‘Gorgeous, but need more of that clear dildo opening you up to get me hard.’
And from a bisexual tattoo artist in Oregon, ‘Would love to bury my face between your thighs.’
And from the couple who kept their own record of their swinging lifestyle, ‘Love it when you wear garters.’
The usual suspects, and a few newcomers, some of whom didn’t even read English and responded in what she guessed was Swedish.
She kept scrolling, contemplating her Sunday performance, when, in the midst of the adoration, a startling phrase caught her eye.
‘Keyes Tower?’
Her blood ran cold as she read on.
‘Can’t believe it. So close. PMed you. Please message me back.’
Keyes Tower.
Her office building.
Someone had recognised it.
Finger shaking, Carrie deleted the comment and dropped her phone back in her purse.
The next few minutes stretched on. She leaned on her cart feeling frozen.
Someone, some stranger, knew where to find her.
* * *
As soon as she threw open her front door she dropped her bags and headed straight for the computer. The damn machine seemed to take for ever to boot up. She clicked the shortcut for her blog and enlarged the last photo she had taken that afternoon.
She had been so eager to take her pictures that she didn’t think about the view from the window. And there it was, behind the lewd woman in the pictures. It was barely noticeable in the corner, but unmistakable to anyone who worked or played downtown: the domed clock tower that squatted in the centre of the city. Behind it, the signal masts from the fortress in the background.
As careful as she had been to turn off geotagging, as careful as she had been to show as little of her apartment as possible, she had given herself away with a single landmark.
Carrie rested her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her hands.
Could it really have been so thrilling just hours ago when she took that picture? Could she really have been flooded with glee over being adored as she stood in the grocery lineup? And now she felt sick.
Since starting her blog, since becoming Maggie, Carrie had been careful to keep the persona separate from her true self. It was why she never showed her face. She wanted the adoration. She wanted the fantasy. She wanted to keep her obsession behind drawn curtains and locked doors.
Someone knew where to find her.
She sat back in her chair and placed her hand over the mouse. Click here, click there, and she reached her account page.
The arrow hovered over the delete button.
Stupid.
She could hear herself talking to Frank that night he had pulled out his camera. ‘No, I’m serious. Once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. Would you want the whole world seeing you sucking a dick?’ It had become a joke at the time, and in the end she’d agreed to let him take the video, but whenever she thought of it she wondered if he had deleted it when they’d called it quits, or if it was still on the memory card. Or maybe he had uploaded it. If his attempts at sexting after the break-up had been any indication, he probably still had it tucked away somewhere on his hard drive. When they had been together she had trusted he wouldn’t, but now, well, since she didn’t know Frank as well as she thought …
This picture, the one that told the world exactly where she had been when she took the picture, was out there. Even if she took it down, even if she deleted her account, it was out there, and whoever had contacted her would still know she had taken that picture in Keyes Tower.
She went to her private messages, scrolled through the junk she usually ignored and found the message with the header ‘Keyes Bldg’.
Carrie opened the message but didn’t read it, not at first. She needed a minute to brace herself for whatever the message contained, and so she dragged her groceries into the kitchen. She went to the bedroom and changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She poured herself a glass of wine, gulped down half right there at the counter, and returned to the living room and to the message.
‘First of all, don’t freak out. I’m not some creepy pervert trying to stalk you, it read. I work in an office about two blocks from where the picture was taken and recognised the view. I’ve been reading your blog for about two months now and wondering who in the hell you were. I’d love to find out in person. It’s not every day I get a chance to meet my fantasy woman. Below is a little something for you to put us both on the same level. Message me – B.’
Her heart in her throat, she clicked the link.
A video came up, frozen for a moment before starting, and then Carrie was looking at a man’s torso. He was well built, lean and muscled, with a tattoo on his shoulder – she couldn’t make out what it was. The screen wobbled, and the next thing she saw was a tanned woman with large breasts. She was on her back, thighs parted to show off a plump mound with a landing strip leading up from dark pussy lips. The camera panned lower, and the man’s cock came into view.
The woman cooed as he worked the tip in. The camera went in and out of focus as he began to fuck her, his cock wetter with each withdrawal. His pace picking up quickly as breathy sounds came across metallic through Carrie’s shitty computer speakers. He pumped hard and deep. The woman’s moans escalated as he reached down to finger her clit.
The video lasted just under five minutes, culminating with the mouth of the woman’s sex throbbing around his dick. He didn’t come. Instead, the camera panned back and displayed his hard erection hovering over the woman’s flushed pussy.
Carrie closed the video and sat unmoving. She was as wet as the woman in the video had been. The heat between her legs was unbearably hot. As always, with the first hint of her arousal she had the compulsion to reach for the camera and perform, but this time she repressed the urge. Instead, she drank her wine and stood. She was so slippery, and a little ashamed that she could feel the wet evidence that what she had seen had turned her on.
Just like she turned her readers on.
She watched the video again, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth as she gazed at the couple. When the video stopped for a second time, Carrie leaned over and clicked on the profile.
Nothing to indicate gender. Nothing at all, just a generic userpic. Not even a location. Aside from the video, ‘B’ didn’t exist.
Is he the messenger? Or is it her? Did it matter?
‘Unless it’s a crank,’ she said to herself as she returned to the kitchen. ‘Anyone familiar with the city would know the clock on sight.’
Another glass of wine. Another deep gulp. Then, a deflated moment of relief.
The clock, yes. Keyes Tower, specifically? No.
She sank back into her chair and went back to the private message.
The only way to know what she was dealing with was to message him or her back.
She hit reply and began to type.
‘Doesn’t put us on the same level. How do I know that’s you in the video. You could have gotten that anywhere.’
Sent.
She was on her third glass of wine when the reply peeped on her phone. She bypassed it and went for the computer.
‘It’s me. Here’s your proof.’
Attached