Page 1 of Push My Buttons
Chapter 1
Wren
Noteveryoneneedstowear a mask.
I'm not talking about the metaphorical kind. What I mean is the physical kind—the one you put on to hide your face from the world.
I never imagined I'd need one.
But when your brother is a wanted serial killer, invisibility becomes less of a lifestyle choice and more of a survival strategy. Glamorous, right? Especially when the media makes it their life's mission to plaster every personal picture and scrap of family history across every platform known to man. They were so far up my ass, I’m honestly surprised they didn’t think he was hiding in there.
I spend my days sliding by unnoticed, tucked away in a small café in a busy tech sector of the city, pouring mediocre coffee and forcing polite smiles for minimum wage while contemplating the various ways to commit caffeine-related homicide. It's just enough to scrape by, barely enough to pay the rent, and not nearly enough to feel safe.
So, for a few hours each week, I become someone else entirely.
Hidden beneath a long, sleek black wig and a jewel-studded face mask, I log on to perform for an audience that knows me only as Vanta. The internet’s favorite silent sin.
It's a controlled performance, carefully curated to hold their attention without giving away too much. I don't speak—not that I can, I haven't been able to in eighteen months—but I can tease with a glance, flirt with a gesture, and moan enough to keep them tipping generously.
Tonight's session begins the way it always does: dim lights, the soft glow of a candle, sheer black fabric framing the space, and silence. Comfortable, practiced silence. I sit on the velvet chair centered in the frame, legs crossed, robe draped just loosely enough to promise a reveal.
The first tip pings before I even move.
GlazedAndConfused tipped $50: "Oil your thighs tonight?"
DaddyDeluxe tipped $25: "Those stockings again, please."
I tilt my head slightly, pretending to consider their requests. My fingers drift to the small bottle beside me, letting the anticipation build. The camera loves slow, deliberate movement. The longer I wait, the more they tip.
The familiar rhythm of the session takes over—measured touches, controlled reveals. A shoulder here. A glimpse of bare skin there. The sound of my breath, soft and steady, synced with the gentle crackle of candle wax.
Most subscribers blur into one another; they're names on a screen, messages too thirsty to distinguish. A digital thirst trap parade with delusions of intimacy.
But a few usernames show up regularly—big tippers who never fail to make their presence known.
ObsidianWolf tipped $200: "Perfection, as always."
NeedleAndVice tipped $100: "Everyone else is begging. Don't let them have it."
GlassHouse tipped $250: "I want the sound of you unraveling tonight. Don't make me ask twice."
That last one draws a slight frown.
GlassHouse always tips high. Always just a little too specific. A little too controlling. A little too "I've memorized your apartment layout."
I shift my posture, brushing off the unease. It's part of the job—dealing with the ones who think money buys them a piece of you. It doesn't. Not with me. But they’re welcome to keep trying. Their desperation pays my electricity bill.
Still, my gaze lingers on the message longer than I intend. I’m not used to threats being that direct. Or that expensive.
I lean back in the chair, letting the silky robe slip slowly down my shoulders. My fingers trail softly along the curve of my collarbone, over the delicate lace covering my chest, pausing at the sensitive skin beneath my belly button.
More tips pour in. Flashes of usernames and numbers, a blur of wants and needs and imagined entitlement.
CamKing77: "Closer, baby. Want to see every inch."
HeartbreakerX: "Choker and gag night? Say yes."
Another name flashes on the screen.
