romance with a filthy mind

Pretty Dirty - Sneak Peek

 

Pretty Dirty

Dirty Bad Things: Book 2

Promotional Blogger Sneak Peek

Chapter 1

Gray

The computer chimes, and my dick hardens.

She’s on. Finally.

I can feel my muscles tensing, my jaw tightening as I drop the rest of my paperwork onto my kitchen counter. I cross the big loft space, the neon lights of Vegas glittering through the half-shut blinds as I move towards my desk and the large computer monitor set up there. I sit, my blood turning to fire in my veins and my cock throbbing rock hard between my thighs. I grab a remote off the desk and click it fiercely, and the blinds shut the rest of the way automatically.

I wake up my computer, the growl holding my in my throat as the screen turns on. The website’s already loaded and ready, and her camera’s already on, though it’s still of her empty bedroom. But she’ll be on soon.

Soon.

My cock aches in my pants, and I reach for my zipper before I stop suddenly and shut my eyes tight.

What in the fuck is wrong with me.

It’s not the first time I’ve asked it of myself. Hell, it’s not the tenth time I’ve asked it, or the fucking hundredth at that. And I still don’t have any answers for myself except the obvious: what’s wrong with me is her. What’s wrong with me is young, blonde, covered in the most beautiful tattoos I’ve ever seen, and about to appear on camera for me - for me, and only me. She’s about to smile that wicked smile that triggers all sorts of wrong in the right kind of ways in me. She’s about to show me every inch of her inked-up, pierced, gorgeous skin - those cute little tits with the soft pink nipples, and her tight, firm ass.

She’s going to spread her pretty little legs and show me how wet she is. She’s going to use two fingers to spread her soft pink pussy lips apart and show me how fucking tight that gorgeous little cunt is.

And she’s all mine.

My obsession. My lust.

My fucking problem.

It’s been like this for the last two weeks, and I can’t fucking stop. I’ve been ignoring friends. I’ve been ignoring work, and in my business and with the people I do business with, that can be dangerous. Fatally so.

I’m not going out. I’m thirty-two years old, single, and I’m in peak physical condition from years in the marines. I’m rich - not Buffet or Gates rich, but I’m not going to go hungry anytime soon. I live alone in two-and-a-half-thousand square feet of insanely expensive real estate, twelve stories above the Las Vegas Strip.

The point is, going out is exactly what I should be doing. I’m not conceited, but I recognize how women look at me. And going out, finding those women, and bringing them up to my condo to fuck them with a view of the Bellagio and Caesar’s Palace is what I should be doing. And yet, that hasn’t appealed to me in longer than I can remember. Instead, here I am - sitting in the dark, waiting for her to come on screen so I can tell her exactly what I want her to do.

Blonde, blue eyes, soft, delicate pale skin. Tattoos - and not just trendy shit like a feather or fucking “sisterhood” in Chinese or whatever. This girl has serious ink. And piercings. And scars. I’ve got some of those myself.

Young, dirty, sexy, and so fucking untouchable. Literally.

The perfect little bad girl.

My perfect little bad girl, all on high-def camera, and all for me.

…Something is very wrong with me.

How does a man like myself end up stroking his cock to a cam girl online? Surprisingly easily, actually. This all started two weeks ago, when my sister Callie dropped by for a visit with Jack, the ten-year-old she nannies. When I was ten, we didn’t have the damn internet or any of this shit. But ten year olds now are fucking tech wizards, apparently, because it took Jack all of three minutes while Callie and I were out on my terrace to visit about one million porn sites on my computer. The hardcore fuck-film blasting at full volume over my Bluetooth speakers put the kibosh on that shit, but not until Jack had gotten my internet history as filthy as goddamn possible.

Clean up and damage control was a bitch afterwards. I’d been signed in to my goddamn Facebook page, and Jack had decided to “like” all sorts of weird shit on his pornographic safari. Thankfully, I barely even use Facebook, so I basically have no friends on there who would’ve seen any of this. But it was still awkward to go back and delete the “Grayson Channing liked ‘big titted MILF latex gang bang’” posts on my wall. Luckily, my buddy Roman was the only one who “liked” any of it.

Asshole.

I’d cleaned the whole history and run a virus scan three times on my setup before I noticed the minimized window. I’d enlarged it, rolling my eyes at the giant pink “Heartthrob Cams” logo on the site, with some vapid, plastic looking chick bent over and spread-wide behind the lettering. Honestly, I’m not sure it was hearts they expected to be “throbbing” with the “O” in “Heartthrob” centered over her asshole.

I’d had every intention of quitting out of the window and cleaning my damn history again, when suddenly, a new stream had come up on the site, and a face filled the screen.

Her face.

And I was fuckin’ frozen.

I want to say “it was her eyes”, or “her lips drew me in”, or hell, even “those tits were fantastic and I wanted to keep looking at them”, but it wasn’t one thing. It was the whole thing. It was how fucking sexy she was, sure, but also that smug, glinting look in her eyes, like she was laughing at all the suckers paying money to watch her take her damn clothes off on the internet.  It was the real ink on her delicate skin - not some trendy little dream catcher or something she stole off Pinterest, but real, serious tattoos. There was a dark, sensual, goddamn sexy as sin edge to her, and I fucking liked it.

I liked it so much, in fact, that I never did click out of the window. I stayed, and I watched, and the more I watched, the harder my cock got, and the deeper into pure obsession I fell.

Her profile listed her name as “Alice Liddell”, and I wondered how many of the scumbags on this site understood that it was an Alice In Wonderland reference, not her real name. It said she was twenty-one, with her location as “planet earth”. I watched until my allotted free time was over. Then I grabbed my wallet, ignored the fact that I would have literally laughed out loud at losers who did this sort of thing up until that very moment, and plunked down my credit card.

Hooked.

Obsessed.

Addicted.

Heartthrob is set up so you can see the girls, but they can’t see you. They can see what you type, though. Actually, everyone can see what you type. Everyone can see every disgusting, offensive, nauseating thing that every gross, living-in-their-mom’s-basement piece of garbage on the site is typing to the girl. I was mad at first - angry that these fuck-wads who’d clearly watched entirely too much porn kept butting in. Their asinine, crude comments chimed in like little unwanted flies buzzing around my head, until my anger turned to fury.

That’s when I saw the “private show” button, and that’s when I jumped head first into my obsession.

It’d be easy to say I did it out of some sort of fucked up, misguided urge to “save” her - to protect this random, anonymous girl from the neck-bearded, mouth-breathing trolls with their constant barrage of “show ur tits”, and “u want my cock bb?”

But I’m no white knight, and my intentions weren’t to protect, or save, or rescue.

…My intentions were to possess - to wall her off from everyone else and keep her as my own. Which is exactly what I did. She’d smiled a plastic, practiced smile when she’d seen the private show request from Big_Daddy_Vegas  - the screen name jumped out at me when I glanced up and saw the “Daddy-O’s Big-Style Vegas Pizza” box on my kitchen counter. But when she saw my next request, her face had grown a little flush, and that smile had turned into a dropped jaw.

A private show on Heartthrob Cams is fifty bucks for half an hour - stackable for as long as the girl wants to keep doing a show for. At each half-hour, she can collect what you’ve pre-deposited onto the site.

…I’d put down fifty thousand dollars.

Three weeks. I’d bought three weeks, alone with her. No scummy pieces of shit cat-calling her. No one else looking at her. No other eyes watching her as she performed for me and me only.

Mine.

My pretty little bad girl.

My dirty little secret

Pretty. Dirty. And all mine.