Wanderlust
Part 7 & Final | The Feed
Ty @ Wanderlust, Inc.
Lightning flashed, and I cranked on the wheel, jerking the van to the left. I heard a scream and clatter behind me, and then a stream of cursing, and I almost laughed. Not because Cassie was spewing out f-bombs like the sky was pissing buckets. Not because of the screams of the kids. But because we’d just missed a fucking crater in the path ahead, and I was almost ready to scream myself. I took a beat, my head on the wheel, and listened to the wipers whip-whop-whip across the windshield. Then, I pulled in a deep, wet breath and put the van back in gear just as a set of headlights flashed across my window.
They were close. So close. And that meant…
A snap. A ping. The driver’s side mirror shattered into a million pieces, and I let out a little pee, gunned the engine, and snapped the wheel back to the right.
Too close. Too close. And everything else too far away…
How long was this fucking path? How far to a road? A real road, not this…this shit! How far to a town? To Chiang Mai? How close were we to where we’d gone earlier in the day for the shots near Doi Luang? Nothing looked familiar,and it wasn’t like I could see anything anyway -- pitch black, rain painting the windows, headlights dancing through outstretched branches.
It had taken more than an hour in the jeep to get to the right location for our shoot, and then we’d raced away from the murder scene without even thinking about where we were going — somewhere off the main road to that little abandoned hut, where safety seemed plausible. That hut I could have found again in the daylight the next day. But that factory or warehouse, or wherever it was we’d been in the cage, seen those kids and all those drugs? Where the hell was that? And why hadn’t I found a road yet?
A real road. Not this shit. I gritted my teeth, holding back my own stream of curses, and tried to see the way forward with my foot heavy on the gas.
Driving down this path, branches slapping the sides of the van, it was like time was standing still. The turns and dips kept the headlights bouncing, the lightning like a strobe as the sky cracked open every few moments, the wipers keeping time with my heartbeat. Was this real? I wondered as I drove on. Maybe it was just a bad dream, another night with some curry that didn’t sit right with me, and some dreams that would have me sitting up in bed, covered in sweat.
But it wasn’t a dream. It was a living, breathing nightmare, and Cassie was back there in the back of the van half shouting, half laughing, her phone out, her voice rising above the pounding of the storm. Was she streaming this? I didn’t dare look back. Couldn’t. My eyes were on the road, fingers glued to the wheel, my chest pounding like I’d swallowed the thunder.
This was real, I told myself, and I was going to drive us the fuck out of here.
Cassie @ Wanderlust, Inc.
And held on to whatever I could grab, my phone up and streaming, my voice hoarse from screaming. At the world. The guys behind us. The rain, the storm, the lightning. The whole van lurched, and I smashed against boxes stacked high, sending a few tumbling into the night. But I kept going, throwing every four-letter word I’d ever heard in six languages out into the night like missiles.
What was I supposed to say? I didn’t know. But I knew some 2.3 million followers wanted to hear it, and when I glanced down at my screen, usernames started popping up and emojis started raining down.
🌴JetsetJessie: omg is this real?? 👀
Nomad.Nate: wtf cassie where ARE you??
wanderlost_xoxo: is this like…content?? orrr 🫠
4EverBeachBum: nahhh they scripted this. gotta be fake.
spicycoconut69: bro there’s GUNSHOTS holy shit 😳😳😳
📸LensLoverLou: lol nah look at the camera angles, this is real af
skyhigh_sophie: cassie ur nose is bleeding 😭 are you okay??
altctrltraveler: this is giving adventure porn vibes
crypto_king_420: bet this is an ARG, streamers will do anything for clout 🙄
bkkNightOwl: I hear thunder?? this monsoon season??
@thirst_trap_tim: ngl cassie still looks 🔥🔥🔥 even like this
runawaysoul_journal: not cool. there are kids in cages?? wtf is happening??
pixelpirate_91: SOMEBODY CALL THE COPS 🚨🚨🚨
😈hotdropper77: HAHA this is the wildest onlyfans preview ever
nomnomadventures: cassie please say SOMETHING we can’t tell if ur okay 😩
junglejuice_jay: did that dude just SHOOT???!!
ghostview_bot002: ⚠️ LIVE FEED FLAGGED FOR VIOLENCE ⚠️
“Listen up, Wanderers! We’re streaming live from Thailand in a van we stole from some kidnappers! And those motherfuckers are chasing us! Ty is driving like a fucking hero in this monsoon,” I screamed, standing up and flipping the camera to show the scene out of the back of the van. Gunshots cut through the air as I reared my foot back and kicked, sending another stack of boxes careening into the rain-soaked road. The car spun left, avoiding the cargo, its headlights whipping into the jungle while the second set, the truck, came on steady. “And we’re not going back!”
“Ten million views, motherfuckers!” I screamed into the camera as another shot cracked in the night, sparks off the bumper. “You’re watching this live — LIVE FROM THAILAND — in a van full of drugs!”
I shoved another crate out the back, catching myself before I tumbled out after it, and watched it flip and explode against the front bumper of the little car, bundles of whatever poison they had packaged and had ready to move flying into the air. The car careened right, spun, a piece of wood from the crate driving right through the windshield like a missile, and it skidded to a halt. “One down!” I cheered, eyes flashing at the screen, “and a thousand watching. Are you watching? Check in!”
The sky flashed, thunder rolled across the night and the emojis fell fat like monsoon rain.
Boxes tumbled, breadcrumbs of chaos in our wake. Big paper boxes full of heroin or opium or whatever. Another crate. A third. I screamed into the phone every time I reared back and launched another bomb through the open doors. I could feel Ty’s terror vibrating through the wheel, through the van, through me — my own terror? I couldn’t tell what it was. I launched more than boxes — years of pent-up curse words, an ongoing rambling podcast of hysterical laughing and screaming. I was done being scared. Done. But I didn’t know what this was, and it didn’t matter.
I didn’t fucking care. My fans were dropping comments and emojis like fireworks. And if they wanted a show, they were gonna get the best fucking one of their lives.
“Fuck you,” I screamed, my voice cracking, as the truck slammed to a stop, its left bumper buried in a rut.
Ty @ Wanderlust, Inc.
Later — days, hours, seconds, I couldn’t say — all I could remember were fragments from that night — I stroked Cassie’s hand while she slept, memories flooding in all at once, like pieces of a puzzle I couldn’t make fit.
The way she cheered when that big truck shuddered to a stop. The smooth feel of the asphalt when we finally hit pavement. The moment the rain stopped hammering. The red and blue flashing lights cresting the highway like salvation. Cassie’s screams of joy when she threw herself into the passenger’s seat. The sirens chasing in around us as I leaned on the brakes.
The van sliding to a halt, the cages thrown open, kids with wide eyes and trembling hands stumbling into the arms of strangers in uniforms. Hurried voices in Thai. Fingers pointed. Smiles on grubby little faces. And then, two police jeeps rushing off into the night the way we’d come.
Cassie’s voice cracked as she argued with a medic, insisting she was fine, that I was fine, that we had to keep streaming. Her sobs in my ear when I finally got her to shut down the stream and give me the phone. The soft weight of her head against my shoulder when it was all over, when we were back at the hotel, silent, bruised, bandaged. When she curled into me and slept like she hadn’t in months.
It all seemed like a dream. Like a bad trip we’d been on after a long night of ganja and curry on the balcony at the Amanor in Chaing Mai.
We’d checked out the next morning, leaving luxury behind, and found a little house to rent near the old city. Cassie spent the day curled up in a chair, her eyes black and blue, her nose set and healing, while I went through our accounts at the little desk and said goodbye to sponsor after sponsor. Wanderlust, Inc., was done.
I spent the night with my arms wrapped around her, my tongue relearning every curve, my lips worshipping every bruise, every cut, every ache, until the memories melted away.
I teased her nipples into diamonds, rolled them between my fingers, feeling her squirm underneath me. A moan as my mouth worked lower, finding her open and ready. Then gently at first, afraid to hurt her after what had happened, I pushed inside. She clutched at me, nails digging in as she pulled me deeper, and then a deep, shuddering moan from her lips as I rocked my hips. Slow, easy, loving and tender, and then the filth dripping from her lips driving me on, until I was fucking her like these were our last moments on Earth.
Like I used to fuck her. Like we used to fuck — rabid, hearts racing, drenched in sweat. Like she was mine, and I was hers, and there was no one else in the world who could touch me like she could.
Because there wasn’t, and I was never going to forget that again.
Cassie @ Wanderlust, Inc.
Now. Months later. My thighs squeezing tighter around him as I sink down slow, savoring the way he fills me. I ride him steady, deliberate, every roll of my hips meant for him and for the camera both. The light is softer here, not the sterile sun of the tropics, not the flicker of monitors in some hellhole compound. Snow falls outside the window. Candlelight flickers on the side table. Ty’s eyes look up at me while the eyes of thousands look down.
The little red dot on our own private stream blinks in the corner. Wanderlust, Inc. is back.
Instagram won’t touch us anymore. Too raw, too real, too much of everything. Sponsors fled, and Ty rejected the rest. So we built our own platform. Ten million followers now, every one of them here for us—our scars, our sweat, our erotic adventures.
Months have passed, but some nights I still hear the rain on corrugated metal and the stutter of old televisions. I still see the kids’ hands around the cage bars and the way the highway opened like a miracle just when we needed it. The stream did more than drag us into the light — it dragged everything into the light. That warehouse didn’t stay a secret. People who might have looked away didn’t. People who couldn’t help alone, did together.
After, there were statements and calls and a dozen rooms with a dozen officials asking the same questions five different ways. There were headlines that loved us and headlines that hated us and a few that tried to do both. There are still nights I wake up shaking, but my Ty is there to lull me back to sleep with his touch, his lips, his cock.
Instagram shut the door. Fine. Paradise isn’t always Instagram-ready. Sometimes it’s just the hand of the one you love tucked into yours. Wanderlust isn’t a grid of images and videos anymore — it’s a story. It’s an adventure. It’s a life. We lost 2.3 million people that night in the back of the van, but we found ten million people on our new path, and not for smoothie bowls and click-through ads. They show up for the same reason we keep pressing record: to remember that life is feral and tender at the same time, that a kiss can be both a refuge and a dare, that love is a verb you don’t need a feed for.
We learned how to keep the camera honest, and that honesty isn’t for sale. The money rolls in, and we give it all away.
Ty looks up at me like he did before any of this — before drones and deals and the thousand small lies that make a perfect square. He looks at me like I’m not a product but a person, and I remember the waterfall, the shack, the cage, the wrench, the door, the van, the two small faces in the dark while the road unspooled and the world tuned in.
Some nights it’s haunted crying over memories of gaunt faces seeking a bag of rice. Some mornings it’s coffee on a balcony with laundry flapping overhead and a street vendor laughing because my accent will never get that word right. We travel. We help. We sweat. We fuck. And we stream it all, raw and real.
I glance at the little red dot, then back down at him. “You wanted paradise,” I say quietly, the smile starting in my eyes before it reaches my mouth. He fingers roll my nipples, and I’m so close, the warmth spreading up from my core.
He answers without words, pushes deeper until I moan. The candle sputters. The light drops and we know our viewers can barely see us now. But we don’t care. Because good lighting is for brochures and we don’t do brochures anymore.
This is Wanderlust, Inc. — two people who ran out of poses and decided they loved each other more than likes. The red dot blinks. I kiss him once more—slow, certain—and whisper to the lens and the world behind it just before I end the stream. Just before I cum.
“Stay with us. It gets real from here.”
Author’s Notes: And that’s the end! I hope you liked it.
I can almost smell a sequel, but I have so many other stories to write, and while I already have some ideas for more Ty & Cassie, I’ll have to put this one on the back burner for a bit.
But did you like it? What was your favorite part? What about the story did you like the most? I definitely would like to know — it helps me understand what my readers like. So, don’t be shy with your comments, and please do share if you like this one. I’ve dropped the link to the very first story below.
This was excellent and beautifully written. I think they dealt with their situation a lot better than I imagine most influencers would!