Page 1 of Billionaire Romance

The Billionaire’s CamGirl

1

Weaver

Take down the straps of that camisole. I want to see them hanging down your shoulders.

The text appears in the bubble at the corner of the Sugar Girl website. It always amuses me, the things that turn a guy on. Wear this color, not that color. Put your hair in a high ponytail; now whip it around. Touch yourself, very, very slowly. Slower. Sometimes I feel more like a sociologist studying human sexuality than a cam-girl climbing her way out of debt.

It’s been four months of steady work on the Sugar Girl platform. After a year of waitressing jobs and the high cost of living in New York City, I’d decided to take the bull by the horns and start making some serious money. In college I’d had dreams of starting my own business, opening up a hip youth hostel, nothing too ambitious, just a sweet spot with a dozen rooms for bargain conscious tourists in Brooklyn. My business plan had been my culminating project in hospitality school, but after I graduated, I realized how completely naïve I had been. Despite putting in long hours at a SoHo hotel’s trendiest restaurant, contributing to its new (and successful, I might add) marketing campaign which went beyond my job description, it was clear I had no future there. I wouldn’t be moving up that corporate ladder. Unfortunately, I came to that conclusion after I was thousands of dollars in debt and on the verge of homelessness. Sure, I could have been thriftier. I was on my own for the first time and I did spend beyond my means, but mostly it was the high cost of city living and the awful pay from the restaurant that did me in. Oh, and the manager’s insistence that he get a cut of our tips.

So, when my lease was up, and the landlord had no intention of renewing it, I’d moved all my boxes into my mom’s basement. My mom wouldn’t have minded if I’d moved back in, but I knew she was barely able to keep on the lights herself, and I didn’t want to add my own financial issues to her stress. After all, part of my motivation is to help her, and I knew I couldn’t do it from my old childhood bedroom, eating her groceries, and most likely falling into the old habits of my teenage years. I decided I needed a plan. A plan to make money and make money quick. I wasn’t going to find another shitty apartment I could barely afford and hop from restaurant to bar suffering customers’ abuse to barely scrape by; I’d work my ass off for a year, pay down my debts, save, and then put my business plan in motion. It turned out the most effective way to earn lots of money quick was working my ass off by using my ass. And my tits. And my Oh baby, yes baby, right there baby face. Bonus: I didn’t even have to get out of bed to do it.

I applied to be a cam-girl on the most popular and lucrative webcam site on the internet, Sugar Girl. They only accept about five percent of applicants, so I was thrilled when they put me on their roster. It felt a little weird at first, accepting that this was who I’d be for a while. I mean, no little girl dreams about taking her clothes off for total strangers when she grows up, much less doing the things that I’ve been doing over the past few months. But I was backed into a corner and I had no choice but to take care of myself.

Take it off now. Pinch your nipples.

WildCaptain types. He’s been my client since day one. In fact, he’s my only client now. The first night I had access to my webcam page was pretty bizarre. After I moved out of my apartment and quit my job, I took a last-minute trip to Paris. It was mostly to support the opening of my best friend’s restaurant, but it was also my last hurrah before getting to hard work for a solid year. When I returned to New York and landed at JFK airport, I had no place to go, so I checked into a dirt-cheap room in a pretty unsavory motel. Everything I owned was in my mother’s house except for my bags from Paris and my laptop. I didn’t want to waste any time, so once my account was live, I thought, no time like the present. I tried my best to set the stage in the squalid room. I hung a scarf over the busted-up headboard and stripped the bed of its disgusting and tacky bedspread so I’d be displayed on the crisp(ish) white linens. I drank half a bottle of wine because, let’s face it, I needed a little bit of liquid courage, and I logged on. And I waited. And waited.

I must have dozed off because an hour or so later I heard a ping. I checked my browser window and saw a message from WildCaptain.

Are you available?

And that was the beginning. It certainly helped that I was jetlagged and half-drunk that night. The exhaustion and wine quieted my nerves, and my first session went better than I expected. It also helped—a lot– that I’d just come back from Paris where I’d had the most mind-blowing one-night stand of my life. It was easy to take off my top, to touch myself, because I imagined the man behind the screen was Chris, a sexy stranger who’d fucked me senseless just nights before. WildCaptain was my steady client for the entire week, and the money I made from his sessions and tips alone allowed me to rent a bedroom in a friend’s apartment.

The next week WildCaptain made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He wanted an exclusive. After a few back and forth emails with Sugar Girl, I learned that this wasn’t entirely creepy. Some guys liked the idea of having their own personal performer, and they were usually guys who could afford to pay. Sugar Girl advised me to take it, and I was able to set my own price for the private arrangement. And if ever things got weird, Sugar Girl would block him. In exchange for a hefty fee, my profile was made private to assure him that I really was his and his alone.

So here I am. Playing with my nipples on my bed, my laptop in front of me, no longer in a friend’s extra room but in a swank apartment of my own. And it isn’t creepy. In fact, it’s a turn on. I feel free with my body and comfortable with the stranger behind those dialogue bubbles. As I rub my nipples, feeling them harden into peaks under my fingertips, I can feel my panties getting wet, and watch my computer screen, waiting and hoping for him to tell me to touch myself.

How does that feel?

“I feel this all through my body,” I say to the computer. I’d always imagined I’d use some sort of weird “sexy” voice, but there isn’t any need to act. I use my regular voice with WildCaptain, and it seems to do the trick. It’s clear what he thinks is sexy is watching me, the real me, following his commands, getting worked up, making the noises that I naturally make when I’m turned on, coming for him on camera.

“Tell me what you want?” I ask.

Hand down your panties. Show me how wet you are.

Those are the magic words, and I so badly wish I could hear them in his own voice. See his mouth forming the filthy words that turn me on. I slide my hands from my breasts down my tummy and under my panties. I slide two fingers up and down my seam, gathering the moisture pooling there, and also taking a few sneaky passes over my clit, screaming for attention.

I said show me.

He can get bossy sometimes. I pull my hands out from my panties, pressing my fingertips together, and then pulling them apart, showing him the string of fluid stretching between. I wish I could hear his reaction.

Rub your wet fingers over your nipple.

I rub the moisture on my nipple, and it tingles in the cool air. I snake my other hand back to my pussy, even though I don’t have permission.

“I wish I could hear your voice,” I say. “I wish I could see you pumping your hard cock.”

Trust me, I don’t look as good as you. Take off your panties.

I feel goosebumps rise on my skin and I know we’re getting into the homestretch. Sure, the client’s pleasure is what this is all about, but after the first couple of weeks chatting with WildCaptain, I haven’t ever ended a session without coming. Before we had our exclusive agreement, I took a few other calls from random guys, and each of those sessions ended in minutes. They were thrifty and fast. As soon as they came, they’d disconnect. In fact, I hardly had to do more than take off my bra and reach into my panties before click, the session ended without even a goodbye. This arrangement with WildCaptain isn’t only a money-maker, it’s fun, too.

I wriggle out of my panties and throw them off the bed, out of range of my laptop’s camera. They land neatly on a potted plant and I giggle. The left side of my bedroom, where the Captain’s eyes could never venture, is a total mess. For months now I’ve pushed everything off my bed onto the floor there.

What’s so funny? I saw that little smirk.

“It would ruin the fantasy if I told you,” I say. “Trust me. You don’t want to know about the mess off screen.”

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