You Will Show Me Everything Ch 07

All I can do is wait. I'm blind, even though it's still daytime, standing naked in the converted tram workshop that has now become a performance space, on a photographer's backdrop sheet. I can hear him moving around me, the scrape of the metal stepladder on the old concrete floor, footfalls, the rattle of chain. I'm bare, wearing a tight-fitting, shiny silver helmet that covers my hair, changing my skull into a mirrored dome. My eyes are dark, but it's the opaque contact lenses, changing my appearance even as they blindfold me. It's ironic that I'm the one being stripped and exposed in a public space but I'm rendered blind so that he can keep his anonymity.

My mind is racing, my thoughts keeping time with the hammering of my heartbeat. I can hear his wife moving too. She's setting boxes down, but she's almost silent because she's naked like I am, padding in bare feet over the concrete floor. Unable to see, all I can do is stand there, ignored by the pair of them as they plan the next part of the photo-shoot together.

My crotch is aflame with the memory of her tongue, her moisture drying gently on my cheeks but the taste of her still in my mouth. The fine chain dangles from my lips down my glistening chin, still secured to the ring through my tongue. I want to touch myself. I want to touch her. I want to dive into her scent and lose myself and find the devastating orgasm her tongue promised me.

Instead, I wait, frozen like a mannequin as they move around me. They can see everything and I can see nothing: my body is completely exposed, the rings in my nipples and my belly button and my crotch will be glinting in the heat of the spotlighting I can feel shining down on me. She's placed me there, beautifully lit, like art. The camera clicks and I'm brought back to the present moment.

"How're you feeling?" he asks.

I don't answer immediately.

"It's a lot to take in, isn't it?" he probes.

"Yes."

"We're ready now. Do you want to continue, or do you want to stop?"

I turn in the direction of his voice. I want to face him.

"I don't think I have a choice," I reply.

He laughs. "You do. You always did. You could have chosen not to send that first photo to me, of you naked in the carpark. You didn't have to send the nude shots in your bedroom. You had a choice every step of the way."

"You blackmailed me. You told me what to do, otherwise you'd post that picture of me on the forums."

He laughs again. "How did I blackmail you into sending me the photo I would need to blackmail you with in the first place?"

There is movement off to my left, the jangle of chains, the snap of a plastic lid being pulled off a storage tub.

"No," he continues. "I'm fascinated to know what was going through your head when I answered that first message."

He's forcing me to rewind back nearly six months. One lonely night, half a bottle of wine in, sitting on my bed with my phone in my hands, staring at his latest post on the forums: a naked redhead with a desperate expression on her face. It had been her eyes, staring back at me, that had tipped me over the edge, and I'd sent him a private message. It had been just a few words, but it was the longest sentence I'd ever written: what would he do if I sent him a naked picture of myself?

Pressing the button to send the message had been terrifying, but almost orgiastic, admitting to another living being that I wanted to be shamed and exposed. Lying on my bed, the phone next to me still displaying my awful admission, I had brought myself to a powerful orgasm fueled by the idea of humiliating myself in public. I had hesitated, but by then I was already lost.

"I was terrified," I confess.

"And yet you still replied back. You didn't have to. We were just chatting."

"I nearly didn't."

"But you did," he insists. "Why?"

My demons taunt me. I can't see his face to read his expression, and it's almost like I'm back in my bedroom, talking to him on the phone. I want desperately to see what he looks like, but he's maneuvered me into a position of weakness. I'm the one stripped naked in front of him, I'm the one answering his questions.

"Because it terrified me," I tell him.

"How?"

I cover myself with my arms, shielding my bare crotch with my balled fists. The metal cuffs around my wrists clink together. There are restraining rings on the cuffs, and they jingle as he takes hold of them, exerting inexorable, gentle pressure until I allow him to part my hands. He exposes me again, positioning my arms by my sides. I've never felt so naked, staring sightlessly at a stranger as his eyes travel down my body. I can't see it, but I can feel the caress of his gaze, and it's electric.

"Being seen terrifies you, doesn't it?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes."

"But, why?"

"I... I'm not... I don't like the way I look."

He doesn't say anything and the silence lingers until I fill it.

"All my life, I've just had that feeling. My hips, my boobs."

My hands make apologetic fluttering motions by my sides.

"But, you look glorious."

"I'm no cover girl. I'm plain."

"You're anything but plain. Those girls, there's nothing interesting in them, believe me."

"How would you know?"

"I know."

There it is, after months, after sharing my most intimate moments with him, finally something back. So, he's a professional. This is his career, taking modelling shots, doing fashion shoots. He's a professional photographer with a wife who's a high-flying business executive, with two young children, who doesn't live in the same city as me. His work would appear in the magazines I see every week in the line at the checkout. He's outed himself, just a little, and I understand why I'm blind for him.

We are the same, locked in this dance, each of us needing to see or to be seen, confessing our secret souls at the risk of destroying our lives should any of this ever come to light. I almost have enough details to work out who he is now. I could post a single message and he'd never be able to work again.

"We're set."

His wife is standing next to me, and my head snaps around to face in her direction. I hadn't heard her approach.

"Okay."

"Here's yours."

Something passes between them, and then he takes my wrist, leading my outstretched fingers up to his face. I touch cold, smooth metal: he's wearing a mask. I know what it means, and the terror of what we're about to do almost overwhelms me, but I steady myself.

"You aren't what you were," he tells me. "You grew up. Your body changed but your head didn't. You've been looking at all those magazine covers all your life, thinking they're real. But you've seen my pictures of you, and tell me something... how did you look?"

"Beautiful," I whisper.

"You're not a duckling. You're a swan. There is a grace within you, in the curves of your body, that I could capture all day and still not have got it all."

His wife slides her arm around my waist, drawing herself against me. "Somewhere between puberty and today, you got hot," she murmurs into my ear.

I blink and there are tears, and I'm startled because I didn't feel them coming on. The exercising, the burning off puppy fat, trying to follow the fashion trends, the dressing up for boyfriends, the endless merry-go-round, and suddenly I'm here.

"No-one's ever said that to me before," I tell her.

"Honey, that's a crying shame," she chuckles, and suddenly the mood lifts.

I smile, even though I can't see their reactions. Her thumbs brush my cheeks, wiping away my tears, and she kisses me.

"You're so fucking hot," she giggles.

Looking back, it's obvious. Those awkward encounters with boyfriends were the result of something that wasn't to do with how I look, but who I am. I'm into girls. I'm into this girl, the way her body presses against mine. I'm going to be into girls forever.

The camera clicks as we kiss, just once, a candid shot.

"I'll send these to you, if you like," he says.

"I'll just see them on the site," I reply.

"None of these ones are going on the site, or the forums, or anywhere. They're just for us."

I hear him shift, the rustle of clothes, and he's in motion again.

"But if you're ready, we should get back to the schedule."

His wife disengages from me. "You ready for the grand finale?"

I hesitate, and the terror is there again, the delicious agony of knowing what happens next if I say yes. I've heard the preparations, I can picture the space around us. The old tram workshop is empty now, but we are behind a set of curtains suspended from the ceiling lighting rig. There are three rows of chairs set out on the far side, and the large doors have been drawn all the way back. The grand finale is going to be public.

"You can say no," she tells me. "I'll do it solo. You can just get dressed and come in at the back and watch with everyone else. No-one's gonna know."

I listen to her words. I feel the heat of her skin radiating close to mine. I hear her siren song, drawing me over the edge into deep, dark water. For a moment, I hesitate. Then, I jump.

"Let's do it," I tell her.

I hear the ripple of her laughter and realise that she's already walking away from me. I can hear his footsteps too, on concrete, receding from us both. I have no choice but to stay where I am and wait.

She returns, accompanied by the jingle of metal on metal.

"Arms out, legs apart."

I comply. Cold steel chainlinks are pressed against my bare flesh, wrapping around my waist, around my hips. There is a click and I feel weight tugging down the steel collar around my neck, then tightness as the chain is drawn around my back and secured there. I'm harnessed: the chains crisscross under my bare breasts, framing my waxed, gleaming pussy. She's jingling as she moves and I reach out to touch her.

She's also harnessed. She presses her breast into the palm of my hand and I can feel her nipple ring, just like mine. She tugs at my nipple and there's a click. My piercing moves of its own accord, and I twitch deep inside. There is a click in front of me and I touch her breast again, tracing the fine chain that is now suspended between us.

"You good?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm good."

She attaches a chain to my other nipple ring, clipping the loose end to her breast, and then gently leans back. The twin chains go taut and I feel my breasts lifting as she takes up the tension. It feels incredible.

She touches my belly button ring, connecting a chain there too, and then pressure on the ring through my perineum. I wait, aching, and am finally rewarded with the touch of her fingers to my engorged clit as she snaps another chain into place. I hear the soft click in front of me and then nothing. I don't dare move. Gradually, the chains become taut, and I imagine her stepping back. My nipples are straining as the weight of my breasts are suspended from the twin anchor points, and it's a delicious agony, waiting for the slack in the other chains to be taken up.

I feel the tug on my belly button, and brace myself. My clit ring moves and I let out a little gasp, feeling perfectly conjoined with her. Her harness chains jangle and I realise she's rolling her hips, tugging the chain between us rhythmically in little fucking motions. I close my eyes and I can feel myself grinning.

"Do you like that?" she asks.

"So much."

Footsteps approach, but she doesn't stop. It's a gentle motion, but after all the build-up, it's everything I need to rekindle the fire within.

"Time to display you," she tells me, and I nod.

I hear the tinkle of chains, echoing down from above, and then I feel his hands on me. I let it happen, suffering each little click as I'm restrained in place. She presses against me, slackening the bindings between us, pushing me backwards. Her arms are around my waist, supporting me, and I lean back.

The harness tightens around me and I realise that I'm attached to chains dangling down from the lighting rig. His fingers wrap around my ankle and I allow him to lift my foot. There is another click as the metal cuff around my ankle is attached. He takes my other foot and I lean all the way back into space, letting the harness hold me as my feet are suspended above the floor.

He draws my arms behind my back and there is the snick of a padlock, binding my steel wrist cuffs together, rendering me helpless. She is still holding me, and her lips press against mine. I open my mouth for her, sharing a kiss that travels all the way down to my aching pussy. I'm helpless, suspending in midair, bound to her. She breaks the kiss, probing my tongue with her fingers, and there's another click as she attaches the fine chain to from tongue ring to hers, completing the mating of our piercings.

"Ready?" he says, but before I can respond, she does.

"Yeah. Just take it slow, okay?"

"I will, don't worry."

She releases me and I'm left floating in space. I can her the jangle of chains and imagine what he's doing to his wife. She's being connected to the ceiling rigs too, her body suspended above mine, dark skin above light, joined by fine silver at our most intimate points. There is a clicking sound, like a ratchet, and I feel the tension on my nipple rings gradually increase. Another ratchet, and the slack is taken up on the other chains between us. Her fingers rub my nipples and I realise that she isn't bound like I am. She's still free.

Something is attached to my collar and I feel the tug of chain: I'm leashed. I can visualise myself floating in space, with the photographer taking his shots while his wife hovers above me. I'm bound, supplicant, leashed, dominated. I'm so far out of my comfort zone. I wouldn't choose to be anywhere else on earth.

There is movement on the clit chain, and then a hum, and I begin to squirm powerfully. It's his finishing touch, a vibrator dangling on the chain between us, pleasuring his wife and myself simultaneously. I hear her breath coming in little gasps, and I know she's already close because, unlike me, she can see everything. She's holding the chain leashed to my collar, suspended above my helpless, naked form. I have been turned into her fantasy. I barely register the soft swishing sound of the curtains being drawn back.

There are voices in the distance, growing louder, and then I can hear the shuffle of shoes on the concrete. There is an exclamation, and I know they can see us, and I lose the ability to breathe as my throat closes. It's panic, an overwhelming fight-or-flight response to their eyes on my body, taking in my exposed form, and there is nothing I can do to hide myself from them. They are strangers and they can see everything and my body is locked rigid and there's no way out and what must they think of me? I'm some exhibitionist slut getting off on being naked for them, some kinky perverted bimbo who thinks with her clit, and I can't breathe. I still can't breathe.

She traces her fingertips over my ribs, so gently. I hear the chains shift and my clit ring is pulled upwards, then the tension disappears and I sag a little. She tugs again, and when the chain between us is taut, the vibrations of the toy hooked between us passes directly down into my core. She slackens again, then repeats, teasing me, tormenting my desperate body.

I'm dimly aware of chairs scraping, people settling into seats, but I focus on her movement, on the way my clit is pulled and released, until it absorbs me and becomes my entire world. Her fingers brush over my breasts, tweaking my nipples and my entire body shudders to her touch. She's fucking me at a distance; she is the puppetmaster and I'm her marionette, dancing on her strings. Her nails rake over the soft skin of my inner thigh and I gasp with shock. Her touch is like fire, awakening my body wherever she strokes me. She's transforming me, banishing the tension in my limbs, turning me from weak flesh into something purer: into art.

That is what we are now: a sculpture in flesh and glittering steel. I'm more exposed than I have ever been, more exposed than my worst anxiety dream, more naked than with any of my boyfriends, stripped all the way back to my base form. It calms me, knowing that they're seeing art, not her, not me. We're no longer people, we are a single living shape to be enjoyed. I arch my back, letting my breasts rise, displaying myself. The vibrator hums and the chains jingle and there is now no other sound in the exhibition space but us.

Above me, she hisses through her teeth, and I can feel it too: the edge of orgasm. She pulls the chain tight between us, lifting her hips until I'm forced to raise mine too, following her motion, rocking back and forward, fucking in mid-air. The hand that holds the chain of my leash pulls harder, forcing my face up and then her lips are on mine, the chain that binds our tongues is spilling from the side of my mouth and down my cheek.

I devour her, straining against the chains that bind me in position, needing to press myself against her, to feel that contact, but I'm denied and I growl in frustration. She responds, rolling my nipple between her fingers, sending sparks into my core.

Then it happens, a deep contraction. I feel like I'm coming loose from my body, floating above the both of us now, looking down, as the orgasm begins to build. I'm detached from it all, observing curiously, as the pale-skinned body starts to writhe against its constraints, losing control of its limbs, thighs twitching, the dark pupils of sightless eyes rolling back in the helpless marionette's head. It's all too much to resist, and as she pulls at my clit with the motion of her hips, her fingers find my quivering entrance and slide easily inside.

She brushes my inner wall with a single fingertip, such a delicate, beckoning motion, and my body answers and everything goes white.

There is applause, like thunder across the sea, rumbling in the far distance. She crushes her hips down onto mine, closing the airgap, trapping the vibrator between us, and I hear her roar. The toy is pushed directly against my throbbing nub, pinned in place, and I climax again, mewling beneath her as she grinds the vibrating shape against my pussy lips. She's cumming too, over and over, and I can't stop either. I've lost control. It's heaven.

At last, she shifts, and the vibrator slides out from between us. She kisses me, her breath coming in ragged gasps. I can feel her skin, the heat, the perspiration. I want to hold her, to join with her, but I can't. Instead, her hand cups my cheek, stroking gently.

The curtains swish, but I don't care. Voices buzz excitedly. It's all a long way away. I feel the rumble in her torso, and then I hear her laughing.

"How was it for you?" she asks.

I swallow hard, and I croak a reply. "Unbelievable."

She kisses me again. "I'm glad. It's been so long in the planning. I'm so glad we found you."

"Me too."

"Now, I just hope that he remembered to put film in the camera."

---

I collect my suitcase from the baggage carousel and stride towards the entrance to the arrivals hall, my high heels clicking on the polished floor. I'm dressed in a smart, form-fitting blouse and a pencil skirt that comes down to just below my knees, with dark, opaque stockings. My blonde hair is gathered up neatly in a butterfly clip, but I've teased a few strands out because it frames my face. I can feel the attention from the people I pass, their eyes on me, their attention on the curves of my body.

Passing through the body scanner before I got on the plane, the female security person had to pull me aside when the machine beeped. She'd had to get the magic wand out, and I'd waited for that delicious moment when she waved it down my front and the little green light went red just over my crotch. Her eyes met mine and I knew she knew. She patted me down, her gloved hands travelling over my rear and my thighs, but she knew. I could see it in the way she looked at me.