“Don’t stop,” Peter orders as I drop the string on the floor beside me.
I obey. I run my fingers over the lace that I’ve revealed and stop at the buttons that will completely undo my blouse. I look up into Peter’s eyes on the screen in front of me, and they’re smoldering. I keep my eyes locked on his as I drag the blouse off my shoulders. I can’t believe this gorgeous man is so entranced by my actions.
“I want you to keep going, Whitney.”
My insecurities are rearing their ugly heads.
“Peter,” I stammer. “I don’t look like those runway models and actresses that stroll down every street of New York City. My assets are generous, to put it nicely. I don’t measure up to the perfectly sculpted bodies that you usually see in this glamorous city.”
He shakes his head.
“Whitney, those scraps of lace don’t hide your figure. I appreciate what you have. Let me see; let me go to bed tonight imagining what it would be like to have my hands on your breasts. I can tell by the way you’re breathing that you want this. Give in to the desire, sweetheart.”
He’s right. I am incredibly aroused at the idea of him going to bed thinking about me. I unclasp my bra and let the straps slide down over my arms. My breasts are large but they have a nice shape. I remember how Willow had laid on her back on her bead with her head hanging upside down over the edge.
I turn around to mimic this position. My skirt falls down over my bent knees and exposes my thighs. My shoulders are on the edge of the bed and I let my hair fall down over the side, with my chin pointed towards the ceiling. I cup my breasts so Peter can get a good view of the creamy orbs.
“That’s so sexy,” he breathes reverently.
I’m afraid of what he might ask for next, but decide to take a chance. Quickly, I lift a tit to my mouth and gently trace my tongue over the hard pink ridge. I see his eyes go wide, and his breathing deepen. Then, I arch my back one last time before reaching out to shut off the camera before this goes too far.
“Sweet dreams, Peter.”
I end our private show.
6
Peter
I can’t seem to get Whitney out of my head. I logged on to that site for a distraction from all the pandemic news, but I never expected to find someone so interesting and real. She’s so charming and disarming, yet shy too. I don’t think she knows how beautiful she is, either.
I did have sweet dreams about Whitney last night, which is strange because I feel like I only ever think about work. I have nightmares about drive-throughs with lines that go on infinitely and days when not a single employee shows up for the job, leaving me to work the grill by myself. I wake up in cold sweats because one of my dairy suppliers has burned to the ground, leaving Shake Place without a way to serve shakes.
But last night was different. It was all about chocolate curls and cupcake kisses from a voluptuous baker. Her profile mentioned that she lives in New York City, and I’m intrigued. I must not have been spending time in the right parts of the city if women like her live here as well.
I need to see her again. I want to take care of her. I respect Whitney’s ambition and sense of responsibility to her employees and family, and as an established business in the food delivery space, I can help her get through this tough time.
“What do you think, Demi? Will she accept another request for a private show?”
I take the cat’s purr as a yes and send Whitney a message through LiveFans.
Whitney, you haunted my dreams last night. When can I see you again? Does tonight work?
Simple and to the point; I hit send and wonder how long it will take her to get the message. I could hit the gym and burn off some of this frustration in the meantime.
But then, my computer pings with an alert. Could she be replying so quickly? It’s probably just another update from one of my managers; it can wait. I try to walk away from the screen, but then give in to temptation. I need to see if it’s Whitney.
Peter, I think I can squeeze you into my schedule around 8:00 pm. Does that work for you?
I wonder how many other viewers she has had. Our private show was at 7:00 last night, and she had her regular show scheduled for 9:00. If she did that show, I imagine those guys got the flushed cheeks, heavy bedroom eyes, and the sexy version of Whitney that left me restless. Annoyingly, I find this has me feeling a little envious. After two conversations with this woman, I’m confronted with a sense of possession. Shaking it off, I type back.