by Isa Mazzei
“Oh wow. For high-class vaginas!” I forced a laugh, trying not to think about how in a few short hours, I’d be having sex with this girl.
×××
Vrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm. The Sybian vibrated loudly from its position atop a white shag carpet. Vrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm. Vrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmm.
“Oh wow.” I knelt down and touched it gingerly. “I’m supposed to sit on that?” It looked like a saddle, but smaller, with a textured rubber top and a dial that allowed you to control the rate at which it vibrated.
Ginger’s cam room was small. In the center was a couch and a rug, where she usually cammed. Pushed against the side of one wall was a bunk bed absolutely overflowing with piles of sex toys, lingerie, stockings, plush toys, paints, and musical instruments. It was already 7:45 p.m., and I was anxious to start the show. We had planned absolutely nothing, but when we got back to her house, Ginger suggested a Sybian show.
“You could ride it, or me.”
“Oh, and viewers can tip for higher or lower or whatever?”
“Well no,” she explained patiently. “You know AllieGirl? She’s kind of copyrighted control shows on the Sybian.”
“She copyrighted a type of show?”
“Well, not literally.” Ginger paused. “But she’d be super mad if we did one. We’ll just do a show where guys tip for on or off. And I can do some Shibari on you if you want?”
I had seen Ginger’s intricate ropework on her Twitter, complicated webs of knots and ropes and female bodies. It was a form of bondage, but more than that, it was a form of art. It was about restraining a submissive, but it was also about beauty, complexity, the subtle give and take of the ropes. Beauty in powerlessness. Power in submission.
“Oh, hell yes.” Shibari would make for some excellent photos.
“Yeah. Here, go wash the saddle.” Ginger removed a flesh-colored strip of rubber from the top of the Sybian and passed it to me.
I took the strip of rubber to the bathroom and eyed it warily. I turned on the tap and waited for the water to get hot. It didn’t. I covered the rubber saddle in soap and rubbed it under the lukewarm water, realizing that my high school health teacher would be very unhappy if she could see me now.
“Hurry up!” Ginger called from the cam room, where she was setting up her camera and booting up her computer. “It’s almost eight.” I carried the definitely-not-clean rubber piece back to Ginger, who slapped it onto the saddle still damp. “Okay, let’s do a naked count. I usually set mine at three thousand, so let’s do six for both of us? That good?” The airy, absentminded, crystal-loving girl from that afternoon was gone, replaced with an all-business Ginger.
I nodded. I sat gingerly beside the Sybian and composed a Tweet on my phone.
@TheOnlyUna: On with @The_LadyGinger! Come play with us ;)
“Can we do a selfie?” I gestured to my phone. Ginger obliged, leaning next to me and planting a kiss on my cheek as I snapped a picture of us together and posted it on Twitter. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Here, let me do one. Kiss my cheek.” Ginger held out her phone and took a photo of us. I kissed her cheek, closing my eyes. A moment later, her Tweet popped up on my feed.
@The_LadyGinger: Online in a minute with my darling @TheOnlyUna! Come watch me take her girl/girl show cherry!
“Oh, hey there, Scissors,” Ginger said casually into the camera. She had started the show while my head was buried in my phone. I tossed it aside and smiled into the camera.
“Hi, Scissors!” I waved enthusiastically.
“This is my friend Una,” Ginger introduced me as the room began filling with both her viewers and mine. “Isn’t she just the cutest?”
And so the show began. There were many types of girl/girl shows. They were usually just an enhanced version of whatever the hosting camgirl usually did. If she was into burlesque, she’d teach burlesque to her guest. If she was into sex shows, the two would usually have sex. If she was into playing games, the pair would go head-to-head in sexy versions of whatever games were her room’s favorite. Girl/girl shows kept a room dynamic and alive. They were about introducing another camgirl to your little corner of the Internet and exposing her to new viewers and potential fans.
As one of very few girl/girl shows on that night, we were by far the most popular room, quickly surpassing one thousand, then two thousand viewers. On camera, Ginger was Ginger, the same girl I had watched, but a different girl from the one with whom I had spent the afternoon. When it came time for me to sit on the Sybian, I was apprehensive.
Una, on the other hand, was downright thrilled.
“Oh my God, you guys,” I giggled, taking a seat and trying not to think about the sticky rubber beneath my vagina. “I’ve never been on a Sybian before!”
“She’s going to love it—right, guys?”
The room exploded with tips and messages.
“Girls always love riding my Sybian.” Ginger leaned over to me and kissed me full on the mouth, even though no one had tipped for it. The ding of tips rang out: the spontaneity of her passion clearly inspired the room. Clever.
I sat on the Sybian and waited for Ginger to turn it on. We had instructed the room: three hundred tokens to turn it on, one hundred to turn it off. Once we hit five thousand tokens, she’d tie me up, and once we hit ten thousand, she’d gag me.
Ginger turned on the machine. It vibrated softly. Not unpleasant.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I smiled. “Thank you, Bacon, for tipping to turn it on.”
Ding. Off.
Ding. Back on.
Ding. Off.
After ten minutes, what had been a pleasant tingle had turned into a dull ache. I let out little gasps and moans on cue to Ginger’s controls, but it no longer felt even remotely good.
“We hit five thousand!” Ginger cried out happily, clapping her hands like a child. “Time to tie you up.” She winked at me, kissed me again, and then began tying me, wrapping my wrists behind my back, then intricately knotting the rope around my shoulders, down my torso, and between my thighs. It was awkwardly tight, and I wasn’t able to sit up straight. Hunched over slightly, I retook my position atop the Sybian.
“Here we go again!”
The saddle began vibrating again. I held back a grimace. My clit felt raw at this point, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I turned to Ginger. Maybe I could tell her I needed some water or something and then follow her out of the room and tell her I needed a break? Should I text her? No, my hands were tied up.
“Thank you, Jiggy!” Ginger cheered again. I didn’t want to let her down. She did Sybian shows with a lot of girls. If other girls could do it, so could I.
“Jiggy wants to shut you up, Una.” Ginger winked as she grabbed my panties off the floor and shoved them into my mouth. I gagged but stopped myself from puking. Luckily, I hadn’t worn the lacy thong for that long before the room had tipped to remove it.
But still.
Bound, gagged, and straddling a vibrating saddle from hell, the next half hour passed in a blur. On, off, on, off, on again. Off, mercifully. I put on a good show, and luckily, being in pain doesn’t look that different from being on the brink of orgasm. Finally, Ginger decided we had earned enough to allow me to come.
“I’ll turn it all the way up!” she squealed, turning the dial. I let out a moan. Fuck. My clit was numb at this point and throbbing alarmingly. I guessed I’d have to fake it. The idea made me feel cheap. It made me a liar, not a sex Goddess. I didn’t want to lie. I wanted it to feel good. Except, it most definitely didn’t. I leaned forward, tightening the ropes around my chest, and let out a guttural scream through my panties. Satisfied, Ginger shut off the Sybian.
“All right, guys, should we let her talk?” Ginger pulled the underwear from my mouth and cast them aside, laughing.
My eyes focused on the screen.
MarioLuis: how
was it Una?
Demon9: Ginger’s famed Sybian saddle!
1NerdyGuy: 0_0
Applepicker: did you love it?
“Wow, I’ve never come that hard ever,” I said breathlessly, glancing at Ginger and desperately trying to communicate that she needed to untie me now. I felt suffocated and panicked, like the ropes were tightening around me. Which, in fact, they literally were, since Ginger had designed the knots so that the more I struggled, the tighter they got.
I continued to smile inanely. Finally, Ginger untied me. She kissed up my wrists as she did, pulling my arms close to the camera.
“Wow, look at these pretty red marks,” she cooed softly at the room. “These are going to be such pretty bruises tomorrow.”
“Wow, yeah,” I rubbed my wrists and stood up, relief washing over me. “I’m free!” I giggled manically and then sat down next to Ginger. I had been so distracted with the Sybian I hadn’t even been tracking how many tokens we had made. I quickly did some math: $1,100 each.
“Now, guys, you know after something like this, aftercare is so important.” Ginger patted her lap. I set my head in it and curled up into a ball next to her. I felt very small and very young. Ginger stroked my hair and talked to the camera. “Such a pretty girl.”
“I am so tired, wow.” I closed my eyes and pretended to relax. My mind spun: Had I maybe contracted something from that unclean saddle? My entire pubic region felt swollen and tingly. Was there nerve damage? Would it be permanent? My wrists and shoulders ached from the ropes, and my mouth tasted sour from my panties.
“What do you think, Una? Twister?”
I opened my eyes. “What?”
“Should we play oiled-up Twister? That could be fun!”
“Oh, yeah, sure. I mean,” I looked at the clock. 9:45 p.m. It was still early. But we had made plenty of money. Well, maybe plenty of money for me. Who knew what Ginger was used to.
“Great! I’ll get the board set up.” Ginger hopped up and leaned down into the camera, her boobs brushing the lens. “Be right back, guys!”
She walked across the room and began rummaging on the bed for a Twister board. I walked to the bathroom and peed, gingerly patting my numb labia.
When I emerged, Ginger had laid out a Twister board, a bottle of massage oil, and had moved her webcam onto a tripod so that it was about four feet above us and showed the entire board. She had just finished instructing her room helper, and turned to ask me, “Winner gets to spank the loser, what, ten times, shall we say?” She looked up at me expectantly.
“Okay.”
Ginger stood on the Twister board and motioned for me to stand next to her.
“Hey, guys.” I waved at the camera, exhausted.
Jiggy69: you’re back
Wild_West: hi Una
LivingPepper tipped 50 tokens: Ginger, left foot red!
“Thank you, Pepper!” Ginger stuck out her foot.
HitchmyCock tipped 50 tokens: Ginger, right hand yellow
HitchmyCock tipped 50 tokens: Una, left foot yellow
I moved my left foot to the yellow circle.
Rex213 tipped 50 tokens: una left hand green
As I squatted down to touch my hand to the circle, a drop of blood landed on the Twister board. Fuck. My period was early. I quickly wiped it up with my hand, hoping no one noticed.
“I gotta pee—sorry, guys! Then we can start.” I rushed to stand and ran off camera, cupping my vagina with my hand.
“You just peed!” Ginger exclaimed in a flirty, whiny tone. I heard the ding of tips as viewers agreed with her.
“I know. I just drank so much water after the Sybian,” I said loudly. I raised my eyebrows at her and pointed at my hand. “I got my period,” I mouthed.
Ginger squinted her eyes. “What, Una?” she said aloud, still keeping her foot and hand on their respective circles.
“My period,” I hissed raising my eyebrows again and then turning to go to the bathroom.
“Ah, gotcha,” Ginger said out loud again, seemingly not understanding my desire for discretion. “Una will be right back, in the meantime, let’s get some tips going for the oil count. Once we hit three thousand, we’ll oil each other up and then the fun will really get started.”
I went to the bathroom and rummaged through my bag for a tampon. The trick I had found for when I had my period on cam was to take two light tampons, cut the strings off, fold them into a cross, and then shove the entire thing as far up near my cervix as I possibly could. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it allowed me to cam without any leaks, and I could even get a dildo most of the way inside without anyone noticing. Some camgirls spoke about their periods and even called it their “shark week” to fans, but that made me uncomfortable. I preferred being the girl who just mysteriously never got her period. I felt it was sexier that way.
As I came out of the bathroom, I was struck with a feeling of defeat. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go to my hotel. I wanted anything but to stand up and play Twister.
“Una! Right foot red!” Ginger called out from across the room. “It’s almost time for oil!”
×××
Two hours and two oiled-up games of Twister later, Ginger left me at my hotel with my suitcase and a check for $2,050. She had promised her room she was going to “cuddle this pretty girl all night long,” which apparently in the real world meant a brief hug on the curb.
“It was so nice meeting you,” she said as she popped the trunk of her car. “Sorry I can’t hang out tomorrow, I just have so much to do.”
I nodded. I knew she was lying. My flight wasn’t until five the next day.
“It’ll be cheap to take a cab to the airport, though.”
“Oh yeah, no worries.” I went to the back of the MINI Cooper and pulled out my suitcase.
“'Kay, bye!”
With a wave, Ginger was off, and I was left with the distinct feeling that I had done something wrong.
Upstairs in my hotel room, I turned on the shower and collapsed on the bathroom floor. I was exhausted. The two tampons inside me were chafing and my clit felt swollen.
At least it was over. I texted Demon.
Una: Hey you there?
Una: Demon?
Demon: Sorry! At some drinks with coworkers. Watched the show as I could from my phone. You were spectacular! Ttyl.
I tossed my phone onto the rug and covered my face with my hands. I felt sweaty, and my mouth was dry. I climbed into the steaming shower and shook with sobs. Great, now I was a sad girl sobbing in a shower. What a cliché. I angrily dug the bloody tampons out from inside me and threw them into the trash can, dripping a mix of water and blood across the bathroom floor.
Wrapped in a towel, I curled into a chair by the window overlooking Downtown Las Vegas. Below, tourists carried large colored drinks and stumbled in rhinestone-studded flip-flops.
I scrolled through my phone to Bomb’s number. Ever since he had discovered my pirated porn, we had been talking more and more. I hit call. It rang once.
“Una?”
“Hey, B. How’s it going?”
“Uh, good. Hi. How are you?”
“I’m good…” The tears were starting again. “I just wanted to talk to someone. I’m bored. This hotel super sucks.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, like, Ginger told me to stay downtown because it’s better than the strip, but there isn’t even anywhere cool to walk to—just a sketchy Walgreens and a Subway.”
“Oh yeah, that sounds super lame.”
“Yeah.” I paused.
“So you mean you’re not going to cuddle her all night long?” Bomb mocked from the other end of the line.
“As if, B. Fuck Ginger, honestly. She is so fake.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She kept saying we were going to hang out
and then she just dumps me here like a piece of trash? Like, whatever, I know the relationship is just for show, but I assumed she wanted to be friends or whatever.”
“Awww,” Bomb cooed. “Who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?”
“Exactly.” I grabbed a room service menu off the table next to me and opened it. “Anyway, it’s fine. I’m going home tomorrow. Fuck her. What should I order?”
“What are your options?”
“It looks so bad.”
“Room service in Downtown Vegas? I’d be surprised if it weren’t bad.”
“Yeah…” I suddenly felt very, very tired. “Hey, B?”
“Yeah?”
“If I go lie in bed, will you talk to me while I fall asleep?”
A soft chuckle. “Of course.”
I set the menu aside, went to the bed, and curled up under the stiff white sheets, clutching my phone to my face.
“B?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think everyone liked the show?”
“Of course they did,” he reassured me in an amused, kind voice.
I stared at the awful hotel art on the wall across the room. I couldn’t figure out why I felt so horrible. Ginger hadn’t really done anything wrong, after all. Sure, she had kind of lied that we were gonna hang out more, but that was more a lie to the room than to me, and it was to be expected. I tried not to think about the rubber saddle. I eyed the bruises on my wrists. Ginger had called them pretty. Bomb was telling me something about his dog.
“B?” I cut him off, midsentence.
“Yeah?”
“Tell me a story. Like, a bedtime story.”
He paused, laughed, then obliged. “Umm…once upon a time there was a little boy. His name was…Z. And no one liked him. I mean, no one. Not even his parents or his cat or anything…”
And I let Bomb’s bizarre story lull me into a dreamless sleep.
If This Was a Movie
After the Ginger show, I started shooting back up in the ranks. I even came home to several offline tips from men who said they enjoyed meeting me. I had zero recollection of most of them during the joint show, but then again, I only had a fuzzy recollection of the night anyway. I preferred to not think about it and move on.