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)
The ritual is always the same. Lock the door. Drag the ring light out from under the floorboards and clamp it to the desk. Tripod goes next, feet planted on a precarious stack of textbooks. Laptop, perched at the foot of the bed, gets a quick password jab. Webcam, checked twice. External mic, plugged in and tested with a whisper: “Test, test. Is Daddy watching?” I giggle at my own joke.
Then the mask. Today, I don’t have time to do the kind of editing I usually put in, so I don a ski mask to hide my features. It’s matte black, and makes me look like an intruder. Even more importantly, it covers everything above my lips and below my hairline, leaving my mouth free to sell whatever fantasy the crowd’s buying tonight.
For years, I thought that no one would pay me if I didn’t show my face. But actually, a lot of guys don’t care because the anonymity is part of the show. They’re able to transform me into some fantasy girl who lives in their mind when they can’t see my face. It’s the cold, hard reality of my business, and I’ve made good money by understanding the nuances of what I do.
But I need to get ready stat. I peel off my dress, fold it carefully, and choose a lacy pink bra and panty set—nothing too wild, but the color flatters my skin and the chat loves a “good girl gone bad” aesthetic. I pose on the bed, arching my back for the preview shot. The room is dim except for the ring light’s warm glow, and I see myself on the laptop screen: curvy, big tits, narrow waist, legs splayed. I look like I’m waiting to be devoured.
I cue up the cam site. Ten regulars are already in the waiting room, usernames a roll call of the degenerate and the desperate: WetBandit, Sixgun, Daddy_Mayor. Some are silent lurkers; others tip early, eager for the show to start. I smile coquettishly, lean close to the camera, and purr, “Hey, big boy. Miss me?”
The chat explodes. More tips, more demands. I toy with my hair, dragging it over my shoulder, and let the mask slip to just above my nose. I can do this in my sleep, and sometimes I do. The routine is always the same: slow build, tease, never show more than you have to until the money’s right. I ride the first ten minutes on autopilot, legs crossed, lips parted in a little moue of fake innocence.
But tonight, something’s different. Maybe it’s the lingering thrill of Jack’s hands on my body, or maybe it’s the promise of seeing him later. Either way, I can’t help myself: every time I say “Daddy,” I think of him, the way his voice rumbles when he loses control, the way his breath hitches when I push him too far.
I start narrating my own fantasy, like I always do. Only this time, the story includes Jack. I tell the camera about a “very dominant, older Daddy” who’s so big it hurts, who calls me his baby and makes me beg for it. I go off-script, let the words get raw and filthy. “My Daddy’s cock is so big,” I murmur, “I have to open up really wide for him. But I love it when he stretches me. I want it. I want to be a good girl for him, even if he breaks me.”
The chat goes nuts. Tips roll in, more than I’ve seen all month. “Take it deep, pretty girl,” they type. “Show us how bad you want it.” The energy is infectious, and I can’t help it because I do want it. I want Jack, and I want the whole world to see.
With eager hands, I grab my biggest dildo from the toy chest—a monster, deep purple, thick as my wrist. The chat eggs me on. I lick it, slide the tip between my lips, make a show of struggling to take it deep. “Do you think I can fit this in my secret spot, Daddy?” I whisper, and the room explodes: YES, YES, DO IT.
I take my time, drag it out, moaning low and hungry as I work the dildo into my tight vag. The ring light is hot on my skin; the ski mask feels suffocating, but I leave it on, the pressure making my head swim. Every stroke, every inch, I think of Jack’s hands on my hips, his voice in my ear as he pushes that giant member into my tiny channel. “That’s it, baby. Take it all.” I moan, just for him. The words feel real.
Meanwhile, the tips are going insane when my orgasm hits fast and brutal, the kind that leaves your toes tingling and your vision edged in white.
“Ohhhh!” I scream, the sound muffled slightly by the ski mask. “Ummmm, yes Daddy!”