Total Exposure

by JA Huss

  Right?

  But isn’t that what people do these days? Anonymous sex?

  It’s right up my alley, so to speak. I mean… I’m the one who won’t know anything, but as I have determined after one very expensive therapy, I’m seeking the anonymous. Or was. Anyway. I want to be seen now. But what’s one more night, right?

  I take a deep breath and turn around, looking straight up at the camera. “I want to see this Jordan guy. I think you made him up. It’s some kind of trick.”

  Silence from the intercom and the camera doesn’t even have the decency to blink a red light at me to let me know he’s paying attention.

  “I said,” I say, louder this time, “I want to meet him. Not at your leisure, but tomorrow. I need to know more about this treatment plan. What he’s doing. Whether or not this was all approved by Lucinda. Or if this is just your sick, twisted idea of mind games.”

  My answer is silence.

  I exhale and walk back over to the bed, the note still clutched in my hand. Balled up and scrunched.

  I read it again. And again, and again, and again until I’ve got it memorized. I throw it across the room and it slides under a dresser. Disappears.

  His commands cycle through my thoughts, over and over again as I wrestle with the decision that must be made.

  Yes. I do what he says.

  No. I don’t.

  Yes, I stay in the game.

  No. I forfeit.

  Do I want to win? I don’t even know what that means. “I just want to play my show,” I whisper. Mostly to myself, but he probably heard me. “I just want to walk out of the house like a normal human being. I want to feel the sun on my face and laugh at people’s dumb jokes. And not be afraid. And… live. That’s all. Why does it seem so far away? Why does it all seem so hard?”

  The telltale crackle of the intercom makes me look up, hopeful. But then… nothing. He doesn’t reply. Just leaves me to figure it out on my own.

  I try to rationalize what’s happening. It’s treatment. All this, to the best of my knowledge, has been prescribed by my doctor. A woman who has reminded me over and over and over that she’s some know-it-all professional in the field of weird psychological phobias.

  It’s a lie. Not her, or her credentials. The rationalization that’s going on here. I cannot even imagine that she knows what’s happening inside this house. And the really disturbing thing is… I’m rationalizing not calling her with the fact that I broke my phone.

  I mean come on, Evangeline! You are sick! Because a normal person would walk out the door and keep going until she got home, whatever that took, and call up her therapist and demand to know just what the fuck is going on!

  Sure. I have this fear of being watched. But it’s night now. I’ve already come up with an escape plan. All I’d have to do is implement it. Just leave, walk until I find a phone at a local bar or an all-night grocery store, call my building concierge, and end this madness immediately.

  That might even cure me, for fuck’s sake. I mean… really. It’s a big, huge, monumental step that requires a whole lot of participation.

  The intercom crackles again. Another tease, because that’s all it does.

  He’s reminding me that he’s here. As if I’d forget that little detail.

  Why can’t I make a decision?

  Because I want to say yes even though I know I should say no.

  One. Look up at the camera.

  I do. I look at all of them. Holding each in my gaze for several seconds before going to the next.

  Two. Take off your clothes. Slowly. Never breaking eye contact.

  My hand goes to the hem of the cashmere white sweater. The sweater he told me to put on this morning. I hesitate, my heart racing with a staccato beat that makes me long for the past. For the sad nights alone where no one expected anything of me.

  With much reluctance, I admit I’m still here because of the possibility of sex with a complete stranger who gets to watch me. Like a voyeur. And he’s probably jacking off right now. His hand is slowly pumping his cock, his eyes on me—only me—as I sort through the kind of person I am.

  And then I just do it. I just do it. Because I’m her. That person who stays in this kind of situation because she’s turned on by it. Because she’s sick in more ways than one. And she doesn’t even care.

  Why live anymore? Why live if you’re just gonna deny yourself everything? Everything. The music, the people, the pleasures.

  There is no point to life if that’s all there is.

  Both hands reach for my hem and the sweater comes up. I have my eyes trained on the camera directly in front of me. I only break contact for a moment when the sweater goes over my head, but my eyes return as I toss it to the floor.

  I exhale as I stand up, my fingers reaching for the button on my gray slacks, and a moment later, down they fall. Pooling in a puddle of fabric at my feet. I kick off my shoes and step out. Stand there for his inspection. Looking at the faceless, blank lens like I might find answers in there.

  The intercom crackles, as if to say, Keep going.

  So I do. And I do it all slowly, just like he asked. Fingertips on the strap of my bra as I slide it over my shoulder. Then the other side, until the straps are loose on my upper arms and my breasts are heavy in the black lace, begging to be released.

  I want to close my eyes now. Pretend I’m in the darkness and not illuminated by the glow of the child’s moon light on the bedside table. I reach behind for the clasp and then they are free. The lace drops to the floor on top of my pants, next to my sweater. My nipples are peaking rigid in the coolness, my heart thumping now. Not sharp staccato, but the hard banging of a percussionist hitting a bass drum.

  I swallow hard as my fingertips find the edge of lace on my black panties and ease them over my hips.

  The spot between my legs—the one that’s been neglected for so long—throbs. So much faster than my heart. A deep-seated longing that wants what it wants so badly, I’ve gone far, far past the point of no return.

  I bend down, step out, never taking my gaze off his black stare from the lens, and let him look.

  “Like this?” I ask, my body so ready for more, I feel a climax coming even though no one is touching me. Even though I’m not even touching myself.

  It’s the watching that turns me on.

  My own personal voyeur.

  His own personal entertainment.

  We’re both pretty sick.

  I breathe deeply. Panting to keep my body from doing the unthinkable. I cannot come like this. I cannot, I cannot…

  The intercom crackles once more, reminding me there’s more to do if I want my reward.

  So I turn towards the bed, placing my hands and knees on the soft, down comforter, and crawl to the headboard. One hand searches under the pillow, finds a slip of silk, and pulls it out.

  A man’s necktie. Black.

  My blindfold.

  I place it over my eyes, tying it tightly in the back, and feel an immediate relief.

  I can’t see anything now.

  I can pretend now.

  The song of birds pipes through some speaker. Not the intercom, because there’s no crackle. The music is soft, and sweet, and reminds me of warm sunny days as I lie back on the bed, my legs straight. My arms at my side. And I wait.

  Because he’s coming now and this is the signal that I’ve given him permission to do whatever he wants.

  Only moments later I hear footsteps coming up the stairs just outside the open doors.

  I take several shallow breaths, trying to calm myself down, but it doesn’t work. My heart is playing its own song now. A combination of quick and hard. A symphony of dark and light. Here and there. Quick, then slow, then quick, quick, quick as he enters the room and lets out a breath that I imagine is… satisfaction.

  “What—”

  “Shhhh,” he corrects me.

  The mattress dips with his weight. His leg, or hip, or back touches my bare leg, sending an uncont
rollable shiver up my whole body. My nipples, already peaked and ready, find another level of arousal when his fingertips brush lightly across one.

  I respond with a pool of hot wetness between my legs and I know it’s impossible, but I feel that feeling again. The one where I think I might come. Like I’m so close and if—

  “Shhhh,” he says again, his gentle caress turning into a firm squeeze of my breast to pull me back from the edge.

  I’m cold, but I don’t care. So cold I begin to shiver. But he continues with the tease, his fingertips brushing back and forth across my nipple, almost flicking it, but not quite. Not hard, so soft. Too soft. So that the feeling begins to build again and I have to gulp air.

  He takes one of my hands, his body turning on the bed so he can continue what he’s doing to my breast with his other hand, and he places it between his legs. Pressing my hand up against his jeans so I can feel his hard cock. He makes me rub him. Slowly, the way he’s caressing me. Back and forth as his dick grows with my insatiable desire.

  His breathing is heavy now too. And I want to scream at him. Tell him to do more. Touch me everywhere. Be fast. Fuck me hard and—

  “Shhhh,” he says, but this time it’s got an edge to it. Like he’s driving himself as wild as he’s driving me.

  He presses my hand into his cock and I can’t stand it anymore. I squeeze him through the soft fabric of his jeans. He moans and I swear, I will just come all on my own if he—

  His fingertips stop the tease at my nipple and trace a light, soft trail down to my ribs. I suck in air and scissor my legs, pressing the folds of my pussy together, searching for the sweet spot that will put me out of my misery. But his other hand is there, hard, as he pushes down on my thigh, telling me in no uncertain terms that I need to be still.

  Lie still, was his last command.

  And I want to obey right now. Because if he gets up and walks out—

  His hand presses on my inner thigh, spreading me open.

  God, yes. This is what I want. Put your mouth there, I want to scream. Put your fingers inside me. Lick me until I explode.

  He leans down, his hot breath skimming across the skin of my stomach, and he kisses my belly.

  Breathing is difficult for both of us now.

  My chest is heaving. Up and down as I take air in and out.

  I squeeze his cock as my other hand slips over my thigh and right between my legs. It bumps into his hand and I grab for it, greedily, and place him where he needs to be.

  His fingers slide inside, instantly becoming slick and wet. I make him pump, in and out, and then he slips another one inside me. Then another, stretching my pussy open as he presses his face into my stomach, licking his way down until his mouth clamps around my clit and sucks.

  I let go of his hand and grab his hair, pushing him into me. My hips buck up and down with the rhythm of his movements like I’m fucking him.

  His hips respond too as I clutch his cock hard, massaging him through his jeans.

  And then, before either of us can stop it, we grunt, and moan, and pant through the release. I come all over his fingers. He comes in his pants, the hot wet evidence leaking through the fabric as I continue to hold on to him.

  I sigh, breathing hard, my legs closing on his hand and head involuntarily as the relief washes through my body in shuddering waves.

  He rolls to the side, his whole body on the bed with me, but in some unknown position that I have to imagine in my mind.

  I turn my body automatically into his. He kisses me on the soft spot right above my clit, then moves up my body, his legs straddling mine, his arms on either side of my head as he climbs on top of me.

  God, I want him. All of him. I’m ready to go again. And his dick is still hard enough for me to feel the bulge as he rubs his hips back and forth across mine.

  He lowers his head, kissing my neck, then my ear, then my cheek, and my nose, and finally my lips.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, barely a whisper. “I’m gonna let you see Jordan. But only if you do as I say.”

  “Can I ask him—”

  “No,” he says, cutting me off. “You can watch him, Evangeline. The way I watch you. But that’s it. For now.”

  He gets up, leaving my spent body trembling but still wanting more. And a moment later I know I’m alone again, because I’m cold.

  Chapter Twenty - Ixion

  I make my way down three stories of stairs, ignoring the call of Galaga and Pac-Man, enter the code to get into the control room, push through, and close it behind me, not slamming, of course.

  Mustn’t fuck things up that bad.

  I flop down in the chair in front of the screen and immediately my fingers are on the keyboard, pulling up the footage of what just happened on the far left screen, while simultaneously zooming in on the center screen and adjusting the night vision setting so I can see her lying in bed.

  She still hasn’t moved.

  It didn’t take me long to get down here, but a couple minutes at least.

  Why is she still lying there?

  I zoom in further, until the resolution can’t resolve and her face is a mess of pixels that make no sense.

  Is she crying? I won’t be able to go through with it if she’s crying.

  She still has the makeshift blindfold on, so I can’t really tell. I scan her cheeks for almost a minute, just waiting for something to happen.

  But she stays still.

  Do I need to tell her she can move?

  I’m just about to reach for the intercom when she sits up and pulls the tie down her face, so it’s around her neck. I zoom out so she’s in perfect focus again, and we stare at each other.

  Her looking at me through the black lens of the camera mounted on the fireplace mantel at the foot of her bed. Me looking at her through the filter of green night vision.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I know who you are,” she says back. Even though I didn’t say that into the intercom.

  It sends a chill along the nape of my neck that I can’t seem to shake.

  She swings her feet over the side of the bed, her naked body highlighted in bright green instead of the creamy white she is in real life. She stands, baring her sexy physique to the voyeur on the other end of the lens, and whispers something so low, I can’t make it out.

  And she reaches over to the moon nightlight, finds the manual switch on the cord, and turns out the lights.

  I watch her—I can still see her in the night vision, and it’s my job to watch her, anyway—as she pulls the covers back on the bed, gets in, and hides.

  I lean back in my chair and let out a long breath.

  It’s a dangerous game I’m playing. There are a lot of things at stake. But I just don’t seem to care. Jordan is the perfect addition to the chessboard. A play for checkmate if ever there was one.

  I spend the next thirty minutes rewinding the footage of what we just did up in her bedroom.

  I obsess over every breath she takes. Tormented by her small whimpers and moans as I eat her pussy. Haunted by her need. Consumed with the idea of what will come next.

  It’s only after I start to get hard again that I realize I’m still wearing come-stained jeans.

  That shakes me out of it, but only long enough to wander over to the pile of clothes I stacked in the corner the second day I was here and pull on some cut-off sweats.

  I take off my shirt, sit back in my chair, and rewind. Again, and again, and again. My hand inside my sweats, on my cock, pumping up and down as I think about how all this is gonna end.

  Not caring.

  There’s so many more plays to make before we get to the end, it’s not even time to care.

  I come into my hand, gushing more than should be possible after emptying myself earlier, then get up, wipe myself off with the t-shirt I just took off, and settle back into my chair to watch her.

  She wants to watch too.

  I’m feeling generous, I guess. Because I’m gonna give her that gi
ft.

  When he asks me why, I’ll tell him I didn’t plan it. It’s the truth. I didn’t come here and accept this job to fuck with Jordan. It was just an opportunity, I’ll say. Just another move in the game.

  Besides, Evangeline’s into it. She obviously gets off on being watched and there was no way to miss the breathless excitement when I offered her Jordan up as a potential target. And the way I see it, what better way to cure her, right? Let her switch places for once. Be the watcher instead of the watched.

  When I’m sure she’s asleep and there’s nothing more to be seen tonight, I reach for my phone, find Jordan’s contact, and press his number.

  “Yeah,” he says, after the first ring.

  “What do you think of this girl?” I ask.

  “In what way?” he asks. He sounds distracted—or maybe annoyed—and I can hear him shuffling papers around, like he’s still at the office or maybe working from home.

  “Do you think she’s pretty?”

  “I’ve only seen pictures of her, and none of them were very telling. So”—I can practically hear him shrug—“fuck if I know. Fuck if I care, either. And neither should you. I’m not paying you to care if she’s pretty.”

  “You know, you’re pretty cocky for a guy who holds no cards.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  Yeah, I think to myself. I’m here all right.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Obviously you’re calling, asking what I think of this girl, for a reason. So what happened?”

  “Nothing,” I say, thankful that didn’t come out defensive. “She’s just… wound up tight, ya know.”

  “Bottled the fuck up,” Jordan says. “Which is why we’re here. Push her to face her fear. I’m surprised she stayed, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Lucinda told me she’s been locked away in her apartment for like ten years.”

  “Lucinda,” I say. “That’s the doctor. Evangeline’s mentioned her.”

  Now it’s not a shrug I detect. It’s a stiffening. “Tell me you did not talk to her, Ixion. I will be so fucking pissed off—”

  “Relax,” I say, my eyes darting to the screen in front of me just in time to see her turn over in bed and stick her foot out from under the covers. She must be hot. “She was talking to the cameras.”