not up by tomorrow morning, I’ve got a room booked at a hotel. I’ll pack up my shit to do sessions from there.” I’ve gotten spoiled since buying my condo. It’s big enough to have both a bedroom and a bathroom I can use solely for cam shoots. The luxury of a permanently generic room to stream from, where there’s nothing identifiable and I can easily adapt the look to suit client requests is magic.
But a girl’s gotta make that bread if she wants to eat. And I sure do like to eat. Poverty and broke-life weren’t a good look for me. It’s not that I’m fake fancy now. I still shop at the big box retailer and prefer my macaroni made with orange powdered cheese. But it’s been a while since I had to worry about deadbeat roommates ghosting me when the rent’s due.
“I guess that’ll have to be soon enough. Just remember, babe—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Every minute I’m not on camera, thousands of other money makers are.” Sometimes, I think Chaz is even more controlling than my father ever was. Then again, while I’ll never go back to being under my father’s thumb, and Chaz’s brand of control leans more toward degradation than I’m comfortable with, I can appreciate having someone else be in charge.
I don’t mind being an adult. In fact, I think it’s pretty clear exactly how much I enjoy someveryadult pursuits. That doesn’t mean I like all the mundane garbage that being a grown up demands. Sorting out which bills are due when and making sure they all get paid on time? Boring. Deciding what to have for every single stinkin’ mealandshopping for the supplies and preparing them? The literal worst.
A few months ago, an online group I’m in got to talking about the benefits of sugar babying instead of camming. At the time, I blew it off, but lately, I’ve been thinking how nice it would be to have someone taking care of me. Even if it meant putting out. At least, I’d be getting something out of it, right? I mean, it’s not as if sex isn’t transactional anyway.
Guy buys dinner, gets a blowie. Girl keeps quiet her irritation that her dude was out late with the boys, gets deep dicked. See? Transactions. Would it be so terrible to take the guesswork that comes from relationships out of the equation and just make it clear that in exchange for access to my body, I expect to be looked after?
A memory of the sexy voiced stranger from the elevator pops to mind. I hadn’t gotten a good look at him before I utterly embarrassed myself and ran off like a child. He’d been tall and broad shouldered, though, and I’m almost positive I saw gray mixed into the dark brown of his hair. Too bad sugar daddies don’t come like that guy.
Unrealistic fantasy, much? Rich men with built physiques and sexy voices don’t pay for sex. At least, not up front. No, men like that guy marry trophy wives and drape them in jewels, so the women turn their blind eyes to their husband’s faithlessness. I saw that enough with my father’s associates who were always eyeballing me as if I’d be the next arm candy. Either of the wedded or side piece sort. I was never interested enough to find out.
I don’t understand why my heart sinks when I imagine my stranger from the elevator being like my father and his colleagues. It just does. My father liked to say, idle thoughts get silly girls into trouble. Sure enough, I register Chaz barking into the phone after who knows how long I’ve been spaced out.
“Gigi, dammit, are you even paying attention to a word I’m saying?Fet-asticis being bought out. Apparently, it’s caught the attention of a whale investor the current owner can’t refuse. Be prepared for whatever changes the new site administrator wants to make. If they decide to cut into content creator profits, I’ll get you out of your contract with them, and we’ll move your stream to a different cam site. Clear?”
See? More adulting crap I don’t care about. What does it matter to me what URL hosts my stream, so long as I get paid and it’s a secure site? I don’t like the way Chaz controls my life, but at least, he keeps me from having to care about the boring stuff.
ChapterFive
Eco
If my brothers atCyber Patrolfind out I purchased a porn streaming site, they’ll never let me live it down. Worse, if their wives find out, I might actually find myself knocked out and neutered. Even knowing it, I still bought theFet-asticsite.
It might be hard to believe, but some adult content sites are actually empowering for users and the content creators who upload onto them. Knowing my doll’s in cyberspace putting on shows for other men might chap my ass, but at least, she’s been doing it on a site that’s aboveboard. Not that I plan to let her continue making her money pandering to the male gaze.
In fact, code is already being run by bots to scour the net and pull down every hint of content involving Greer, or Gigi as she goes by online. I’ve made sure to mask all the deletions by ensuring each stream replay continues to deposit the equivalent tokens, which are the ecommerce version of money. As far as Greer will know, those older videos will continue earning the income they did before I destroyed the files.
The files, however, are being diverted onto my personal server where no one but me will ever see them again. I’m not mad at my dirty little doll for being a sex worker. In fact, the more I uncover about where she came from and what her life’s been like, the more I appreciate that she’s found a safe way to provide for herself.
She has me now. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll provide for her. In exchange, my little doll will perform for me alone. She’ll grant me access to watch her in all the ways integrity has barred me from up ‘til now. She need not know the benefactor who contracted exclusive viewing rights is the man who lives two floors above her. All she needs to realize is, she’s safe, financially stable, and looked after.
The contract is being couriered to her door within the hour, and to the weaselly business manager she relies far too trustingly on contemporaneously. Something about Chaz Westwood, born Charles Woodley, isn’t sitting well with me.
