The Enforcer's Cam Girl

I wasn't sending that money because I missed her. I sent it because guilt kept better books than I did. The prepaid load screen glowed on my left monitor at 9:04 p.m. Six hundred dollars split across two vanilla cards I had bought with cash at the Plaid Pantry on Division three days earlier. I scratched the strips, typed the numbers with my nails still tacky from top coat, routed them through the refill portal that Marlene, my estranged mother, thought was some church charity. No name on my end. Never a name. My thumb hovered over the confirm button. Behind my eyes the St. Johns trailer tried to push in anyway, the soft spot in the linoleum in front of the sink, the way the door never latched right. I shut it down. I clicked confirm twice, closed the tab, wiped the clipboard. Done for another month. Rent was paid. Power was on. Laundry steamed on the radiator and made the apartment smell like detergent and damp cotton when I walked past it. That was the extent of my domestic life. I stood up and dragged the folding screen across the room. On one side, work. On the other side, work of a different kind. The cam corner was six feet by six feet of pure lie. Black backdrop pinned flat to the wall, LED strip set to a slow violet pulse, ring light on its tripod at chest height. I checked the frame on my preview window. Mattress with the gray satin sheet pulled tight. Pillow fluffed. The milk crate of takeout containers and the cold lo mein on top of my desk stayed two inches outside the crop. Viewers paid for fantasy, not for my trash habits. VelvetGlitch lived in a plastic storage bin under the bed. Platinum wig with black roots, still tangled from last night. Lace front that itched if I didn't lay the tape right. I shook it out, pulled it on, adjusted the part with a comb. Makeup was assembly line. Thick liner, cut crease, overdrawn lips in a shade called Bruise. Beauty mark dotted on with a felt pen. I slipped into the black bodysuit with the mesh panels, garters I only wore because the regulars tipped extra when the straps snapped. I looked at myself in the preview, tilted my chin, tested the smile. Smile for the lens. That was the job. What happened off camera paid for the apartment. At 9:31 I went live on LuxeLive. The chat filled fast. Greetings stacked up the right side, little coin icons popping as the room count climbed past eighty. I waved with two fingers, leaned into the ring light, let the wig fall over one shoulder. “Hey, glitchlings. You missed me yesterday, huh? I could tell.” I muted the mic for half a second to cough, then slid the volume back up and put on the voice. Lower, slower, a little teasing. Velvet talked like she had all night and nowhere else to be. Sadie talked like she billed by the minute. Delilah pinged me in mod chat before I even got my knees on the bed. Delilah Ward out of Austin, my only friend I had never touched. She modded my room under a wrench icon and kept the weirdos in line. Delilah: audio good, cam 1080 locked. You look hot. Room's climbing. I typed one-handed while I blew a kiss to the main chat. Me: Running late. Job in background. Keep an eye out. Delilah: always. I set the tip menu on the screen. Twenty-five for song request. Fifty to pick my lipstick. One-fifty for a private flash. Five hundred for ten minutes alone. The numbers were high enough to keep the freeloaders watching and the spenders competing. Music on. Something with a heavy bass line, no lyrics to fight me. I started slow, the way that worked. Rolled onto my stomach, kicked my feet up behind me, arched enough that the mesh pulled tight across my back. I ran my hands up my own thighs, over the garter straps, snapped one lightly against my skin. The chat jumped. I let them look. That was the trick Dex taught me years ago about every kind of hustle, not just this one. People paid more when they thought they were convincing you. “Who's gonna get me to a hundred first?” I asked, trailing a fingertip along the edge of the bodysuit. “I know you want to see what's under here.” Coins dropped. The counter ticked up. I shifted to my knees, slid my hands up my stomach, cupped my breasts through the fabric and squeezed. My n*****s hardened under the mesh and showed through, and I pinched one lightly between thumb and forefinger until my breath hitched in a way the mic loved. While they watched my hands, my eyes cut to the third monitor. The terminal window sat hidden behind the LuxeLive broadcast software, black on black, text scrolling too small for the cam to catch even if the angle slipped. Edgar Finch's job. Dirty Bitcoin in, clean Monero out. He had sent the wallet addresses that afternoon with his usual charm. Wash it. Don't skim. You owe me. I owed him for the Ghost Protocol kit he fronted me last spring, the layered VPNs and the burner stack and the dead-man scripts. I paid in washes. I had set the CoinJoin to run in three rounds. The inputs tumbled first, split and mixed with a hundred other strangers' coins until the trail turned to static. Then the swap to Monero through two non-KYC exchanges I kept for Edgar work only. It was boring and beautiful if you knew what to look at. Numbers breaking apart and coming back clean. On camera, I slipped one strap off my shoulder. Kissed my own collarbone. Slid my hand down between my legs over the bodysuit and pressed, rocking a little. “Mmm. Keep tipping and I'll make it good,” I whispered. The chat scrolled faster. Someone requested the lipstick change. I held up two shades, let them vote, painted on the darker one while looking straight into the lens. I bent forward to pick up the tip bottle of oil from the floor, gave them the view they paid for, drizzled a line down my thigh and rubbed it in slow. My other hand found the wireless keyboard tucked under the pillow. Muscle memory did the rest. Alt-tab without looking. Check the mix depth. Alt-tab back. DQ_Ledger dropped a hundred-coin tip. My eyes flicked to the name. He was a regular VIP, quiet, never crude in public chat, always paid for private flashes and then barely talked. Just watched. Asked once about my tattoo, the little glitch-barcode on my hip. I liked his kind better than the loud ones. “Thank you, baby,” I said, and blew him a kiss. “You want a song?” DQ_Ledger: no song. Keep doing what you're doing. Easy money. I rolled onto my side, propped on one elbow, ran my hand down my body again, fingers circling over the fabric where I was warmest. I let my head fall back, mouth open a little. The ring light caught the sweat starting at my hairline under the wig. It itched. I ignored it. Behind the moans, my mind ran code. First CoinJoin round complete. Second round pooling. The input logs auto-saved to my encrypted drive, timestamped, hashed. I saved everything. Every wallet Edgar gave me, every transaction ID, every fee. Insurance, as always. Men like Edgar forgot what they promised when it got inconvenient. I kept receipts so I could bleed for the ledger only if I chose to, not because someone told me to. Delilah timed me out a spammer, posted a heart emoji storm to cover the gap. Delilah, in mod whisper: mix holding? Room at 214. You're trending on front page. I tapped back with my toe on the keyboard tray. I had rigged a single key to send her a preset ping. She got the dot-dot-dash that meant all good. On screen I pushed the bodysuit aside just enough for a flash they had earned at four hundred combined. I cupped myself, fingers parting me through the thin second layer I wore underneath, slick and hot even through fabric. I stroked slow, two fingers, firm. My hips lifted off the mattress. I made the sounds they tipped for, soft and rising, but my attention stayed split, half in my body, half in the numbers crawling on the monitor I could see reflected faintly in the dark window to my left. Swap initiated. Bitcoin to Monero. First hop confirmed. Second hop pending. A high tipper asked for oil on my chest. I poured more, cold at first, then warming as I spread it over my breasts, over my throat. My fingers slid easier. I pinched and rolled, tugged lightly, arched up into my own touch. The bodysuit clung. The chat lost its mind in the way that meant rent for another week. “Like that?” I asked, looking straight at the lens. “You like watching me touch myself?” More coins. More requests. I gave them ten more minutes of tease, edging myself close enough that my thighs shook for real, then backing off. Velvet knew how to hold a room. Sadie counted confirmations. By 12:10 a.m. The room had peaked and thinned. I closed with the usual routine, stretched out on my stomach again, feet in the air, chin in my hands, suddenly sweet instead of hungry. “Thanks for hanging out, glitchlings. Same time tomorrow if you're good.” I winked. “Especially you, DQ. You spoil me.” I hit end stream. The ring light clicked off. The violet LEDs kept pulsing against the black backdrop, suddenly pointless without an audience. Silence hit my ears after three hours of bass. My body still buzzed faintly where my hands had been. I peeled the wig off, scratched my scalp hard, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The bodysuit stuck to the oil on my chest when I tugged it down. I grabbed a baby wipe from the pack by the bed and cleaned off fast, careless, done being gentle. Barefoot, in a T-shirt and underwear, I crossed to the desk side. Laundry had dried stiff on the radiator. I pushed past it and dropped into my chair. The middle monitor showed the final status in green. Mix complete. Swap complete. Drop to clean wallet complete. I opened the log folder, verified the hashes, copied the bundle to the backup drive and to the encrypted cloud Delilah held the key for. Clean drop. No flags, no stuck outputs, no dust attack I could see. Edgar would get his Monero by morning and I would get a little more off my debt. I leaned back, cracked my knuckles, allowed myself the small pleased pull in my chest. Good work. Quiet work. Then the little monitor on the far right blinked. That was my door-cam feed, the hallway outside my apartment. A hitch of frozen static, timestamp stuttering, then black for a full breath before the image came back. I stared at it, wipe still in my hand. The wipe left a damp smear on my palm and I tossed it toward the trash can. It missed. I left it on the floor and pulled the keyboard closer. The door-cam window showed my hallway in washed-out infrared. The neighbor's dark door, the stair rail, the flickering bulb over the landing bleeding white. The timestamp ran smooth now. 00:14:22, 00:14:23, 00:14:24. I dragged the timeline back thirty seconds and watched it again. At 00:13:57 the image hitched. The counter jumped. Four frames dropped, maybe five. Less than half a second. Then black. Then the feed rebuilt itself. I ran it back a third time, frame by frame. Nothing masked in the static. No loop artifact I could spot, no overlay. My little setup was cheap, a thumbnail cam over the door wired to a Raspberry Pi taped under my desk, but I knew its quirks. It dropped frames when the building Wi-Fi choked. It never went black. Paranoia will kill you faster than Edgar. I opened my maintenance log and typed: 00:13 door-cam freeze 0.4s + blackout. Rewound, no intruder visible. Possible net glitch. Check cable tomorrow. I stared at the words after I wrote them. They looked thin. Delilah's chat window blinked on my left monitor. She never slept after my show. She stayed up clipping highlights for my fan page and banning the vultures. Delilah: heads up, two chargeback scammers in tonight. Same card pattern as last week. I blocked and reported. Me: good catch. You want a bonus cut? Delilah: nah. Keep your money. Also your whale showed out. Me: which whale? Delilah: DQ_Ledger. Dropped 400 combined during oil. Booked private for after midnight. Paid upfront. I leaned back in the chair. The plastic creaked under me. My hair stuck to the back of my neck where the wig cap had trapped sweat. I pulled the T-shirt away from my chest. The oil had soaked through in two spots. Me: after midnight? Tell him tomorrow. I'm fried. Delilah: I told him you might be done. He tipped extra for the wait. Said no song. Said keep doing what you're doing. I laughed under my breath. The sound scraped a throat worn out from three hours of performance moans. Me: creepy or sweet? You decide. Delilah: rich. That's what he is. Take the private. Rent. She was right. DQ_Ledger had been on my page for months. Never demanded, never pushed for meets, never sent the gross threats the others sent. He asked for math. He liked watching me count down, liked the private streams where I talked while I worked. He paid on time. In my line of work that made him a gentleman. Me: fine. Tell him one o'clock. No kink list. Delilah: on it. Smile for the lens, b***h. Me: smiling. I pushed away from the desk long enough to grab the takeout box off the milk crate. Cold lo mein, noodles glued together. I forked a bite straight from the carton and chewed standing up. The radiator burned the back of my bare calf. I stepped sideways and kept eating. The main monitor still showed the swap confirmation. Clean wallet funded. Edgar's cut separated. My fee separated. The rest already tumbling toward the next hop for his other clients. I copied the transaction IDs into my ledger spreadsheet, double-checked the hashes, locked the file. Insurance. Dex had drilled that into me when I was nineteen and dumb enough to trust a handshake. Save everything. I saved the spreadsheet where the bundle already lived. The encrypted drive bolted under my desk. The cloud mirror Delilah held the key for. She didn't know what was in it. She knew enough to keep it safe and to lock it down if I went dark. If I missed two check-ins, she torched my accounts and sat on the files until I surfaced. It was the only will I had. While the upload bar crawled, I thought about the vanilla cards again. Six hundred dollars, same as every month. She never asked where it came from. She spent it every time. No note with it. Never a note. My thumb hovered over the trackpad for a second longer than it needed to. Then I closed the upload window. Done. She eats. You work. Nobody touches that. I looked at the door-cam feed. Live again, timestamp rolling clean. Empty hall. My log entry sat on the other monitor: Possible net glitch. Check cable tomorrow. I almost deleted it. I left it. Twenty minutes until DQ. I wiped down with another baby wipe, dragged a brush through my flattened hair and pinned it up, and pulled the white lace set out of the bin. I smoothed the gray sheet and angled the laptop away from the rack. At 00:40 the door-cam Pi sent a push alert to my phone. Motion detected. I spun the chair around so fast my knee hit the desk.