Do Not Disturb
Page 59
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The visitor this morning was an aggressive type. Probably a delivery. Jamie knows his hatred of the bell. It’s been discussed, amid clouds of reefer smoke, sticking the entire box into the fireplace and lighting the shit on fire. But it has become a source of humor, a way to bring back up the ridiculousness that was Tiffany. So they had left it. And now, that decision is causing this aggressive visitor’s push of the bell to stick, starting an incessant repeat of “Jingle Bells” to blare loudly through the space. Propped up against the bed, Mike sends a curse out to whomever is listening.
One round of cheery chorus.
Two rounds.
Three.
Four.
Thirty.
Seventy-two.
He vows to stop counting at one hundred, but gets up to two hundred and thirty-nine choruses before he manages to, while in the confines of holiday hell, his right shoulder now just a roar of dull pain, fall asleep.
CHAPTER 71
I HOLD UP a pair of lace pink thongs. “These?”
Missy0002: next
I bend over my dresser, arching my back, rummaging through the layers of lingerie. I pull out a pair of black underwear, with more bows and ties than would ever reasonably fit underneath clothing. I keep my back and ass to the cam and turn slightly, dangling the panties off a finger. “How about these?” I glance at the screen.
Missy0002: yes bb. put those on slowly.
There’s an art to putting on panties in a way that is sexy and not awkward. I lie back on the bed, raise my feet in the air, and slide the black cloth slowly down the length of my legs, trying to stretch out the action as long as possible. When I get fully down, I roll onto my side, smiling into the camera and shimmy the silk over my hips, my fingers sliding over the panties and making sure that everything is in place.
We are thirty-six minutes and five panties into the chat. I have gotten little-to-no feedback from Missy, who seems content to pick out underwear, watch me put them on, and sit there silently for a few minutes as I model them. I’m bored, have been since the third pair, but at seven bucks a minute, this is easy. No anal, no ice cubes, no nipple clamps. A little boredom is fine at two in the afternoon.
The site freezes, my image halting in a facial expression that can only be described as a yawn. I wince, and lean forward, refresh the feed. My webchat window disappears and an error message displays. I frown, check another website. It’s not my Internet. Other sites load without fail. I return to my website and check a sub-URL, but everything is down. I growl, hoping that the site properly closed the cam session, charging panty boy properly before spazzing out on me. Then I stand, turn off the lights, and grab my phone. I call Mike first, leave him a message, then call the hosting server.
It takes four menus of prompts and fifteen minutes of elevator music, but I am finally connected to Nancy, a woman who sounds nothing like a Nancy, her Indian accent so strong I can barely understand her. We have ten minutes of awkward communication before I come to the questionable understanding that my payment method was declined. I argue the issue in a manner that, despite my best attempts, comes off snobby in all three of the ways I try to word it. “It’s a bank draft. There’s tons of money in that account.”
“I understand, but the payment has been declined. We cannot activate your hosting until you give us a new payment method.”
I curse under my breath and give her my debit card number, listening to her repeat the information in painstakingly poor English. “Yes,” I mutter.
There is silence for a long moment, then she announces: “Declined also.”
“I’ll call back,” I promise, hanging up the phone, urgency in my movements, and pull up my bank’s website, ready to call customer service and hop on a new ass. My anger turns to panic upon log-in, when my eyes rest on my balance and see a bright red $0.00.
Technically, if you look under that number, I have $-1,137.88. I stare at the figure, in shock, then click on “Recent Transactions.”
My eyes skip over my traditional purchases, zeroing in on the $37,219.22 withdrawal dated yesterday. An ACH wire, one that emptied out my personal checking account to the penny. I click with dead fingers, back to my accounts tab, and click and drag through menus until my money market accounts are displayed. All three accounts show a zero balance. I stop breathing for a moment, my chest seizing.
I don’t check the accounts often. I prefer to let the stacks of money pile up, unobserved, an effect that heightens the drama when I do take the time to log in. It’s probably been months since I logged in, so I don’t know the extent of what is missing. I could go through the torture of clicking on each account and calculating the sums, but it’s a waste of time. Over a million dollars is missing.
One round of cheery chorus.
Two rounds.
Three.
Four.
Thirty.
Seventy-two.
He vows to stop counting at one hundred, but gets up to two hundred and thirty-nine choruses before he manages to, while in the confines of holiday hell, his right shoulder now just a roar of dull pain, fall asleep.
CHAPTER 71
I HOLD UP a pair of lace pink thongs. “These?”
Missy0002: next
I bend over my dresser, arching my back, rummaging through the layers of lingerie. I pull out a pair of black underwear, with more bows and ties than would ever reasonably fit underneath clothing. I keep my back and ass to the cam and turn slightly, dangling the panties off a finger. “How about these?” I glance at the screen.
Missy0002: yes bb. put those on slowly.
There’s an art to putting on panties in a way that is sexy and not awkward. I lie back on the bed, raise my feet in the air, and slide the black cloth slowly down the length of my legs, trying to stretch out the action as long as possible. When I get fully down, I roll onto my side, smiling into the camera and shimmy the silk over my hips, my fingers sliding over the panties and making sure that everything is in place.
We are thirty-six minutes and five panties into the chat. I have gotten little-to-no feedback from Missy, who seems content to pick out underwear, watch me put them on, and sit there silently for a few minutes as I model them. I’m bored, have been since the third pair, but at seven bucks a minute, this is easy. No anal, no ice cubes, no nipple clamps. A little boredom is fine at two in the afternoon.
The site freezes, my image halting in a facial expression that can only be described as a yawn. I wince, and lean forward, refresh the feed. My webchat window disappears and an error message displays. I frown, check another website. It’s not my Internet. Other sites load without fail. I return to my website and check a sub-URL, but everything is down. I growl, hoping that the site properly closed the cam session, charging panty boy properly before spazzing out on me. Then I stand, turn off the lights, and grab my phone. I call Mike first, leave him a message, then call the hosting server.
It takes four menus of prompts and fifteen minutes of elevator music, but I am finally connected to Nancy, a woman who sounds nothing like a Nancy, her Indian accent so strong I can barely understand her. We have ten minutes of awkward communication before I come to the questionable understanding that my payment method was declined. I argue the issue in a manner that, despite my best attempts, comes off snobby in all three of the ways I try to word it. “It’s a bank draft. There’s tons of money in that account.”
“I understand, but the payment has been declined. We cannot activate your hosting until you give us a new payment method.”
I curse under my breath and give her my debit card number, listening to her repeat the information in painstakingly poor English. “Yes,” I mutter.
There is silence for a long moment, then she announces: “Declined also.”
“I’ll call back,” I promise, hanging up the phone, urgency in my movements, and pull up my bank’s website, ready to call customer service and hop on a new ass. My anger turns to panic upon log-in, when my eyes rest on my balance and see a bright red $0.00.
Technically, if you look under that number, I have $-1,137.88. I stare at the figure, in shock, then click on “Recent Transactions.”
My eyes skip over my traditional purchases, zeroing in on the $37,219.22 withdrawal dated yesterday. An ACH wire, one that emptied out my personal checking account to the penny. I click with dead fingers, back to my accounts tab, and click and drag through menus until my money market accounts are displayed. All three accounts show a zero balance. I stop breathing for a moment, my chest seizing.
I don’t check the accounts often. I prefer to let the stacks of money pile up, unobserved, an effect that heightens the drama when I do take the time to log in. It’s probably been months since I logged in, so I don’t know the extent of what is missing. I could go through the torture of clicking on each account and calculating the sums, but it’s a waste of time. Over a million dollars is missing.
