Do Not Disturb
Page 24
freebird71: how much?
A danger zone but I don’t stop. For one, I’m enjoying this. For two, this is a potential whale, a man unconcerned with minute counts, who has apparently come back for a second chat in one week. At any given moment, I’ve got fifteen to twenty whales, and am always looking for more, always needing a fresh supply.
I choose to ignore the question, lifting the bottle and returning it to my breasts, my damp thong clinging to me where the bottle had been.
freebird71: how much would you charge if I flew you here for sex?
I let the camera see a smile and empty the bottle down my throat, tossing it to the side without looking. “I don’t do that, Marcus.”
freebird71: $1000
I fight back a laugh. A thousand bucks is an average offer, but that’s coming from six-minute chatters, ones who save up to drop fifty bucks on an orgasm. This current chat is running on fifty minutes, three hundred and fifty of his dollars spent without hesitation. A thousand-dollar offer from him is almost insulting.
“I’m a camgirl, Marcus, not a prostitute. Just drop it.” My smile paints the words with a brush of friendliness but my hand moves closer to the mouse. I tried, gave him a chance. The “End Chat” screen will do more to put across my stance than words. It always does, the clients coming back contrite and behaving.
His response flicks up in the moment of pause before my finger presses on the mouse.
freebird71: fucking tease.
------JessReilly19 HAS ENDED THE CHAT. RETURN TO FREE CHAT?
I reopen my client spreadsheet, add in his IP address and a note. Flag it for Mike to gather intel. He’s a potential whale, but he’s also a potential problem. It won’t hurt to know a little more about freebird71.
CHAPTER 28
House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 1 Week
MARCUS’S HAND STOPS its forward progress, his cock instantly weakening, the surge of anger doing nothing to revive its flaccid length. Two chats with this bitch, and she had hung up on him in both of them. The first one, whatever. He had already come, had just been making polite conversation. But this time? This one? His half-there cock amped up in his hand? Her bitchy little “just drop it” comment? That was something you said to a subservient. Not your employer. Not when he is Marcus Fucking Renza. A sound collects in his throat, one low and empty, the growl of a caged animal, his hand shaking slightly as he reaches forward, moves the mouse, and clicks on the button to return to the home page.
The fury builds. The disrespect. The dismissive look on her face. He closes his eyes, pictures her sweet naked body, and how much he can remember about life before. Thinks about the feel of her skin and the gasp of her breath. What he would do if he were with her. She would submit. She would beg. She would surrender. She would respect. He lets out a controlled breath, attempts to regain his focus, his hand jerking the soft skin of his cock as his eyes skim the available chat rooms.
Another girl. There would be another option. One better than her.
He clicks on a brunette with a similar body. The room behind her gray as opposed to pink. He watches the girl smile, flip her hair. Lean forward and type into her keyboard with long, electric-blue fake nails. Ugh. At least Jess Reilly had been clean. Wholesome. As clean and wholesome as a girl who swallows a fake cock could be. He watches her type and wonders what she is doing. Then a line of text appears in the window, a line that quickly moves as a hundred responses follow it. Why isn’t she talking? He can hear music softly playing in her room, so her microphone is working. He clicks on the “Take to Private” button, and the other participants disappear.
No change. The girl looks into the camera for a minute, a bored expression on her face. Then she reaches forward. Clicks a couple of keys.
HotSexxxyGirl4You: hi
He drops his cock. Reaches forward in response.
freebird71: why aren’t you talking?
The girl stares at the screen. Blinks. Blinks again. Then her lips move, and broken English comes out. “I can talk. Not much.”
Her accent is thick, an ugly foreign paint over the English words, her voice rough, as if it hasn’t had much practice with the syllables. This is what he is paying seven bucks a minute for? With Jess Reilly, he’d felt the rate was a deal. Now, he feels like a poor man visiting a street hooker, an interaction guaranteed to end with an STD and a stolen wallet.
He types.
freebird71: don’t talk. What do you do?
Another long blink. Like she doesn’t understand the question.
HotSexxxyGirl4You: I do everything for you. You turn me on.
He sighs. Contemplates returning to free chat and finding another girl. Instead he returns his hand to his cock and decides to test out what “everything” means.
A danger zone but I don’t stop. For one, I’m enjoying this. For two, this is a potential whale, a man unconcerned with minute counts, who has apparently come back for a second chat in one week. At any given moment, I’ve got fifteen to twenty whales, and am always looking for more, always needing a fresh supply.
I choose to ignore the question, lifting the bottle and returning it to my breasts, my damp thong clinging to me where the bottle had been.
freebird71: how much would you charge if I flew you here for sex?
I let the camera see a smile and empty the bottle down my throat, tossing it to the side without looking. “I don’t do that, Marcus.”
freebird71: $1000
I fight back a laugh. A thousand bucks is an average offer, but that’s coming from six-minute chatters, ones who save up to drop fifty bucks on an orgasm. This current chat is running on fifty minutes, three hundred and fifty of his dollars spent without hesitation. A thousand-dollar offer from him is almost insulting.
“I’m a camgirl, Marcus, not a prostitute. Just drop it.” My smile paints the words with a brush of friendliness but my hand moves closer to the mouse. I tried, gave him a chance. The “End Chat” screen will do more to put across my stance than words. It always does, the clients coming back contrite and behaving.
His response flicks up in the moment of pause before my finger presses on the mouse.
freebird71: fucking tease.
------JessReilly19 HAS ENDED THE CHAT. RETURN TO FREE CHAT?
I reopen my client spreadsheet, add in his IP address and a note. Flag it for Mike to gather intel. He’s a potential whale, but he’s also a potential problem. It won’t hurt to know a little more about freebird71.
CHAPTER 28
House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 1 Week
MARCUS’S HAND STOPS its forward progress, his cock instantly weakening, the surge of anger doing nothing to revive its flaccid length. Two chats with this bitch, and she had hung up on him in both of them. The first one, whatever. He had already come, had just been making polite conversation. But this time? This one? His half-there cock amped up in his hand? Her bitchy little “just drop it” comment? That was something you said to a subservient. Not your employer. Not when he is Marcus Fucking Renza. A sound collects in his throat, one low and empty, the growl of a caged animal, his hand shaking slightly as he reaches forward, moves the mouse, and clicks on the button to return to the home page.
The fury builds. The disrespect. The dismissive look on her face. He closes his eyes, pictures her sweet naked body, and how much he can remember about life before. Thinks about the feel of her skin and the gasp of her breath. What he would do if he were with her. She would submit. She would beg. She would surrender. She would respect. He lets out a controlled breath, attempts to regain his focus, his hand jerking the soft skin of his cock as his eyes skim the available chat rooms.
Another girl. There would be another option. One better than her.
He clicks on a brunette with a similar body. The room behind her gray as opposed to pink. He watches the girl smile, flip her hair. Lean forward and type into her keyboard with long, electric-blue fake nails. Ugh. At least Jess Reilly had been clean. Wholesome. As clean and wholesome as a girl who swallows a fake cock could be. He watches her type and wonders what she is doing. Then a line of text appears in the window, a line that quickly moves as a hundred responses follow it. Why isn’t she talking? He can hear music softly playing in her room, so her microphone is working. He clicks on the “Take to Private” button, and the other participants disappear.
No change. The girl looks into the camera for a minute, a bored expression on her face. Then she reaches forward. Clicks a couple of keys.
HotSexxxyGirl4You: hi
He drops his cock. Reaches forward in response.
freebird71: why aren’t you talking?
The girl stares at the screen. Blinks. Blinks again. Then her lips move, and broken English comes out. “I can talk. Not much.”
Her accent is thick, an ugly foreign paint over the English words, her voice rough, as if it hasn’t had much practice with the syllables. This is what he is paying seven bucks a minute for? With Jess Reilly, he’d felt the rate was a deal. Now, he feels like a poor man visiting a street hooker, an interaction guaranteed to end with an STD and a stolen wallet.
He types.
freebird71: don’t talk. What do you do?
Another long blink. Like she doesn’t understand the question.
HotSexxxyGirl4You: I do everything for you. You turn me on.
He sighs. Contemplates returning to free chat and finding another girl. Instead he returns his hand to his cock and decides to test out what “everything” means.
