Page 16 of Taken Off Camera
“Keep it together,” I mumble, turning on the hot water.
The steam rises as I wash the toy with antibacterial soap, moving through the routine while my mind drifts. When I’m done, I set it on a clean towel to dry and use a washcloth to clean the lube from my body as best I can.
Back in the bedroom, I wipe down the camera lens and tripod with sanitizing cloths, my hands trembling. Every movement drags, as if pushing through molasses, each action taking twice as long as it should.
My laptop chimes with a notification about GentlemanX’s private session. Twenty minutes until our scheduled time, an eternity, and the sound freezes me in place, cloth suspended mid-wipe as reality crashes in.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at the screen. The logical choice would be to cancel. To message him with an apology and promise to reschedule when I’m not burning up with fever. My finger hovers over the keyboard, ready to type the words that would release me from this obligation.
But I feel horrible, and I selfishly want GentlemanX to comfort me. To pretend for two hours that someone cares whether I’ve eaten dinner, whether I’m happy, whether I exist beyond the fantasy I sell.
I can always offer to give him a discount if he complains.
Decision made, I push myself to my feet and stagger to the bathroom. It’s only been an hour since my last dose, but I take another round of feverreducers and a packet of cold medicine. The chalky tablets coat my tongue in a bitter film as I chew them, grimacing at the artificial cherry flavor that coats my mouth.
I cup my hands under the faucet, bringing cool water to my lips to wash away the medicinal residue. It splashes down my chin, droplets falling onto my bare chest.
I should put on my show outfit, the lingerie and accessories chosen to maximize tips. But I can’t bear the thought of synthetic fabric on my fevered flesh. Instead, I shuffle to the dresser in search of comfort.
The oversized sweater comes from the bottom drawer, soft with age and countless washings. It’s the color of oatmeal, completely unremarkable, but GentlemanX once commented that it made me appear soft. I pull it over my head, wincing as my aching muscles protest.
Loose cotton boxers complete the outfit, not the sexy kind I wear for shows, but the comfortable kind with a worn elastic waistband. The kind I wear when no one’s watching.
The five-minute warning goes off, startling me. I don’t remember hearing the fifteen-minute or the ten-minute warning.
My heartbeat quickens with the sudden need torush, and my head rushes with dizziness. I position the laptop at the head of the table, angling the screen to capture me but not the messy kitchen visible in the background. The camera shows a tight frame of me, the table, and the warm lamp glow. I’d prefer to be curled up in bed like usual, but if I do that, I’ll pass out before our session even starts.
I plug in the external microphone, the kind that filters background noise and smooths out my voice.
Two minutes.
I slump into the chair, exhaustion washing over me in waves. The medicine hasn’t kicked in yet, or maybe it’s not strong enough to combat this illness. My eyelids grow heavy, my thoughts sluggish.
One minute.
I straighten my spine, running fingers through my hair to tame it. The sweater collar gets adjusted to hide the fever flush creeping up my neck. I practice a smile that doesn’t reveal how much it hurts to stay upright.
The chime sounds, indicating an incoming call. GentlemanX, right on time as always.
I take a deep breath, ignoring the rattle in my chest, and click to connect.
The screen flickers, GentlemanX’s broad shoulders and large hands coming into view. His nails aremanicured, with a dusting of dark hair on his knuckles. These are the hands I imagine on me when I play to the camera.
“Hello, Elliot.” His warm greeting flows through my speakers, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket.
“Hey, there.” I wince at the way the words scrape my raw throat. “You’re right on time.”
“Always.” His hands fold on his desktop. “How was your day?”
My fingers grip the edge of the table to steady myself. “Busy. Productive.”
“The stream went well?”
Heat that has nothing to do with fever rises to my cheeks. I guess he didn’t log in tonight, which I’m thankful for. It wasn’t my best performance. “It went fine.”
“Hmm.” The noncommittal sound carries a note of skepticism. “You seem tired tonight.”
I force a laugh, reaching for my water glass. “That obvious, huh?”
