RECOGNISE ANYONE?
By Fidelis Blue
Helen stared at the face on her computer screen. The eyes were half closed, in
rapturous concentration. The black hair fell slightly forward but not enough to
obscure the face, with its long straight nose, high cheekbones, full lips. The
mouth was wrapped around the swollen glans of a man's cock, held steady by the
slim, elegant fingers of a female hand, the nails painted scarlet.
The face and hand were Helen's own. The cock was that of Tim, her boyfriend
of three months. She'd taken the picture herself, with her new digital camera,
set on the timer. It was well-composed, carefully lit, tastefully erotic. And it
had just been emailed to her by a person unknown.
'Recognise anyone?' said the accompanying message.
Over the next half hour four other pictures came in, all taken by Helen
herself. In one Tim lay between her lasciviously spread-eagled thighs, licking
her pussy. Another picture showed Helen on her knees, looking straight at the
camera, with Tim entering her from behind. In another she was kissing just the
tip of his cock. Her hair had come right down, almost hiding her face. In the
last one, her favourite, they kissed, their lips just apart, their two tongues
intertwined.
She thought back. Where could the theft of these pictures have happened?
She'd taken them in her apartment. She'd worked on them at the big computer in
her office after hours, touching up a few details to make them perfect. Then
she'd emailed them to herself at home and wiped them from the office computer.
Tim had seen them, but she hadn't given him copies. There had been no burglary.
Ergo, someone had hacked into her email.
She felt violated, her private world invaded. Now she knew how the North
American Indians had felt when they refused to have their pictures taken, afraid
the camera would steal their essence. Who was the person who had done this
thing, and what did he want? Assuming it was a he.
The last picture had a message attached. 'I know who you are.' The email
address was a meaningless jumble of numbers and letters.
'What do you want?' she replied.
'Wait and see,' came back the answer.
Was it someone at the office? Was it a practical joke, or something more
sinister? How had this person got into her private cyberspace?
The next day there was another message. 'I know who he is too.'
'What do you want?' she asked again.
Was he going to blackmail her? She felt more certain it was a he. She was
worried, no question. Tim was married. He was going to tell his wife about
Helen, this she really believed, but he hadn't found the right time yet. It
wouldn't do for Carol to find out first. And then there was the company. She
knew what her boss would think if he found out she was having an affair with the
owner of the firm's closest rivals. It wasn't a smart thing to do, but she just
hadn't been able to help herself. Tim had been scrupulous about not trying to
get business secrets out of her. She knew that; but she couldn't prove it.
'Guess,' came the reply.
'If it's blackmail, I haven't any money,' she said. It was true. Now she'd
bought the apartment all her salary was eaten up by the mortgage. Though if he
knew it was Tim, he'd know Tim was wealthy.
'I want something more than money,' the anonymous emailer said. But what?
There were no more messages that day.
There was one the next day: 'I want a picture of my own.'
Aha, she thought, a weirdo. Some kind of freak, a voyeur. It made her
nervous, but on the other hand, maybe she could humour him. It had to be a him.
Women didn't do voyeurism, did they?
'What sort?' she asked.
'Now we're getting somewhere,' came the answer. But there was nothing
further until the next evening. Was he a sadist who liked stringing things out?
She hadn't told Tim. He'd be pretty upset, worrying both about Carol and the
business implications. She had to deal with this on her own.
'I have five pictures of you,' the message said. 'For every one of them I
don't send to your office colleagues, I want a new one in exchange. Taken
according to my specifications.'
'Which are?'
Again a delay. It had been going on nearly a week now. The strain was
getting to her. What the hell was he going to ask for, and why didn't he get on
with it?
At last came an instruction: 'This is going to hurt a little. Go to the
kitchen and get two clothes pegs. Sit in front of your camera. Take your top
off, and your bra if you're wearing one. Clip the clothes pegs on the ends of
your nipples. Take the photo. Send it to me.'
Helen thought about this. It sounded silly rather than painful. But what
the hell, if this was all it took to avoid having her affair made public.
'How do I know you'll keep your word?'
'You don't. All you can be sure of is, if you don't do as I say, I'll
choose one picture to send out. I've got all their email addresses. I'm not
saying which picture goes out first.'
Helen drew the curtains in her little study. She set up the camera and a
light. From the kitchen she fetched a couple of wooden clothes pegs. She took
off her T-shirt and bra and looked at her breasts. Tim liked them, liked them a
lot. He'd told her how exciting her nipples were, how big they got. They were
getting big now. Gingerly she squeezed the ends of a peg. The metal spring felt
surprisingly strong. Carefully she placed the peg over her right nipple, then
let go. It hurt more than she expected. She looked at the peg. Would it be
better flat against her chest, like this? Or jutting outwards? She took it off
and put it back on so it stuck out perpendicular. How strange I'm bothered about
the aesthetic effect, she thought.
She put the other peg on, wincing. Quickly she set the camera timer, then
sat back. She'd chosen a pose that showed only her breasts; this time she wasn't
going to let her face show. The camera clicked and she took the pegs off,
breathing a sigh of relief. She slipped her T-shirt back on, not bothering with
the bra, and downloaded the picture to her computer. The result was not wholly
displeasing, if you liked that sort of thing. She emailed it to her anonymous
blackmailer without comment. Several minutes later she put the picture back up
on her screen. She reached up under her T-shirt and felt her nipples. They were
slightly sore; she liked that. She unzipped her jeans and put a hand in her
knickers. It was surprising how wet she was. Slowly she began to masturbate.
The next day, another message. 'Excellent! Now we're going to put pegs on
your pussy. But first you have to shave it clean, unless it's shaved already.'
She stared at the message. She couldn't possibly. How could she explain
such a thing to Tim?
'I can't do that. My boyfriend wouldn't allow it.'
'Do as you are told.'
'Fuck off,' she typed and shut her computer down.
The next day at the office she was walking towards the water-cooler where
several of the guys were chatting. When she drew near, they fell silent. She got
herself some water. As she moved away she heard one of them say, 'It could be.'
The others sniggered. She got home and turned on the computer in her study.
There was a message.
'This is the picture I sent to all the men in your office.'
Attached was the photo of her kissing the tip of Tim's cock. She stared at
it. If you didn't know it was her you couldn't really tell, surely. The hair was
down over the face. But if someone told you, maybe you could recognise a
likeness.
There was a second message.
'I didn't say who it was, but the next time it will be only too obvious. So
you'd better get shaving.'
She poured herself a glass of wine and sat thinking. The most she'd ever
done before was trim her bikini line before she went on holiday. Tim had never
suggested anything of the kind. Sex with him was satisfying enough, but there
had been no question of anything beyond straight vanilla. She tried to imagine
what she'd look like with her pubis denuded. Suddenly she got to her feet and
went into the bathroom.
Half an hour later she sat in front of her camera. Her hand strayed between
her legs. She couldn't stop touching it now, marvelling at its sleek smoothness.
How strange and disturbing it felt.
In the meantime there had been another message: 'I want a picture of the
labia clipped together with four wooden pegs, equally spaced apart.'
Her labia were well-developed, plump fleshy pink lips. She liked them, but
sometimes she wondered if they weren't too prominent. She'd seen some of the
porno pictures the men in the office looked at. Most of the women had thin,
almost minimal labia, their cunts just slits, like little girls. Was that what
men preferred?
Pinching her lips together, she applied the first peg. It hurt less than on
her nipples. Carefully she put the others on, pinning her pussy shut. Then she
primed the camera and sat with her legs wide apart.
When the picture had been taken she took the top peg off. She noticed a
tiny drop of clear fluid seeping between the lips. She spread it upwards, on to
her clitoris, making it slippery. Then, taking a deep breath, she put the peg
back on, just at the apex of her labia so that the wooden jaws clamped over the
moistened little bud. The pain was exquisite. She put her forefingers on either
side of the imprisoned clit and pushed them together under the peg, rubbing them
together. She came quickly, groaning as her hips shook uncontrollably.
'Another excellent picture,' said the message. 'You have real talent.'
The next day came the third request.
'You will need about 5 metres of rope, the same thickness you'd use for a
clothes line. Further instructions follow.'
She bought the rope. That evening she was told what to do.
'Strip naked. Tie the rope tightly round your waist with a knot just below
your navel. Pull the long end of the rope down between your legs, just to one
side of your labia, on the right side. Pull the rope round the back of your leg,
just below the buttock. Wind it round the leg three times, making it look neat.
Tie a knot on the inside of the thigh, then loop the rope up to the waist, and
down again to the other leg, on the other side of the labia so they're squeezed
together. Bind that leg three times as well. Tie another knot then back once
more to the waist. This time draw the rope down the centre, across your pussy,
bisecting the labia. I want it really tight, so that it cuts into you. Loop it
up to the waist at the back, between your buttocks, and make it fast. Take a
photo.'
It was complicated. Helen had to keep checking the instructions. It took a
long time to get it so that she was pleased with the effect. How peculiar, she
thought, that I'm taking so much trouble. Yet she couldn't do a thing like this
without making it look as good as she could. When she'd finished she stood up to
walk over to the camera. The rope was really tight, pulling right into her
pussy, pressing on her clitoris.
She took the picture and emailed the result. Then she sat, her fingers
moving over the rope that bound her so tight. It prevented her touching where
she wanted to, yet she was reluctant to take it off. She went into her bedroom
and returned with her vibrator. She sat in front of her computer with the
picture of herself bound up on the screen. She placed the vibrator against the
rope and switched on. The sensation was muted, but all the more exciting for
that. It took a long time for her to come, and all the while images came into
her mind, of things she'd never thought about before.
Later that evening Tim came round. As she was getting into bed, he noticed
her shaven pudenda.
'My God,' he exclaimed. 'What have you done?'
'Do you like it?' she said innocently.
'When did you do it? Why?'
'It was just a whim,' she lied. 'A friend told me she did it, so I thought
I'd try it too. She said it improved sensation.'
'What sensation?'
'What do you think?'
He was silent.
'You really don't like it?' she asked.
'It's a bit, well, brutal,' he said.
She wondered if perhaps now he could see her pussy unadorned he didn't care
for it very much. Perhaps he too liked the little girl look. Well, too bad, it
was the way she was.
In the morning they had breakfast before he left.
'Have you ever tied anyone up?' she asked.
He looked up from the newspaper.
'What?'
'Have you ever tied anyone up, you know, while having sex?'
Tim's face told her all she needed to know as an answer. She was surprised
to find him quite so conventional. Or was it that she was surprised by the
changes in her own feelings?
'Terrific picture,' said the next email. 'The next one is easier. Get a
kitchen knife, a long one, and push it into your pussy, five or six inches.'
Instinctively she recoiled. She had a fear of knives. She didn't think she
could bring herself to do this.
'I can't do what you ask. Can't you make another request instead?'
'Do as you are told,' came the reply. 'Or else they'll see the picture
where you suck his cock.'
Her heart pounding, Helen went into the kitchen and came back with a
carving knife. She stripped below the waist, then looked nervously at the knife.
She felt the edge with her finger and shuddered. In the bedroom she found some
lubricant. She spread it generously between the lips of her sex, and smeared it
over the blade of the knife. Sitting in front of the camera she inched it
gingerly inside her. The fear she felt was combined with some other emotion,
dangerous but exciting, as the cold steel penetrated her cunt. When the knife
was almost all inside her she walked with extreme care over to her camera and
set it.
As soon as the picture was taken she withdrew the knife. She was sweating
and trembling slightly. She put her clothes back on and sent the picture. She
felt she could do anything now. Only one more and the ordeal would be over.
The next day there was another message.
'Wonderful picture. I knew you could do it. Now for the finale. I've been
looking carefully at how you are made. You have the most beautiful pussy I've
ever seen. Such luscious, full lips. So rich, so ripe. So womanly. What would be
absolute perfection would be to see you pierced with a small silver ring, in the
hood of the clitoris. So get it done and report back when you're ready.'
Helen stared at the screen. No, it was quite impossible. She would not
mutilate herself for a man she didn't even know. She thought about what it would
entail, and shrank from the pain she imagined. And then, what could she possibly
say to Tim? She'd seen his face when he saw her shaven pussy. How much more
horrified he'd be at the sight of it pierced.
'This is simply unacceptable. I absolutely refuse,' she wrote.
All the next day she didn't check her messages. Late that evening there was
a knock at her door. It was Tim.
'I've left Carol,' he said. 'It's final. She was upset, but then she said
she'd seen it coming. I think it will be OK.'
'That's wonderful,' said Helen, and flung her arms around him.
'If it's coming out into the open,' he continued, 'you'll have to resign
your job. I'll give you a better one.'
She felt a wave of relief. Now if the blackmailer sent out her pictures it
would be merely embarrassing, not disastrous. She could probably live with what
would be a nine days wonder.
The next day Tim moved in with her. Carol would get the house, but he said
they'd buy another one, bigger and better. Helen changed her ISP and emailed all
her friends with her new address. She was free of the voyeur now.
Yet she kept the pictures she had made for him. Sometimes when Tim was out
she liked to look at them while feeling the silky smoothness of her pussy. She
had kept it shaved; Tim had just had to get used to it. She began to experiment
with the clothes pegs. Once she tied her breasts up tight before she put the
pegs on. On the net she found pictures of women wearing strangely fashioned
metal clamps. One evening after work, plucking up her courage, she went into a
sex shop in the centre of town and bought two little Japanese devices. She took
to wearing them on her nipples the evenings that Tim was out. She tried to keep
them on for longer and longer, no matter how much they hurt.
She took more pictures of herself, sometimes naked, sometimes with ropes or
pegs or clamps. She wanted Tim to see them, yet she feared his response. Surfing
the net she found a site that sold body jewellery, pendants for nipples and
genitalia, designed to be worn without piercing. She sent off for a small silver
ring. When it came she attached it just above her clitoris and took a picture.
Something about it fascinated her. For the first time she felt a sharp twitch of
desire at the thought of a ring embedded in the tender flesh.
Discreet inquiries about whether any more pictures had been mailed to her
office colleagues met with a blank. She had called the blackmailer's bluff. Then
one day at her new job she got a call from a friend at her previous firm. Guess
what, she said. Remember Brian, the odd guy who never spoke and often worked
late? They sacked him for hacking into the boss's private email. We think there
were sexual secrets there, but no one's very sure.
It must be him, Helen thought. But she didn't care any more.
A week later she looked in the yellow pages and found a local piercing
parlour. Her fingers shaking, she keyed in the numbers on her phone. Hesitantly
she made an appointment. She got to the door five minutes early, walked straight
past, returned and walked past again. Don't be silly, she told herself. She went
across the road to a wine bar and drank two glasses of chablis, then with a
determined look on her face she went back and entered the door.
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