Warning: This entire fic is NSFW

A solo web entrepreneur.

That's the official title on her resume. It sounds a hell of a lot better than camgirl, doesn't it?

She never thought she'd end up in this position, though to be fair, it wasn't exactly like little girls dreamed of growing up and hosting livestream videos of them doing things that most people kept behind closed doors.

Camming was always a means to an end.

She had bills to pay, no family to help her through the unpredictability of her twenties and well… Sex sells, right?

She never considered herself a looker. In secondary school, she never had anyone look at her twice. She couldn't really blame them though, not when she hid her frizzy hair and braces behind textbooks.

It was a defense mechanism. If she made herself as undesirable as possible, then she wouldn't have to deal with having her heart broken.

And now?

Well, now she didn't worry about trivial things like dating or—God forbid—love. She might have grown into her looks and had the metal removed from her smile, but those walls were still standing tall.

"Aw thank you DragonFire72." The laugh that bubbled up her throat was forced, tinny and bitter, but the viewers never knew the difference. She was good at what she did. A proclaimed 'rising star' in the cam world—like that was some sort of badge of honour instead of a sad fact. "You look pretty handsome, too. I've always had a thing for boys with red hair."

Heat straightened hair was pushed over her shoulder, exposing the sheer black bralette that left little to the imagination. It was far from comfortable; the flimsy material did absolutely little in the way of support, but she knew what they wanted, why they signed on to watch her.

She pushed her MacBook to the foot of her bed before tilting the screen back so the image could capture her whole torso as she rose up to a tall kneel. "I'm only 50 tokens shy of my first goal tonight—" Hands ran over her stomach, fingers pressing into the softness that padded her middle.

Chubby.

That's what the site plugged her under. She was a UK size 40, hardly overweight, but apparently unless she was rail thin with ribs protruding, she was deemed chubby. She was offended for half a second, but the need to demand change and rethink the way they're objectifying women by labeling them based on their weight died on her tongue when the first deposit hit her bank account.

One thousand pounds for a single show.

When this all began six months ago a thousand pounds was a lot of money, especially for just sitting on camera while talking to men topless. Camming was easy. She didn't have to bus tables, or chase snot nosed brats through the city as a nanny. She only spent two hours on a webcam and voila! Her bills were paid.

Ever practical, she gave herself a time limit.

One year.

One year of exposing herself on the internet for the pleasure of strangers and she'd be done. This was only temporary—just enough to pay her bills, and leave her with a nest egg that would help her pay down her student loan debt.

But, now that she officially hit that halfway mark, and she'd found her niche (see: nerdy brunette librarian kink), well… It was hard to imagine stopping.

Money was good—really good—and… Well, frankly the attention was nice.

Most of the time.

Her eyes flicked to the corner of her screen, watching as the viewership numbers increased. Each time the number upticked, it made her pulse race just a little faster. More viewers meant her stream was bumped higher up the landing page. And viewers? They meant more money.

Her chatbox crawled—no, sprinted along. Messages from viewers—begging her to show them her breasts, asking her to blow them a kiss, or take off her knickers—flashed between indications of receiving tips.

Tips—like this was some great service she was providing as opposed to taking off her clothes and flashing her fanny for money. The term probably helped those lonely men and women who watched her sleep better at night. They were tipping her after all, not paying for nude videos. Just tips.

That's probably why ChaturXXX developed the system they did.

People bought tokens, and tokens were how they tipped their performer.

The conversion from pound to token and token back to pound wasn't equal, not that she really expected it to be, but that fifty percent ChaturXXX skimmed off the top was pretty rough.

100 tokens cost the viewer ten pounds, but 100 tokens only put five pounds into her account, which meant each token earned was only worth five pence.

Five-fucking-pence.

She tried not to think about that terrible exchange often, especially when she knew how much people spent on this bloody site.

Forcing her smile wider, Hermione hummed as she ran her fingers over her breasts. Her thumbs swept across her taut nipples before she slowly hooked them into the top of the bralette and began to tug it down, exposing more and more of her sun kissed skin for the camera.

"I have so many fun rewards tonight! I can't wait to see what you—"

Hermione's computer dinged before she could finish presenting her breasts to her loyal viewers. Her entire screen was purple with four white, flashing words:

Solo Reward Payment Received.

"Oh fucking hell."

Her hands dropped to snatch the laptop, tugging it into her lap as she fell back on the mountain of pillows.

Solo Reward. It was a mandatory reward setting that ChaturXXX implemented two months prior. In theory, it was good. It could allow for a performer to hit their goal in a single session.

She'd set hers high—20,000 tokens—hoping no one was daft (see: desperate) enough to pay it.

She was wrong.

So very, very wrong.

Hermione chewed on her thumbnail as she waited for the session to load, the little spinning rainbow wheel of death whizzing in the center of her screen. But she didn't need the damn internet to fix itself to know precisely who was awaiting her on the other side of the screen.

It was always the same man.

Sapiophile60.

Obviously, she didn't know his real name, and there was no bloody way she was going to ask, but she'd grown so accustomed to seeing his screen name across that she'd started referring to him as 'Sape' in her own mind.

The image burst to life, and the bright white glow of the chatbox was replaced with a darkened room. Sape sat at his desk, as he always did, chin-length black hair framing his ever stoic face. Behind him, she could make out bookshelves, positively overflowing with texts, and the occasion trinket.

Today he was in a button-down, black—as always—with the top buttons open, revealing just the hint of coarse black hair that lay hidden beneath. He looked tired, exhausted from a day of doing God knows what, and while the human side of her wanted to ask if he was okay, the logical side of her knew it didn't matter.

They weren't friends and he didn't buy her time for her to get personal with him.

No.

He wanted to see her naked.

He wanted the naughty librarian Emma Lizbeth to do what she did best.

The corners of her mouth quirked up in the flash of a smile and she wiggled her fingers at him, thumb still resting against her lips. "You know Sape, we really ought to stop meeting like this."

"Nail biting is a terribly nasty habit, Ms. Lizbeth." His words were spoken like strands of silk. Smooth and low, even through the tinny speaker on her MacBook, the rumble of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. He lifted a cigarette from a small porcelain ashtray, the red embers growing bright as he took a slow, methodical drag, dark eyes already flicking across her body.

She dropped her hand, picking at her thumbnail as she fought back the urge to roll her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she mumbled her retort as she exhaled. "Oh hello pot, have you met my friend kettle?"

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Her performer's smile fell into place and she squared her shoulders and straightened her spine. Tokens. This wasn't about him, or her, nor making friends. It wasn't about anything beyond tokens. As much as she was annoyed that he cut her show short—and thus her chances as making even more money—there were far worse people that could want to monopolise her time.

Like that foot guy Luna told her about last week.

Or the man with the baby fetish Seamus mentioned.

No, Sape wasn't anywhere near that bad, but he did have one very specific request.

"The usual tonight?" Her head cocked to the side, and wisps of the pin-straight locks drifted to frame her face. He moved with such finesse, slow, deliberate moments that mesmerized her.

It was his hands, specifically his fingers.

Long and lean, his fingers looked like they belonged to a pianist. Even through the grainy computer screen, and his poor lighting, she could make out the dexterity in his long digits. Simple actions—like holding his cigarette, or picking up a glass to sip water, or even the way he'd hold his chin as he watched her perform for him—looked damn near indecent.

He hummed around his cigarette, slowly nodding his head before he withdrew his cigarette and casually ashed it. Those long fingers teased her desire, dancing along the edge of the camera, popping in and out of frame.

She swept her tongue across her lips, gathering her wits and forcing the wayward thoughts about the mystery man who'd bought her time for the past two months into the back of her mind.

Lifting her laptop, she set it on the small tray table that laid just out of frame on her bed, careful to position the MacBook so he could have the proper angle before she began to remove her bralette.

"You know, if you were interested in private shows—" She pushed the straps down her shoulders, letting the flimsy material bunch atop her breasts as she pulled her arms free before shimmying it down her middle.

She could hear his sharp intake of breath, one of the only indications he enjoyed her body—if she didn't count the thousands of tokens he'd sent to her account. And while it shouldn't make her feel anything—this was her job, after all, and he was a paying client—she couldn't contain the small swell of pride.

She'd just begun to settle back against the pillows, adjusting her spine to the softness, when he spoke, pulling her from the routine she'd found with him.

"Come close to the camera."

Brown eyes flickered up, her brow furrowed at his request. "Uh… What?" It wasn't that his request was odd, but they'd done this song and dance three times a week for nearly sixty days now and he'd never once asked to change a single detail.

"Come close to the camera." His free hand lifted from the table and he crooked one lean finger at her, thin lips curling ever so slightly in an almost predatory smirk. "I'd like you to present your breasts to me tonight before we begin."

Present… her… breasts?

Instinctively, her eyes dropped to her chest and she gulped. She wasn't uncomfortable with the thought, clearly, but there was something very intimate about his request. She always shot her videos from far away, as if the distance helped smooth out her features so her blemishes weren't so apparent on screen.

"I'm not sure how to—"

"I'll walk you through it."

Of course he would.

Her fingers flexed against the bedding, head lost in contemplation. It was stupid, to get stuck on something as trivial as moving the laptop closer. Especially since she already had his money. If she moved closer, and he could make out the softness of her middle, or the faded iridescent stretch marks that adorned her breasts, well… It didn't really matter. Did it?

Did it?

"I'm waiting…"

"Oh, right. Sorry!" She scurried up on her knees, edging closer to the MacBook before settling back on her feet when the tray table sat just in front of her thighs. Her hands fell in her lap, nervously pressing against the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs. "So… Do I just…?"

"Cup your breasts from underneath. Gently knead them." He put his cigarette in the ashtray, a slow spiral of smoke curling from the end as he steepled his fingers together just below his chin.

She did as instructed, hands lifting her breasts just slightly into the camera's viewfinder before she began to knead them.

"That's it. Now pluck your nipples. Not too hard, but just enough to—ahh… Yes, good girl."

The praise did funny things to her. She was a smart woman, and sane most of the time, but that particular phrase? Well, even though she was acting, she would never be able to stop the way it made her cheeks crimson. And the way he said it? God help her.

"Do you like giving your breasts attention? Do you enjoy having your breasts played with when you fuck?"

What a loaded question. When she fucked? She couldn't even remember the last time someone had graced her bedroom. Getting naked on a webcam and showing her body off to strangers wasn't exactly innocent, but she definitely didn't have some sort of wild sex life outside of her job.

He didn't want to hear that though.

No, they all wanted the same thing: A horny little sex kitten who begged for their attention.

"Hmmm… Yes." She arched into the camera, making sure her face wasn't in view for him to see the lie on her tongue. "I love it."

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, chewing thoughtfully on the corner, as her mind drifted to thoughts of what she did like in the bedroom. Truthfully, she didn't even know anymore. It had been ages and it wasn't like her last few experiences left her with much to work with.

Ron had been her first—kind, sweet Ron. Her childhood boyfriend was an absolute dream but horrendous in the sack. Though, she couldn't expect much when they were each other's firsts. Still, he tried and that was more than most teenagers could ask for.

Then there was Cormac. Fit, massive cock but an absolute fucking knob. He couldn't find her clit from her asshole most of the time.

Cedric, and Theo followed, in that particular order, and neither one of them left her with a memorable experience. Though, they both had managed to get her to climax, so at least that was an improvement from her previous lovers.

Still, she had yet to find someone who checked all her boxes.

Not that it really mattered now. It wasn't like she was dating anytime soon.

Most men weren't exactly keen on the idea of their girlfriends preforming sex work, and well… The money was really good.

"Undress the rest of the way."

The silken baritone pulled her back to reality and Hermione looked back at the screen. Sape had returned to smoking his cigarette, the same passive look masking his features.

Scooting back on the bed just so, Hermione shimmied out of her knickers, letting them drop off camera. They would be tomorrow's problem, for now she was working and couldn't focus on something as trivial as finding her hamper. Finally, she did what she knew he was expecting.

With her thighs spread, she let her lower half come into focus as she fell back amongst the pillows, hand slipping between her legs to gently part herself.

Sape's eyes darkened, and she watched his nostrils flare as he took a heavy drag from his nearly finished cigarette. "Such a pretty little cunt."

She fought back the urge to roll her eyes, opting to let the need for exasperation come out in the form of a forced, bashful laugh. That's what men liked, right? Coyness—or, at least, the perception of it. "Thank you."

"Are you wet?"

Of course she wasn't. But he didn't need to know that—this was all an illusion. A lie.

"Soaked."

He didn't press, which felt strange, as he usually made her show him. Tonight, it seemed, he was more eager to get to what she was beginning to suspect was his real kink. Not that he minded seeing her body, clearly, but based on his screen name, she had deduced his carnal interests were far from surface level.

"Get the book." He snuffed out his cigarette, long fingers jamming it roughly into the ashtray before he picked up a glass just off screen and took a large sip of what she assumed was water.

The first time he'd requested this, she'd thought it was odd.

He'd just paid 20,000 tokens for her time and all he wanted was this?

But now that this little game had gone on for nearly two months, she found herself almost at ease with the routine. Perhaps a tiny part of her might have even enjoyed it—though she'd never admit that.

Reaching over to her nightstand, she grabbed the well-worn book and shifted up on the bed, pressing her thighs together to rest the book against them as she bent her legs at the knee.

An old ribbon held her place, frayed at the ends, and she let the fuzzy tassels trail across her fingertips as she opened the book to their last spot. She cleared her throat in an attempt to find her voice before she began.

"Letter 125. Viscount De Valmont to Marchioness De Metreuil. At last this haughty woman is conquered, who dared think she could resist me.—She is mine—totally mine.—She has nothing left to grant since yesterday. My happiness is so great I cannot appreciate it, but am astonished at the unknown charm I feel:—Is it possible virtue can augment a woman's value even at the time of her weakness?..."

Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos would not have been her first choice—hell, it wouldn't have even been her second or third. Personally, she didn't find love in 17th century literature, but she understood it was the foundation upon which many of the great poets of that time learned.

Though, she would argue Choderlos de Laclos was far from a poet, but rather a horny old Frenchman.

Still, Sape seemed to have put great effort into selecting this particular book. He even went as far as to pay her an extra fifty pounds to get a copy despite the damn thing only costing her four pounds at her local second-hand store.

They were nearly finished with the book now, perhaps only three or so more sessions and she would find the end. She couldn't help but wonder what he'd picked next… or if there would even be a next book.

Maybe she could suggest something a little more modern—something from the 20th century at the very least.

"Well, thank you for the good time." She yanked a worn tank top over her head, tugging it into place before she began to pull up her hair in a messy bun. She wouldn't go back on camera after the session, peak hours had just passed, so there was no pretense in remaining put together.

No, now was time for sweats, a stained tank top, and that bag of Cheeto Puffs that sat half eaten on her countertop. And tea. She could really go for a cuppa Yorkshire Gold right about—

"Have you considered my offer?"

Her eyes snapped back to the MacBook, the sharp siren of an alarm bell ringing in her mind. His offer had been laid in her lap for nearly a week now. To meet in person—to spend a single night in his company for five thousand pounds.

It was tempting.

Really fucking tempting.

While she didn't need the money, it would help her pad her accounts. It wasn't like he asked her to do anything over the top, just get naked and read. How bad could it really be?

There were, however, two glaring things her mind seemed unable to move past.

One: she wasn't a prostitute. Yes, she got naked on a webcam. Yes, she worked in the sex industry, but she wasn't having sex with people.

Two: the horror stories. Countless tales of camgirls meeting up with men, seeing them in person for extra cash, and disappearing—like 'face on the side of a milk carton' kind of disappearing.

She didn't want to be another statistic.

"Ehh, yeah. About that…" Her hands shimmied the small pair of sweatshorts up her hips, eyes dropping from the screen to watch her fingers tie the string into a small bow to hold them in place. "I'm still considering it."

She heard a hum, low and slow, and she knew it wasn't exactly disapproval, but rather disappointment.

A strange ripple of nervousness shot through her and she bit her tongue, nose wrinkling as she tried to make sense of her own emotions.

She shouldn't care about his feelings. She shouldn't give two shits about what he thought, but after two months of acting as though she did, there was some sick part of her that felt connected to him.

Sape leaned back in his chair, the soft creak of the spring giving away his movement, and she looked up in time to watch him clasp his chin, index finger stroking the length of his jaw. "I'll need an answer by Thursday."

That look in his eyes, the intensity of his gaze, cut straight to her core and her stomach clenched in a foriegn need. "Okay. You'll have one soon." She didn't wait for a response. Instead, she reached out and shut the MacBook.

Her teeth worried her bottom lip as she stared at the sticker covered surface, picking at her cuticle.

She should tell him no.

She shouldn't even fucking humour the idea, but…

The more the offer played in her mind, the more she saw him on the other side of her screen, the more she wondered what would happen if she accepted.

Author's Note:

Oh hi. how's it going? yep, just me here writing another fic I shouldn't. /sigh

thanks to the Sevmione Society for making a pretty to inspire this work (also, no thanks, because my muse went wild)

in this fic Hermione is the sex trade as a camgirl, clearly. i do not want to disparage sex workers, and this fic does not intend to do this at all. please no negative comments about her chosen profession and just enjoy this MuggleAU my brain cooked up.

as always, beta love to dreamsofdramione. you can find me on facebook MsMerlin Eff

until next time. xx