Page 15 of Taken Off Camera
Sweat trickles down my spine as I position the toy, my movements mechanical rather than fluid. Thank goodness for lube, because my body isn’t producing even a hint of slick.
The fever wraps my mind in a fog, every action requiring thought. The dildo slides inside, my body responding on autopilot despite my illness. My muscles tense at the intrusion, a gasp escaping my lips that viewers will interpret as pleasure rather than discomfort.
I rock back my hips on the toy, establishing a rhythm that takes all my concentration to maintain. My thighs tremble with the effort of holding myselfupright. Behind me, the chat continues its chorus of approval and demands, the notification sounds of tips blending into white noise.
TIP NOTIFICATIONS
DaddyBrooks tipped 150 tokens — “So fucking hot”
SilverFox sent 75 tokens — “Beautiful as always”
A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I wipe it away when I’m sure the camera won’t catch it, my hand coming away slick and hot. My hair sticks to my forehead, and I toss my head back, disguising necessity as performance.
“You’re so big,” I moan, the words empty of meaning. My body moves through memorized motions while my mind floats somewhere above, detached and drifting.
The room spins as I increase my pace, knowing I need to end this soon. My breathing grows ragged, but not from arousal. My lungs struggle to expand, each inhale shorter than it should be. The fever climbs higher, my skin burning everywhere the air touches.
I reach down to stroke myself, the touch sending electric currents of discomfort rather than pleasurethrough my overstimulated nerves. The chat demands more, harder, faster, their words blurring into meaningless symbols on the screen.
“I’m close,” I lie, straining to finish the show. “So close for you.”
My free hand grips the sheets as another wave of dizziness crashes over me. I need to finish this now, before my body betrays me completely. I force my hips to move faster, my hand working in tandem, putting on the performance they expect.
“Oh god,” I cry out, manufacturing the familiar crescendo. “Yes, right there, don’t stop!”
I arch my back, tensing my muscles in a pantomime of orgasm that’s miles away from my feverish reality. My body shudders convincingly, years of practice selling the deception despite my condition. I let out a final cry and collapse forward onto the bed, the toy slipping free as I turn my face away from the camera.
“Mmm,” I murmur, reaching for a tissue to clean up nonexistent evidence. “That was incredible.”
The chat floods with appreciation and virtual applause.
CHAT COMMENTS
BlueJay77:holy shit that was hot
SweetTooth44:u look amazing baby
DaddyBrooks:Worth every token
HeartEyes92:encore!!!
“Sorry, loves,” I manage to say. “That’s all for tonight. Special thanks to my tippers. Until next time.”
I blow a kiss toward the camera, maintaining the facade until the last possible second. Then I reach forward, clicking the button to end the stream.
The red light blinks off, and I collapse fully onto the mattress. The silence rushes in, broken only by my labored breathing. My body shakes with chills despite the heat radiating from my skin. The toy lies forgotten beside me, a prop in a performance that drained what little energy I had left.
The screen continues to glow in the dimness of my bedroom, illuminating the sweat-dampened sheets and my trembling form. I want nothing more than to give in to gravity and sink into the mattress, but I should clean up. I should shower. I should call Saint, because this fever isn’t going down with generic cold medicine.
For now, though, I close my eyes to block out the spinning room and allow myself thirty seconds of rest.
Then I need to get ready for GentlemanX’s private session.
The thirty seconds stretch into three minutes before I peel myself off the mattress. My limbs weigh double, every movement requiring effort as I gather the dildo and lube from the tangled sheets.
GentlemanX deserves better than this half-dead version of me, but canceling means losing two hundred dollars I desperately need.
I shuffle to the bathroom, toys in hand. When I flip the switch, the fluorescent light stabs my eyes, sending a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. In the reflection in the mirror, my flushed cheeks, hair plastered to my forehead, and pupils dilated with fever stop me cold. I hardly recognize the person staring back.
