by Gabi Moore
More things happened that night. Many more things. But it grew late, and all of us, in time, grew quiet, and stopped speaking. But we didn’t stop fucking. We gave way to wordless, rough, animal grunts, and the night became a vulgar ballet of hot, tormented bodies. It hurt. Oh fuck did it hurt. Every part of me ached and burned. But it was so, so beautiful. I serviced all of them, one after the other. And Todd watched me. Through it all, he saw me, and held me, and whispered in my ear and guided me through it all.
When I was completely spent and sore, sure I couldn’t handle any more, I began to beg him.
“I want you, Todd” I moaned, but he just whispered shhhh into my ear and stroked down my damp hair, staying behind me and just out of my sight.
“Did I ask you what you wanted?” he said quietly.
“But Todd …please…” I begged. It felt as though I had had every man in the room, and yet there was only man I really wanted. I had orgasmed more times than I could count. My legs were sticky to the knees with how many times I had come, over and over again on other men’s cocks, but there was still something deep inside me that only he could reach.
“This is what you wanted, Natasha. Now this is what you get,” he said. The words were vicious, but the delivery was sweet and concerned, and he kept stroking my brow.
“I want you,” I said with more force.
“How bad do you want me?”
“So bad, Todd. Just you. I just need you to fuck me now, please…”
“How does it feel?”
I tried to twist and look into his eyes, but I couldn’t. He could see me. He could see me in all my broken glory, every part of me, but I couldn’t see him at all. I laughed.
“It feels like torture!” I said and tried to squirm the other side to just catch a glimpse of his face. His smile.
“Good. Now that feeling you have inside you? That wanting?”
“Yes…?”
In an instant he grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked back sharply, exposing my neck and pulling me down closer to his suddenly threatening voice.
“Then never, ever fucking forget it,” he spat.
Chapter 17 - Natasha
Love is a funny thing. They say you find it when you least expect it. And you find it where you least expect it, too.
I haven’t worked a job since I was 19 years old and swapping shifts with other 19 year olds at the local Dairy Queen. But in a way, I had been working every single day since I married Todd. It used to be that nothing was ever good enough. And it was my job to put it right. Wear makeup, but not too much. Look good. Smile. Walk like a lady. Be demure, but not boring. Be sexy without being slutty.
Well, I always fell way, way on the wrong side of things. I spoke too loudly, in an accent that was embarrassing, saying things that people found offensive. I guess you could say I was a victim of my own success: I had finally found the limits of my own bluffing. I was finally married to a man that saw past my implants and lip gloss and Bambi-in-heels walk.
But now he had beautiful women around him all day long. He could afford any damn thing he wanted, in any color. I had to work to keep his attention. And it was hard work. And I was tired. So tired that I had just wanted some dirty college kid to swoon at the idea of fucking me an alleyway for once. To screw a man who earned in a year what it cost me keep my Chihuahuas in Gucci. At least that was easy. That was something a trashy girl like myself could be an expert in, if nothing else.
I can’t explain it. It doesn’t make much sense. But slowly, I had been getting tired of that kind of work. Of pretending.
But now there was the diary.
Every day that I woke up, the only thing on my mind was the diary: what had been written in there? What was up next for me?
After a while, I even stopped thinking that he was the one writing everything, and began to feel as though every time I read “I”, it actually was me. I found myself agreeing with the ratings. The reflections and thoughts and anecdotes in those pages became my own. Why not? Todd knew me better than anyone else, it turned out. Or, at least, it was amazing to let go for once and imagine that he did…
Some days there was no entry. Those days I skinny dipped in the pool, or lunched with the girls, or ran errands. Or he would stay home and we would go somewhere nice, and talk and talk. He was gentle and cautious. He put his hand on my knee when we went out driving …and he’d ask my permission first.
And then I’d peer into the book later that evening and find an entry.
Those entries were …dark. It was as though, with a special place for him to put all that down somewhere, hidden in a secret drawer under my lingerie, he could be free to just be sweet with me outside of it. By keeping certain things between the dark pages of that black book, it seemed so much easier to just get ice cream and walk hand in hand on the beach. Or snuggle together and watch a movie.
We could play and relax and let go …because whatever happened, we’d get to the black book stuff eventually. I could be girlish and unguarded because I knew that something was planned for me. That he had carefully arranged it all for me, and all I had to do was go along with it. Hell, I didn’t even have to say yes. It was because the other men hurt me and fucked me and degraded me …that he didn’t have to. Todd took everything out of my hands, including the chore of deciding whether I even wanted something or not. Do you know what a relief that is?
I would open the book and discover, for example, that I was keenly anticipating another meeting with Adam and Daniel the following evening. Or that I was planning for a surprise Todd was arranging, one where I’d be suspended in a cage, naked, and forced to dance for the amusement of a very exclusive, very expensive gentlemen’s club dinner happening below. Or that Todd had chosen a particularly well known Dom in the area to publicly flog me, but for a price.
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 flipped 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 18 - 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, ta
lking 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.