Zavaya
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Nov 19, 2021
Why was she here again?
It was the question that kept going through her brain as she waited for the guy she was meeting. The café was shrouded in a soft buss of people going around their own business and none paid attention to the timid redhead sitting on a bench, clearly waiting for somebody. The black hoodie mostly covered her hair and hid all the curves of her feminine body but that's how Sam liked it. She was a bit socially awkward, never had too many friends and preferred the quiet comfort of her small apartment. Which was a crappy, drafty and damp place but it was all she could afford from her translator job. She had made it her own and was happy with it.
On the side she had an internet blog, which was becoming more and more popular, which answered the question why she was here. She wanted to add some paid content but had no idea how to implement that. So she had put up a poll on the web page and most people were positive towards it and a few offered to help. One of them was the one she was going to meet today.
The blog had started out as a bit of a hobby. Just writing out her fantasies but quickly became her escape from reality. She now posted daily stuff. Snippets of fantasies, dark tales of horror and woe and lately even edited pictures of herself. Although she never specifically stated the pictures were indeed her. Sam had left that in the middle and some seemed to think it was her, others didn't.
Sam was a masochist. She loved the fantasies in which she was the damsel in distress. Except she never got rescued in her fantasy. She suffered through many things. Rapes, tortures and even executions. She wrote about them and the people following her seemed to love it. Their feedback often proving valuable in future content.
With a paid option on the blog, she felt she had to step it up too, offering people the opportunity to give her certain challenges she would perform and post the proof of it on the blog. Or request certain pictures, edited or not. She was still working things out as to what exactly she would offer but first she felt she needed a proper system that would be safe enough for people to pay with while also keeping things on the legal side of the law. Since most, if not all of her content was fantasy, almost all of the fantasies were illegal at best in the real world and she always feared that one day the authorities would shut the website. Which is why she also wanted to find a hosting provider that wouldn't be too bothered with it, or host it herself. But for this as well, she needed help. She had no idea how to do that.
Now she was meeting help. Which was fine, it meant she could take the next step for the website. What wasn't fine and what really, really made her nervous was that the help came from one of the followers. Which meant that he would have read some, if not all, of her blog posts and seen pictures. He would be the first to see that the model she had used in some of the pictures was actually her real self. Sam had admitted on the internet, whatever that was worth, that all the things she wrote had been her real fantasies. Fantasies she wouldn't share in person because of how intimate and deep and dark they were. And now she was going to meet a guy who had read and seen them and she had to ask him for help with the website.
She had no idea how that would go and every time somebody came into the café, Sam was ready to get up and run. When finally a guy fitting the description came through the door, Sam raised her hand a bit for him to see her. The timid girl in the black hoodie and torn jeans, sitting all by herself in a café that was too expensive for her. So while nobody paid attention to her, it was clear she was out of her comfort zone. Yet nobody could have known just to what extend she was out of it.
"Hello.. I'm Sam... from TGMC.com"
He would know who she was but having so little experiences in meeting people, Sam did what she felt was the right thing to do and make sure there was no doubt who she was. If there would be any in the first place.
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