Pretending As My Stepsister to Marry the Billionaire

BIANCA

“Sorry, I don't do sex scenes.”

I stared at the message one last time. Fifty thousand dollars. Just to let some stranger fuck me senseless. It was eough to cover tuition for the term, pay off my lingering credit card debt, and maybe even buy that new camera rig I'd been eyeing for my streams.

This was the third private request since my video last week. The one where I’d edged myself for forty minutes, whispering filthy promises I never intended to keep.

The others had been tempting too, but this one included details: “I want to bend you over your desk, pull your hair until your back arches, and fuck you raw while you beg for more.”

Attached was a dick pic. Thick, veined, already glistening at the tip.

My thumb hovered over “Accept.” Heat pooled low in my belly, insistent. I clicked “Decline” instead, slammed the laptop shut, and exhaled shakily.

I could go back to sleep in these clothes. The red lace thong and sheer bralette clung to my skin like a second layer of sin. My nipples pebbled from the cool attic air and the lingering buzz of temptation.

But Ellie had a habit of bursting in unannounced, and the last thing I needed was her spotting my “work wardrobe.”

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, sliding the straps down my shoulders. The fabric whispered over my skin, teasing my sensitive nipples as it fell away.

My breasts felt heavy, aching slightly from the earlier teasing on cam. I cupped them, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks, and a soft gasp escaped me.

My reflection stared back. Curves flushed, hips swaying instinctively like I was still performing.

I peeled the thong down next, and the damp lace stuck to my folds for a second before sliding free. The cool air kissed my slick inner thighs. God, I was already wet just from rejecting the offer.

Some of those requests replayed in my head as I stood naked: “I want to pull your hair so hard you beg me to stop.” “Spread those pretty lips and let me watch you choke on me.” “Ride my face until you squirt.”

Weird? Maybe. But my clit throbbed at the thought of being wanted that badly. Seen, used, no mask between us.

“Bianca, are you up?”

Ellie’s voice sliced through the quiet like a cold shower. My heart lurched. I dove under the covers, yanking them up to my chin just as the door creaked open.

“Bianca, I need your advice" she entered, not bothering to wait for permission.

It was her house anyway.

Here we go.

I clutched the sheet tighter, thighs pressing together to hide the persistent ache between them.

Ellie launched into the usual: Her boyfriend Max at basketball camp, radio silence on texts, then spiraling into a paranoia that led to hooking up with some bar guy last night.

Now regret, and the understandably persistent fear he’d find out.

For starters, he probably already knew. Max had eyes everywhere on campus. But he never confronted her after her “nights out.” Maybe he didn’t care.

I murmured the right comforting words, all while my body betrayed me—nipples tightening against the sheet from the friction, a fresh trickle of wetness as my mind wandered back to that thick cock pic.

When she finally left, I bolted the door and let the covers fall away.

My skin felt electric, too sensitive. I couldn’t sleep now anyway.

I grabbed my favorite dildo from under the bed. The realistic one with the slight curve and prominent veins, then lay back, knees bent, legs spread wide. The screen flickered back to life with the p**n I’d paused earlier: a rough scene where the performer pinned her down and thrusted deep while she moaned “please, be gentle” even as her hips bucked for more.

I synced my rhythm to his. The thick head parted my folds easily... I was soaked. I pushed in slowly, savoring the stretch, the way it filled me inch by inch until my palm pressed flush against my mound.

“Nggh, fuck.” A low moan slipped out.

I worked it deeper, hips rolling, free hand roaming up to pinch a nipple hard just like the message had promised. My other fingers found my clit, circling slick and fast.

On screen, he fisted her hair, yanked her head back, growled, “What was that?” right into her ear.

My spine arched as if he were speaking to me. Pleasure coiled tight in my core. I imagined the stranger from the request instead... his hands bruising my hips, cock slamming in while I begged, mask gone, face exposed, completely his.

Just as my muscles started to flutter, a notification pinged.

Another bleep. Then another.

I ignored it at first, chasing the edge. Thrusting harder, clit throbbing under my fingers.

But it bleeped again, and curiosity got the better of me.

I reached for the mouse with my free hand, still buried to the hilt.

“Request for Private DM.”

Tch. Persistent bastards.

I clicked over... then froze.

“Hi, Bianca.”

Not “baby,” not “slut,” not some generic handle.

My real name.

Heart slamming against my ribs, I stared. The next message loaded:

“Can we meet after school today?”