by J. A. Huss
I drag the zipper down and bring out my cock. I’ve been semi-hard for almost an hour thinking about her. Waiting to be alone in the building. I don’t need more than one or two pumps to be ready.
“If you were here,” I tell her through the camera, “I’d come all over your face. But since you’re not…” I sit back down in the chair, angling the webcam to get the right shot. “I’m just gonna have to talk you through it.”
My breathing picks up as I stroke myself. My balls tighten, lifting up. One hand reaches underneath them. Cupping them as I continue to jerk off.
“Turn your camera on, Katya,” I say, staring into the lens like it’s a window to her soul. “Now get on your knees and open your mouth.”
I wait a few seconds to give her time to do that in the future, and then I smile. “Good girl,” I whisper. “You’re a very good girl.” I picture her the way I remember. That private-school uniform. The blue tartan pattern. Her long sexy legs and the white knee socks.
It was a costume. The Parson School for Girls doesn’t have a tartan skirt. I saw her on that bench. Sitting there like fucking bait. She looked nervous, but not scared. The car pulled up next to her and I was already walking across the street to pick a fight.
I fucked her over and over that summer, until she left that August.
“You want to have fun again, Kat? You want to relive what we did back then?” I smile at her. I picture her hand slipping down between her legs as she watches me getting off to the image of us in my head. “Then stick two fingers in your mouth and suck them like you used to suck my cock.”
Chapter Six - KATYA
There are candles everywhere. Lined up on the edge of the tub in one-foot holders, standing in the corners of the room in three- and five-foot holders, and there are two candelabras with twelve tapers each, flanking each side of the double vanity. I have always loved candles. They are a yellow-white color and smell like vanilla.
It’s not enough light for a shoot, so I have proper lighting as well. And after I set up the candles I decided one camera angle wasn’t enough. So now I have three tripods.
Basically my bathroom has been turned into a studio and this is my day’s work.
I adjust the robe and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is messy, my makeup non-existent, and I’m surrounded by captured flames.
Mirrors and flames.
It brings back a lot of very bad memories.
But Claudette is gone now. Dead at the hands of Mr. Mysterious, no less. Oliver was there too. All of them, actually. Every Mister was accounted for that night. And they are almost all accounted for right now as well.
I stand in front of the tub, each of the three cameras already recording, and shrug the details off with my robe. Once the silky fabric slides over my shoulders it slips down my body in a silent whoosh of air, and makes a soft green puddle of fabric at my feet.
I say nothing. I will say nothing. Let him guess what I’m thinking.
It’s only fair. I’ve been guessing what he’s been thinking since we parted ways four years ago.
I pose for the camera. Something I do naturally now. Taking a moment to imagine myself staring into his eyes. I forgo the pouty lips and play air-kisses and just stand there. Let him appreciate me. Let him think about all the days and nights we’ve been apart. Let him wonder what I’ve been doing.
I start fondling my breasts, pinching my nipples to make them hard and bunched. My nails are just long enough, and the steam inside the bathroom just hot enough, to leave red marks on my fair skin.
He likes that. He likes the animalistic nature of sex.
I find myself unconsciously biting my lip and stop.
I am not a weak little girl. I am not trying to seduce him, or entice him, or make him want me.
He already wants me.
None of that play-acting stuff matters with Oliver Shrike. Everything with him needs to be genuine.
One hand continues to lightly scrape the skin of my breasts, while the other tracks down my ribcage with just enough pressure to make marks. It slips easily between my legs and only then do I let myself become aroused.
My lips part as my mouth opens. My heart beats faster. My skin prickles up, even though the heat in this room leaves no room for chills.
I will not moan for him. Not on camera. If he wants more he needs to come to me.
But I do enjoy it.
When the tips of my fingers find the sweet spot I smile and rub a little faster.
Do you like that? I want to ask him. Do you enjoy looking at me? Watching me? Do you want more? Do you want to feel me again? My body, my breath on the tip of your cock?
I come. Silently. He might not even notice, that’s how quiet I am.
And then I open my eyes and smile as I step into the tub. Sink down into the frothy white bubbles and let the hot water burn me. Turn my pale skin red, make my cheeks flush, relax my muscles, and ease my worries.
I soak there for a while, doing nothing. Saying nothing. Just enjoying the thought of him watching me take a bath.
It’s a peek into my day. That’s what they pay for when they buy my photos. The ones I make money off of are boudoir photos. And the videos too. But I actually do things in the videos. Sometimes I film myself ironing men’s clothing. A white dress shirt. Or a pair of slacks. Sometimes I wash windows naked. Not here though. Back in New York, when I was high up in that tower apartment so the only people who saw me were the ones paying for it. Or the telescope peepers, but what can you do? Sometimes I take a shower, or like now a sexy bath. Sometimes I cook or bake. But I do it all naked and I come on my fingers at the end. It’s just a little peek into my day. It pays the bills so I don’t have to use the money they put in my bank account every month.
Of course, Oliver doesn’t pay. He has never paid.
He tried to a few times. If we spent the night together, he would try leaving me hundred-dollar bills before he left. Or gifts. Diamond rings and necklaces. A car once. And then, of course, the tattoos.
The only thing I kept was the tattoos. I couldn’t really send them back like the car and the diamonds.
I look down at them now. The ones I can see, anyway. My left shoulder, the letters trailing over the rounded hill of my muscle. My left ribcage. My hip bone. And the one just above my pussy.
His words are engraved onto my flesh for eternity. Telling me what he wanted. Telling me everything I wanted to hear.
I squeeze some gardenia-scented soap onto a soft cloth and begin to wash, only occasionally looking at the camera. And when that’s done I stand up, letting the bubbles trail down my body like the clouds moving in the sky. I pull the plug and let the water drain, just standing there looking into the camera. Into his eyes. We wait together for the water to disappear and then I turn the shower on and wash the whole thing away.
When I’m finished I step out of the tub, dry off—making sure he gets a good long look at me—wrap a towel around my hair and, one by one, turn off each camera.
There are so many words on the tip of my tongue. Questions, and answers, and declarations. But I don’t want to say any of them now. Not even with the camera off. I have been saving them up all this time and I will not rush things. I will not ruin my one chance at having my say.
He will hear them. Every thought, every transgression, every regret, and every wrong turn—but he will hear them in person or not at all.
And I will only say them after he begs. After he realizes what I’ve done and why I’ve done it. After he understand what’s going to happen next. Who will be hurt, who will be saved, and who will be left standing.
Oliver Shrike. You might regret ever meeting me.
I take a deep, deep breath. Remove the memory cards from each of the cameras. And then walk back out into the living room. I sit at my desk, download all the footage to my hard drive, and then open up my editor and merge them all together into one perfect erotic story.
How will it end, Mr. Match? How will it feel to learn the tr
uth? Will I break your heart? Or will you break mine?
I guess we’ll see.
I open up the Hook-Me-Up website, half afraid that my account will be deleted. But it’s not. It’s there. And he’s replied with two videos of himself—both jerking off from the look of the still shots.
I play the first one and he is frantic. Eager to come thinking about me. But the next one he is in control again. How he does love to be in control.
“You want to have fun again, Kat? You want to relive what we did back then?” He smiles at me. Like he’s looking at me the way I was just looking at him. Through a lens. A filter in front of our souls. “Then stick two fingers in your mouth and suck them like you used to suck my cock.”
I let out a long breath at his demand. His vulgar words and air of entitlement.
I was so young when we met. Only seventeen when my foundation began to crack and the walls that protected me all growing up crumbled down into a heap of waste and wreckage. He was always in control. So much older. So much more experienced. So much more protected than I could ever hope to be.
I wanted that. So bad. I wanted that fairytale childhood that he was given. And I needed things back then. So many things.
I got them. I got them all. But they were more expensive than I imagined. I gave up more than I ever got back in return.
It was a mistake, I realize. Many mistakes all in succession. One after another, after another.
I take a deep breath and upload my video. No title, no comment, just the footage. And then I log out, close my laptop, and walk to the window. I imagine him the way he looked this morning. Standing there. Confident, secure, satisfied.
Am I angry? Yes, but not because of his words, or his experience, or his control, or his entitlement.
I’m angry because his request turned me on.
Chapter Seven - OLIVER
An hour goes by. Then two. Ariel and the office ladies return, get back to work, and still nothing from my old acquaintance.
So I do what I should’ve done immediately. Look her ass up.
Katya Kalashova. Twenty-two years old.
God, how can she still be so damn young?
No education found, but I already know what happened with Harvard. It was her whole excuse back when I confronted her about her… job. Said she needed money for school.
I half suspected it, but when I do a search on her IP address from the Hook-Me-Up site, it comes back as Fort Collins.
Of course it does.
If there’s one telling detail gleaned from my past experiences with Kat, it’s that every move she makes has purpose.
She wouldn’t bother contacting me if she wasn’t nearby. She knows I’m a paranoid motherfucker and I don’t make business deals online.
I stand up and go to the window. The afternoon is waning and the sunset is getting ready to make the mountains bloom with orange, and pink, and yellow.
She’s probably very close by.
I scan the buildings all up and down College Avenue. The street levels are all shops but the upper floors are expensive apartments and lofts.
She could be in any one of them. I scan the upper floors, looking for her. She could be there, or there, or there.
I step back from the window and press a button on the wall to close the curtains, my paranoia getting the best of me as I look longingly at my laptop sitting on my desk.
Ding, motherfucker. Ding me with a notification that she responded.
I’m half afraid that I scared her away and half afraid she’s really gonna do it. But she’s an addiction for me. Some people have drugs, or alcohol, or cigarettes.
I have Katya Kalashova.
What will she ask for?
What will she want from me?
Sex? Oh, fuck, yeah. But that’s not business. Not for me. If I get close enough to touch her, it’s all over. I’m gonna fuck her where we stand.
Money? I can’t see it. She never wanted my money, even when I tried to sneak it into her bank account.
Then what? Why is she here? Why is she trying to get my attention? Why now, in the middle of all this Mister shit. Why now?
My phone rings on my desk, almost making me jump. I tab the accept button and sink into my chair. “I figured you’d be calling.”
“We’re not coming.” Nolan’s voice is calm, controlled, and emotionless.
I have always thought of him as high-strung. Kinda like one of Paxton’s mother’s horses. “Were you even invited?”
“Are you gonna play games with me, Match? Because I can play along if you want. I’m a player.”
“I’m just fucking with you. It’s—”
“We’re not coming.”
I sigh. “It’s just a few days. Ariel wants to see Ivy and shit. All the other girls are here.”
“Ellie’s not there.”
“I think they’re coming though. Last I heard one of the girls was gonna call her up and invite. For dinner tonight, I think.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Do you really have to ask? Your ass is hot, Shrike. You’re next, motherfucker. And my wife is pregnant, do you get me? She’s not coming all the way out there just to be dragged into whatever bullshit is coming your way.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Yet. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before some girl comes knocking on your door. Some long-lost friend, lover, whatever it is you have going with the girls you fuck these days. It’s only a matter of time. And you know what?”
“What?” I ask, getting back up to look out the window again. Maybe when it gets darker I’ll be able to see into some of those lofts.
“I wouldn’t even trust you to tell me first.”
“Don’t be a dick, Nolan.”
“You’d tell Five, probably. Pax. Your sister. But that’s it. You’d let my wife be bait. Because that’s just the kind of guy you are.”
“Whatever. Don’t come then. Like I give a fuck. As I said, this was Ariel’s idea, not mine. Everything is cool here with me. No long-lost girlfriends have showed up. No weird knocks on the door.”
Dead air.
I look at my phone and shove it in my pocket, still scanning the buildings across the street.
What if she’s got an apartment on my side of the street?
I look out at the Fort Collins Theater across Jefferson Street. Katya’s not in there. There are no apartments on the upper floors, only offices. Besides, all of them belong to Sparrow’s family and most of that building has been turned into the new haunted house in town.
I look to my left. My feet are moving that direction and I’m pulling the curtains aside before I can even process.
My window is glass on three sides. A bump-out. A bay, whatever the fuck you call them. So I can see a lot of things up here. And there is a building. Brand new, sleek, and modern lofts priced in the high five hundreds. Two buildings down, six stories high—which makes it the highest building on the block and gives a clear view right into my office. Every light is on in the windows facing me. Every light but one.
“I got you, Kat. I got you.” I’m pulling on my jacket, about to do some recon over there to try to flush her out, when Hook-Me-Up dings me a notification on Katya’s profile.
I sit in my desk chair and just stare at the video. The still shot is her. Her whole body, including her face. The scar I thought I’d grown accustomed to all those years ago shocks me tonight. She has no makeup on. Nothing to hide the elliptical white line that starts at one ear, crosses her throat in a near-perfect arc so clean it looks surgical, and ends at the other.
My fingertips reach out to touch it. “What really happened to you? Why wouldn’t you ever tell me the truth?”
She doesn’t answer. She never did, never will. I begged her once. I was drunk and sad and I begged.
But her lips are silent. Her secrets safe.
“They’d be safe with me too,” I say out loud.
B
ut it’s a lie and she knows it. If she told me I’d never stop looking for the bastard who did that to her. I’d never stop until he was dead.
I have to take a deep breath to calm the thumping inside my chest and then I press play and wait for her voice. Some kind of greeting, or explanation, or direction.
None of that ever comes. There is no smile, no tears, no emotion at all. Just her, in the bathroom, undressing, then fondling herself. Scratching at herself to make those long red marks appear on her milky-white breasts. On her ribs, across her hip. All places I’ve kissed, over, and over, and over. All places I’ve left my own marks.
And then she gets into the tub and bathes in the glow of a million flickering flames.
I am transfixed. Caught in the spell she cast on me four years ago. Lost. My finger clicks the heart button underneath her post and I start writing a comment.
“Knock, knock?”
I slam the computer closed and stare at my sister, standing at the top of the stairwell. “Fuck, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Not an easy thing to do.” She takes a step towards me. “Which makes me very curious what you were watching on that screen.”
“Nolan’s not coming.”
“I know. I talked to Ellie.”
“He thinks I’m using him as bait.”
“He’s a dick. But Ellie and Mac are here. And they’re all at my house right now making dinner. So let’s go. I’m fucking starving. Did you eat lunch?”
“Lunch?” My thoughts are still on Katya. That scar across her throat. There is only one explanation for it. It was a threat. It’s too clean to be an attack.
“Yeah, you know, that meal between breakfast and dinner? Aren’t you hungry? You’ve been locked up here all damn day.”
“I wanted to get the deletes done,” I say, pointing to the empty folder on my desk. “So no time.”
