by W. Winters
There’s something … suspenseful about it. The man she was with in the thumbnail watches in the background, his gaze mostly focused on Maggie, but it shifts to Ella as the two women clink cocktail glasses filled with a pink liquid. Over the pounding music, you can barely make out their laughter.
Though they’re standing in the bar, it doesn’t seem sleazy or even staged, the way most porn on the internet appears. Two women, flirting innocently with each other. Every so often, their eyes go to people outside the frame. I keep the volume down low, really low, but when they speak and I miss what was said, I have to turn it up a notch and then another.
There’s not an ounce of shame. And from what I gather on the site, this isn’t professional and nothing Ella would be paid for. This isn’t her job, it’s her life, her wants and desires.
I wonder if she knew it was being filmed. There’s no doubt when she stares at the camera, not more than a handful of seconds later, blushing and leaning closer to Maggie to whisper in her ear, all the while keeping her eyes on the camera, that she knows.
A genuine enjoyment shines in her eyes. It sparks in Maggie’s too.
“More drinks!” she shouts out of nowhere, downing the beverage in her hand through the thin black straw. The video continues with the two of them dancing, drinking, and Ella finding herself between two men. The front of one whose face is never shown, and the tall, cleanly shaven black man who towers over her. I wonder if he was her fiancé. Although I don’t have to wonder for long. Maggie joins them and doesn’t hesitate to kiss the man. She calls him Noah. There’s a possessiveness but then she holds Ella’s gaze, bumping her shoulder into her and the two of them share a sinful look.
And Ella responds to Maggie’s touch. Little shivers. Little glances. And those raised eyebrows at someone else behind the camera. The dancing continues and eventually it’s the two women again, partying and laughing. For a moment it seems like it was all in good fun and there wasn’t a damn thing sordid between any of them. Until they’re at the bar and a conversation takes place.
I’m desperate to know what they’re saying. A little more volume, and—
“—all play,” Ella’s saying, to whoever is holding the camera—a phone, I’m assuming. Judging by how the video is in short snippets, and even then, the camera pans and shakes as one would if it were a phone.
I back it up a few seconds.
“We could all play.” Ella’s grin is a sultry, sparkling thing. “You know I don’t mind playing.”
A male voice answers her from behind the camera. “Be careful now, kitten.” My blood heats at the nickname. Kitten.
Maggie’s squeal of delight comes with her toppling forward into the frame, a coiled muscular arm wrapping around her waist to keep her steady. “Noah!”
“You better get your girl,” jokes a male voice I haven’t heard yet. A deep one. If I had to guess, it would be the man from earlier. Answering my guess, he comes into the screen. Noah, Maggie and Ella … but who’s the fourth? I pause, rubbing my eyes and then flicking back through the security cameras.
Is he her fiancé? There’s no ring on her finger. My mind races with dates and information I gathered from comments. This must be a video from before. I wonder if Ella isn’t the one who uploaded these. I wonder if she doesn’t want them available any longer. I wonder, for a moment and then another, if she thinks it was a mistake. But there’s no doubt in my mind that if a woman with her wealth didn’t want these available, they’d vanish. Just like all media of Ella from the last two years seems to have vanished.
At this point, lines haven’t been crossed. I could stop while I’m ahead and read the damn file.
My better judgment tells me not to continue. For my own damn good. With the click of my thumb, I refuse the warning, and watch the scene continue.
Ella pouts subtly, the expression so cute on her lips that it crushes some hidden part of my chest. She shrugs and says, “I’m just having fun.”
Maggie’s thick curls falling down her front, she rests her head on Ella’s shoulder to whisper, “I’m into your kind of fun,” and this time, it’s Maggie’s eyes that find the camera. Biting down on her lower lip, she angles away from the camera, burying her head into Ella’s neck.
The scene at the bar continues in short clips. More drinks, more dancing and accidental bumps into one another. The alcohol flows heavily. That’s one thing I note the most. They’re all drinking, laughing, having a good time.
It’s only when the women glance at the camera that anything at all seems provocative.
This video is made up of multiple segments, most of them of Maggie and Ella. Whoever is holding the camera wants their faces and nothing else.
My body temperature rises, and I strip off the long-sleeved shirt I wore tonight. I’d take off the T-shirt underneath if it wouldn’t be so obviously unprofessional.
Glancing down at the time, it’s only two minutes in when the camera moves to an elevator. Swallowing thickly, I brace myself for what’s coming next.
It’s inevitable. The four of them together, the girls laughing and teasing the camera. Swingers, maybe? Fuck buddies? I anticipate them kissing in the closed space.
That’s what’s logically next and surprisingly, I don’t want to stop it.
She wants this.
At least in the moment she did. Her dark chestnut gaze is filled with lust as the man behind the camera steps in beside her and the sound of the doors closing accompanies giddy, feminine laughter from Maggie.
It’s undeniable that I’m just as worked up in this moment as each of them.
Damn, I want her. I want to reach through the screen and put my hands on her hips. I want to run my thumbs over her jaw and feel that flirtatious smirk. I want to corner her in, a hand on each side of the steel wall behind her and feel the vibrations of her voice when she laughs, which she does often. Again and again in these videos. It’s sexy as hell, and taunting—a subtle game they’re playing.
It’s sexy as fuck. Portraying the act of seduction. If I were there, confined in that space, I’d punish her for it, for allowing everyone to see. I want it all for me.
She’d have to beg me for even considering letting anyone else see that look in her eye, if she were my submissive. I’m rock hard imagining it and contemplating if I would allow it.
With an undertone of something else, something familiar, Ella gets this look in her eyes when she looks at the camera the second the doors close. “James?” She says his name then, almost as if asking permission, or maybe to make sure everything is all right. There’s no doubt he’s her partner in this. He replies easily and with a tone of approval, “Good girl, kitten.”
The phrase brings a glint to her dark eyes, sparking a fire in their depths.
It makes my pulse race. It makes my skin tense. I don’t let myself dwell on it for long.
Not that I’m given a chance. The next scene cuts to explicit pornography without any easing into it.
Maggie’s slender legs are wrapped around James’s waist on the right side of the screen as he thrusts into her. Her eyes are closed in ecstasy and she moans in short staccato cadence in time with the pounding of his hips meeting hers. On the left side of the same bed, Ella is on her knees, her fingers digging into the sheets and Maggie’s hand grips hers. Behind Ella, Noah fucks her mercilessly. It’s zoomed out, so details are obscure, but not so much that the full picture isn’t painted.
“Fuck,” Ella breathes into the pillow before biting down on it. Her face is flushed and her full breasts sway with each punishing thrust. Noah’s fingers dig into her hips, keeping her exactly where he wants her. A thin lather of sweat glistens from his shoulders. The men’s backs are to the camera, leaving the women exposed to the viewer. As Ella’s head is thrown back, her gaze meets the lens, and in that moment, she screams out her orgasm.
As much as I want to focus on her, I don’t miss how James’s concentration moves to Ella in that moment. His gaze stays on her as she calls out her release, balling up
the sheets and bringing them closer to her chest. With her head buried in the blankets, Noah races for his own pleasure, fucking her harder and faster.
James takes it as his cue to reposition Maggie, bringing her calves to his shoulder and climbing up higher on the bed until her knees are at her shoulders and her dark eyes go wide. The cords in her neck tighten and she no longer reaches to Ella to hold her hand. Instead, her nails dig into James’s back as he eases into her, slowly at first and then deeper, faster, taking Maggie closer to a dangerous edge.
“Yes, yes,” Maggie chants between clenched teeth, her pitch getting higher as she fuels James on and he picks up his pace, fucking her relentlessly.
Ella claws across the bed, barely holding on as she writhes under Noah, who slams inside of her, finding his own release.
My cock aches with need at the sight of her drowning in pleasure.
With all of them breathing heavily, lips meet the curves of the women’s necks and then their panting slows and small pecks turn deeper. Ella and Maggie got what they wanted. All four of them in one hotel room.
Swapping partners, and once again, they each seek out the camera.
It’s porn, what I’m looking at. Homemade porn. No one would call it anything else. I anticipate that being the end but as James stands, it becomes apparent he isn’t finished. I size up the man and find him not lacking in both stature and frame. He’s classically handsome, dark hair, a clean shave like Noah, preppy even. Toned but not overly muscular. The video captures him pulling off the condom as Noah and Maggie help each other dress. The profile of the two of them kissing blocks my view of Ella, but from the bits that can be seen, she’s thrown the covers over herself.
As James’s condom falls to a trash can tucked under a desk on the other side of the room, Noah lets out a rough huff of a laugh.
“You cheated,” Noah comments from across the room and he’s met with a smirk from James. Fully clothed, he nods at a naked James. “You definitely took a V.”
James only huffs a laugh before reaching for the phone. Again I expect the video to end, but it doesn’t.
“Night, love,” James says and the sound of a single kiss is heard. The camera faces a blank wall as they all bid their farewells.
I’m hard as a rock.
Watching her. Watching them. One moment brings my thoughts to a screeching halt. Her ex is leaning over her on the bed. His hand goes to her throat, and Ella takes a breath. One breath. One arch of her back. And I know. I know it for a fact, what she likes, what she wants.
What I could give to her.
And what I can never give to her.
Fuck.
The rustling of the sheets is heard and the camera is positioned face up on a pillow, so all that can be seen is the ceiling.
“Spread your legs for me,” James whispers and the camera rocks as James continues to fuck Ella, her sweet moans heard in between sounds of them kissing. It’s all audio for the last minute when it finally ends with the camera falling off the bed and hitting the floor.
I watch them again and again. This video. The one from the bar. Every other video in the set. They span a seven-year period with nearly half of them from the first two years. Then only a video a year, some with two. The bar scene is the last one. Not all of them feature her ex, but he’s there in some capacity for most of them. The night turns to a deep black, black as my soul must be from watching this and confirming my suspicions. The autumn fire of dawn catches in slow increments as I watch and watch and watch.
Once it’s over, I click back to the cameras, flicking through the videos of nothing. Not a damn thing has changed, yet it feels like everything has.
“Hey.”
Damon’s voice scares the living shit out of me, but I control it. I control the startle reflex and the wild hum of my pulse and nod at his silhouette from across the room in the morning light. Rubbing my hands over my face, I play it off as exhaustion. I close the laptop gently as if I’ve been doing the kind of research that involves files and records and interviews. “Hey.” If I were a better man, I’d feel any sort of shame, but at the moment, I don’t.
“She still sleeping?” he asks.
“I haven’t heard any movement.”
He nods. “You’re good to go.”
I don’t wait a second to get the hell out of that room. I want to stay too badly to wait. More than anything, I want to take the steps up to Ella’s bedroom two at a time and show her I understand, at least a little more. I understand the part of her who could use attention that I could give her. At least for a little while. Not forever, because nobody wants a fucked-up prick like me forever. But I could satisfy a part of her that shares reciprocal needs and give us both a much-needed distraction.
Ella
A partner of The Firm will immediately respond to a client’s distress signals by providing one-on-one support. This may include a counseling session, medical attention, or an otherwise agreed-upon mediation.
Today is not a good day. There are good days and there are bad days. “Bad” isn’t a strong enough word for how fucking awful they are, but I suppose it’s the appropriate counter to good.
The moment I woke up, I knew every minute was going to be harder than the last. The moment my eyes opened and I forgot, then remembered … that was my warning. It’s an emptiness that takes over initially. It seeps slowly within me throughout the day, making the tips of my fingers cold at first and then it spreads. My mouth turns dry, my stomach empty but I don’t wish to fill it. I don’t want to be warm, I don’t want my thirst quenched. The only desire is to sit in it, to feel that desolation so as to ensure I won’t forget again. Because how could I have possibly forgotten? How could I not wake up every day and feel that loss?
Tears prick at the back of my already tired eyes and like always, I ignore them. I don’t allow anything to fall. I’ve never been a fan of crying. Not since I was a little girl and the videos of me mourning my mother being taken from me, her subsequent suicide, and my father’s treatment toward me … it all led to useless tears and each video I’d made was played back until I realized how much I truly hated the act of crying. So if I can, I withhold it; I acknowledge the urge, but I don’t like to see the tears fall.
Instead, I blow across the steam of the fifth cup of tea I’ve made today. I thought Damon may have been able to smell the whiskey remnants in the last cup. I thought when he left after he offered to pick up for me and refill it, that he would go check the surveillance feed and discover I’d spiked the drink.
I’ve never held my breath over the judgment of a man I’m not sleeping with, but I’d be damned if I said I didn’t then. All day, he’s given me space, allowed me to simply lie here, the television screen on, yet with only a logo blinking across it since I haven’t pressed play for hours.
Kam slipped me an apology package a couple days ago after our blowup, six little glass bottles of amber warmth. It’s an expensive variety and they fit neatly in the small pocket of my robe. I’ve gone through three so far today. Well, two and a half. The rest of the previous bottle is tucked away beneath the throw pillow under my arm. I hid it there just in case Damon came back with accusations rather than a fresh cup.
Luckily for me, Damon doesn’t suspect anything. If he does, he allows me to have it without mentioning it. Every day, I trust him more. I told him so just yesterday and before he left, he told me every day he trusted me more too. It would be horrid of me to break that trust the very next day.
The thought hovers at the back of my mind as I blow across the tea, feeling the billow of steam tickle the tip of my nose.
I don’t sip; it’s far too hot as it is. The ceramic clinks as I set it down on the mahogany coffee table and lay back into the tan tweed sofa. The walls of the rec room are an off-white hue and if I truly wished to drift off to sleep, I know I would have emptied that little glass bottle just like Alice did on her way to Wonderland. I also would have chosen the much darker sitting room, or the guest bedroom with
its thick velvet curtains.
Choosing the rec room, choosing to prop my head up on the pillow rather than bury my face into the cushion, choosing to turn on the television, although I have amazingly failed at such a simple task of watching a mundane home improvement show that I would have devoured years ago—all of that—proves I’m fighting sleep. The steam drifts from the teacup and I watch it dissipate in the dim light from the sconce on the far wall.
There’s a soft creak of the floorboards behind the entryway and I nearly give in to the instinct to look, but I refuse it. If I make eye contact with Damon or someone else, they’ll ask me questions.
“Do you need anything?” “What is it you want?” “Can I do something to help?”
Every question adds a weight to my chest. I don’t have answers for myself, let alone anyone else. Especially right now, when I’m having trouble fighting back my demons.
Let me be. Let them swallow me whole. Why should they concern themselves with the devil of a hell only I’m invited to?
“There you are.” The rough timbre from behind me is soothing as it caresses every inch of me. I hear him, I feel him; his presence overwhelms me before I even open my eyes.
I don’t want him now, though. Not like this. Not when I’m barely holding on.
My eyes are barely open as I watch him, remaining completely still where I am sprawled across the sofa. I’m aware my robe is open slightly, the delicate silk so easily parted. Beneath it is what I wore to bed last night, a simple chiffon chemise.
I anticipate the questions. At the very least, some variation of, “How are you today?” And when they don’t come, some insecurity I’m not at all comfortable with wonders if he’ll chastise me for my attire. Of all the things in the world, that sneaks to the surface. My father’s scolds reverberate in the back of my skull, springing up from the depths I’d pushed them to decades ago.
My gaze shifts from the hem of my nightgown, where apparently shame resides, to a dark gray fleece blanket that’s gently placed over my body.
