Page 7 of Room Nine: For Their Eyes Only

PinkysBedroom: Of course.

Chapter6

This is a first for me.

I stare, transfixed, at Vivienne Volkov, and my heart slams into my chest. The photos I printed from various online searches were fuzzy at best. I remember her younger version. Her beauty was obvious, but I never expected she’d transform into this level of perfection. I maximize the screen, and my jaw drops, my brain swimming with lust as I gaze at the incarnation of my teenage fantasies. Vivienne reminds me of the kind of girl I conjured in my post-pubescent mind. When I’d thumb through my father’s secret stash ofPlayboymagazines, jerking off under the covers and dreaming about women who would never give me a second glance.

It’s uncomfortable watching Boris’ daughter flaunt her sexuality. Vivienne knows how to work the camera. While I waited for the live stream to begin, I checked out a few other sites to kill some time, and none compared to hers.

I can tell why she’s so popular. It’s more than her stunning beauty. She talks to her audience about silly things, what she ate, the color of her nail polish, and a little story about getting caught in the rain. By the time she settles into her bed and slides a pair of glasses on the bridge of her button nose, I’m on the edge of my seat, desperate for more.

While she reads a naughty story, my eyes focus on the shape of her mouth, glossy pink lips parting as she describes with graphic detail the love affair between an older man and his teenage daughter’s best friend. Her honeyed voice spins the titillating tale and offers her audience a window into her filthy mind. I’m intrigued by the words and fascinated by the gorgeous woman reading them. Every syllable that falls off her lips has me hungry for more.

I need to remind myself this is a job. Nothing more. Watching Vivienne is simply a means to an end. While my brothers utilize covert methods to determine her location, I’m taking a more traditional path and doing my own investigation. She appears safe, and I can tell by her content that no one is coercing her to do this. She’s not revealing very much skin and offers a fair disclaimer to anyone seeking a private session not to expect her to get naked. If someone else was in charge, they’d surely make her offer whatever it takes to make money.

I breathe a sigh of relief and watch the comments continue to roll in. Some perverts perform the online version of catcalling and whistling. They beg her to flash her tits or ass, and a few are brazen enough to demand a pussy shot. My hackles rise with a sense of territorial rage, as if I have a claim over a woman I’ve never met. I fight the urge to threaten them with a slow death and make the impulsive decision to request a private session.

I’m not alone. Vivienne or Pinky, whatever she’s calling herself, has a barrage of requests, and the system automatically asks me if I want to be added to a waiting list if I’m not selected. I growl with a mix of anger and disappointment as I click yes, still unsure if I want to call it a night or wait for her to decide which man she’ll choose. She has no reason to go with a new subscriber when she could select one of her regulars.

“All right, everyone, it looks like I’ve got a long line of fans who want to talk to me one on one.” She covers a soft giggle with her hand and shuts her notebook, placing it on the nightstand beside her. I watch her drop her hair and let the long, brown waves fall across her shoulders. She swings her legs off the bed and then stands as she waves to the camera. I lean closer, salivating at the sight of her jiggling breasts, tracing each mound with my finger as if they’re the first ones I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what has gotten into me, but for the first time in ages, it feels like I’m directing my life into its proper course.

I must be out of my mind. She’s Boris’ daughter—a forbidden and unholy choice if ever there was one.

A box on the screen asks me if I’d like to turn on my camera and microphone. I panic, unsure if I should reveal who I am so soon. I wait a beat, my finger floating over my keyboard, then turn to tap the base of the lamp on my desk, darkening the room. I’m not a young man and I don’t need the harsh light to make me look an old, decrepit man.

I clear my throat and click my mouse, cringing when my face appears on a smaller screen. It’s a shame I didn’t take time to comb my hair.

“Hello, Andrei.” Vivienne offers a sweet smile and crawls onto her mattress, falling onto a pink pillow stomach first as she adjusts her view. “Is that what you’d like me to call you?”

“Andrei is perfect.” My heart swells, growing exponentially with every word she utters. She’s stunning. Breathtaking. A sweet, innocent morsel of subdued sexuality that needs to be unleashed.

Perhaps, I can help with that. I want to help her with that.

“That’s nice. It means warrior. Are you a fighter, Andrei?” she breathes, her honeyed voice weakening my resolve.

I clear my throat and try to control the beat of my racing heart. It’s useless. I’m so over the edge I may never make it back alive. “I am. I fight for the things I want. Are you really Pinky?” Of course, I know she’s not, but my brain is swimming with lust and incapable of forming a suitable reply.

She hesitates, considering my question before she answers, “You can call me Vivi.” Her cheeks flush, and her exuding naïveté brings my cock to life. This is a new kink. My previous girlfriends have always been a few years younger or older than me. Vivi is practically a teenager. It’s obscene. Despicable. And holy fuck, it gets me so damn hot.

“Vivi? That’s adorable. How old are you, sweetheart?” My lusty gaze falls on the cleavage peeking out from the top of her shirt, and I fight my desire to lean closer. Flirting online is a brand-new experience for me. I’ve never been good in person, but conveying my sincere interest through a computer feels impossible.

I need to win her trust but I don’t want to come off as a creep.

My anxiety vanishes when she smiles, her blush deepening as she lifts her tablet above her and lies on her back. “I’m twenty-two. How about you?”

“Forty-three. Is that too old for you?” I recline in my chair and put my feet up on the desk. It’s an idiotic question that she can’t answer honestly if she wants to make money. Her platform caters to men like me, older men looking for a younger submissive playmate and predators looking for easy prey. She doesn’t know which category I fall into, but in her tiny pretend world, it doesn’t matter.

“No,” she whispers, then raises the volume of her voice. “You’re an exceptionally handsome man. Are you married?”

I chuckle, amused by her question. I shake my head and undo my tie, wrapping the silk around my fist as I pull it off. Her eyes widen as she watches, her pupils overtaking her baby-blue irises. “Thank you for saying that. I think you’re fucking beautiful. And no, I’m not. No wife. No girlfriend. How about you? Does your boyfriend know you do this?”

Her expression softens with my confession, and she props her tablet on a pillow, taking a moment to position it properly before answering. “I don’t have a boyfriend. But if I did, of course, he would know. Secrets ruin a relationship.”

“They do,” I agree. “Tell me something, baby girl. Why do you do this? Is it just for the money?” I’m not a man who uses monikers, but I’ve spent so much time staring at her chest that it’s the first thing that comes to mind. Vivienne is a fresh new book I’ve just cracked open, and I’m dying to read every page.

“Why do I talk to men like you?” A smile touches those pouty bee-stung lips, and my heart swells, wondering if she’s sincerely flirting, and eager to listen to whatever she says. “Money is a big part of it. But I enjoy the attention.”

“Did you not get enough growing up? Or did you get too much and miss it?” I soften my tone, fearing she’ll consider my question an accusation or judgment.

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