Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Eliza nods, biting her lip. Then she looks up at me swiftly.
“Have you ever thought about camming yourself, Jack?”
I’m so surprised that I blink, unable to answer for a moment.
“No. Definitely not. Who would pay to see a forty-five year old dude with battle scars?”
Eliza shrugs.
“I think a lot of gay men would love to see you, Jack. You’re a very handsome man.”
My mental door slams closed.
“Absolutely not. I’m not a gay man, and definitely no gay men will be ogling me.”
My girlfriend giggles, her laughter the first bit of lightness for a while.
“Okay, no gay scenes then. But would you consider camming with a female partner? Me, I mean?”
I stare at her, mouth agog.
“Are you serious?”
Eliza shrugs.
“Yes, maybe. There’s a lot, and I mean a lot, of money in camming, Jack. I think I could make even more if I had a male partner, and I know you’ve been looking for a new job. Not that you need the money given your Air Force pension, but it could be an option.”
“Absolutely not,” I grind out. “You’re gorgeous and men will pay to see you in any way, shape, or form, sweetheart. But bringing me into the picture? I think not.”
Eliza merely smiles again before putting her hand on my arm.
“Of course not, Jack. I just wanted to see what you thought, that’s all.”
I shake my head again before growling, “Absolutely not.”
Still, when we’re lying in bed, Eliza breathing deep and even beside me, I ponder her words again. Me, in a porn film? Hell no. I know that Eliza blurs her face, and sometimes even wears masks to shield her identity, but she’s a gorgeous young girl with big breasts, a tight snatch, and a dirty way about her. I’m none of that. No one would pay to see me.
Or would they?
I turn over because shit, the seed’s been planted in my mind … and the truth is, I’m not so sure that I’m a hard no to Eliza’s proposed venture.
12
CHAPTER 12 – BREAKING POINT
Eliza
There are a hundred ways to fake an orgasm, but none of them work when you’re on camera for an audience of six hundred and change, every one of them a hungry, anonymous little red dot on your screen. I’m on the brink of one (a real one, for once) as the feed lights up with a wall of all-caps: “OH FUCK YES SHOW US,” “DEEPER,” “GO FASTER, BUNNY,” and the classic: “PLZ CALL ME DADDY.”
The toy in my hand is new—heavy, glass, and at least ten inches long, girthy like a Coke can. I swirl it inside in my pussy, adoring the stretch. Then, I moan at the precise pitch that gets the tip jar raining tokens, and let my other hand hover just off-camera, caressing the outside of my thigh. I know my angles. I know what these guys want.
They want the little gasp when I arch my back, the way my blonde locks cling to my neck when I toss my head. They want the pop of my nipples like hard, suckable raspberries, the rhythm of my hand. Most of all, they want my voice—high, girlish, a little bit lost—begging for more. I oblige.
“Please, Daddy,” I coo, words thick with need, “make me come—harder, please, oh please—”
Then, like a bucket of ice, a knock at the door. Not a light tap, but a cop-knock: sharp, deliberate, repeated. Three in a row, just enough to spike my adrenaline.
“Eliza? What’s going on in there?”
Oh shit, it’s my mom. I’ve been camming for more than a year now, with my parents blissfully unaware, sometimes even downstairs. But lately, I know Nancy and Gerald have been watching and listening more carefully, and I freeze, everything on me slick and trembling, the glass rod still pushed deep in my sweltering cunt. What do I do? My eyes cut to the timer at the bottom of the cam screen: 00:41:14. Shit. I’m nowhere near done, and my “special request” tipper—a degenerate named “FargoLawman”—just paid an extra $150 for a triple finish. But there is no triple finish now, only the reality of my mother on the other side of my bedroom door.
Her voice, through the wood: “Eliza? What’s going on in there?”
I lunge for the keyboard, smashing the “mute” and “end session” buttons in a frantic sequence that leaves my knuckles greasy with lube. The chat window disappears, replaced by my own sweat-slick face in the webcam preview. I look completely, devastatingly fucked. Hair tangled, lips swollen, mascara streaked under my left eye.
“Just a second!” I croak, trying to disguise the quiver.
There are only ten seconds, max, before she comes in anyway.
I snatch a towel, wipe myself in two frantic swipes, and launch the “movie” tab I keep open for emergencies. In three more seconds, the cam rig is off, the toy hidden under a pile of sweatpants, and my thick, terrycloth robe swathed around my body. I cinch the belt tight, grateful that it hides the wet patch on my thigh.