Читать книгу Uncover Me - AM Hartnett - Страница 5

I’ll have to rein it in before I get caught stripping and rubbing out at work, she thought as she headed home for the day.

The very thought of stopping bothered her. She liked the way she felt when she took her pictures. She liked the person she was in the pictures.

She had been nineteen when she’d first shared a grainy picture taken with an external webcam. She’d taken shots for boyfriends, and in her last relationship she had let Frank film her as she went down on him.

This was different. Taking them, sharing them was as exciting as foreplay. How could she get so turned on by the thought of someone out there, perhaps in some faraway country, getting off as he scrolled through a series of pictures of her stroking her wet pussy? How was it possible that posing alone in her living room, sunk into a chair with one leg slung over the arm and a camera between her thighs, made her so horny?

It had started when she stumbled across a blog linked by one of her favourite erotic writers. From there, she found blogs of women just like her, regular women and couples, who just liked sharing. She had been inspired by others who did it not for money but for the thrill of it.

The married couple who kept a sex diary of their swapping lifestyle, or the bisexual student who was cataloguing his post-small-town sexual experiences one Polaroid-style snapshot at a time. So many videos, photos and stories from ordinary people like her who were just eager to show off.

And so she’d started her blog, which she simply titled Dirty Pictures. She created a persona, Maggie, who liked to dress up in the most sinful lingerie and play with a collection of toys, who liked to show off for a faceless and adoring audience.

Dirty Pictures was her thrill, her compulsion, and it was becoming her addiction.

One that was starting to get out of hand, if having to break and enter that day was any indication. The urge was always with her, and it was getting worse. How does one quit exhibitionism?

The possibility of having to do so rankled with her as she approached the intersection where she had taken her pictures that morning. She wasn’t addicted. She just liked the novelty of her pictures. One day the novelty would wear off, and that would be the end of it.

This new obsession had everything to do with Frank and the shitty card he’d dealt her. She needed the pictures now. She needed the pictures to feel, to stamp out the embers of anger and betrayal that still rekindled themselves far too frequently.

As much as she wanted to retreat to the sanctuary of her apartment, she had run out of tea. Tea was her last excuse. As long as she had tea, she could put off going to the grocery store and just pick up her lunch at one of the dozens of shops that surrounded her workplace. She could pop down to the pizza shop at the end of her road, or head in the opposite direction for fish and chips to go, from the pub around the corner, but she would not do without her tea.

She pulled into the grocery store and, before getting out of the car, slipped her hand into her purse to touch her phone, then yanked it away.

I don’t have to look, she thought. Not yet. Not until I get home. There’ll be time enough for that after the dishes are clean.

And so she went shopping, gritting her teeth as she ‘excuse me’d and ‘sorry’d her way from aisle to aisle. By the time she’d amassed a cart full of goods to get her through another week, she was seething. She hated being in large crowds of people, or even small crowds. She’d made it less than an hour and was standing in the checkout line when she caved, reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.

It was a mistake to even look, but she just couldn’t help herself.

One hundred and eleven messages.

She smiled and opened the app.

‘I’ll bet it doesn’t take much to make you wet, Maggie.’

She peeked over her shoulder at the older man standing behind her with a scowl. He probably didn’t even own a computer and got his rocks off with the same VHS he’d had since the 80s, playing it in the same worn-out machine.

She scrolled down.

‘At work, rubbing myself under my desk. Can’t stop thinking about you touching yourself through your panties.’

Her finger quickly swiped through the messages, catching the ones from her favourite readers – though some professed as much, she still couldn’t bring herself to think of them as fans:

‘Gorgeous, but need more of that clear dildo opening you up to get me hard.’ This from a man in Ireland.

And from a bisexual tattoo artist in Oregon, ‘Would love to bury my face between your thighs.’

And from the couple who kept their own record of their swinging lifestyle, ‘Love it when you wear garters.’

The usual suspects, and a few newcomers, some of whom didn’t even read English and responded in what she guessed was Swedish.

She kept scrolling, contemplating her Sunday performance, when, in the midst of the adoration, a startling phrase caught her eye.

‘Keyes Tower?’

Her blood ran cold as she read on.

‘Can’t believe it. So close. PMed you. Please message me back.’

Keyes Tower.

Her office building.

Someone had recognised it.

Finger shaking, Carrie deleted the comment and dropped her phone back in her purse.

The next few minutes stretched on. She leaned on her cart feeling frozen.

Someone, some stranger, knew where to find her.

* * *

As soon as she threw open her front door she dropped her bags and headed straight for the computer. The damn machine seemed to take for ever to boot up. She clicked the shortcut for her blog and enlarged the last photo she had taken that afternoon.

She had been so eager to take her pictures that she didn’t think about the view from the window. And there it was, behind the lewd woman in the pictures. It was barely noticeable in the corner, but unmistakable to anyone who worked or played downtown: the domed clock tower that squatted in the centre of the city. Behind it, the signal masts from the fortress in the background.

As careful as she had been to turn off geotagging, as careful as she had been to show as little of her apartment as possible, she had given herself away with a single landmark.

Carrie rested her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her hands.

Could it really have been so thrilling just hours ago when she took that picture? Could she really have been flooded with glee over being adored as she stood in the grocery lineup? And now she felt sick.

Since starting her blog, since becoming Maggie, Carrie had been careful to keep the persona separate from her true self. It was why she never showed her face. She wanted the adoration. She wanted the fantasy. She wanted to keep her obsession behind drawn curtains and locked doors.

Someone knew where to find her.

She sat back in her chair and placed her hand over the mouse. Click here, click there, and she reached her account page.

The arrow hovered over the delete button.

Stupid.

She could hear herself talking to Frank that night he had pulled out his camera. ‘No, I’m serious. Once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. Would you want the whole world seeing you sucking a dick?’ It had become a joke at the time, and in the end she’d agreed to let him take the video, but whenever she thought of it she wondered if he had deleted it when they’d called it quits, or if it was still on the memory card. Or maybe he had uploaded it. If his attempts at sexting after the break-up had been any indication, he probably still had it tucked away somewhere on his hard drive. When they had been together she had trusted he wouldn’t, but now, well, since she didn’t know Frank as well as she thought …

This picture, the one that told the world exactly where she had been when she took the picture, was out there. Even if she took it down, even if she deleted her account, it was out there, and whoever had contacted her would still know she had taken that picture in Keyes Tower.

She went to her private messages, scrolled through the junk she usually ignored and found the message with the header ‘Keyes Bldg’.

Carrie opened the message but didn’t read it, not at first. She needed a minute to brace herself for whatever the message contained, and so she dragged her groceries into the kitchen. She went to the bedroom and changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She poured herself a glass of wine, gulped down half right there at the counter, and returned to the living room and to the message.

‘First of all, don’t freak out. I’m not some creepy pervert trying to stalk you, it read. I work in an office about two blocks from where the picture was taken and recognised the view. I’ve been reading your blog for about two months now and wondering who in the hell you were. I’d love to find out in person. It’s not every day I get a chance to meet my fantasy woman. Below is a little something for you to put us both on the same level. Message me – B.’

Her heart in her throat, she clicked the link.

A video came up, frozen for a moment before starting, and then Carrie was looking at a man’s torso. He was well built, lean and muscled, with a tattoo on his shoulder – she couldn’t make out what it was. The screen wobbled, and the next thing she saw was a tanned woman with large breasts. She was on her back, thighs parted to show off a plump mound with a landing strip leading up from dark pussy lips. The camera panned lower, and the man’s cock came into view.

The woman cooed as he worked the tip in. The camera went in and out of focus as he began to fuck her, his cock wetter with each withdrawal. His pace picking up quickly as breathy sounds came across metallic through Carrie’s shitty computer speakers. He pumped hard and deep. The woman’s moans escalated as he reached down to finger her clit.

The video lasted just under five minutes, culminating with the mouth of the woman’s sex throbbing around his dick. He didn’t come. Instead, the camera panned back and displayed his hard erection hovering over the woman’s flushed pussy.

Carrie closed the video and sat unmoving. She was as wet as the woman in the video had been. The heat between her legs was unbearably hot. As always, with the first hint of her arousal she had the compulsion to reach for the camera and perform, but this time she repressed the urge. Instead, she drank her wine and stood. She was so slippery, and a little ashamed that she could feel the wet evidence that what she had seen had turned her on.

Just like she turned her readers on.

She watched the video again, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth as she gazed at the couple. When the video stopped for a second time, Carrie leaned over and clicked on the profile.

Nothing to indicate gender. Nothing at all, just a generic userpic. Not even a location. Aside from the video, ‘B’ didn’t exist.

Is he the messenger? Or is it her? Did it matter?

‘Unless it’s a crank,’ she said to herself as she returned to the kitchen. ‘Anyone familiar with the city would know the clock on sight.’

Another glass of wine. Another deep gulp. Then, a deflated moment of relief.

The clock, yes. Keyes Tower, specifically? No.

She sank back into her chair and went back to the private message.

The only way to know what she was dealing with was to message him or her back.

She hit reply and began to type.

‘Doesn’t put us on the same level. How do I know that’s you in the video. You could have gotten that anywhere.’

Sent.

She was on her third glass of wine when the reply peeped on her phone. She bypassed it and went for the computer.

‘It’s me. Here’s your proof.’

Attached to the message was a picture. Not the full picture, but enough. He stood before a window, naked from the waist up. The same build. The same-shaped tattoo on his shoulder – the mascot of a local university, she could see now. Behind him was a view of one of the harbour bridges.

She was still examining the photo when a second message came through.

‘Not nearly on a par with your cheesecake, but you get the picture. I almost missed the location when I first looked at your pictures. Was in the middle of jerking off when I noticed the clock. Turn your chat on.’

She stared at the screen. She didn’t even know that the website that hosted her blog had an option to chat. She clicked on every menu she could find without success, reaffirming her overall hatred for other forms of social media.

When she found the CHAT ON option hidden in a bar at the bottom of the screen, she hesitated. She knew she should just call the whole thing off, but he had piqued her curiosity. She wanted the bigger picture before she dismissed him. Having no idea how to actually initiate a conversation with him, and not entirely sure she wanted to, Carrie returned to her mailbox.

In the middle of composing her reply, a window popped up.

ACCEPT CHAT FROM BSANDMAN?

‘Eager, aren’t we?’ she muttered and accepted the request, then waited for his first words.

‘Your turn,’ he had typed.

‘Sorry.’

‘Your turn to prove this is really the girl in the pictures.’

Carrie snorted and took another sip of her wine before responding. ‘I don’t have to prove anything. You just want a private show.’

‘It was worth a try. Are you married?’

‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘Wow. I just want to know you better. You know where I live. Exactly where I live. You could probably stand at the bottom of my building and see me sitting here at the computer.’

It was true, and a bit of a relief. If indeed he was true, he lived in the tallest condo in the North End, not even a five-minute drive from her apartment. She’d been in it a few times when friends rented there. They were old, but nice.

‘Are you married?’ he persisted.

‘No. Currently single.’

‘Any children?’

‘When did this become online dating? You called me out on my blog.’

‘I wouldn’t say I called you out. More like a friendly wave hello.’

‘With your dick.’

‘Did you like it? Not specifically my dick, but the video.’

‘Fantastic. Kudos on not including a cumshot.’

‘Testy testy testy. Sent you another picture. Go look at it.’

Carrie expected full frontal, but instead she found herself looking at a completely casual shot of him sitting fully dressed in front of his computer. Dark hair. Thick eyebrows and the beginnings of a beard. He had a straight mouth that was twisted into a playful smile. He looked comfortable in a black hoodie.

‘Nice,’ she typed

‘Your turn.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Come on. I’m dying to see the face that goes with that amazing body.’

Carrie couldn’t help the little spark of pleasure at his words, but still typed NO.

‘All right. I’ll see it soon enough.’

‘You think so.’

‘I’ll wear you down. Speaking of your amazing body, when are you going to post more shots of you in fishnets?’

‘When I’m in the mood.’

‘You come harder when you wear them, don’t you?’

She paused, fingers over the keyboard. Were all her subscribers reading her so easily?

‘Gotcha,’ he typed. ‘It’s easy to tell. Your nipples get really hard and you get goose bumps. And you’re insanely wet.’

‘It’s a part of the fantasy. What do you want?’

‘To play with you. Literally.’

She glanced at the benign boy-next-door photo maximised behind the chat window. She mentally tried to pair that classically handsome face with the man in the video who’d played with his lover, and found herself out of breath. The slow heat between her legs burned as her imagination weaved a tapestry. She could see herself in those fishnets he loved, legs wrapped around his waist, lips painted red and parted with a gasp as he gave her one sinful inch at a time.

The chat window flashed as he sent another message. ‘You don’t seem like the type to scare off easily. Maybe I was wrong.’

‘Look, if you’re looking for a quick fuck, look elsewhere. Thanks for looking at my pictures and all that, but I’m not interested.’

‘Not looking for a quick fuck, but now that I’ve talked to you, you seem like a sweet girl in fuck-me heels. I’m more interested than ever. Just meet me once and we’ll see where things go from there. No expectation. No nothing. Just … coffee.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

She got up and headed back to the kitchen. The room swayed a little, but that didn’t stop her pouring out the last of the wine.

Why not? She could think of a million reasons, all of which involved ending up as a Dateline Mystery. She didn’t know him. He was just one of her pet perverts, nameless and faceless. He could be anyone. He could be dangerous.

And besides, she liked what she had going on. She could come and go as she pleased, getting off when she wanted and how she wanted it. She didn’t need a man in her life right now, even for a fling. It had taken her a long time to feel comfortable alone, and she wasn’t ready to give it up even for a few hours of sweating between the sheets.

His message was waiting for her when she stumbled back to the desk. ‘You pick the time and place. Broad daylight. One cup of coffee. A quick chat. You pull the plug whenever you want.’

Her curiosity growing, Carrie looked at the photo and then, cringing at her own weakness as she did, went back to the video. This time, she paid particular attention to the sound of his voice: the primal grunts that escalated as he pumped the woman harder, and within the woman’s shrieks the muttered words ‘That’s it, baby. Come over my cock.’

I don’t need this, she thought, going back to the chat window. She said it over and over in her head to convince herself.

I like being alone.

I’m not into casual sex.

I’m still healing.

The chat window flashed. ‘Still with me, Maggie?’

This is nuts.

Temptation won out. She could be that woman for real, for just an hour in a crowded coffee shop. Even if it was a disaster, she could be Maggie even for a little bit. She didn’t have to fuck him. She didn’t have to do anything but let him adore her in person.

She pulled the keyboard closer and sucked in a deep breath.

‘One cup of coffee. One hour. Get a pen, I’ll tell you when and where.’