The Skunge by Jeff Barr Read Free Book Online Page B

was her biggest whale.
    How's trix, T ? he typed. She had, one night after he offered a shitload of tokens, confided that her real name was Tanya. He was not, under any circumstances, to share that name with anyone . It was only for him. Afterward, she had snickered at the eager, pathetic gratitude he felt at her lies. Tanya was a cat she dimly remembered having as a child; one day Tanya had crept out the door and never returned.
    HARDC71 added an emoticon of a monkey waving hello. For some reason, most of the whales she knew used emoticons and animated GIFs more than most users; she figured it was the chatroom equivalent of a dayglo Hawaiian shirt at a barbecue: even if they didn't acknowledge the attention, they still wanted it. And speaking of wanting...
    "Hey, baby!" she squealed. She waved at the camera like a teenybopper in the midst of an epileptic fit. These fuckers ate it up when you acted like the teenage heartthrobs they didn't get in high school. Sugar was of the opinion that most of them would go back to high school in a hot minute, if given the chance, and she was matter-of-fact glad that none of them worked as teachers.
    HardC71 was a middle-aged, pot-bellied concrete company owner. He had barely any hair on his head, but plenty on his back.
    Missed you, C, she typed. Been too long ! She sent an emoticon featuring a smiling pair of lips pooching outward in a kissing motion.
    Missed you too, dirty girl. You want to play today?
    U know I do, baby.
    She leaned out of frame a moment and stifled a yawn. Yawning, sneezing, coughing—or God forbid farting—in your room was guaranteed to drive the customers away in droves. They hated to be reminded that you were a real person who got sick, tired, or had human needs and feelings. They wanted a meat-puppet to play dress-up with, and switch off when they were done.
    A chime sounded, signaling that HARDC71 had begun a private session show. All the other users dropped out of chat, leaving only her and him.
    "Hey baby," she said, patting her hair into place. Normally he asked for pigtails, but she hoped he wouldn't today—she had a headache already. There was a click as his mic came on line, and a second later the soft chime as his cam opened. He liked for her to watch him while he watched her. His miniature image resolved at the bottom right corner of her chat software.
    There was a kind of choreography to private shows, at least with her regulars. Some guys, they started the private and called you bitch or whore as soon as it started, no hello or anything, and they expected her to be naked and moaning within thirty seconds. If not sooner. HARDC was more civilized than that, but only by a thin margin. She had the idea that he liked to play the big man with a lot of models.
    Soon enough, the small talk was done and HARDC71—real name Colin, who had an ex-wife, two kids, and a raging fetish for schoolgirl porn—had his pants down, jerking his substandard cock while Sugar cooed and pouted and touched herself. He loved that she could come on command—his command, naturally. She'd never actually orgasmed on cam, nor was she aware of any cam-girls that had. She played it just like in her movies, everything for the camera.
    HARDC71 moaned her name and started to play with his balls, a sure sign he was on the approach and ready for liftoff. She moved her face closer to the camera, whispering to him, taunting him.
    "You gonna come on my face, baby? Gonna come all over my schoolgirl face, watch me lick it up—" She stopped talking when she realized he had stopped jerking off, and was now leaning into his own monitor, peering at her with his mouth open. There was something like disgust in his eyes.
    "T, honey?" he said. His cock, wilting from inattention, fell from his hand, and his face filled the screen. He adjusted his glasses and squinted. "Are you feeling OK?"
    "What do you mean, honey?" She tilted her head at him in a way she knew he found endearing, and surreptitiously