Page 75 of Sin With Me

As I continue working the dough, my mind flits to the notebook I keep stashed in my closet with my camming stuff. This week, I kept busy between tutoring, making content, and the chaos my best friend dragged me into. But I was still able to make time to fulfill quite a few private requests, bringing me that much closer to my goal.

I want to see the world. Want to dance along the paved stones of the Great Wall of China. Drink wine beneath the Eiffel Tower while wrapped in a lover's arms. Photograph the Aurora Borealis in all its grandeur. Fall into utter stillness as I gaze up at the Great Pyramid of Giza. I want to see the sun rise off the Golden Gate Bridge and set over the rolling hills of Ireland.

I want to see everything.

Explore, taste, touch, and feel. I want to give my senses all they desire and satiate the aching, clawing needs that dwell inside my soul.

I want to live.

And no matter how much it breaks my heart, I can’t do that here.

So, I cam.

I spread my legs for the world, and I embrace the power it grants me, at least for that short time. I smile and moan as I fuck myself on camera, basking in the blissful orgasms I bring myself while rolling in the fruits of my labor.

I take their money, and I don’t care.

Because though I may be showing off my body in my most private moments for anyone who wishes to pay, I own those moments. I own my body.

In those moments, I’m my most powerful version of myself.

In those moments, I hold the key to my future.

And after all the moments I created this week, I’m just under two grand shy of being able to begin the first leg of my dreams.

I don’t realize I’m smiling, lost to visions of the grand adventure that awaits me, until strong hands grip my hips.

I scream.

Flour goes flying everywhere.

The hands tighten.

I whirl around, my eyes wide, another scream lodged in my throat as my balled-up, doughy, flour-coated hands come up between us.

Only I don’t come face to face with a scary, nameless attacker, but something much more terrifying.

My demanding, infuriating, wonderful, insanely hot stepfather. A stepfather that loves and adores me. One that has taken care of me since Mama passed and for years before that.

A stepfather I shouldn’t be looking at the way I am, imagining all sorts of filthy, depraved scenarios like the one I’ve been replaying in my mind all week.

Fuck me harder, Daddy.

I choke on the air in my lungs, stumbling forward. My messy hands land on his taut biceps in an effort to steady myself, forcing the fucked up thoughts from my head.

Isaac’s mouth is gaping open, his eyes wide in shock. His hands are still wrapped around my hips, his heated skin burning into me like an inferno, lighting me up in ways it definitely shouldn’t as it penetrates through my simple cotton shift dress.

Was it him? I can’t help the question from repeating in my mind again and again. Was it him? No, no way. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

But…what if?

Our eyes remain locked on each other. His chocolatey warm gaze is much darker than usual, verging on black with the intensity of his stare. There’s a slight tick to his cleanly shaven jaw, the corded muscles in his throat flexing with every pulse.

It’s then that I notice the white dusting of flour coating his pristine, slicked-back hair. It’s trickled down to his neck and shoulders, covering his black t-shirt like bright snow. The scene is only compounded by the fact that I’m still gripping his dark shirt with my powdery hands, making him even more of a mess.

My heart begins to thud painfully in my chest, though I’m not totally sure why.

Maybe it’s because I don’t know how Isaac will react to being disheveled, even slightly. He’s so particular about his appearance.

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