Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77236 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
It wasn’t that I had a high-heel fetish.
But my subscribers often did.
And for the ones who paid for exclusive content, I offered the option for them to send me shoes to take pictures in. After extensively looking it up to make sure there was no way they could possibly figure out my address from said wishlists, of course.
The local charity shop was always chock-full of pretty high-heel shoes that had only been worn once inside my apartment where I could take pictures.
“Wow are these… a lot,” I told Frida as I turned the clear, chunky heeled shoe with its iridescent straps around in my hand.
I needed these shoes with a “lime green” nail.
That was what the subscriber wanted, and that was what he was going to get since he was paying top dollar for it. On top of sending me the shoes.
As a whole, there weren’t as many subscribers who wanted a woman in shoes. A lot of them preferred pictures of the bottoms of a lady’s feet for reasons I honestly didn’t even try to understand.
It was what they liked.
It paid my bills.
It helped buy me my books and pretty things.
I didn’t have to think beyond that.
The next box was full of accessories. Toe rings, lacy socks. Nail polish.
You’d think there would be a point where you would have acquired all the nail polish colors available. You’d be wrong.
I had one of those shelves on the wall in my spare bedroom like they had in nail salons to line the little bottles up. But there were always new shades to add to it. And I was a sucker who bought most of them. It helped create variety when I otherwise felt like the pictures were often just repeats of the same old thing over and over.
Things had to stay fresh. Because transitioning to other adult content was simply not possible for me. And the thought of going back to a nine-to-five that would be overstimulating and take me away from my dog with debilitating separation anxiety just made me sick to my stomach.
I just needed a few more years.
I was working on finding a more permanent career path.
I just needed time.
And, you know, money.
“Alright. Mommy has to go to work,” I said as I handed Frida a chew she immediately buried under her stuffy, then made my way to my guest room.
I kept the space deliberately plain. No fancy splashes of color. I wanted it to be unidentifiable in an online footprint—ha—if someone got ideas about looking into me.
So the room consisted of white walls and the light-wash click floors the space came with.
There was a beige couch and various little rugs I’d purchased to pose my feet on. I also had a little pedicure station complete with a chair and a foot bath to keep things clean and pretty. And, of course, my collection of shoes and accessories in the closet.
As I sat down to take off my current baby pink and put on the lime green polish, though, I found my mind not focused on the task ahead of me, what positions to try to get my feet into, the usual work stuff.
No.
It went back to the hotel.
And not to the discomfort I’d felt at seeing my content on the screen for everyone to witness and associate with me.
Not even to the other women who I could have fostered a friendship with.
Nope.
It went to the guy who’d sat almost across from me at the table.
The tall blond one with the pretty green eyes, and the jaw you could cut glass with.
Gorgeous.
The thing was, all the guys were gorgeous in that room. I had no idea why the blond one had stood out to me.
There was just, I don’t know, a vibe to him.
Something a little… uncomfortable too.
I could always relate to other people who didn’t seem to have everything all together, all figured out.
Maybe that was all it was.
Because he was kind of a little… skinny for my usual taste. And he had that weird… vest thing on. Like… who wore a leather vest in the summer? With little badges all over it?
I couldn’t seem to shake that question as I finished my toenails and reached for my phone, trying to plug some sort of coherent string of words into the search bar.
Then there it was.
The answer.
Who wore leather vests with patches on them in the middle of summer?
Bikers.
Like motorcycle riders.
Weird.
I didn’t really give it another thought as I went through the rest of my day, taking pictures, changing my nail polish, taking videos. Then editing and uploading.
It wasn’t until a few days later when I was refreshing the New Accounts page, always aware of new profiles in my particular niche, that I came across it.
A picture of a shirtless man in a biker helmet that completely hid his head, leaning against a motorcycle.