Page 2 of Push My Buttons
VantablackVoid tipped $222: “Back arch. Hands above your head. You know the pose.”
I pause. That’s a new one.
The name is clearly a play onVanta. Which… bold choice. Weirdly intimate. A little too clever. And the tip amount? Not just a flex—it’s a message, though I don’t know what. All twos. Very precise. I don’t know them. They’ve never tipped before. But something about the way the message is worded feels… off.
Not in the creepy, stalker way like GlassHouse. Not yet.
But there’s a tone—commanding. Overly familiar.
I push it aside.
My hands move in smooth, practiced circles. I dip them just under the lace at my hips, enough to draw a few gasp emojis in the chat. The robe slides down my arms, pooling at my elbows. The glow from the candle bathes everything in low, honeyed warmth.
Some nights I can forget what’s outside of this studio. The news stories. The past. The name I don’t say aloud anymore. The mask does more than hide me—it transforms me into a goddess wrapped in silk and plausible deniability.
I’m not Wren when I’m here.
I’m Vanta.
Silent. Untouchable. Desired. And not remotely interested in your unsolicited dick pic.
I don’t think about the subscribers. Not really.
But occasionally, there’s something different about the way a message is worded. The cadence. The confidence. Something that makes it feel almost familiar, like a word spoken across a crowded room that you can’t quite place.
ObsidianWolf: "You're art."
NeedleAndVice: "Let them beg. I just want to watch you tease that beautiful body."
Not flattering. Not desperate. Just… steady. Certain. Like they know I’ll read it. Like theyknowI’ll respond.
I shift again, sliding my hand lower beneath the lace. My breath catches in my throat—louder this time, just barely audible. Enough to make the tips come faster.
And they do.
The camera is a constant, reflecting my activity. My chat is chaos.
It always is when I do this. When I let it get close. Real. Just enough to blur the line between performance and pleasure.
I moan—muffled and low, throat tightening with restraint—and tilt my head to one side, hair spilling over my shoulder. Iimagine what I look like to them. The way the mask catches the light. The glint of jewels against candlelight, the light reflecting like rainbows. The fingers between my thighs that they only get hints of beneath the sheer material.
The chat explodes again.
NeedleAndVice tipped $200.
VantablackVoid tipped $222.
GlassHouse tipped $300.
I pause, chest rising and falling. I wonder if they think I will finally speak to them. Of course, I don’t. I can’t. The chat always pauses when I hold still, like they’re waiting for a miracle.
But all they’ll get is the sound of my breath and the shape of my body beneath the lace.
They don’t know who I am. Where I live. What my real voice might sound like if I ever spoke.
And I don’t know them.
Except I kind of do.
