Sabrina Cortez is a cam whore

Sabrina Cortez is a cam whore. Meanwhile, the neon sign outside Sabrina’s apartment window flickered, casting jagged shadows across her bare shoulders. Moreover, she didn’t flinch when the knock came—three sharp raps, the sound echoing like gunshots in the cramped studio. In fact, she knew who it was. It was them—the ones who’d found her stream logs, the ones who knew her real name wasn’t “LunaLust69.”

Consequently, she opened the door without checking the peephole. Two men stood in the hallway. Notably, the taller one wore a cheap suit that strained over his bulk, his knuckles scarred and raw. On the other hand, the other was leaner, eyes darting past her into the dim room, hungry. Surprisingly, they didn’t introduce themselves. In addition, they didn’t need to.

“Invite us in, Sabrina,” the big one rumbled, a smile cracking his stubbled jaw. “Let’s discuss… discretion.”

Consequently, Sabrina stepped back, her movements fluid and practiced. Indeed, she’d rehearsed this moment in her head a hundred times since the blackmail email hit her inbox. Her secret wasn’t just the camming; rather, it was the faces she’d blurred, the names she’d whispered, the married men, the politicians, and, ultimately, the ones who’d pay anything to keep their own sins buried. Thus, she knew the stakes. Furthermore, she knew her worth.

“Drinks?” she offered, her voice steady as she glided toward the kitchenette. Meanwhile, the smaller man followed, his gaze lingering on the curve of her hip where her silk robe fell open.

“Whiskey,” the big one said, sinking onto her thrift-store couch. Consequently, it groaned under his weight. “Neat.”

She poured two fingers into a tumbler; her fingers, however, were not trembling. Not once. When she handed it to him, his calloused hand brushed hers, lingering. Therefore, she didn’t pull away.

“Your terms,” she said, turning to face them fully. Meanwhile, the robe slipped, revealing the swell of her breast. A calculated move. “What do you want to stay quiet?”

The lean one chuckled, circling her like a vulture. “Everything, sweetheart. Starting with what you’re wearing. Then, ending with… well.” His grin turned feral. “Let’s say we get creative.”

Sabrina met his eyes. No fear; instead, only a cold, glittering resolve. She’d been trading her body for survival since she was sixteen—first for rent, then for tuition, and now for silence. In this way, this was just another transaction. Another set of hands on her skin, and another price paid.

Consequently, she untied the robe. It pooled at her feet like liquid shadow.

“Then let’s not waste time,” she murmured, reaching for the smaller man’s belt. Her touch was deft, unhurried. “The sooner you’re satisfied… the sooner you leave.”

Meanwhile, the big one watched, sipping his whiskey, with eyes dark with approval. Nevertheless, Sabrina didn’t look at him. Instead, she focused on the buckle, the zipper, and the ragged breath above her. This is the cost, she thought. This is the currency.

And as the man’s hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, Sabrina Cortez smiled. Because secrets were her power. And tonight? Tonight, she held all the cards because Sabrina Cortez is a cam whore.