The Private Camgirl

Sunday, 9:06, 840 456 followers

How very cliché, I thought, looking out over the blinking London lights. It was absolutely freezing – as late English autumn tends to be, a chilling breeze accompanied by an unpleasant spitting one cannot quite label 'rain'. Of course, that was never going to be an obstacle to my nicotine addiction. I stubbed the cigarette butt out on the cement wall of the apartment block, and threw it into the black abyss outside of my window, as the ashes glowed for a brief few seconds on their way down the eight floors. I left the window open, and wafted the curtains backwards and forth to rid the room of smoke. This did not help the cold situation, and neither did my rather minimalist attire – corset, stockings, a push-up bra with so much padding it could potentially be used during war time as a bulletproof vest.

Quick glance at the clock. Excellent. Pre-show cigarette is done, and we are on schedule. The only source of light in the room was the harsh electric glow of the computer monitor, showing the countdown. The ever-present digits. I watched my own shadow move across the room as I went over to the draw of energy drinks in my desk. I bulk bought them in boxes of twenty-four. Three cans a day, sometimes more – a box would last me a week on average. Four minutes to go. Popped the ring, carbonated fluid, almost medicinal in its sickly sweetness, downed in four big gulps. I hiccup as I feel it travel down my oesophagus. Charming. Do people really pay to see me naked? Two minutes to go. Oh yes, they do.

I cleared my throat, and seated myself in front of the blinking webcam eye on my big leather chair. Dominique's reflection entered the little window on the screen – the camgirl queen of the live online sex industry seated upon her throne, legs crossed, all black lace and determined gaze. I poked the bags under my eyes, hard to disguise even with the best of concealers and dimmed lighting, as she did the same. Don't worry about it now, Addie, she whispered in my head. There's a show to host.

And we're live.

"Good time of day to you all... everyone can hear me alright?" – The comment box came to life, and the familiar digitally generated sound effect of tokens being deposited resonated through my earphones. Oh, that sweet, sweet sound. "How is everyone doing, guys? Are we all okay?" – I had a look at the virtual chatroom. Most of the regulars were here – I have gotten to remember the user tags, and hosted a private show here and there. Some newbies, too. Standard. Let's roll, queue the script.

"I was thinking we could do something a little different tonight." – Comments of approval came through in lines of text stacked on top of each other. Dominique rubbed her hands together. "I hope you're all familiar with a game called 'never have I ever'. If not, I'll put the rules up in the chat." – I leaned in, and copied the pre-written text into the dialogue box.

'Never Have I Ever with Dominique One Hundred – I want to hear your dirtiest assumptions, ideas and thoughts about me and my life. If they prove to be correct, I will remove an item of clothing as a confirmation of this. If they prove to be false, I will ask you a question in return – if it is true, you tip twice the minimum. If it is false, you tip the minimum.'

"Everyone okay with that?" – A newbie or two left straight away. What can I say, don't come to my shows with empty pockets. I wasn't bothered – with fifty to eighty spectators per show, every comment was charged at a standard rate. If you wanted to direct message me during the performance, that would come at an additional price. Plus, there is the entrance fee to join the show, and on top of that a platinum subscription to the site. I was Camly's only platinum camgirl, which, considering the volatile and oversaturated nature of the business, was an achievement in itself. Of course, I wasn't immune to weak attempts of aspiring amateurs to break through and seize the spotlight, but the majority of them simply didn't have the discipline or emotional resilience, let alone the patience to build up to that level.

"Alright, in that case, off we go. Fire away, this corset is practically suffocating me..." – With phenomenal flexibility, I twisted my arm round my back and undid a hook, as graciously and playfully as the damn thing allowed – in all honesty, my lungs and diaphragm were quite frankly being slowly crushed with what felt like all of Victoria's secrets. Regardless, it worked. A few comments came through. I stretched my arms and leaned into the screen, making sure the camera had a good view of my pushed up décolleté. "Right...let's start from the beginning. Marko674, you're first – never have I ever...oh, come on, you can be more original than that. Never have I ever been in a threesome." – Dominique rolled her eyes. I don't partake in group sexual activities as a rule. Never have, and have no interest in doing so. "Well... I suppose I have to fess up, don't I?" – Here we go again. I stood up, slowly, and stepped away from the camera. Putting my foot up on the chair, I unclipped the first stocking from the garter belt. The silky, smooth fabric, my second skin, gently slid down as I rolled it off in view of the screen. More token sounds followed. God, I love this job.

"Didn't think you guys would get me that easy, but alright. Next up, we have CheekyFox88 with... never have I ever made foot porn." – Hm. This one genuinely made me stop and think. Dominique mentally scrolled through our archives, as perplexed as me. Nope. Don't recall anything. Although, I heard there's a lot of demand for that. New series idea? I sighed. Oh, go on then, put it on the business plan. Next to the naughty nurse costume section. Gotcha, Addie. Where were we?

"Sorry, that's not really my line of expertise, unfortunately. But I'm sure if you private messaged me, Fox, we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement." – That got a few laughing faces out in the comments. Poor bastard. "Your turn, Fox... Never have I ever... fantasized about me during the day." – A hesitation. I watched the token number closely as the spectators rallied Fox with a bombardment of winking faces and objectification in my direction. I raised an eyebrow. "I promise I won't be offended if you haven't. But no one likes a liar, Fox."

The number went up. Double tip. That's what I thought, Dominique chuckled with a sense of self-asserted triumph. The game went on as more joined the show – peak traffic time, Sunday night, nine-thirty. The second stocking is long gone along with its partner the garter belt, so is the corset, the only reminder of its presence are the tell-tale red imprints on my ribcage, a painful, irritated mark of flowery lace, almost etched into my skin. I am left in nothing but a pathetic slip of fabric someone had the audacity to call a thong. This was only the warm-up – next up, we have the three-hour marathon, following the same sort of game structure, but this time, the penalty for a truth is an orgasm. I use the term loosely – to be precise, it is my theatrical rendition of an orgasm, but Fox, Marko, Stevie, Anon and whoever else specifically pay to indulge in the illusion, so the line between the actress and her reality fades.