Page 17 of Push My Buttons
The angle is perfect—the sheer fabric stretching across my ass, the curve of my back arched just so. I maintain eye contact with the camera over my shoulder, letting them see the intensity in my gaze behind the mask. My hair falls in a dark curtain to one side as I reach between my legs, teasing myself through the thin material.
ObsidianWolf tipped $250: "Breathtaking view."
NeedleAndVice tipped $250: "This is what dreams are made of."
The fabric is already damp beneath my fingers. I slide the thin material aside, exposing myself to the camera's unblinking eye. My movements are deliberate, unhurried, as I circle my clit with two fingers, my breath catching audibly. The chat scrolls faster now, a blur of usernames and dollar amounts.
I dip my fingers inside myself, then bring them back to my swollen clit, spreading the wetness. My thighs begin to tremble slightly as I find my rhythm. The position—bent over, exposed, vulnerable yet in complete control—sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the money pouring in.
GlassHouse tipped $300: "Move the microphone. I want to hear everything."
I oblige, adjusting the microphone so that it catches my breathing, the soft, involuntary sounds that escape my throat as my fingers work faster. My other hand grips the edge of the table for support, knuckles whitening as the pressure builds inside me.
VantablackVoid tipped $222: "Make yourself come for us."
The command in that message sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. My fingers move with more urgency, circling and pressing in the way I know will push me over the edge. I'm not faking anymore—the pleasure is real, building in waves that make my legs shake.
When it hits, it's powerful enough to make me cry out. I arch my back further, still looking over my shoulder at the camera as I come on my fingers, my body clenching and pulsing. The moan that escapes me is soft but genuine, a sound I rarely allow myself to make even in these sessions.
For several moments, I stay there, trembling, letting them see the aftermath—the flush spreading across my skin, the slight sheen of sweat, the way my chest rises and falls with each ragged breath.
ObsidianWolf tipped $400: "Perfection."
I slowly straighten, turning back to face the camera. My fingers glisten in the studio lights as I bring them to my lips, tasting myself with a teasing motion that makes the chat explode again.
NeedleAndVice tipped $300: "Goddamn perfection."
I savor the moment, letting my breathing slow as I regain my composure. The high from the orgasm mingles with the satisfaction of a performance well executed. I reach for a small towel I'd placed nearby, cleaning my fingers with unhurried movements while maintaining eye contact with the camera.
By the time I bring myself to orgasm for the third time, my thighs are trembling and my throat feels raw from the soft moans I've been letting escape. The chat is going wild, tips flooding in faster than I can track them. This is the part I love—when I've given them exactly what they want while still keeping my boundaries intact. When I've created the perfect illusion of intimacy without sacrificing an ounce of my real self.
Nothing beats that initial rush of power when I see the final tip count, knowing I've earned every dollar through calculated moves and carefully crafted personas. I smile one last time at the camera, blow a kiss, and then reach forward to end the stream.
The red recording light blinks off, and just like that, Vanta disappears.
I sit back in the chair, suddenly aware of the ache in my lower back and the dampness between my thighs. My heart rate slowly returns to normal as I gaze around the empty studio. The silence feels heavy after all those pinging notifications.
I peel off the wig first, letting my pink hair fall free. It's damp with sweat at the roots, sticking to my neck and forehead. Then I pull off the mask and pack my things into my bag, and I'm just me again—tired, achy, and surprisingly empty.
The transition from Vanta to Wren always hits like this. One moment I'm a fantasy, the next I'm just a girl with pink hair and too many secrets, sitting alone in a studio with sore thighs and an emotional hangover.
Chapter 6
Wren
Iwakeupscreaming,my hands flying to my throat as phantom pressure crushes my windpipe. My nails claw at my skin, desperate to peel away invisible fingers that aren't really there. The darkness of my apartment presses in around me, disorienting and unfamiliar.
My breath comes in ragged gasps that barely make sound. Sweat soaks through my tank top, plastering it to my skin like a second layer. For several terrifying seconds, I can't remember where I am or why I'm here. The nightmare fades like smoke, leaving only the sensation of choking behind.
As reality slowly reassembles itself around me—my bedroom, in my apartment, where I’m safe and hundreds of miles from home—my hands still tremble against my throat.
But it's not the stalker's message that has me gasping for air. It's the other memories pushing through, the ones I keep locked away tighter than any secret.
Hospital ceiling. Antiseptic smell. The beeping of machines.
My lungs seize as panic floods my system. I curl forward, wrapping my arms around my knees as the memories crash through my carefully constructed walls.
White sheets. Scratchy hospital gown. The doctor's pitying face as he explained about the swelling in my throat.
