You Will Show Me Everything Ch. 02

You Will Show Me Everything Ch. 02

He doesn't message me again that day, or the one after. I'm on edge, waiting for him to post my picture as he promised. It's Friday night, and I'm in my comfy pajamas in bed, my phone in hand. I regret deleting the picture from my phone now, because I'm left to imagine what I looked like in it, and the more time passes, the worse the image becomes in my mind.

Instead of the capable, mature woman I am now with a respectable job, who handles pressure well, I'm reminded of the insecure girl I used to be, desperate for attention from boys, showing off my body for others' appraisal. I recall the vulnerable look on my face, my soft curves exposed for the world to see. The thought scares me, and I dread looking at the forums to see my own helpless expression staring back at me.

In my imaginings, my body becomes softer, more rounded, reverting to my adolescent self, always waiting in the shadows for someone to notice. Perhaps if I'd been taller, slimmer, dressed more provocatively, or if I could've been more confident – then maybe I...

Suddenly, a picture appears on the screen. I can't breathe. It's a cropped image of a woman's torso, showing her breasts, like the one I had taken. Shock takes hold as I stare at the screen. There's a metallic taste in my mouth, and I feel my heart racing in my throat. I examine the picture, the brazen display of intimate details, as if inviting others to gaze upon her secret self.

Then I notice a mole on the underside of the right breast. Realization hits me, and I search for a mole on my own body. I don't have one. It isn't me. He's posted someone else's picture.

Relief floods me as I reassure myself that it wasn't me who he'd shared with the world. I'm grateful for the detour from fear and dread, and I allow myself to come down from the edge of my panic attack. Starting to feel drained, I lie back on my pillows, thinking that perhaps I'd imagined the connection too tightly. It might all be a game, a mindfuck. There are people who enjoy showing their naked bodies on the internet, but I'm not one of them.

Yet, I find myself scrolling through the forums each day, searching for more nude photos. I like one in particular, the one that started it all, a black-and-white photo of a woman with her body bound by shibari ropes, kneeling before a camera. Her eyes are wide and dark, gleaming with both fear and pride. She stares boldly at the viewer, challenging us to look at her, really see her.

I close my eyes, visualizing the woman in the photo, her vulnerability and fear, her desire to be seen, her eager submission. It arouses me and excites me, more so than any sexual experience I've had in real life. I run my fingers over my body, remembering the hot pleasure of weeks ago. It might all be a little tempting. Who am I to say I'd never go that far?

I'm back on the forums, looking for more, eager to turn from the security of my adult life into an exciting, dangerous world of bared skin. I can still feel the adrenaline rush that came from being seen, from someone forcing me to expose the real me. The mindfuck of the forums drew me in, and now I'm lost. It's all a game, right?

She is totally undressed, legs parted slightly to expose her shaved groin area, her outer lips noticeably swollen, implying she is highly aroused due to being made to expose herself for the camera. Her wrists are bound just below her navel, her left hand open with fingertips almost touching the smooth skin of her naked pubic region.

Yet there's something else that catches me every time I gaze at this photo - a tantalizing little detail: she wears a wedding band.

It's the only ornament she's wearing, the primary distinguishing feature on her body, but it's clearly visible. A plain ring, next to a ring holding three diamonds. She's a married woman, whoever she is, and, judging by the rings, to someone wealthy enough to give her several diamonds. Her fingertips loom just above her engorged labia, just out of her reach.

I begin to feel that tingle once more as my brain begins to concoct the story that compelled a married woman to the point of posing in bondage on her knees for the world to witness. Is she his wife? Is this what they do, with him photographing the woman he wedded to share her with the globe? I can never fully accept that idea, as he's posted pictures of other women in similar poses.

But what then? Did she secretly send a message to him, just like I did? Did she finally take that next step she had long desired, did she finally consent? The image contains more specifics, and I've been staring at it long enough to notice them. There are vertical lines on her waist, inconspicuous differences in skin now barely noticeable, which tell me she's a mother as well as a wife. Her eyebrows are expertly plucked and formed. The fingertips hovering just over her pussy are immaculately manicured, her forehead wrinkle-free.

She's rich, respectable, most likely a professional, balancing children and career and husband, and all the while she possesses this secret kink, desiring to be displayed for strangers. Does anyone else know? Is her husband aware, or is it a secret kept by everyone? The thought occurs to me once more, as I stare at the background beyond her: it's a professional photography studio. The shibari rope artfully adorns her body, keeping her immobile. The photo is framed at the ideal height, with delicate lighting that showcases her body's contours. Someone did this to her. She walked into the studio at the request of a friend and shed her clothes to be transformed from a busy mother into art.

I cross my legs, feeling the tingle turn into a discomfort. I return my gaze to her eyes and feel it again. She embodies an alluring siren, calling me out into the dangerous depths of the ocean to my doom, and I have responded.

The following morning, I grab my phone to check it first thing. There are no new photos posted, but then I notice the message icon waiting for me. I rush to open my messages, nearly prone in bed, suddenly wide awake. I see the message icon blinking at me. I open my messages, barely daring to exhale.

• What are you wearing?

I gasp at the words. I notice the green dot beside his icon, indicating he's online now. Is it morning for him as well? Three dots pop up beneath the words, pulsing in unison. He has more to say. I wait nervously, gazing at the tiny display, spellbound by the pulsing dots.

• A straightforward query

I exhale loudly. He knows I'm reading. I put down the phone and hug my knees to my chest tightly. I can't break my concentration from the display. He's waiting for a response. I need to gain a better understanding of this scenario. I reply to him.

• Why?
• I wanted to get to know you better

The dots return. I appreciate his openness. It seems honest. I retort defiantly.

• Why?
• To talk instead of typing?

I feel slightly better. I'm standing up for myself, being assertive.

I halt in my tracks. This wasn't what I'd anticipated. Nevertheless, his voice would provide some clarification regarding his identity and plans for my photo. In response, I send a message to him.

• How?

There is a brief pause, followed by the suggestion of a messaging platform. He's leading me away from the forums and into a private chatting application. Am I being coerced into joining him in his devised subterfuge? He initiates contact again.

• Let's simply converse.

I re-read his words, mindful of the isolation in my flat. The early sunlight streams in through the bedroom window, casting a normal light over everything. On any other Saturday morning, the scene would appear the same. However, there's an enticing yet frightening invitation waiting on my phone. Do I want to indulge in this madness? I suppose it may be appealing... shouldn't I give in to my wishes?

I launch the chat application. A few seconds pass until the call is accepted.

"Hello?"

A man's voice responds. I can't gather any details from just that single word. Hearing him speak would be essential.

"It's me. I'm phoning as you requested."

"Thank you."

Still no information to go on. "What were you hoping to discuss?" I question.

"It's more about you and what you wish to discuss."

"You chose to ponder that out of nowhere, on a Saturday morning?"

I clench my jaw in disbelief but it's already too late. I've unintentionally divulged my timezone. My mind races.

"Or Friday night," I interject hastily.

I hear him chuckle. "Let's proceed with Saturday morning. Let's say nine o'clock, Saturday morning."

"What? How?"

"The photo you emailed me - you didn't erase any metadata."

"The... the what?" I ask, while my mind recalls.

Metadata is a term I'm familiar with, but I hadn't checked the details of my shared picture.

"The information connected to the digital image file that allows it to be identified. The time, date, location, camera type, and other details are stored in it. You failed to remove this information when you sent me your picture."

My eyes widen, horror gripping me. Although I knew this, I'd been so eager to appease his request that I didn't consider the potential consequences. I feared what he could do with this data... he's aware of my workplace.

"Look," I retort, "I won't be intimidated. If you post my naked photo on the internet, I'll file a lawsuit."

There is a moment of silence, then he responds.

"You won't. You can't. You'd need to ascertain who I am first."

"What?"

"Your attorneys will struggle to locate me. I use an email address linking to a phoney identity, accessed through a VPN from a foreign land where the authority has no jurisdiction. Furthermore, all data is encrypted, stored in various locations, or shared over this encrypted messaging app, which I'm certain doesn't keep any message or call history."

His words send a shockwave through me. This wasn't a simple prank - he'd done this before. I had believed I was indulging in mild flirtation, but he was prepared for this and knew where I work. I imagine my boss opening his email on Monday to find a full-frontal view of one of his long-serving employees on his screen.

"Why do you reveal these details to me?" I inquire.

"So you comprehend what transpires next."

"You're blackmailing me?"

"No, I'm setting you free."

I'm shocked by his response. It's so dreadfully unforeseen that I momentarily freeze.

"You've been monitoring me for a while, haven't you?" he continues. "You've seen how I treat my subjects."

"Oh..."

I reflect back to last night, to the woman who was exposed on the forums. He's planning to do the same to me. I close my eyes, running my fingers across my temples as I grip the phone.

"Which of my subjects do you prefer?" he queries.

"I... I don't know," I stammer, "I just observe."

"That isn't true. You have a specific picture you prefer, correct?"

"The woman with the sunburst... the one who's tied up, kneeling," I mutter. "That one."

"Ah."

"Ah!?" I breathe, feeling a sense of unease.

"Yes. She is rather enchanting to work with."

"Work with?" I blurt out in dismay.

"Yes. Subjects pose for their specific photo."

I frown. "Final picture?" I stammer.

"Yup. That's the climax of the process."

I'm deeply shaken. I feel nauseous. He's not just presenting his desires, but involving me into his dark world. It feels like a nightmare, one where I can't awaken. My eyes feel like they're trying to break free from my skull, my heart is thumping so hard, and my breaths are shallow. I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath into my lungs.

"Why are you telling me this?" I inquire, my voice barely above a whisper.

"So you grasp the course of what transpires."

"You're coercing me?"

"Let's start there. What clothes are you wearing?"

I realize I'm just echoing his words, but my mind is racing to keep up.

"Um, I'm wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Why?"

"That's a good start. Now, send me a photo of just your upper body."

"Do I have to?"

"If you want to continue, yes."

"But I don't want to be exposed."

"I understand. But this is how it works. Soon, you'll be completely naked. This is just the first step."

"And how does it end?"

"With the subject fully exposed for the world to see. That was the end of her journey, unless she chooses to continue. You have the same choice."

I think back to the photo he sent me, the technique he used to capture her, the way she looked so willing, so confident. If that's what submission feels like, maybe I don't dread it as much as I thought.

"Okay, I'll send you a photo."

I'm at my desk. It's Monday and judging from the way the boss greeted me when I came in, there's no nude picture of me in his inbox. I haven't been contacted since Saturday morning, after sending the list of my favorite pictures along with a picture of my upper body to him. He insisted that I sent the complete list, no editing, and I've been going back through them ever since, trying to see what he sees in me. I want to see what he sees in me through the pictures I've chosen.

The pressure is still there behind my eyes, popping back up in the middle of a conversation or in a meeting. I have to stop for a second and let it pass, the other-worldly feeling of being in a normal work environment, doing all the usual things, and at the same time knowing that I'm about to become an object for strangers to ogle. My colleagues joke about their weekends, or decide where we're going for lunch, or a thousand other things, and I sit among them in silence.

I'm not the same anymore, like when I was young, the girl in the back of the photo. But, it's not the same this time. I've let someone in on my deepest, darkest desires, and he's going to transform me. The choice of lunch venue has been reduced to irrelevance. I'm in a different world compared to my co-workers and I've let one person inside.

I struggle to focus on my work, unable to concentrate because his messages are always lurking at the back of my mind. It's like a buzzer in my head goes off every few minutes, forcing my attention away from the tasks at hand. And, this situation is having a strange effect on my body. By the time I get home to my apartment, my panties are completely soaked.

I can't stop this now. I know I have to continue with the process. I know I relinquished control when I sent my naked picture and list of favorite photos. I'm in this now, complicit in my transformation.

I flip open my laptop on the kitchen bench as I make my dinner, scrolling through his gallery. Now that he's explained the process, I can see the progression from his photos. He starts with body parts, moving outward from the initial shot. Full body shots, posed shots. Each one is explicit, showing the person in their final moment before transitioning to studio shots. Each journey ends with the subject fully exposed to the world, her face visible, fully naked, and showing it all.

They're all exquisitely rendered, different body shapes, age groups, ethnicities. But they all share a trait. None of them seem afraid or coerced. He's captured them in the moment of their final transition. Sitting at my table eating my dinner, I wonder how I could make that jump from where I am now. I'm petrified at the thought of what he's going to have me do next.

A message pops up on the chat app.

• What are you wearing? He wants to know what clothes I'm wearing right now.

Another message appears, insistent but not demanding. This time though, I don't resist. He holds all the cards and I've submitted all my choices.

• Work clothes. A blouse and pants
• What will you wear to bed?
• Pajamas

I respond swiftly, grasping for control over my clothes. I feel a glimmer of satisfaction from being able to communicate naturally with him. For a moment, he isn't the omnipotent force he seems in my mind.

• Anything else to wear to bed?
• Like what? A nightgown?
• What would you wear to bed with a partner?

Surprised, I realise he's reduced me from an abstract entity to a real person. His question compels me to think about the situation practically.

• The same

The lie is barely concealed under these words. I never imagined inhabiting this scenario - sleeping with a lover and selecting something seductive for bed. At twenty-three, I've had minimal experience and the only partners I'd entertained were mere fleeting encounters.

• If you wanted to wear something to bed for a partner, what would it be?

He catches me off guard. What would I choose to wear to entice such a partner?

• Nothing
• Okay then, get ready for bed tonight and wear nothing.

Pause. I intended to say that I wouldn't have dressed up, but this shifts to a different meaning entirely. What does he mean? I need to obey, or abandon the endeavor? I'm unable to form a reasonable response.

His query resurrects anxiety. It's two years since that traumatic night. I opened the door for Jake, finally giving into my desire after weeks of hesitation. I cleaned the apartment, invited him over for dinner, and made myself presentable. I'd planned to seduce him, decisively removing my makeup, and offering to send him home if he desired.

Waiting for him in fresh lingerie, I felt empowered, elated. Yet ultimately, my attempt was a flop. The next morning, unannounced, he replied about my new physique. While apologetic, the message left an indelible imprint. In the days that followed, I was left wondering why.

The thought gnaws as I censor my self-doubt, finally admitting defeat. My exchanges with him are growing sporadic by the second, yet I can't escape the looming expectation.

Deciding, I set aside my plate and navigate towards my bedroom. After briefly flicking through my phone, I make my way back. It's been hours; I can no longer defer his demand:

I undress, starting with my shirt, then the trousers and folding them before placing them on the chair. Gazing at my reflection in my mirror, I sport every bit of my undergarments. I ponder briefly before considering my newer, more svelte body. The thrill of exposure lingers as I discard my bra and panties for the hamper, and continue to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

With clean teeth, I proceed guiltily to my bed and pick up my phone, checking for any missed messages. However, I observe a green light near his name. He'd been online, anticipating my response.

• In bed?

Surprised, I consider the situation and decide to respond truthfully.

• Yes
• Wearing?

I hesitate briefly. I don't want him to know my exact choices, but I don't want to be dishonest either. I decide on a white lie.

• Just a shirt and boxers
• Are you serious?

The dilemma becomes more complex. Responses fluctuate between arousing and abrasive.

• Yes. I find it comfortable.

I'm not enticing him but, I feel convinced that dishonesty would be more damaging, even if avoidance remains the better choice.

Cowering under the covers, I check my phone again; the last message is still there.

• How about now?
• Yes?
• Did you take off your clothes?
• I'm naked

A rush of anticipation strengthens my resolve despite my hesitation prior. Finally deciding to follow through, I close my eyes and imagine his impression of my naked body. I accept that past traumas may never disappear entirely; they're unwelcome but unchangeable. Instead, I consider how to present my nudity in a distinctly sensual way.

My emotional rollercoaster rides onward as my phone vibrates.

• Really?
• Yes

It may not be my dream situation, strip club filled with patrons, but Jake's feedback before leaves a lasting impression.

In the gym, where I've worked on my body post-breakup, I resolve to accept my physique. On the screen, his message hangs.

• So I was right?

Perhaps. I don't have an answer. Each day, I challenge my hang-ups, reminding myself of this impromptu act that contrasted from our one significant session. My preferred fictions of seducing others mask my self-doubt, burdening it with false confidence.

I gulp down the saliva in my mouth. He's requesting a confession from me. Goosebumps raise on my skin.

• Nope.

I scrutinize the display before me, watching the specks that indicate there's more information to follow. He's taking his time, and it's annoying to have to wait. I know what he wants me to declare. He's got me in his clutch now and is torturing me with inaction.

• I'd like you to demonstrate. Provide me with a full-body shot without concealing yourself. You have sixty seconds.
• Or else what?

This is my insignificant gesture of defiance. I am not going to cower under pressure. The specks blink again.

• If you don't follow instructions, then I'll consider our connection terminated. I'll post the terminating portrait and then we'll never interact again. I won't reach out to you, and you'll never have the chance to be with him.

My eyes widen as I browse the communique. He's insinuating that this is some sort of opportunity for growth for me. I can't fathom the brazenness of this male. Then he pops up once more.

• Forty seconds

And suddenly there's a hidden passion in my breast again, just like at work the initial time he did this. He's aiming for me to uncover myself for him, whoever he is.

• I've already submitted a front-view

He's right. What he's seeking is no worse. In fact, it's less, because this involves a photo from my neck down, so my face is concealed. If I don't complete this, I'm finished. He's got me puppeteered and refuses to liberate me until I've accomplished what he desires. He hasn't uttered the words, but I sense that I'm a dumb slut who's been tricked into this situation. I'm only a stupid, libidinal slut who couldn't invent a way to escape. I'm just a doll-like sexual object that he wishes to flaunt for the world to pine for. My inner organs churn with the delightful terror, and instantaneously there's a faintness between my legs that's making me damp.

I detach the covering, unveiling myself. I take the photo, afterwards checking it. The body on my device's screen has revealed the totality of me: her heaving bosom with the distended tips of her excited peaks, the depression between them leading down towards a clump of pubic hair disguising her folds, further down to the delicate skin of her inner thighs, then down to her knees and her feet.

I forward the photo to him and subsequently watch as the three dots pulsate on the screen, experiencing my sex on the verge of penetration with each throb of my pussy.

• Great. Now I have two pictures to choose from. I'll review them overnight.

I don't send a response. I'm gripping my contraption so firmly that my knuckles are aching. What have I done? He appears on my screen again.

• You've proven your interest by complying with my requests; this is good. I have some predictions for where we're headed. I'll reveal them later, but for now, your first task is to shave yourself. You're obscured, and I want to witness everything. You'll execute this tomorrow and then share a portrait to testify. Sleep well.

In an instant, the tiny green orb vaporizes, and I'm left looking at the monitor. I catch sight of my vaginal region and run my fingertips through the mop of my pubic hair. I perceive the dampness permeating my groin because of being compelled to disrobe for him and unsettle myself once more. My hands stroke through my nethers.

By tomorrow night, my hirsute embodiment will be gone. I will also shave my armpits and my legs, leaving my entire body clean-shaven for his next command. I spread my digits to my sexual Secretion and touch my squishy external lip. My clitoris has blossomed, protruding and engorged. Male fingers have been inside me, causing this neediness. I place my cellular device on my bedding and use my other hand to caress my erect nipple, prompting little cinders of joy to erupt throughout my body as I have sex.

The pleasure climaxes out of the blue, my body crumpling into this continual tension and ultimately achieving a release. I mirror the aroma, the thrill zooming, and am captured in an extensive, uncontrollable climax.

It emerges to me that I should have captured this admission on video.

Then it dawns on me that in future I'll likely be needed to.

Read also:

• Chadslist: On the Front Porch
• Housesitter Pt. 01
• On the Job Story Challenge 2024 - The Stories
• Senior Year at Sommerville High Ch. 10

Source: www.nice-escort.de