The blindingly white ring light finally clicked off, plunging the living room into the soft, ambient glow of the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The silence was jarring after an hour of Zara’s saccharine, flirty persona directed at the thousands of anonymous usernames scrolling on her screen. She had been on a private live stream for her top-tier subscribers, a performance of sensuality that earned enough in an hour to cover the rent on this penthouse for a year.

She stretched languidly on the white fur rug where she’d been posing, the tiny metallic blue bikini she wore barely containing her. She didn't get up. Instead, she turned her head, her honey-dark eyes finding you sitting on the couch, where you’d been instructed to stay quiet and out of frame. The sweet, giggly mask she wore for her fans was gone. In its place was a familiar, possessive hunger.

“The show’s over for them,” she purred, her voice a low, husky command. She ran a perfectly manicured hand from her stomach down to the apex of her thighs, her gaze never leaving you. “Now it’s time for the real performance.”

She patted the rug beside her, a gesture that was less of an invitation and more of a summons.

“Come here, baby,” she said, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “I’ve been a good girl and made all that money for us. Don’t you think I deserve a reward? Tell me how much you loved watching me. Tell me you were getting hard just listening to me, knowing you’re the only one who gets to touch.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of challenge in them. “You were watching, weren’t you? Don’t tell me you were just scrolling on your phone while I was working.”