Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I plan to continue this work while in college to get myself through. Hey, some women strip to get through school. Some of us with cute, tiny feet make foot porn. It’s still an honest days’ work, no matter how much others judge.
After dinner–I was freaking ravenous again–I start the session with Footlover352. I’m wearing the Manolo’s he bought me. I use an online wishlist that doesn’t give out my address to my fans. The shoes ship straight to the house, which is fine, because I’m the one who’s home to get the mail.
I prance around and dirty talk with Footlover352. I give him exactly thirty minutes. “Okay, time’s up.”
“Not yet,” he says quickly. “I’ll pay for another session.”
Gah. I should take the money. I definitely need it. I waffle for a moment then agree. Who knows when I’ll have time alone again. I need to use it while I can.
“Fine.” I set the timer for another thirty minutes.
“I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you mail me those shoes,” he offers.
I scoff. “But then I would be out my five hundred dollar shoes. That’s hardly a bargain, is it?”
“A thousand,” he rushes to say. “I’ll give you one thousand dollars. Upfront. I’ll transfer it now. I want the shoes. Those shoes. The ones you wear for me.”
I can hardly turn down a thousand bucks, can I?
“Transfer the money,” I say. I wait until I hear the ding of confirmation on my phone before I resume the session.
I do my usual prancing around the room and dancing with my feet and calves. I attempt a sort of solo Tango-style movement, twirling and jabbing one foot out to the side, then prancing around.
“Closer, Rayne,” Footlover says.
I’m moving closer as it hits me. “What did you call me?”
“Rainbow. Isn’t that your name?” He gives a nervous laugh. This guy is such a geek. “Why? What do you want me to call you?”
“Rainbow.”
I guess maybe I heard him wrong.
“Get closer. Take off the shoes.”
I do what he wants. Give him some barefoot time.
“Stand with your feet apart, facing away. Now bend over and slide your hands down your calves.”
Ugh. He’s getting fancy now. I have to be careful I don’t get my face in the screen.
When I first started filming the videos and doing the privates, I wore a mask, in case my face accidentally got into the screen, but I’ve become lazy now. I figure I know exactly where the frame begins and ends and won’t mess up.
Now, as I slide my hands down the backs of my thighs, though, I’m wishing I was wearing the mask, just to be sure.
As my head gets lower than my pelvis and I can see through the window of my legs, I check out the screen.
Fuck!
He definitely saw a little face. Totally saw my hair.
Fuck this. I’m out.
“Time’s up,” I say, even though he still has five more minutes.
“Not yet,” he whines.
“Sorry, bud. I’m short-changing you today. You’re getting too needy.”
“I..you’re…”
I end the live before I can hear what he’s going to say.
My heart pounds faster than a hummingbird’s, and a weird sense of violation creeps over me, even though I’m the one selling myself.
I slam the laptop closed and head back to the kitchen in my panties. Yes, I’m hungry again. Hungry enough to eat a whole quart of ice cream as I watch television in the living room–something I never get to do when people are in the house.
It’s late, and I’m curled up watching Emily in Paris on Netflix when I hear Wilde’s Jeep out front.
Fuck!
I run for my bedroom and dive into the bed and under the covers. I don’t care what Wilde says, I am not sleeping on the floor tonight. I was hoping he’d be staying down in Tempe with his alpha-hole buddies. Regardless, I’m sick of the floor.
He can sleep in Logan’s bed tonight. Or whatever. I was looking forward to having my room to myself tonight, and I’m not giving it up.
I hear Wilde’s big feet clomp down the hallway.
I locked the bedroom door, but he uses his thumbnail to open it. “Don’t think I didn’t see you sprinting for the bedroom in your panties, Runt. Are you pretending you’re sleeping now?”
“Go away, Wilde. I’m sleeping in my own bed tonight.”
He snorts, but to my relief, clomps away.
I hear him making himself a snack in the kitchen, then brushing his teeth–something I wish I’d taken the time to do.
I consider getting up to pull on some pajama shorts, but I’m too invested in staking my claim on this bed.
To my chagrin, Wilde returns to the bedroom, kicks off his shoes, pulls off his jeans, and climbs into the bed.
“On the floor, Runt.” He grabs me by the waist and rolls me across his body to the outside of the bed, dangling me over the edge of the bed, so that if he lets go, I’d fall.