by KT Morrison
“I have to see you again.”
“We can’t do that. It’s not like that, you knew that.”
“Aren’t you flattered?” he watched her not answer, just frown at him, trying to understand this. “Aren’t you going to think of me?”
“You can’t be attached to me,” she said, “I mean, we—it was just sex, remember?”
“Just sex, yes. I want you to think of me. To remember me.”
“I will,” she said. She looked at him, trying to read his face. Trying to understand where this was coming from.
“I’ll remember you, Kate.”
“I’ll remember you too,” she said, hands behind her back tying her top back up under the denim shirt. He looked at his dry, smeared semen, dull against the shine of her sweaty clavicle.
“I have something to remember you by.”
“You do?” she said, buttoning up now, looking down. He took his phone out of his pocket. He told her to hold on as he flicked through menus.
“Ah,” he said and turned it to her.
He watched her face, knew what she would see. Could tell what part she was looking at by her expression, her horror, her fear. Knew now she was watching herself stretched out, face down on a bed, lit in yellow by a table lamp. Not a badly shot video. Very sexy. Knew she could see him from behind, straddled over her legs.
Kate put her hand over her mouth and watched the little movie in his grip. Saw herself being fucked in the ass. Saw them in bed together, the camera filming from behind Omar but over his shoulder. Saw the brief flash-flash of his cock as he pounded it into her, sinking it deep in between her bouncing ass cheeks.
He tapped the volume button, she heard the clicking sound, and then her rising tinny voice crying out. I hate his little dick. I can’t even feel it, I just want your big dick, fuck me, please fuck me.
She pushed it away, sick. What the fuck was this? She reeled, went to stand up, but the space was tight, Omar so close. She didn’t have the strength to push him away right now. She steadied herself, wobbly legs, and sat back down.
“Why did you film that?” she asked, her voice very quiet. But she knew.
“I wanted something to have,” watching the video himself, smiling as his face was lit up by the screen, “Something to always remember.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “You know, I will have this forever.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Did you want a copy?”
“Christ, no, what are you saying? Why did you film that?”
“I don’t think Kiley would want one. What about Mitch?”
She stared at him. Rage and fear and sudden helplessness all at once. She could feel her lips tremble as she struggled not to say something that would set him off.
“What do you think?” leaning now casually against the wall.
“I think,” she stopped, she was racing, “I think this is a little crazy.” She held her palms up to him, Hey let’s just slow down here.
“Is it really that crazy? I just filmed our lovemaking. I thought you might like a copy as well. This was all for you, all of this,” spinning his forefinger in a circle, the foursome, “I have something that you and Mitch could enjoy later when we are all apart. What do you think?”
“I think this is more than crazy. I think this is criminal. You can’t be serious. This is blackmail, you could go to jail for this, you know that, yeah?”
“Threats,” he shrugged, light-hearted, “You know that that wouldn’t happen. I would be proud of what we had to enter into evidence. I think a lot of people would like to see what I have on my phone,” he patted his back pocket. “What would the police say when they saw the video, what would they think of you? Little slut, they’d say.”
She stood up, mad, grabbed at his pocket, pulling at his shorts. He laughed and grabbed her wrists holding her arms down. She tried biting his shoulder but he blocked her, holding her own arms up in the way. She struggled with him, tried to knee him in the balls, but she couldn’t. He pushed her back down on to the toilet, his big palm spread across her chest.
He smiled at her, said “It’s in the cloud anyway,” looking up at the ceiling, “even if you could get it from me.” She knew it was.
“What do you want from me?” she said. “Do you want money?”
“What can you offer me?” he pondered, putting his finger to his bottom lip.
“What do you—do we even know Mitch would care?”
“He would care. I’m not sure he was really okay with any of this to begin with. I’m not sure you’ve gotten away with this unharmed. Even without the video. Just wait til you’re back in your cozy little home, the two of you alone. Just the two of you alone, no sunshine, no friends, no tropical drinks or holidays…but you will remember what you did. Mitch will remember all the things he watched me do to you. Imagine if he could see the things he missed. See the things you begged me to do to you.”
“I’m going to tell him all of it anyway.”
“Telling him is not the same as seeing it. Seeing how it happened. It shows all the little details you may have left out. Hearing you beg for me. And what about his investors? Would they be as confident with a man with a little dick, his pretty but unsatisfied wife begging for another man’s big cock?”
Omar came back and sat at the table across from Mitch and Kiley. He started eating, said, “She’ll be right out, she’s just cleaning her face.”
Kiley looked at the two of them, frowned, got up and went into the bathroom.
“It’s done, yeah?” Mitch said.
Omar nodded but didn’t look up.
“Good, mate,” Mitch said and took a sip of his orange juice with a splash of Smirnoff from his flask. It was done.
A few thousand quid to this meathead every month, and he’d get to watch Kate squirm all year long. Hiding money from him, struggling to come up with ways to disguise payments to her big-dicked tryst. Omar would send her pictures of himself, maybe a video where he was jerking that thing, he’d demand photos and videos of her, Kate touching herself. A year of punishment. She’d love it. She might like her dicks big but Mitch knew something maybe she didn’t. Mitch knew what he could provide. He could punish her, torment her. That was what she wanted, that was where she lived. That was what made his wife wet. The threat of destruction. Mitch could keep her on the edge of her seat. Build her a volcano where she could sit and dangle her feet over the fire, feel the heat from the chaos and death below her. That was what she truly craved.
Kate liked telling lies, now she’ll have one all for herself, all year long. She came out of the bathroom, Kiley was rubbing her back.
Mitch stood up, threw some bills down to cover the bill and the tip. “My treat,” he said smiling at them all. The whole week was his treat. Kate was pale-faced, sick with dread.
“What’s wrong?” He asked her.
“I don’t think she’s feeling very well,” Kiley said, still rubbing her back, big round circles that made Kate sway as she stood.
Kate said, “Let’s just go.”
Mitch put his sunglasses on as they walked out into the sunshine, “Yeah, we’ve got a plane to catch.”
Blackmail
1
Down In The Tube
Omar wanted another five thousand euros. Kate had sold a Birkin bag on ebay last month and mailed the cash to him in a manila envelope. She would do it again. Mitch wouldn’t notice any purse she had, and he definitely wouldn’t notice a purse that she didn’t have.
She stood in the fitting room at the little boutique called The Blakely Shop on a very narrow cobblestone path in Knightsbridge. She felt the cold dense weight of the polished marble under her feet, standing staring at herself in the mirror, sealed into the polished wood stall with brass locks. Standing in her bra and panties, a quilted leather jacket hanging from her hands, looking at herself, down at her knees for too long now.
Getting the money was easy, the amounts he asked for were very small. Very manageable for h
er. She wondered if he didn’t realize what he could get away with. He held her life in his big, strong hand. It was the discovery she worried about. Like if Mitch somehow found out she was selling her purses and jewelry for cheap. He’d ask her why. A flush of embarrassment came over her. She pictured herself, caught off guard, stuttering her way through an answer in a way that he would know that was trouble. She’d done this to herself. Humiliated herself. It killed her to think that Mitch could find out what she’d done, how she’d brought them both to the brink of ruin. He would hate her.
“Can I find you another size, Kate?” From outside, the associate being helpful, but wondering what was taking so long.
“I’ll be right out,” she said, throwing the jacket onto the bench. She took one last look at herself in the big mirror, standing almost bare, shook her head at herself and got dressed.
She went out to the counter, bought a few items, and on impulse had them add a handbag on display behind the pretty girl cashing her out that she knew she could sell online very easily. They put everything folded away in flat boxes for her, into tall paper bags with twine handles, and she walked down the narrow path headed for the subway.
When she’d got home from Cayman with Mitch three months ago she was a wreck. She’d just shown her true, horrible self to the man she loved. That was ultimately, she thought, what it had all been about. To show him who she was, what she wanted. She’d anticipated how that would feel coming home. The two of them alone together with the truth. She wanted that, as hard as it would be. She knew she didn’t want to live the rest of her life bottled up, denying herself, lying to herself and to her husband. To grow old, die unfulfilled. She was prepared to defend herself, to mend fences if she wasn’t tossed out of her husband’s life for good. But instead of moving forward with Mitch, instead of building something new and honest with him, something potentially wonderful, she came home unable to speak, just looking at him made her tear up, almost break down. She’d spent almost four days inside, laying in bed crying while Mitch was at work. Wishing she’d been more careful. But it was too late, she’d ruined them. Mitch saw her, how fragile she was in those first few days, and instead of turning away from her, letting her suffer like she deserved—for all he knew she was just filled with regret—he consoled her. Came to her and held her, let her cry into him.
They never talked about what had happened. The things he saw her do, or the night she had alone with Omar where there were things he wasn’t meant to see. And Mitch loved her as he did before. Fuck, maybe even more. He saw her for what she was and still loved her. It would have been perfect if there wasn’t this enormous looming storm on the horizon. How long could she keep it at bay, how long could she keep Omar happy without her husband knowing? And how long would Omar be reasonable? How long until he realized he could ask for and get millions from them. Then Mitch would know and whatever illusion he had about her would be dispelled. It was one thing to be private little freaks, a loving couple experimenting with other people in some distant tropical locale, but in Mitch’s world this could break you. End you.
She walked into a place called The Black Bull on a whim. Just stepped into the dark, wood panelled narrow little pub in out of the sunlight on the street. She sat down at a booth, pushing her bags in ahead of her, and ordered a black coffee and a double Jameson’s. She checked her watch, it was just past twelve o’clock and the place was empty except for one elderly man sitting with his back to her at the bar. Yeah, she’d been drinking more but it was okay.
Omar liked to watch her, that was his thing. He’d get her on Skype maybe once a week at night. She’d have her laptop in the bathroom with her, locked up, Mitch just outside the door fast asleep. He’d make her take her clothes off for him, encouraging her, telling her what to do, his voice a mechanical echo heard through an earbud in one ear. She would talk quietly, whispering in the bathroom, the fan on so Mitch might not hear her. He made her play with herself, and she would come for him while he took his cock out and stroked it, watching her. Then he’d make her watch him come, say dirty things to her, then his hand got big in the camera and he’d switch it off and he was gone.
He’d asked for dirty things too, weird things like her worn underwear. He’d mailed her a pair of white thong strap panties last month, and she wore them for a few days then mailed them in a ziploc like he’d asked. It was strange but humiliating. Omar didn’t seem like the type, a panty-sniffer. She knew it was so that she could feel that thong between her cheeks for days, thinking about him; knew that they were white so that they wouldn’t be after a few days and that she would feel ashamed seeing her soiled panties slide into a ziploc for someone else to see. And it was humiliating. Yeah, she thought about him a lot wearing those tight little pants wedged inside her, thought about the consequences of her actions, and when she’d dropped the soiled cotton wad into the baggie her hands were shaking.
What would everyone that she knew think if that video ever got out? What would Mitch think seeing her like that? What about Derek, what would he say to Mitch? What could he say. It could really ruin their business. The humiliation. The wife of one of the owners worshipping some other man’s cock, begging for it. Humiliating her husband, saying his dick was so small she hated it, couldn’t feel it. Mitch would never recover. How could he look any one in the face again. She would be cast out finally. Thrown out in the cold blue light like she deserved.
It would be in the papers. That’s for sure. It was tasty enough, lurid enough. Mitch wasn’t some well known person at all, but the Investment House was big and they had name brand clients. It was scandalous enough for the news without a doubt. And the story came with a video so x-rated they would love to say how they couldn’t even discuss the contents of the video. A surefire way for everyone to seek it out, to find out what could be so terrible. She thought of the highlights everyone would see: her inserting her pinky finger into his penis, being peed on, her cheeks pushed apart and her ass fucked while she came, milking him with her hands while her tongue was in his anus. Was there more?
She’d put the whisky back right away, nursed the hot coffee. She looked around but the bartender was gone somewhere so she threw down some bills, twice the amount she figured, grabbed her bags and headed for the subway again. Just a few stops to where she’d parked the car, then drive home and she felt like she was done for the day. Just go home and lie down for a bit. Think a little.
She felt the spice of the whisky in her nose, made her feel a little tighter, a little more put together. She skipped down the steps to the train, paid her fare, and got down to the platform. She wished it wasn’t quite so busy, just wanting some space right now, some quiet. She felt a headache looming.
She felt her phone vibrate against her stomach, tucked into the big square pocket of her pullover. She pulled it out and checked the screen as the train rushed in, felt the wash of air buffet her face and toss her hair. It was Omar, and there was an attachment. She felt a horrible little tingle. Some new assignment. She swiped it, waited for it to open. There it was, like some unseeing life form from the bottom of the ocean, long and threateningly wide, foreskin peeling back a bit from the tip, opening but askew, off to the side.
Frontec Motorsport was a low bungalow, a service station in the fifties now transformed into a high end auto boutique, the old brick facade still recognizable under the fresh yellow painted stucco, car logos and racing flags. Race tuning street cars and high end performance parts were the mainstay of the business, but the small F3 team was the passion that kept Omar excited. The rest was income and paperwork, but building and racing was what it was all about.
He looked out the bathroom window, through hazy grey dust from old rain, around the parking lot, over the roof of his bright blue M3 parked right up next to the building. No one out there. He looked back in the mirror, holding his phone and waiting to hear it chime, his erection sticking out of his zipped down grey jumpsuit and hanging to rest on the sink.
They had four cars to
finish today, three easy little tune-ups, the fourth was going to be harder, re-welding the suspension on some rich kid’s murdered Mercedes. But he had two guys on that. Then tonight they would be up very late, pulling the motor out of the F3 and he was redoing an injector. He’d had an idea.
His new investor’s cash injection had given them a little bit of a buffer, some room to experiment, but who knew how long it would last. This could all be over tomorrow. His phone chimed, a little chirp like a tree frog from the jungle.
Kate: It’s beautiful
This woman telling him his big cock was beautiful had a husband who gave him fifteen thousand euros for his iPhone. Wanted the video he’d shot of him with her, the video the husband told him to take. Omar made it good for him, made her beg for it, violated her, made her say terrible things. He wondered if Mitch had ever watched it.
Omar: I’m going to come for you
Kate: I’m watching
She was playing along, being cute, humouring him. He could make her do just about anything, he knew that. She was worried. Worried but somehow eager. She was placating him here and he knew Mitch didn’t want this easy on her.
He enjoyed tormenting her. Thinking of this cock-hungry, spoiled slut turned on and horrified at the same time made him harder. She was nasty; if she wasn’t so expensive to keep he would have wanted to steal her away. But she loved Mitch, and she sure loved money.
In the end it worked out better for him. He got to tease her, make her strip, make her watch him jerk himself off. He got to see her pretty face when she came, her legs spread in front of the webcam her hand moving so fast on herself it was just a pale video smudge. And Mitch was paying, Omar was making money. He’d get some from Kate too, token stuff, cash in the mail that he would spend on clothes or dinners.
Omar: Take off your panties