Let Me Watch_A Dark Romance

by Sansa Rayne

  “Yeah, she has,” he says. “But I’ve got it locked down.”

  I nod, taking one of the beers and twisting off the top. “Good. If it gets bad, tell me.”

  “Sure.” He collapses into the modern, gray cloth recliner next to the couch. “Hey, do you remember Dani?”

  “Of course.” My eighteenth birthday changed my life forever. Those times when I feel philosophical and ponder the nature of fate versus chance, I consider all the many ways my life could have been entirely different had I this or had I that. If I’d picked a different bar, or didn’t show up at the right time to meet Dani… Maybe if I’d gone straight home so I could do the dishes for Mom…

  What would I be doing now if not for Chase? Driving a cab like Jake? Selling hot dogs from a cart like Freddy? Or would I have wound up like Eric and Doug, rotting in jail? I sure came close a few times.

  But I did go to that bar, and I met Dani and Chase, and everything has followed from there.

  “You had no idea she was a hooker,” says Chase.

  “Nope.” If he’s trying to make a point about Sibel, I’m not buying it.

  “You almost got your ass kicked because of her.”

  “Did not,” I scoff. I remember winning that fight easily. It’s why Chase hired me.

  “Whatever. My point is, you’re not a good judge of character.”

  I rise from the couch, feeling pretty sober now. “Fuck off. I was a horny teenager. What did I know then? And like you’re one to talk. You think all women are whores.”

  He stands to meet me, getting in my face. “Don’t know any who aren’t. Do you?”

  “Sibel, for one,” I snap. “And my mother.”

  He sneers. “Are you sure about them?”

  “Careful.” My fists are already balled. I nearly bring up his mother, but stop myself.

  That sure as fuck would not help right now.

  “Sorry,” Chase says after a beat, backing down. “I know your mother was a saint, what she did despite… Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” I release my fists and take a deep breath. “Look, I didn’t say I was giving up. I’ll keep thinking about a way to convince her, all right?”

  “Yeah, cool,” says Chase. “If I have any ideas, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  —

  After our talk, Chase turns on the TV and flips around, so I leave him alone. Considering how the lunch meeting with Sibel went, I feel like I’ve done nothing productive today, so I head downstairs to the editing studio. I’ve got a backlog of recorded footage to work on.

  Tonight, I pick a shoot with a model we book often, a fan favorite: Christine. A nerdy-looking brunette with more kinks than I can count, finding original ways to get her off has become a satisfying challenge. She’s so good, I try not to let her get over-exposed on the site; subscribers rarely cancel on me, knowing that, pretty soon, she’ll be back.

  Normally working up her footage is a task I’m happy to dive into, a validation that despite the sources of stress and frustration in my life, I do, very often, get to have a lot of fun. Tonight, however, my thoughts stray.

  I digitally cut and splice the scenes absentmindedly. Material from our mounted cameras, positioned to resemble security cams, gets inserted into my hand-held recording mostly at the beginning of the finished product, establishing the setting. Generally, I watch both angles concurrently to tag good spots to jump between camera angles; tonight, I find myself staring at the screen, ignoring the action. After my fifth rewind, I realize that I’m just as hung up on Sibel as Chase.

  She’s wrong about my work; she doesn’t see the entire picture. Nobody does. Many times I’ve thought about confessing to someone the whole truth, but I’m not stupid. That can never happen. Goddamn, though — I’d love to tell Sibel, just so she’d know that she’s wrong about me.

  Oh yeah? Why do you care what she thinks?

  I hear the question in Chase’s voice. That’s what he’d say, isn’t it? He’s got his reasons, but I’m not sure I have an answer.

  Maybe you like her, you moron.

  Yeah, maybe. I smile, enjoying the irony. We always want what we can’t have, right? That’s not how I saw Sibel before, but now that we’ve met in person…

  You could call her, just for fun. No business. Work would be off the table.

  She’d think I was playing an angle, most likely. What if she didn’t, though? I could make her comfortable, become pals. Maybe after a night of drinking I take out the camera, she gets a little wild…

  That’s not how you operate your business, Pierce Williams.

  Fuck. I know I’m a little fucked up when it comes to relationships, thanks to my profession. Everything is a transaction, everyone has an agenda. The only feeling that matters is the rumbling in your stomach. Maybe one day we can get ahead of the game, have time for something greater than just survival — like art.

  Or love?

  Unable to shake off the yearning to make Sibel see the truth, I shut down the editing program and save that job for another night. What if she could see the bigger picture? She seems like a good person; maybe she’d want to help me.

  But first, I have to convince her to give me a chance. I’ll have to appeal to her not sexually, but creatively.

  I’m going to need a work of art.

  Buzzing Steph into my building, an electric current fires through me, despite my forced frown. Yeah, I’m happy to see her, but that’s not what’s really got me excited. She gives me a hug after I let her in, one arm pressing against my back and the other dangling a shopping bag full of Chinese take-out.

  “Thanks for picking up dinner,” I say, picturing a blanket of rich black bean sauce atop generous scoops of fluffy white rice. “And for looking into Pierce,” I add.

  Since our meeting a few days ago, I’ve forced myself onto a diet of frozen spinach, plain chicken breasts and whole grain cereals with skim milk. I feel guilty about that day for a reason I can’t explain — I tell myself it’s all the calories from the burger and beers, but I’m so full of shit.

  Steph grins, taking out bowls and plates. “My pleasure. It was fun, I felt like a detective.”

  “Maybe you should be a legal investigator,” I suggest. “Could be exciting.”

  “I’ve thought about it. Although I’m not sure I’d be any good. I couldn’t find much on Pierce.”

  I get us spoons for our steaming bowls of sweet and sour soup. “No?”

  “It’s not his real name. Records only go back to 2002 or so. That’s when he started his company.”

  It makes sense — I wouldn’t want my real name known if I was in his line of work.

  Yeah, “if.” You didn’t call yourself Sibel those nights, did you? Dahlia. Katrina. Minnie. How many names did you go through again?

  I chew chicken and broccoli slowly, mulling over the unappealing recognition that maybe Pierce and I have more in common than I’d like to admit.

  No, you don’t. That’s one small, hardly unique connection.

  Yes, but there might be others. If I’d opened up a bit more, maybe I’d have learned some of them.

  Could the meeting have gone differently? Should it have? Walking away like I did was kinda rude — certainly unprofessional — but was it really wrong? I’m not so sure. If business is all he cares about then I was right to end the meeting, and have no reason to feel guilty.

  It’s ridiculous, the remorse I feel for leaving that way. I had ample justification, so why do I feel bad? Am I really that pathetically conditioned?

  Tearing open a spicy mustard packet and draining it into my egg roll, I wipe off my greasy fingers and take a page from Steph’s report.

  She swallows her dumpling and nods. “That’s his property holdings. Pretty interesting, actually. He’s got a whole bunch of commercial space, mostly unused lots he bought at auction. They’re in some really bad neighborhoods too. Did he say anything about being into real estate?”

  I shake my head. M
y tongue burns from the mustard, but I savor the harsh sensation. “I bet that’s where he makes his videos,” I note. “He has to do it somewhere.”

  Steph nods. “Sure.”

  While eating crunchy noodles, I get out my laptop and bring up the street views on the locations listed in the report. I try imagining the thoughts of the women Pierce brings to them; are they more worried about losing their lives, or the area’s sanitary conditions? How does such a sad, empty place affect their trust in Pierce? Do they see it as an adventure, like a dark cave to be explored?

  Stop being weird.

  I don’t understand why exactly, but these places fascinate me. Knowing that they’re always around, invisible to many, protecting secrets and untold stories… To some they are a blight, an eyesore — to others, a refuge from the cold winter winds and ice; and I know what’s it’s like to be seen in different lights.

  “Anyway, that’s all there is,” Steph says, setting aside the folder with her research.

  “Thanks,” I reply, finally digging into my rice and black bean sauce.

  “Sibel, can I make a suggestion?” she asks, setting her palm on the lid of my laptop.

  “Uh huh, yeah.”

  Steph shuts the machine and looks me in the eye. “Unless you’re planning to call him again for some reason, you need to get your mind off Pierce. Those guys from my building, you know the ones into soccer? They’re having a party tomorrow. They said I could come, and bring a friend.”

  “Do you want to go?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Kinda? I would go, but not if you’ve got something better for us to do.”

  I nod, mashing my rice; then I grin. “As a matter of fact, I’ve had an idea for my next performance. I only need a day or two to get it ready. I could really use your help.”

  She smiles back at me. “What’s the plan?”

  —

  The thing about New Yorkers is that we’ve seen it all. My audience today has been slow to develop. Most of the rush hour passersby keep walking, eager to make their trains or buses and go home after the workday. Enough of them stop, though, to form a minor crowd at Bowling Green. I only need a few to get out their phones and record; if my work doesn’t go viral, then I did something wrong.

  This is good, I think to myself as a few more stop and watch. As much as I liked the spectators at Galleria Carnale, who could appreciate the art of my last performance, being out in public means a bigger reach; and for what I’m doing today, what better venue than the financial district?

  I haven’t performed out on the streets many times — most of my work is too overtly sexual to present it in public without risking arrest. Even with the proper permits, there’s a limit on what’s allowed. Today I’m pushing the bounds, but even if I get arrested, it’ll be worth it.

  Ironically, if the police try to take me away, they’ll have to free me first. My hands are chained and locked to a streetlamp, leaving me mostly helpless; Steph stands yards away, filming the performance on her phone, which is also streaming.

  Standing bound in public elicits a powerful tremor in my core; I ache to probe between my legs, to sink fingers into my wetness and give myself relief while everyone watches. I can’t, thanks to the chains binding me, but this only adds to my need.

  Since this is happening in public, I’m not naked, but my custom-made body suit clings tightly, leaving little to the imagination. I’m usually very comfortable with nudity, but today I feel weirdly exposed. Maybe it’s the leers from the men who stare shamelessly, eyes glued to the shapes of my hips and chest. Then again, it’s partly my fault their eyes are drawn there, as my outfit is multicolored, with several markings in key spots.

  My head, covered in white, says $1.

  My arms, in pink, say $5.

  My stomach, in yellow, says $10.

  My legs, in green, say $20.

  My ass, in blue, says $50.

  My breasts, in peach, say $100.

  And my pussy, in orange, says $500.

  Stitching together the outfit took more time than I’d like to admit — I’ve never been properly taught how to sew. I’m happy with the result, though, judging by the attention I’m getting.

  I keep my head down, slumped against my chest, like a woman defeated by life and resigned to her fate. At my feet I’ve left open a briefcase with a few bills inside; next to it, a chalkboard reads, Look for free! Pay to touch!

  If anyone gets close enough to reach me without cash in hand, I growl at them like a feral animal, or whine like a bored child, or moan as though wracked with bliss. But when they do step forward to deposit a bill in my case, I purr, pant and giggle, inviting them to touch as much as they’ve paid for. If they try for more, I howl like a banshee. Each new participant encourages the audience to grow, and for others to open their wallets. Soon it gets to the point where Steph has to stand on a bench to see over everyone’s heads.

  In truth, what I’m doing today is more than art: it’s also an experiment — a test of courage, both mine and my audience. Is anyone brave enough to approach me with five hundred dollars? And if they do, am I willing to let them touch my pussy? A complete stranger?

  Wasn’t I scared to do it back then, too?

  I nearly screamed the first time a stranger slipped inside — it felt like a dagger, even though he was so small. It took months to get used to being invaded by the unknown, of being taken quickly and without caution.

  At the time I thought I had to — it took a long time to learn that I could do anything else.

  As the sun slides between the skyscrapers, the audience begins to thin, but those who stay have begun cheering on newcomers, encouraging them to pay up; I hadn’t expected this to happen, but it’s a welcome development.

  God, I wish I could be watching this now.

  My suspense feels as palpable as those around me — is someone going to go all the way with this game? They must be wondering what I’ll do if that happens; I’d like to know too.

  It doesn’t happen right away, of course: like any proper crescendo, it arrives after a steady build. A middle-aged man in an ill-fitting gray suit becomes the first to drop a fifty; with a throaty, naughty chuckle, I twist my body to present my ass. I’d wink at him, if not for my completely covered face. He reaches tentatively, palming my cheek, and then squeezing. I groan, clenching and wishing for more.

  “Can I- Can I spank you?” he asks, voice unsteady.

  “Mmm,” I hum affirmatively, eliciting a few hoots from the audience.

  His first shot is so soft I barely feel it. Whimpering softly, with a little shiver, I roll my shoulders and wiggle my ass, as if to say, You can do better than that.

  Obliged to continue, he swings harder; this time I get that sharp sting, even through my outfit. Gasping in pleasure, I offer the man a polite nod, then turn back around to let him know he’s gotten his money’s worth.

  As he backs away, the floodgates seem to open. Several men and a few women step up with fifties and hundreds; while they grope my tits and smack my ass, the throng of spectators thickens once more, now far noisier than before.

  Now they’re getting the real show.

  As they take turns, my arousal rockets into a deluge of hunger and torment. My pussy aches to be touched. I have to force myself to focus on being present in the moment.

  Then, to my great relief, the man I’ve been waiting for shows up. The salt and pepper of his short hair matches his bespoke herringbone suit; his lips curl confidently as he pulls a black, leather wallet from his back pocket. As I study his strong jaw and alluring brown eyes, I’m semi-aware of him pulling out several hundred dollar bills. When he has five of them, he folds them into a wad and drops them in the suitcase.

  If I’m going to change my mind about this, now is the time. His hands go straight between my thighs, spreading my legs. Grunting and grinning, he feels the wet material clinging to my drenched pussy and licks his fingers. I shudder, awash in ecstasy as the hours of foreplay carry me like a wave.


  Fingering me through the dollar sign sewn into my outfit, he works my tender flesh with obvious pleasure. My musical squeals rise as he builds me toward climax, and as I get close I can hear only myself: the crowd has fallen quiet, now content to watch.

  “Sibel, stop!”

  Steph’s voice echoes in my head, but I’m too enthralled to listen. Climaxing hard, writhing in the rich man’s grip as he rubs my clit, I can’t do anything but ride out the orgasm until it’s finished. I’m lucky to get there — as soon as my energy’s expended, the man’s hands disappear.

  I open my eyes to see him being ushered away by a pair of police officers.

  Aww, shit.

  The crowd melts as one cop, a short man with a thin mustache, orders everyone to disperse. Stout and somewhat older, the other officer reaches over my body to the cuffs binding my wrists to unlock them. He blushes a deep crimson as I sigh contentedly, shaking the soreness from my wrists.

  With my audience now gone, the other officer returns and pulls off the hood of my outfit, revealing my face. “Sibel Isaacs?”

  “Yeah,” I say, folding my arms across my chest and turning away. I spot Steph, who’s still recording with her phone. She’s not the only one, thankfully.

  “Please turn around and place your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”

  I do as he says, not arguing. This isn’t totally unexpected. Nodding to Steph, I wink at the camera. I moan and pant as they cuff me, earning a few last laughs and whoops from the few lingering spectators. Before the squad car can take me away, I offer the world a smirk.

  Go ahead, arrest me. Charge me. You’ll never silence me.

  I can’t remember the last time I felt this excited about a trip to the hardware store. For that matter, when was it I last cared this much about anything? My heart races and my smile refuses to subside. I’m reminded of the moment I first walked into Galleria Carnale, hoping to be inspired — to be encouraged to strike out and do something completely different; and that’s exactly what happened.

  Regardless of whether or not this works, it’s going to be fun. Basket in hand, I picture what I have in mind and work out from the vision exactly what I’ll need to make it real.