by Gabi Moore
Today, I just knew, don’t ask me how but I just knew that there would be entry in the book. Eventually, why not hand all of that over to Todd completely? He could decide exactly what I needed, right down to the last molecule of my body, and he’d know with split second precision when I’d need it, and how.
Why not? He wasn’t a successful businessman for nothing. He was intelligent. An incredibly skilled, competent man. Cruel, sure. A little crazy, absolutely. Violent, oh god yes. But why shouldn’t I imagine that he also had some secret insight into my heart? That he had special knowledge about me, and how my body liked to be touched, and all the ways to tell I was about to come, and just how rough I liked it, and what names I wanted to be called, and even deeper than that, like what was in my sad, trailer trash dump of a soul?
I was sleeping deeply these days. Waking up late, swimming.
I toweled off, casually examined the hedges and flowers ringing the Jacuzzi and then went inside. I knew he had left an entry for me. I was just savoring it. No rush. There were many, many more pages in the book and the pages in Todd’s mind were infinite. There was no end to the things he would have me do, and one way or another, there was something delicious and dirty and hot in my future. So why rush?
I took my time applying my makeup, then lingered on anointing myself with scent and then picking out a good outfit for the day. I went for a silvery sundress, some strappy heels and a wide belt that from some angles looked like a slender corset. I had a long Hello Kitty pendant necklace nestled between my two pillowy tits, along with some pearls, a pink velvet choker and a ring that was solid platinum but topped with a fuzzy pink pompom, just like the kind the girls in my class used to have on their pencils. The kind I could never afford. I admired myself for ages in the mirror.
Pleased with the general effect, I lazily walked over to the closet, and knelt down to get the black book. The touch of the paper on my skin was, in my mind, blended with the touch of his skin. Turning the pages instantly gave me goosebumps, in other words. I turned to the latest entry.
Todd is teaching me so much. I love him. I’m so grateful that he is helping me, and showing me just exactly how to be the perfect sex slave, the perfect whore for him. I’m so glad I have him to look out for me, and to discipline me. But still, I have a lot to learn.
Tomorrow, he has arranged for me to do a special video shoot. Todd has told some porn producers that even though I’m the pretty wife of a successful billionaire hedge fund manager, deep down I’m just a little cum slut. And what I want more than anything in the world is to be filmed doing very, very dirty things with very bad men on camera, so that everyone can see me.
Todd thinks it would be better if we just made our own home movie together, but I insisted, and kept pushing him: I want the world to see me getting taken by some dirty porn stars, and I won’t be happy until I get what I want. We compromised and I said I would wear a mask then. I’ve kept it hidden at the top of my dresser for now. I hope he likes it.
I sprang to my feet and went to examine the top of the dresser. Tucked away was an extravagant, slightly scary looking porcelain mask. White and purple, with ribbons on the side and tiny gold rope designs painted over it, it looked like something you’d wear to the carnival in Venice. Attached to the top were two happy looking orange ostrich feathers, but the eyes were hollow and the face kind of dead and scary looking. I hated it.
I tossed it on the bed and paced around a little, trying to think.
This was a new feeling for me. Was I sacred? I wasn’t sure. Todd knew I had always felt weird about porn. Maybe you’ll think I’m nuts, what with everything I’ve told you so far, but it’s the truth: I find porn kind of horrible. And not in a good way.
I went back to the book and read the entry over and over again. Sex slave. Cum slut. Very bad men. Sure, it was hot. It certainly wasn’t that different from what we’d already done. Already said.
But something was also different. This was a longer entry than usual, for one. And the way it was written …I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was kind of irritating. Did he really think of me as his sex slave, for fuck’s sake? I mean, yes, of course he did. That was kind of the point. But wasn’t it just a game, so far? In the mornings when he held me and nibbled my ears and asked if he could take me out somewhere nice …that’s’ not how you treat a sex slave, right? I mean, a real sex slave.
I suddenly felt sick. Sitting down next to that thing didn’t help either. I’m no idiot. I knew what I was doing. I hurt him. I know I did. And I owed it to him now to work it out on his side, in whatever sick ways he wanted to. But he loved me, at the end of everything. Didn’t he?
I looked over at the mask, and it was just staring up at the ceiling. Like a robot with no feelings. Like Todd. And it was what I needed to be, tomorrow, when the “very bad men” turned up. I had to be blank. Pretty, but empty. No expression except whatever I was hiding on the inside. I gingerly took it in my hands and lifted it to my face, pressing its hollow features against my own. It was claustrophobic. Immediately, I felt like crying.
I flung it back on the bed. Just calm down, Natty. Just relax.
I went back to the book and read it a third time, and a fourth. Over and over again, looking for …I don’t know what. It was different.
On a whim, I closed the closet door and went into the hall. His bedroom. There would be something in there, surely? I marched down the passageway, flung open the big doors and looked at his immaculate bedroom. He hadn’t sleep in here for weeks, not since everything changed, but even if he had been sleeping in here, it was late enough that he would be at work, the maids already whisking the place back into shape and making it look hotel-room perfect again.
I looked in the side drawers. Nothing. Under the bed. Nothing. Fine, I would have to look in his closet then. I flipped through his suits, opened a few shoe boxes and combed through every last drawer. Nothing.
Just so you know, rich people frequently sleep in separate rooms, so don’t judge me about that. If you could, wouldn’t you? This house is big enough, honestly, for three rooms for us each with some to spare, but nevermind. And in case you were wondering another thing: I didn’t feel bad about snooping. After all, didn’t he do it to me, regularly? Isn’t that just how things were for us now?
I looked everywhere in the en suite bathroom. Nothing. Feeling a little deflated, and still not able to shake that weird feeling of that creepy mask looking at me, I flopped down on the bed and tried to think for a second. And then I saw it. The thing I was looking for. I hadn’t realized it until I saw it there, tucked elaborately into the lamp shade, but it was definitely what I wanted, when I came in here sort-of-snooping.
I pried it loose. A diary. His diary.
Why had I never considered it before, that he might also have his secrets? I frowned and looked at it: no bigger that my outstretched hand, covered in soft moleskin that looked raw and crinkled along the same line in the front where it was bent open again and again. I opened it.
For a second, I forgot that this handwriting wasn’t, in fact, my own. It was the same sharp, masculine hand that now filled the pages of my diary, but even without reading I could tell that this was something different entirely. Todd had written this. When? Why?
God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another.
I stared at these words on the first page, confused. I flipped the page and then saw some unintelligible sums – simple additions of small amounts, but without a dollar sign, I couldn’t be sure it was money they were referring to.
There were also what looked like passwords, and maybe usernames? Just strings of numbers, and some random letters. My eyes stuck on “NAT999”. What was this shit?
I turned the page.
As I read, it felt like the heat from the bulb was growing stronger somehow. Either that or this book had broken me out into a sweat. These were Todd’s secrets, but I couldn’t quite decipher them yet. As I had done so many times these last few weeks, I fl
ipped through to the final entry.
It’s done. The stage is set. On the 5th March, it’ll all be over.
I dropped the diary like it was poisonous.
Today was March 4th.
Chapter Eighteen - Todd
Making your money in porn was certainly one way to go about things, I had to give him that.
Michael Barker was smaller in person than I imagined, but certainly no different than any of the men I worked with on a daily basis. Money is always money. Sex is sex. And people, sadly, are always people.
Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of watching it. The women all seem cheap and disinterested. And there’s just something so inherently deceptive about the whole thing. But mine was a minority opinion, clearly. Michael Barker had made millions peddling this crap, and that was something I could respect.
What I was having a little trouble with was how shitty his offices were. We sat in some dingy back room with computers set up at each of three corners on leaning IKEA tables, cables all a mess and the printer sitting on the floor. On one wall was a giant block mounted shot of some woman I didn’t recognize, laughing and licking the tip of a bronze award statue. The quintessential casting couch, I’m sorry to report, was actually a fold out futon with a few slats broken on the bottom. Michael Barker might have been making a killing, but he obviously didn’t like to waste a cent on the non-essentials.
“You want a drink?” he said, offering me a small shot glass.
I waved him off. I shudder to think where those shot glasses had been.
“Hey, no need for formalities here, I understand you’re a finance man, well, then let’s talk money,” he said and smiled broadly. He came to sit beside me on the sagging futon. It was something the guys at the office would have hosed themselves to see. Pity all of this had to be kept a mortal secret.
“Well, like I mentioned, money’s no object here,” I said, trying to sit as upright as I could. From the room next door, I heard the unmistakable sound of a woman moaning.
“Are you…?”
“Filming? Yes. Our busy times are in the mornings. The light’s just better.”
Ah, the smut merchant, dealing in darkness, talking about the quality of the light.
“But don’t worry, nobody will come back here, it’s just you and I. One hundred percent discretion guaranteed,” he said and winked at me. I felt dirty.
“Aw, come on man, I’m playing. You’d be surprised how often I have to arrange these sorts of things, honestly. Relax.”
I smiled coldly at him and reached for my briefcase, handing him a pile of documents.
“I had my lawyer look over them. They’ve been signed. You should find everything in there,” I said, and clicked the latch of the briefcase closed.
“Thanks.” He put them on the desk behind him.
The moaning in the next room was getting louder. Unmistakable.
I raised an eyebrow at him.
“That’s Ocean’s 11 Inches …Bunny Jones. You’d be surprised how much we make off parodies,” he said, chuckling.
I laughed.
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. American Booty. Gulp Fiction. Gangbangs of New York. After, uh, ‘private requests’ like yours, most of our revenue comes from parodies.”
“Charming.”
“You wanna watch?” he said, placing his empty glass on the table.
“Not really my thing.”
He looked at me quizzically, something strange in his expression, then shrugged and poured himself another.
“Cool, I get that. Can I ask you something though?”
“Sure.”
“Why not just use my cameramen? No offense here, but they’ll have better equipment…”
“It’s outlined in the contract I just gave you. My cameramen. We discussed this.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get that. Just curious about why.”
I took a deep breath and immediately she sprung into my mind. The moans of the woman next door could almost, nearly, if I tried hard enough, be hers. And tomorrow, they would be hers. Except, if everything went to plan, she’d be making other sounds besides.
He was staring at me again, furrowing his brow.
“It’s just that …why pay me at all, you know? I gotta ask. You don’t want any of my performers. You don’t want my camera crew. I have to say, I’m not the only guy in New York with a studio, you know? Why not just use your house…?”
“Have I made myself unclear in any way?” I said.
“I’m sorry?”
“My requirements of you. Have I explained them clearly?”
“Yeah, sure, just that –”
“And the contract is signed, the fee paid?”
“Yeah.”
“And you can do everything you’ve agreed to? You can guarantee complete privacy and anonymity during the specified times?”
“Yes, of course, but–”
“Then I don’t see any problem here.”
He smiled a crooked smile at me and shrugged again.
“Look, you’re the boss here, relax. It’s strange, is all. But fine.”
His fee was essentially to ensure that nobody else would be in the studio at the time, no potential witnesses, nobody to interrupt or interfere with anything. Not even him.
I extended my hand and he shook it, then we both stood.
“You sure you don’t wanna …you know? The girls love a guy in a suit, I swear.”
I smiled at him and gestured toward the source of the moans. I followed him and he lead me through an ordinary looking door and into a brightly lit studio. Two naked bodies took center stage in the bright white light and a full filming crew surrounded them, each craning large and expensive looking cameras to the naked pair. He was right. His crew did have some impressive looking equipment. But no matter. My camera crew didn’t need anything high tech. Not for this assignment, at least.
The woman wasn’t what I was expecting. She was small, tiny actually, dark haired and wearing an incredible amount of makeup. Young, too. It felt awful, to see her there, but despite myself, I was a little excited. I swallowed hard as Michael beckoned me to come in quietly and stand at the back. Nothing filled the room except the almost clinical sound of the lights and cameras whirring and humming, and her endless, plastic moaning.
She was standing at a ‘kitchen’ counter, hands outstretched, ass pushing backwards into a muscular guy behind her. From behind the cameras, I couldn’t see anything. But I could hear it, which was somehow worse, and I could see her long brown hair shaking as the muscled guy slapped against her again and again, grabbing handfuls of her ass flesh and pulling her down onto him. It was bizarre. And dispassionate. And yes, oddly arousing.
The woman turned to look at the guy, her lips curled into a half growl, half grimace, and in a split second, her eyes floated away from him and out into the room, falling square on my face. I blushed hot but in an instant, she looked away again, as though nothing had happened. The moaning continued.
“See? I told you they love the suits” Michael whispered loudly and prodded my ribs.
I looked on, hands in my pockets. At that moment, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I glanced down. Natasha. Excusing myself, I slipped into the corridor and answered it.
“Natty.”
“Hey. It’s me. Where are you?” she said.
“Uh, I’m with a client. Just finishing up a meeting. Everything OK?” I said. Her voice sounded strange and distant.
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Just …wanted to know when you’d be home.”
“Home? Um, I don’t know. Nine? I’ll let you know.”
The line went quiet. It almost crackled with her irritation.
“Was there anything else?” I asked, instantly realizing how dismissive I sounded. But fuck it, she had caught me by surprise.
“Well …no, I guess not. Oh my God, what is that noise?” she said, and I cringed as the woman inside the room started yelping even louder.
“It’s …it’s nothing. I’m with a client. We’re at a …strip club. His idea. Long story. Look, I’ve gotta go.”
I could hear her breathing. How tacky. How fucking awful. That someone like her would have suspicions about me. But whatever. I hated lying to her, but tomorrow everything would be revealed. Once and for all.
“It doesn’t sound like a strip club,” she said.
I said nothing.
“Fine. Whatever. See you later,” she said, and then hung up.
Fuck.
I stuffed the phone back into my pocket.
“Everything OK?”
Michael was poking his head round the corner.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Tamara asked who the hunk in the suit was” he said, laughing.
I scowled at him.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Fine. One hundred percent discretion,” he said, and made a mock salute.
I shook his hand and tried to gather myself.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter Nineteen - Natasha
I hate being left alone with my thoughts. Scratch that – I hate being left alone, period.
Waiting for today, I had stressed myself nearly half to death. Should I mention to him what I found? Was I about to get my true ‘punishment’ once and for all? What on earth had possessed me to agree to any of this …hadn’t I told myself that I could leave any time I wanted to?
Maybe it was all some long-winded, sinister prank. He would sweet talk me, make me feel like all was forgiven and forgotten, and just as I was at my most vulnerable, he’d pull the rug out from under me. But how? More humiliation? Or was I about to find my way into a ditch on the city outskirts with two bullets in my head? I knew that men like him had connections. I knew things could happen. Did happen.
