He doesn't send another message that day, or the one after. I have the forums on rapid refresh, waiting for my picture to be posted like he promised. It's Friday night and I'm in my soft cotton comfort pyjamas in bed with my phone in my hand. I wish I hadn't deleted the picture now, because now I'm forced to imagine what I looked like in it, and as the days go by, the image of me staring into the phone lens gets worse and worse in my head.
Instead of the current me, the grown-up with a job who is used to dealing with pressure situations and all the technical details, the woman respected by her colleagues, the dependable, unflappable one, I recall the lost, powerless expression on the woman's face as she exposes her soft curves to a stranger somewhere out there on the internet with the promise that he's going to make the picture public. That scares me, the idea of refreshing the forums and any moment having to confront my own desperate face staring back at me as I pose naked.
In my imagination, my curves have become softer, my face rounder, back to how I was when I grew up. Hanging around in the shadows waiting to be noticed at the end of the night while my prettier, sexier friends were fielding all the attention did something to me, taught me a valuable lesson in how first impressions matter. Maybe if I'd have been a little taller, a little slimmer, worn tighter dresses, maybe if I'd been able to show a little confidence, then I....
He's posted and suddenly I can't breathe.
I tap on the screen without thinking and stare at the picture he's just sent to the world. It's a torso shot, cropped at neck and waist, showing a woman's breasts. I stare in shock, unable to move, or to tear my eyes from the screen. There's a strange metallic taste in my mouth and I can feel my pulse hammering in my neck. I stare at it, at the brazen exposure of flesh, the merciless cropping that puts the subject's intimate bodily details front and centre, as if to say to the viewer: come and have a good, long look, see what she's been hiding under her blouse all these years.
Then I notice a mole on the underside of the left breast. Quickly, I unbutton my top, stripping myself. I cup my ample breasts, lifting them, scrutinising myself. I don't have a mole. The picture isn't me. He's posted a picture of someone else.
The relief comes in waves, washing over me, and I lean back against the pillows, still topless, with my hands over my breasts. My thumbs are touching my nipples, and suddenly I squeeze, feeling a thrill that goes directly down to my clit, and I realise how wet I am. It could have been me. It could so easily have been my body that he's shared with the world.
Maybe I'm next.
I can't help it, and my fingers dip beneath the waistband of my pyjama bottoms, plunging into my sodden pussy. I work my way furiously up to a short, explosive orgasm, left gasping on my own in my bed in my little one-bedroom apartment. It could have been me.
I go to the bathroom and rinse myself, buttoning my pyjama top back up. I feel drained now after my release, after spending days wearing myself down with the dread of exposure. I get back into bed and flop gratefully onto my pillow. It's all a game, really. It's just a mindfuck, that's all. There are men and women on those forums who love to show themselves, who get a kinky thrill out of it, but I'm not one of them. I'd never go that far.
But I have. I scroll through the messages every day, like I have for years. There's something erotic and exotic and safe about seeing naked bodies exhibited on the screen, something that I've been lacking in real life. I pick up my phone again and go to my favourites. There's one photo I like, that kicked everything off, that led to me making an insane decision to send my picture to the man who posted it.
She's in her late thirties, shot in black and white to turn skin tone into monochrome shades, vivid, bright eyes into dark pools staring unflinchingly back at the viewer. There's a look in those eyes, of vulnerability and terror at being utterly exposed, but also almost a regality, a haughtiness, a pride. The eyes seemed to say: look at me, see me, see the real me.
She's full frontal, kneeling for the camera in shibari rope bindings that crisscross her torso and wrap her elbows and wrists, binding her arms tightly to her sides. Her face is made up with lipstick and eyeliner that renders into stark shades of light and dark, accentuating the strength of her jawline, the honesty of her face. She's wearing a headpiece set into hair that's been scraped back from her face and coiled into a tight bun at the back: a radiant sunburst of long, thin needles behind her head, the lines drawing the viewer's gaze into the centrepoint: those wide, dark eyes.
She's completely naked, legs spread slighting to display her shaven crotch, her outer lips puffy in a way that suggests she is deeply aroused at being put on display for the camera. Her wrists are bound in place just below her belly button, her left hand open with fingertips hovering just above the smooth skin of her bare crotch.
But beyond the eyes, there is something else that get me every time I look at the picture, a little delicious gut-punch, a tiny detail: she's wearing a wedding ring.
It's the only piece of jewelry, the only distinguishing feature on her body, but it's there in plain view. A plain band, next to an engagement ring with a triple diamond setting. She's married, whoever she is, and judging by the rings, to someone who could afford to buy her several diamonds. Her fingertips hover just above her swollen labia, just out of reach.
I start to feel the tingle again, as my mind begins to imagine the story that brought a married woman to the point of posing in bondage on her knees for the world to see. Is she his wife? Is this what they do, with him photographing the woman he married to display her to the world? I can never quite bring myself to accept that explanation, because he's posted pictures of other women in similar poses.
But what, then? Did she send a message to him, just like I did? Did she finally take a step that she'd been yearning for, did she finally commit? The picture has more details in it, and I've spent enough time looking at it to see them. There are vertical lines on her waist, the differences in skin faded almost to invisibility now, that tell me she's a mother as well as a wife. Her brows are plucked and shaped expertly. The fingertips hovering just above her pussy are immaculately manicured, her forehead smooth and wrinkle-free.
She's well-off, respectable, probably a professional, juggling children and career and husband, and all the while she has this little delicious kink, that she craves being exposed for strangers. Does anyone else know? Does her husband, or is it a secret from everybody? The thought comes back to me again, as I look at the backdrop behind her: it's a professional studio. The shibari is tied exquisitely over her body, immobilizing her. The shot is set at just the right height, with subtle lighting that reveals the curves of her body. Someone did this to her. She walked in off the street and stripped herself naked to be turned from a busy mother into a piece of art.
I press my knees together, feeling the tingle turn into an ache. I look into her eyes again, and see it. She is a siren, calling me out into deep, dark water to my doom, and I've answered.
---
When I wake up the next morning the first thing I do is check my phone. There are no new pictures on the forums, but then I see the message icon waiting for me. I pull my knees up to my chest, sitting up quickly in bed, suddenly wide awake. I open my messages, barely daring to breathe.
- What are you wearing?
I gape at the words. Then I notice the little green dot by his icon and I realise that he's online now. Is it morning for him too? Three dots appear under the words, pulsing in time. He's got more to say. I wait helplessly, staring at the little screen, hypnotized by the pulsing dots.
- Simple question
I let out a little shriek. He knows I'm watching his words. I drop the phone like it's scalding, and hug my knees to my chest tightly. I can't tear my attention away from the little screen. He's waiting for me to answer. He has a picture of me naked. What I did in the basement carpark hasn't been forgotten after all, and even though I told him to stop, he isn't going to. My picture is out of my control and my life is at his mercy and I'm completely powerless.
My hand reaches out to pick up the phone again. I need to get a grip on this situation. I need to find out what he wants. I need to make him see that this is just a game and that I didn't mean to send him the picture. That was an erotic fantasy that I got off on, but this is real life. I need to strike a confident, controlled tone and rebalance this conversation. I respond to him.
- Why?
The dots again. I like my reply. It shows that I'm not someone to just be pushed around.
- What are you wearing, I asked
- Look, I don't know what you get off on, but I'm not telling you that
- That's a shame
- Why?
I'm standing up for myself, belligerent. I feel good about the conversation. I'm taking back control.
- I'm trying to get to know you a little
His response stops me. It could be creepy, but as I scan the words again, I don't see it that way. It sounds honest. I shoot back a reply.
- Why?
- Want to talk rather than type?
I stop again. I wasn't expecting this. Still, hearing his voice would give me more of a clue as to who he is and what he intends to do with my picture. Am I going to be giving too much away talking rather than messaging? I reply to him.
- How?
There is a pause and then contact details for a messaging app. He's taking me off the forums and into a private chat app. Am I being groomed? Should I just stick to this instead of joining him down the bottom of whatever rabbit hole he's devised? He pings me again.
- Let's just talk
