Page 16 of Push My Buttons
"Room 7?" she asks, nodding at my bag.
I nod.
"Good choice. The lighting in there makes everyone look like a goddamn renaissance painting." She steps aside. "Kill it tonight. And text if you need anything."
I give her a small wave and continue down the hall, the familiar mix of nervousness and anticipation building as I approach Room 7. The door clicks shut behind me, and I exhale slowly, surveying the space.
It's perfect—dark walls, ambient lighting, plush furniture strategically placed for maximum visual impact. The camera setup is professional-grade, with ring lights and soft boxes already positioned. So different from my makeshift home studio, with its precarious stack of books to prop up my laptop and the constant worry about what might be visible in the background.
I set my bag down and begin unpacking, arranging my supplies. Wig stand. Mask. Outfit options. Each piece laid out like armor being prepped for battle.
As I change into my first look—a sheer black bodysuit with strategic cutouts—I can't help but think about the calendar shoot. About Wasteland Chronicles. About the voices on the other end of my headset, who have no idea who I really am.
Would they even recognize me? The silent sniper they raid with, transformed into Vanta, the masked seductress?
Would any of my subscribers be interested in taking part in what is essentially the recreation of my favorite game? Would they care for the transformation from Vanta into a version of Silence?
Worlds colliding in ways I never imagined.
I shake off the thought and focus on the task at hand. The wig goes on next, sleek black strands falling past my shoulders, covering every trace of pink. Then the mask—black with crystals that catch the light like stars.
The transformation is complete. Wren disappears. Vanta emerges.
I check the camera angle, adjust the lighting, and set up my laptop to monitor the chat. Everything is perfect, professional, controlled. Nothing like the vulnerability of camming from home, where shadows outside my window might hide watching eyes.
Here, I'm safe. Here, I'm powerful.
I take a deep breath and hit the button to go live. The screen flickers to life. The counter ticks up as viewers join.
The first tips start rolling in before I even move.
ObsidianWolf tipped $50: "Ready for perfection."
NeedleAndVice tipped $100: "The anticipation is almost unbearable."
CamKing77 logged in: "Excited for tonight!"
VantablackVoid tipped $111: "You know the rules. Hands above your head, goddess."
LoverBoy tipped $50: "Looking amazing already!"
Dreamer logged in: "Let's have some fun!"
GlassHouse tipped $200: "New setting. Not sure I like it. Show me something special tonight to make it worth it."
I tilt my head, letting the light catch on my mask's jewels.
Tonight, his message doesn't unnerve me quite as much. Not with solid walls around me and security at the door.
I lean back, letting the bodysuit's sheer panels reveal glimpses of skin. My hand trails slowly up my thigh, and I smile behind my mask as the tips increase.
Tonight, I perform on my terms. In my space. With my rules.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow I'll start planning how to bring Wasteland Chronicles to life—a fantasy world where I can control every variable, every outcome.
Unlike the real world, where shadows move outside windows and messages arrive from unknown numbers.
I shift my approach, wanting to give my audience something different tonight. The bodysuit clings to my curves as I turn away from the camera, looking back over my shoulder with a sultry gaze. I let my fingertips trail down my spine, then slowly bend forward at the waist, giving them a view that makes the chat explode with tips and comments.
