CHAPTER SIX: OnlyFans Blackmail

The house is finally, perfectly silent. Mom and Jonah’s SUV disappeared down the street twenty minutes ago, taillights swallowed by the dark. Anniversary weekend. Two whole nights of freedom. I knew exactly what I was going to use it for.

I don’t knock.

Tyler’s door swings open, and the blue-white glow of his monitor hits me like a spotlight. He’s slouched deep in his gaming chair, grey sweatpants shoved down to mid-thigh, fist wrapped tight around his cock, slow, lazy strokes that stop the second he sees me.

On his screen: me. On all fours, back arched, a rose-gold plug glinting between my cheeks while I fuck myself with a glass dildo and moan like I know he’s watching.

The sound is still leaking from his speakers, my own voice, breathy and broken: “Come for me, baby…”

His laptop slams shut so hard the desk shakes.

“Scarlett—what the fuck?” His voice cracks, a mix of panic and fury as he yanks his sweatpants up, fumbling to cover himself. His face is flushed, eyes darting anywhere but at me.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch just a little too long. “Don’t stop on my account, Ty. Looked like you were enjoying the show.”

He stands up abruptly, chair scraping back, towering over me now but still looking like a cornered animal. “Get out. Now.”

I hold up his iPad like evidence in court. The screen is damning: my OnlyFans dashboard. Username: TylerIsUrGod99. Total spent: $847.32. Every single pay-per-view purchased. Every tip. Every comment.

“Not until we talk about this,” I say, scrolling slow, theatrical, and reading one out loud in my sweetest voice. “‘Wish you’d let your stepbrother wreck that pretty little throat until you cry.’ That was you, Tyler. Two nights ago. Fifty-dollar tip.”

His ears go scarlet. He lunges for the iPad, but I twist away, holding it out of reach. “Give that back, Scarlett. You have no right—”

“No right?” I laugh, sharp and low. “You’ve been jerking off to me for months. Paying for it. Commenting like some creepy fanboy. But Mom and Jonah have no idea their dear son wants to fuck his dear sister, do they?”

He freezes, breath coming in harsh bursts. His cock, still half-hard under those sweatpants, tents the fabric obscenely. “It’s not like that. I... I didn’t mean... Fuck, Scarlett, please. Delete it. Whatever you screenshotted, just delete it.”

I shut the door behind me, click the lock. The sound echoes like a gavel. “Oh, we’re way past deleting. You’ve been begging for this in your comments. ‘Stepsis needs to get railed by her big bro.’ ‘Make a vid where he catches you and punishes that ass.’ Sound familiar?”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a tight circle in the small room. “That was just... fantasy shit. Anonymous. I didn’t think you’d ever see it.”

“But I did,” I say, stepping closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “And now I know everything. How you tip extra when I use the plug. How you comment about wanting to ‘fill me up’ right after I post a creampie sim. You’re obsessed, Tyler. Admit it.”

He stops pacing, backs up against the desk, gripping the edge. His knuckles go white. “Fine. Yeah, I’m obsessed. Happy? You’re fucking everywhere in my head. But this? Barging in here? That’s messed up.”

“Messed up?” I echo, tilting my head. “You’ve spent almost a grand on me. Watched me come a hundred times. And now you’re acting like the victim?”

His eyes flick down to my silk sleep shirt, the way it clings just a little too much, then back up. “What do you want, Scarlett? Money? I’ll pay you back. Just... don’t tell anyone.”

I set the iPad down on his desk, screen still glowing with his shame. “Money’s not enough. Here’s the new plan. You’re going to give my thirty-five hundred subscribers exactly what they’ve been begging for. Live. One hour. Face out of frame if you’re shy. After that, we’re even. I delete the screenshots. You never speak of this again.”

His jaw works soundlessly for a moment, then: “That’s blackmail.”

“That’s symmetry,” I counter, pulling my phone from my pocket and propping it on his desk, angled perfectly toward the bed. “You’ve been getting off to the idea. Time to make it real.”

He shakes his head, but his gaze lingers on the phone, on me. “I can’t. We can’t. What if someone recognizes us? What if—”

“No one will,” I cut in, fingers hovering over the Go Live button. “Keep your face out. And think about it, thousands watching. Tipping. Begging for more. Doesn’t that turn you on just a little?”

He swallows hard, and I see it, the flicker in his eyes, the way his sweatpants twitch. “Scarlett... this is insane. We’re family.”

“Steps,” I correct, voice soft, deadly. “And you stopped thinking of me that way a long time ago.”

The room feels smaller, the air thicker. He’s not moving away. Not yelling for me to stop. Just staring, chest rising and falling.

“Last chance to back out,” I murmur, thumb pressing down. The red record light blinks on.

View count explodes: 800… 1,900… 3,400 in under thirty seconds.

I unbutton my silk sleep shirt one slow button at a time, letting the fabric part like curtains. Black lace bra underneath, sheer enough that my nipples are dark, obvious shadows.

The shirt slides off my shoulders and pools on the floor.

Tyler’s cock jerks hard against his sweatpants, a dark spot blooming at the tip.

“Still pretending you’re going to say no?” I whisper, stepping between his spread thighs, close enough that the heat rolling off him licks my bare skin. Close enough that I smell clean sweat, cedar body wash, and the sharp, metallic scent of pure desperation.

His hands clench the desk behind him, but he doesn’t push me away. “Scarlett... we shouldn’t...”

“But you want to,” I say, voice like silk. “Say it.”

He groans, low and conflicted. “Fuck. Yes. I want to.”

I straddle him slow, knees sinking into the gaming chair on either side of his hips. The second my weight settles, his hands snap to my waist like they’ve been starving for months. Fingers dig in hard enough to bruise tomorrow.

I roll my hips once, just once, dragging the soaked lace of my thong over the hard ridge in his sweatpants.

He bucks involuntarily, a wrecked sound escaping. “God, Scarlett—”

“Feel that?” I breathe against his mouth. “That’s what eight hundred and forty-seven dollars bought you.”

His eyes are black now, pupils blown wide. Restraint crumbling.

I reach between us, tug his sweatpants down just enough to free him. His cock springs out, flushed angry red, the head slick and shining, a fresh bead of precum trembling at the slit.

I wrap my fingers around his shaft, hot and throbbing, and give one slow stroke from root to tip, thumb swirling over the head, spreading that bead in filthy circles.

His head falls back against the chair, throat working, a guttural sound ripping out of him. “Scarlett, fuck—”

“Shh. Don't cum yet,” I lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Four thousand people are about to watch me ruin you. Better not disappoint them.”

I reach behind my back, unhook my bra, let it fall.

The second my nipples hit the air, his restraint snaps.

He surges forward, mouth latching onto one stiff peak, sucking hard, tongue flicking, teeth scraping just enough to make me gasp into his hair. I thread my fingers through the strands and pull him closer, arching into the wet heat while I grind down on his bare cock, soaking us both.

He switches breasts, leaving the first shining with spit, and the coil low in my belly tightens viciously.

I stand just long enough to shove my thong down my legs. He watches every second, chest heaving, cock jutting up against his stomach, flushed dark and angry.

I straddle him again, this time skin to skin.

The first slide of his bare cock through my folds makes us both groan. He’s scalding, the head nudging my clit on every slow roll of my hips.

I reach between us, line him up, and sink down, inch by thick inch, slow enough that I feel every throb, every ridge, every pulse as he stretches me open.

When he bottoms out, I stay there, clenching deliberately, letting him feel how wet I am, how tight I can grip him.

His head falls back again, a guttural “fuck” ripping from his throat.

I start to move, slow, filthy circles at first, grinding my clit against his pelvis, then lifting up until only the head is inside before dropping back down hard.

Each time I take him to the root, his hands tighten on my hips, guiding me faster, harder, until the chair is creaking beneath us and sweat beads between my breasts.

I lean forward, lips brushing the phone mic. “Tell them how it feels, Tyler.”

He opens his eyes, dark, dazed and looks straight into the lens.

“Like heaven,” he rasps. “Like the best fucking thing I’ve ever felt in my life.”

The tip jar explodes: $500, $800, $1,200 in seconds.

This dirty boy would be the reason I get my first mansion.