I check my phone as soon as I wake up, but there isn't a message from him. Neither has he posted anything on the forums, and that pressure descends on me again. It's like waiting for the storm, but I'm waiting for him to post his first picture of me. I've sent him two photos now. He must know the agony I'm enduring, surely?
I drag myself out of bed, and I'm naked still. I don't know why I didn't slip into my pyjamas afterwards, last night. I shudder. Yes, afterwards, after sending a stranger a picture of my naked body. I get into the shower and begin my morning routine.
He's given me precise instructions for what he expects me to do today, and as I rinse through the tangle of curls between my legs, I'm having second thoughts. Not about doing what he told me to, no: I'll still remove them, but buying a waxing kit and doing it tonight. I turn off the water and step out of the shower, toweling myself dry. No, it's time to test the boundaries a little, see how he responds. Still wrapped in my towel, I pick up my phone and open the chat app. I'm going to initiate the conversation this time.
- I've been thinking. I know you told me to wax myself and show you tonight. I'm not going to. I want to do something different
I send the message and drop the phone onto the bed quickly, turning for my wardrobe to select my clothing for the day. Then the phone pings and I freeze. I wasn't expecting such a quick response. Timidly, I return to the bed and flip the phone over. There's a message. I tap it and my blood goes cold.
He's sent a picture. It's me in the car park, but cropped, removing some of the extraneous background to focus all the attention on my naked body. It's subtly done, but I'm there on the screen, staring out with that lost look on my face, my mouth slightly open, eyes wide and slightly vacant. All at once, I remember what I was feeling: stunned, helpless, confused. But he's edited my photo, paring away the edges until it's a version of me that I didn't know was there. He looked at the photo I sent him and discovered something even I didn't see.
The woman in the photo is naked, open, stripped in a basement carpark because someone told her to do it and she complied. She isn't an in-control professional with a good career and a high-paying job. The woman on screen is a mindless bimbo, waiting for her next command. I feel butterflies in my stomach.
- Call?
I stare at his message, then hit the call button. He answers immediately.
"Like it?" he asks.
"I... I don't know what to say. I look like... you made me look like...."
"Like what?"
"A bimbo."
I hate myself for saying it, and I bite my lip. There is silence on the line. It drags on, and I'm staring at my face on the screen. I need to know.
"Are you going to post that?" I ask, breaking the silence at last.
"That's up to you."
"How is it up to me? You've got the photo."
"If you want to be done, then we can be done. As I said, I post that and we're done."
It takes me a few seconds for my brain to process what he's trying to tell me.
"Wait, no. Is this... do you mean the message I sent? I need to explain."
"Go on."
There's amusement in his voice and I imagine him smiling. Somehow it kindles a little fire inside me: he's somewhere, looking at a picture of my naked body, listening to the stress in my voice and smiling. I wonder where he is, and what he looks like.
"I meant I don't want to just get a kit. Do you understand? I've never done this before, any of it. I want to go to a salon and have the treatment there. I want it to look right."
I'm babbling, and I bite my lip again, horrified at that last little confession. There's silence again, but this time I am determined not to be the one who fills the void.
"You do understand, don't you?" he replies. "You do what I say or we're done. I post that picture of you to the forums and you're exposed to the world, and then I move on to someone more interesting."
The words cut through me. It's not the veiled threat that gets to me. No, it's the idea that I'm not interesting enough to bother with. Once again, my mind is reeling. I don't know what to say.
"Wait, hold on. I meant...."
"I know what you meant. I've heard what you're saying. I understand."
"Do you?" I shoot back at him, relieved.
"You're right. I see some terrible jobs, pimply, spotty. Especially if you haven't gone bare before. Your body isn't used to it. Tell me what you're offering instead."
I grin, even though he can't see it. The anxiety lifts.
"I'm going to make a booking for the weekend. It's going to be full-body, professionally done."
"To make it look good, you said."
"Yes."
"Because you understand what happens next."
"Yes."
"Tell me."
