An Online Bdsm Tale

The computer screen was mocking me.

Okay, maybe not mocking. At the very least it was judgmentally staring. A white dialogue box that screamed SIGN UP dominated my screen. Waiting. Looming. I hadn't even made it past the first step. I was awful at this. A username? What kind of username did you create for a website like this? My Intro to Technology class did not have a unit on how to best market yourself on BDSM dating websites.

I sighed deeply, rubbing my hands over my face.

I certainly couldn't use my go-to usernames. They were all variations on my real name and that wasn't fucking happening. My eyes scanned my living room, looking for inspiration.

coffeetable69

booksandboobsandbdsm

boredduringsummerbreakandimjustsogdhorny101

My eyes flicked to my breakfast bowl from just hours earlier filled with discarded cherry stems. Cherries were sexy, right? Virginity. Purity. Teeth breaking flesh and sweet juices pouring into your mouth. Sticky syrup being licked off lips—

Yeah, okay. Cherries. But I certainly couldn't allow the internet of perverts I was inevitably delving into think I was a virgin. I mean, I was, but that felt like vulnerable information to release so readily. It would leave me exposed. I had definite hopes of losing my virginity sometime, but I wasn't sure at all what I wanted from this website, let alone for someone to pop my cherry. I found a compromise.

cherrydamnation

Twenty minutes later, I'd made one post to the personals board and boom. RIP my inbox. Offers flooded my private messages. It was more overwhelming than flattering. I hadn't expected such a response, but Jesus, the applications were rolling in. The market must be piping hot. It's not like I'd even posted a photo.

19F/5'6"/140lbs Seeking TENTATIVE Exploration of D/s??? with M

Yellow-ha, friend-os. I'm a basic bitch white girl in a Midwestern small town who is new, nervous, and horny. I'm not sure what to share about myself, this is my first time on doing this kind of thing (be gentle Daddy lololol). Anyhow...

I don't know what I want from you and I'm preemptively sorry about that. I've been reading ravish-the-heroine bodice ripping historical romances since I was embarrassingly young and well—I guess they stuck? I like the idea of my body betraying me, being forced into humiliating situations, and having some heart-pounding phone sex.

Me: young and looking to feel bad about what I desperately crave

You: young enough (old enough???) that resetting the wifi password is not a catastrophic event

Message me if interested.

I thought I would weed out any folks without a sense of humor with the "yellow-ha" but boy, watching the numbers racket up in my inbox I felt like an open door. Luckily, I quickly came to understand what my standards were. Grammar and spelling were higher on the list than I imagined.

Well, considering my declared major of Secondary English Education, a.k.a. high school English teacher, maybe that shouldn't have shocked me.

I scrolled past they "hey slutface get on your knees" subject lines. Really? The subject line? The confidence on some of these fuckers. Finally, I found an innocent looking enough message. I smiled to myself, considering my strategy. It seemed doom to fail already. I wanted a man with confidence. Absolute power oozing from his pores. Someone who could see what I wanted before I know I wanted it and force me to my knees making me reluctantly beg for it. Maybe a man who could understand that me wanting whatever

it

was truly wasn't even a priority.

And yet here I was purposefully clicking on the blandest, "Hey! How are you?" subject line available.

The username was promising, though:

lovetohateme.

Maybe a little on the nose for my taste, but holy hell, the struggle of usernames was still fresh in the back of my mind. I couldn't judge anyone.

lovetohateme: How is it going? I'm 26M and in the Florida area. What's your name?

cherrydamnation: Victoria, but call me Tory. What's yours?

My name was not Victoria. Or Tory. But the TV show that was on in the background made it seem like a good idea at the time. He told me his name was Mike, which seemed real, because who chooses a boring-ass name like Mike?

We exchanged pleasantries for a while, which was fine. It reassured me he was a person with manners. His references to pop culture made me think he actually could be twenty-six years old. I pictured him out of school, probably with a job, maybe thinking about buying a house soon. Things that didn't really matter for a person across the United States that was fucking around on the internet because her hands just weren't doing it for her anymore, but they still felt important. Attraction is attraction and I guess my turn-on list included

responsible young man

.

Ugh, I'm such a grandma.

lovetohateme: What's your phone number? I'd like to call you.

I drew in a quick breath. My heart was pounding. Pleasantries were over now. I don't know what I expected for this request to shock me so much. Maybe for us to small talk ourselves to orgasm. I quickly weighed options. I could send him the Google number I'd generated last year for my internship. I could close my laptop shut and grab the new vibrator that was probably almost charged off the outlet in the bedroom. It had arrived in the mail today and in my impatience for it to be ready to buzz my worries away, I had made this account, met this person, and now my clit was throbbing with anticipation.

I sent him the Google number. He called. I freaked out, yelping at the sound of the ring, and immediately hit the button that sent him straight to voicemail.

Closing my laptop, I set it aside, phone still in hand, and got up to pace around my living room.

I don't want to do this. I don't want to do this.

It was nice to feel wanted and pursued for an hour or so on a hot, boring Saturday, but this was too real. This wasn't a dating website or app with people's names and locations. I'd seen some of those personal ads for really fucked up shit. Some people on there were claiming that they wanted sex slaves and human cows and I was over here just passing out my contact information like a slutty moron who wanted to be pushed up against the wall.

The phone rang again. He was calling.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

I answered it.

"Hello." My voice was tentative.

"Hi

Sarah

."

A beat sat between us.

Sarah was my real name. How did he know my real name? I turned in a frantic circle, surveilling my living room. All the blinds were closed. I'd locked the front door earlier. Was he here? How is that even possible? Florida was like at least a ten hour drive. My brain was rationalizing, connecting dots, preparing to write the name of my killer in my own blood on the tile as I was undoubtedly soon to be stabbed by this pervert psycho I met online. I didn't know my killer's name, but I could probably get his username down.

"How do you know my name?"

A laugh rang through the phone.

"Your voicemail. You say your name."

Shit. I'd forgotten that when I set up the number for my old internship, I'd had it connect to my real voicemail. My grip on my phone loosened and I attempted for a light, not freaking the fuck out, tone.

"Crap, you caught me."

"Yeah, you probably want to take your last name off of that if you're going to be fucking around on BDSM sites."

Double shit.

"That's a good idea," I laughed nervously. How many Sarah Tipton's did the world have? Probably a few, right? By any means, I hadn't done anything wrong yet. Nothing that would get me blacklisted from my future career of teaching. I'd made an account on a website. I posted an easily deletable personal ad. That's it. This is fine. Everything is fine.

Almost as an after thought, thighs clenched. Dude had a good voice.

"I'm going grocery shopping in a minute. What should I make for dinner?" he asked, as if we were pals. Friend-os.

"Um."

My eloquent response didn't faze him. Maybe he could tell I was not an aficionado at this stranger phone sex thing.

"Chicken was last night, so I'm thinking beef tonight."

"Sounds good."

"It will be. You cook?"

"Some." I thought back to last night's dinner of a microwaved quesadilla. I could cook. Everyone could cook. It's just following directions. I actively chose not to cook most nights, but I was confident I could Pinterest the shit out of something if I had half a mind to.

We went on like that for a while, him browsing the store for dinner options and me providing input. White wine or red, mixed greens or asparagus. I felt myself relaxing and settled back into my couch. The air conditioning kicked on, so I reached for the blanket I always kept nearby. Slowly, I opened up. It always took me a while to feel comfortable in conversation. I was what my best friend, Ana, called an opinionated shy person. Basically, that means I made a lot of faces at opinions I thought were stupid until I felt comfortable enough to tell you they were stupid.

We chatted mindlessly for a while. Keeping it vague, I told him I was interested in teaching. He told me he worked in IT at a local university. He was getting his Master's. It was hard for me not to feel a little hopeful about whatever

this

was because those qualities were filling my "responsible young man" cup quite nicely. Even for a quick bout of phone sex, or perhaps recurring phone sex, I was pretty into who he said he was. If we'd been set up on a blind date, I wouldn't have been disappointed.

"So what are you interested in?" I could tell by his tone the subject had changed. This wasn't about side dishes anymore. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

"I don't know," I started, pausing. The silence filled the space. He let it. The space grew until I felt obligated to respond, which was probably his entire intention. Letting out an aggravated sigh I closed my eyes, trying to understand myself: What

was

I interested in? "I like the idea of being controlled. I'm not sure if I can let myself be controlled, but... Well, I read a lot of stories."

"Stories about what?"

I feel my cheeks warm. I wanted to shock him.

"Fucking, mostly."

He let out a bark of laughter. I smiled. It felt good to make him laugh. "Yeah, I got that, tiger." His voice deepened, just a little. You might not notice it if you were scrolling Instagram and chatting on the phone or driving a car, but I was just lying on my couch. Wrapped in a cocoon of blanket. Eyes closed. Focused entirely on him. "What kind of fucking?"

My eyes opened.

"The normal kind that lead you to a BDSM site, I guess," I diverted, relying on his response to take things sexual. I was nervous. He was the dominant here. I should just lay back and have phone sex bestowed upon me, right? As the seconds passed, I rolled my eyes, getting the message.

Do better.

Yeah, yeah.

"I like it when there is someone controlling someone else. Physically controlling them, like pushing her face into a wall or forcing her against a window. Mentally controlling, too. Making them realize things about themselves they didn't know they wanted. Or maybe they never wanted those things until the dominant made them want it." I took a breath. My heart was racing. I hadn't voiced these thoughts before. I'd spent countless hours with my hand down my panties scrolling erotic literature and reading dog-eared smut novels while struggling to turn the pages one handed, but this was the first time I'd acknowledged my desires. They felt tangible now, as if saying them made them possible. "Blackmail seems to be a common theme in the stories I like."

I knew my ritual of erotic story tags like the back of my hand. Click, click, click: Nonconsensual consensual sex, humiliation, blackmail, and let the adventure begin.

"Tell me about that."

Heat pooled in my core. No asking. Just orders. Mm, yes, Daddy.

"I don't know that there's much to tell. I like the mindfuck. How he can cause her so much pleasure while she literally hates that she's having it. But she can't stop because of the fear that he might expose her." A shiver went down my spine.

"Expose her how?" he demanded, his voice getting gravelly. "Do you want to be seen? Or do you like the threat of everyone discovering who you are? What you want?" I heard a car door close, or maybe it was a trunk.

"Is all of the above an option?" I responded, feeling bold.

"You're shocking me, Sarah."

"What?" I sat up, a flush heating my cheeks, blanket falling. "You asked."

"Fair enough." He sounded pleased. Another loud slam and the start of an engine. He must have gone through self-checkout, because we hadn't stopped talking. "I mean, we're in luck, because well—that's the plan."

My brow furrowed. "What?" I didn't understand.

"Blackmail. Mindfuck. Exposure," he spoke jovially. Like he was mapping out an exciting business proposal with an old college pal to start a microbrew in the hometown. He went on: "Probably some shame and humiliation, too. Does that work for you?"

"What?" I said again. I felt like an idiot. I didn't understand.

"Honestly, it doesn't matter if it works for you."

"Wh—"

"Jesus, Sarah, if you fucking say 'what' again, I'll make you regret it."

I held completely still, breathless and scared. I crossed my legs tightly; I suddenly needed to use the bathroom.

"You see, Sarah

Tipton

, I'm in my car right now and you're on bluetooth. I've got Google open and of the bajillions of hits for Sarah Tipton, I'm guessing that this LinkedIn profile for an undergrad at the University of Kansas is you, right? Unless you're maybe the owner of this Etsy shop that sells hand-made chain mail armor." He chuckled. "But I'm guessing not."

My heart rate ratcheted and my muscles tensed. I sat up straight now, blanket falling to the floor, the cozy vibes of our conversation eviscerated. He'd seemed so nice. What was he insinuating? Surely he was joking. Blackmail was a roleplay scenario, not a reality.

He had my LinkedIn profile picture. Did he think I was pretty?

What the fuck, Sarah?!

My sane mind screamed at my insane mind.

Who the fuck cares?! Hang up the damn phone and delete everything!

"It's not me." Smooth, Sarah. Smooth. Now his plans are foiled.

He continued onward, as if he hadn't heard me.

"An internship at the public library last summer, very cool. I wonder if you're still on their staff page?"

I could hear the tap of his thumbs on the screen.

"Yeah, there you are. Public services aren't good about keeping these things updated. Or maybe you're planning on coming back next summer? There's your boss, too. Well, former boss, maybe. And their email. Wonder how long it will take me to find your Instagram and Facebook."

I scrambled for my laptop. Had I locked down my Facebook privacy settings? I couldn't remember. My Instagram was definitely public and it was just my damn name and area code. Easily found. Ignoring that problem for the time being, I slammed my hands on the keyboard to get to Facebook.

Must delete, delete, delete.

I'd pull up all of my stuff later, when it felt safe, because nothing was truly ever deleted from the eyes of all-knowing Zuck, but right now I'd get rid of it.

The blue and white screen loaded, but as I was navigating through the account settings page and trying to remember my

goddamn password

my mouth went dry as he spoke again.

"Oh, there you are. Cute profile picture. I like the sunflowers."

A friend request lit up my in my notifications. Him? Ignoring it, I locked the page down for friends only. That was good enough for now.

I heard him laugh.

"Boy, you moved fast there. Here's the thing, though, Sarah, it's too late." Each time he said my name, I felt it twist in my gut. A silly voicemail had set my world on fire. He was definitely rubbing it in, cockily inflecting on Sarah with each sentence. "I know who you are and where you are. I could probably even find where you live given a couple of hours."

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice sounding way more normal than I was.

"I want a lot of things, Sarah. This is much more about what you want for the time being. And that's to be blackmailed, right?"

"No," I gritted out between clenched teeth, losing my cool. The tips of my toes tingled with anxiety. I was losing feeling in my arms. I ran through my options here as reality set in. He could ruin my plans. I quickly navigated to our original BDSM dating site and deleted my personals ad. "You don't have anything on me. You're supposed to get the nudes first, dumbass."

He scoffed. "I don't need nudes. I've been recording this conversation."

My head slammed back on the couch headrest in frustration. God. Slam. Damn. Slam. It. Slam. Not as bad as a nude photo, for sure, but definitely incriminating as fuck for a person wanting to go into the morally strict career of teaching.

Do you have Ms. Tipton? Me, too. Heard she likes to be forced down and fucked.

Tears pooled in my eyes. Even that nightmare was too optimistic. To think of any board of education that would sign the hiring papers after something like that was shown to them was ludicrous.

Kansas wasn't even a two-party consent state for recording conversations. This shit was legal. I was screwed.

"I'm drafting an email to your internship supervisor right now. How do you think it should start?" I silently seethed and he snickered in the silence. He was clearly having an excellent time. Fucking dick. "No worries, I've got some ideas. How about this? To whom it may concern, Sarah Tipton is a desperate slut. See attachment for more details."

I could have punched him. I wish I knew what he looked like just so I could picture punching him better. Smashing his nose with my knuckles, feeling his blood flood down my hand. I could even hear the satisfying crunch of his bone snapping.

"What. Do. You. Want," I said slowly. He held all the cards. There weren't that many cards, but they were important cards. I was such an idiot. This is what I get for perusing the darker side of the internet for kinky phone sex. Couldn't just go to Tinder or DM an ex like a normal person, no, I had to be edgy and weird and want people to pretend blackmail me. Key word:

pretend.

"It's not about me right now, Sarah."

Like a brick wall, this one. I changed tactics. "What's our safe word?" I said in a light tone, attempting at playful. We were just two lovers having a good time, playing at blackmail. That's all this is, my tone tinkled across the phone.

"Oh, babe," his tone was condescending. "You don't understand what's happening, do you? Poor thing."

I pursed my mouth. Okay, that didn't work out.

Wait, the friend request. Had that been him? Do I have as much on him as he has on me? I clicked back to the right tab and found his information behind a barrier. His profile picture was of a car. A nice car, black and sleek, but a car.

Ugh, one of

those

.

The little voice in my head was bummed that I clearly wasn't even being blackmailed by a cute guy. Dear Jesus, what was wrong with me? Was I actually worried about how handsome my blackmailer was?

If I accepted the friend request I could see his information. Probably his employer. I could threaten him just like he was threatening me. I took the phone away from my face, swiped down and hit the record button from the quick-access buttons. Then, with literally everything to lose, I jumped to Facebook and clicked 'Accept.'

Bingo.

Mike Watson. Worked at the University of Florida IT department. Photos of friends and family. Happy birthday wishes slathered all over his wall just two days ago.

Gotcha, motherfucker.