Chapter 8: The Q&A Turns Physical
The ring lights were blinding. They carved hollows under Evan’s eyes and made Drew’s constant fidgeting look like a series of frantic still-images. I sat between them on the couch, the iridescent blanket itchy against my bare thighs. I’d worn simple black shorts and a tank top—a uniform of normalcy. The camera’s red eye watched, unblinking. On the laptop screen to our side, the chat scrolled upward in a relentless, nauseating river.
“Welcome back, degenerates,” I said, my voice flat, aiming for the familiar dominance of a raid leader. “Q&A. You ask. We ignore most of it. Let’s go.”
The first questions were softballs, planted by Evan’s alt-accounts. ‘Favorite game?’ ‘Plans for future streams?’ I answered with monosyllables, my heel bouncing a rapid, anxious rhythm on the carpet. The donation alert chirped—a custom sound Evan had added, like a cash register.
User [Vexxor99] Donates $500: “Enough bullshit. Show us your cunt.”
The chat froze for a second, then exploded into a frenzy of emojis and echoing demands.
Evan, to my left, went very still. Drew, on my right, let out a low, shaky whistle. “Damn.”
I leaned toward the microphone, a cold smirk on my face. “Five hundred bucks to see what every other website gives you for free? Bad investment, Vexxor.”
Another chirp.
User [Vexxor99] Donates $500: “I didn’t ask for your opinion. Show it.”
The counter climbed. A thousand dollars. Just for that. The number was a physical force, pressing the air from my lungs. I glanced at Evan. His jaw was tight, his eyes on the viewer count, which was skyrocketing. He gave me a minute, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t a command. It was a confirmation of the battlefield. The money was the high ground. We had to take it.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird. I unclenched my hands. “You want a refund on your anatomy lesson?” I said to the camera, my tone dripping with false bravado. “Fine. Pay attention.”
I stood up. The blanket pooled around my ankles. The fabric of my shorts was suddenly the only thing in the universe. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband. The chat was a single, screaming entity. I pushed the shorts down, stepping out of them. I stood there, in just the tank top and a pair of plain black cotton panties. The air in the room felt frigid on my skin.
“There. Happy?”
The chat screamed NO.
Drew was breathing through his mouth. Evan adjusted a camera setting, the whir of the lens focusing obscenely loud.
User [Vexxor99] Donates $1000: “The panties are in the way. And spread your legs. Let the camera see the goods.”
Silence, thick and soupy. I could hear the hum of the computer, the distant drip of a faucet from the kitchen. I looked at Drew. His eyes were glazed, fixed on the triangle of fabric between my legs. He wasn’t my friend in that moment. He was a tool. A prop.
“Drew,” I said, my voice not my own. “Get over here.”
He jerked, as if shocked awake. He scrambled off the couch and knelt on the floor in front of me, his back to the camera. His face was level with my pelvis. He smelled of nervous sweat and cheap deodorant.
“They want a better view,” I said.
His hands came up, trembling, and hooked into the sides of my panties. He dragged them down. The cool air kissed my bare folds. I stepped out of them. Fully exposed. The camera saw everything. The thatch of brown hair, the pink, swollen lips of my pussy, still slightly glistening from the shower. My face was a mask of detached contempt, but inside, I was screaming.
“Wider,” Evan directed softly from behind the laptop, his voice hoarse.
I planted my feet further apart. The vulnerability was absolute, agonizing. The chat was a blur of ‘HOLY FUCK’ and ‘PERFECT’ and ‘I’D RUIN THAT.’
Drew’s breath was a hot, ragged gust against my inner thigh. He looked up at me, his eyes begging for permission, disgusted with himself for wanting it.
User [Vexxor99] Donates $2000: “Make him taste it.”
The donation alert was a gunshot. Evan didn’t say a word. He just tilted the camera down, zooming in until the frame was filled with my spread cunt and Drew’s stunned face below it.
“You heard the man, Drew,” I whispered, the words ash in my mouth. “Earn your keep.”
A shudder ran through him. Then, his tongue emerged, a tentative pink stripe. He licked a slow, clumsy line from my entrance up to my clit.
A jolt of electric sensation ripped through me. I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair instinctively, not to guide him, but to anchor myself. The sensation was… immense. It wasn’t like my own fingers. This was wet, warm, living attention focused on the most sensitive part of this alien body.
“Jesus,” Drew mumbled against my flesh, his voice muffled. He dove in again, less timid this time, his tongue probing, lapping at my slit. The wet, slick sounds filled the room, amplified by the sensitive microphone. It was lewd. Animal. Each lap sent a corresponding pulse of pleasure radiating out from my core, shamefully intense.
My hips gave a tiny, involuntary buck. Drew moaned, his hands coming up to grip my ass, pulling me harder against his mouth. He found my clit and circled it with the tip of his tongue, and a broken sound escaped my throat. My head fell back. The ceiling tiles blurred.
“Talk to them, Taylor,” Evan said, his voice a strained monotone from behind the camera. “Describe it.”
I forced my head up, looked into the lens. My vision was hazy. “He’s… he’s eating my pussy,” I panted, the clinical filth of the words burning my tongue. “His tongue is inside me. It’s wet. I can feel his nose… fucking rubbing against my clit.”
Drew responded as if directed, burying his face deeper, his tongue fucking into me in shallow thrusts. The coil in my belly tightened, a relentless, gathering storm. My fingers clenched in his hair, pulling hard. Pleasure and degradation fused into a single, white-hot wire. I hated him. I hated the chat. I hated the needy, clenching ache of my own cunt. But God, I was going to come.
“I’m gonna cum,” I snarled, a warning and a confession. “You’d better swallow every fucking drop.”
He redoubled his efforts, slurping, sucking, devouring me. The orgasm tore through me with violent, unraveling force. My legs trembled violently. A raw, guttural cry was ripped from my chest as I ground myself against his face, waves of release flooding over his tongue. I felt it, the hot gush of my own juices, and heard him gulping, swallowing frantically as they overflowed his mouth.
When the last spasm faded, I shoved him away with a foot to his shoulder. He fell back on his elbows, his face glistening, wet streaks shining on his chin and cheeks. He was dazed, his cock a blatant tent in his pants. He looked utterly ruined.
I stood there, trembling, my thighs slick with saliva and my own cum. The room stank of sex and sweat. The chat was an incoherent wall of celebration and demands for more.
Evan slowly panned the camera from Drew’s messy face back up to mine. His own expression was unreadable, a careful blank. The donation counter had doubled. Tripled. It was a number that could pay rent for a year.
I didn’t feel like a general. I felt like a piece of land that had just been violently, profitably mined. The victory was ashes.
I looked straight into the lens, my green eyes flat and hard. “Satisfied?” I asked the void.
But the question, I knew, was for me. And there was no answer. Only the next chirp of the donation alert, already queueing up, a hungry, insistent sound that promised this was only the beginning.