tagNonConsent/ReluctanceBlackmailed: Whore for a Day

Blackmailed: Whore for a Day

byJMaxwell69©

Melinda almost didn't open the email because she didn't recognize the address, motoole174@---.com, and figured it must be some sort of spam. But the fact that the subject line was so personal and yet arcane, it said "Mel, only open this if you're alone", caused her curiosity to get the better of her.

When Mel opened the email her heart skipped a beat and her skin blanched and went cold. Before she could even read the note, she saw the attached picture. It was her, a younger her - eight years younger to be roughly precise, holding a martini glass containing some bright blue umbrella-topped drink off-kilter in one hand and a male exotic dancer's engorged schlong in the other. There was a saliva rope between her clearly visible face and the stripper's clean-shaven nether region. She remembered the occasion, well... not the details, but she remembered starting a girl's night out - her girlfriend's bachelorette party - and the pounding headache the next morning.

That was a different time, a different life. She had been a single college student. Now she was a married woman of five years and was employed as a teacher in the local Public School system. Those were but two of the many reasons she did not particularly want to see photos of her sluttiest moments as a stupid college kid floating around in the public eye. It could ruin her professionally, and, though it was before her marriage, the full extent of her immaturity was not something she particularly wanted her husband to know about. He had married a much saner and soberer version of Melinda. This was not, after all, the revelation of a past boyfriend - her husband knew he hadn't married a virgin - but, rather, it was her getting freaky with a complete stranger in front of a room full of both friends and other strangers. She was not that same girl now. She had just turned 30, for christ's sake, and she lived a perfectly quiet, respectable, and, in some sense of the word, conservative life. While it would be a lie to deny she occasionally missed the adventures of youth, she was happy as an adult, if occasionally stressed by the responsibilities of adulthood.

Melinda took a calming breath and forced herself to read the note. "Mel: If you don't want the juicier pictures in this series to go viral on the web and into the inboxes of some important people in your life, you will follow these directions to the letter. Now I know you may be inclined to say: 'Fuck this bastard. I'm going to get him.' I assure you, while I am admittedly a bastard, I am not a dumb bastard. Without getting into the details, I will tell you I have a hair-trigger set up such that my failure to defuse it will result in the pictures going out automatically. In other words, even if I can't access a computer because I am in jail, dead, or in the hospital, the pictures will go out via anonymous email and blog posts. On Saturday morning at 10am, I want you to go to the 3rd Floor of the Central Branch of the Library downtown. You will go into the stacks and pick up the book with the call number '613.81', and will leisurely flip through the book until I arrive.

"When I arrive, I will ask: 'Which one do you want to try?'

"You will respond by saying: 'All of them.'

"That's how you'll know it's me. If any one else comes by, just keep flipping through the book. You will not have a purse or any other sort of bag with you. You will leave your cell phone at home or in your car. Tell your hubby you have something to do and you won't be back until 7 or 8 pm. Make up any excuse you want (shopping, work, whatever he'll believe). Finally, and this is of the utmost importance. Wear a dress or skirt with stockings (no pantyhose), with no pockets, and leave your panties in the car or at home. I cannot emphasize enough that complete obedience will result in you being free and easy as of 8:00pm Saturday night, but if you don't comply or try to get even afterword, you will pay a price. I'm looking forward to our date." It was signed "M. O'Toole". She recognized the pseudonym from jokes about male porn star names, Miles O'Toole, and it gave her not the slightest hint as to who might be black-mailing her.

Melinda's first response was intense anger, the kind of boiling rage one develops when a very bad thing happens to one that one is completely impotent to stop. She forced herself to calm down, and to think about her options. She considered whether she might just defuse the situation by simply telling her husband and employer about her past indiscretions. The logical and rational part of her suspected she would survive it alright. Her husband might be mad for a period due to the embarrassment, but the fact that there was no infidelity and his easy-going nature meant he would get over it. She was aware that complying with her blackmailer would likely involve far greater betrayal than not telling him what a naughty slut she had once been. She was more worried about her employment situation. Even though her direct superior, Principal Werner, might be willing to write off the past as the past based on her personal knowledge Melinda, this was the kind of thing that could hit the 6 o'clock news and become tangled up in politics and school board debates.

If she lost her job, there would forever be that dreaded job interview question: "Why did you leave your last job?"

The response to which would either be a lie or the unappealing truth: "Because amateur porn photos from a bachelorette party surfaced."

In reality, she probably wouldn't even get an interview because, in this day and age, HR people websurf your name before they even call you in for an interview.

After hours of vacantly thinking of nothing else even after her husband came home and tried to engage her in chit-chat as they watched some television before bed, Melinda concluded that she was not brave enough to do the rational thing. She kept taking a deep breath with the intent of spewing out her secret to her man, imploring his forgiveness, and seeking his help. But she couldn't do it, no matter how nuanced the wording she thought up. She hated herself for it, for her weakness and cowardice. But this self-loathing was not alone, it mixed with disgust that she couldn't put her finger upon. There seemed to be a deep-seated thrill in which part of her subconscious reveled. Was part of her exhilarated by the prospect of her trip on Saturday - even as she dreaded it in the forefront of her mind? She forced such questions out of her mind as ridiculous.

At 2:00am, having developed her plan, Melinda drifted off for the remainder of the night.

The next morning she said to her husband, "Oh, I think on Saturday I'm going to go to the outlet mall. I'll make sure I'm back in the evening, maybe 7 or 8ish." She worried that the veil of nonchalance she tried to project would falter and she would be betrayed by her own behavior. She also expected that, while out of character, Bill might decide he wanted to go along with her.

"That's fine, I should probably go into the office for a few hours anyway because we are really pressed on the Latimer project, and it's hard to get work done when the whole crew is there. Have fun." Bill said.

Melinda was relieved, but suppressed a sigh of relief. She would do some quick shopping with cash on Saturday morning before going downtown to the library. She would destroy the receipts and tags. She didn't have the time to go all the way out to the outlet mall in the far suburbs, but she could get things for similar prices on sale on her way. As long as she had something in hand when she returned, Bill would be none-the-wiser. Truth be told, even if she didn't have new clothes in tow, he probably wouldn't notice. Melinda was relatively frugal, and Bill never seemed to notice the minutiae of her shopping sprees. She was worried all this duplicity might give her ulcers, but her terror at the alternative far outweighed such concerns.

When Saturday came, Mel had an unexpectedly easy time because Bill left early to go into the office. She was then able to follow on his heels without raising suspicions. She did some quick shopping, leaving the tags and receipts torn up in the mall parking deck trash can. She was rushed and barely paid attention to what she was buying. She was constantly looking around to make sure no one would see her that knew she and Bill such that it might get back to him where and when she did her shopping. She caught herself almost buying things that weren't her size or taste. As she drove downtown, the same concern confronted her, that someone might see her driving and tell Bill. She knew it was extremely unlikely given the high numbers of people downtown and the fact that she actually knew relatively few people in the city. It was not rational fear, but it was unshakable nonetheless.

She'd never been to the main branch of the library before, but had done the research to find it and to determine where to park. She put her cell phone in her purse with the pair of panties she would put on before she went home, and shoved it under the driver's seat. The shopping bags were in the trunk where they wouldn't attract a break in of her Hyundai. Before getting out, she looked around to see that no one she knew was around.

The library opened at 9:00am, but, despite the fact that she was in the neighborhood by 9:30, Melinda saw no reason to get there early. She went into a Starbucks at the base of a nearby office building and had a latte. She watched the pedestrian traffic to see if she could spot her tormentor. She logically knew there was no acceptable way to get the drop on him, even if she knew who he was, but she longed to experience some sense of being out ahead of the man who was dragging her life out of control through the muck. She needed to embrace some illusion that she was not rudderless.

As the dreaded hour arrived, Melinda did go to the library, up to the third floor, and wandered through the stacks looking from the scrap of paper in her palm up to the call sign markers at the end of the shelves and back. When she got in the vicinity of the book she was looking for, she understood what a piece of crap she was dealing with. The books were all about sex and sexuality. This guy really wanted to try to see if he could put her off-guard with a simple humiliation from the start. She found the book, 613.81. It was a modern large-format edition of the "Kama Sutra", with full-page glossy color photos of the various sexual positions posed by svelte models. She checked her watch, and didn't pick up the book until precisely 10:00am. She flipped through the first time uneventfully in about ten minutes. On the second time through a young black man passed the end of the shelf and smiled when he saw Melinda paging through the nudey book, but kept moving when she practically buried her face in the book.

It was interminable half-hour before she saw another soul, and her stomach flopped when she recognized the man. She didn't know from where at first, but she knew she had seen him. Then she remembered that he had attended a parent-teacher conference. His daughter was in Melinda's class. The girl apparently lived with her mother, who normally attended such functions, but since she had to be out of town for work, the father had been called upon to hear a progress report on the child. The two parents were divorced. She remembered her friend Vicki, another teacher, bemoaning the fact that this father, who was not hard on the eyes, was on the market since his divorce, and was rumored to make a comfortable living, was wasted on a married Melinda when there were perfectly suitable single teachers around.

Vicki's words were something like "you are such a lucky dog, I hope he comes next year when his girl is in my class."

This was not the first time that Vicki, sweet girl as she was, had said something catastrophically stupid.

"Which one do you want to try?" The man said.

It was only then that it dawned on Melinda, that this man was her blackmailer. When she saw him, she just thought she was having the most extreme bad luck of running into someone who recognized her while waiting on her blackmailer. She was trying to make sense of it as he came closer and closer.

"What?" Melinda said.

"That is not your line. Let's try this again. WHICH... ONE... DO... YOU... WANT... TO... TRY?" The man said slowly and carefully enunciating each individual word as if Melinda was deaf or mentally unsound. As he did so, he tapped the glossy nude photograph on the page to which Melinda held the book open.

"Uhh... All of them." Melinda said feebly as her freckled skin blushed. A fair-complected natural red-head, Melinda showed her embarrassment particularly intensely in her facial hue.

"That's better. Now, don't mind me, I just need to do one more check of how well you follow instructions."

With that, right there in the public library, the man lifted the back of Melinda's skirt to the small of her back so that her bare pale rounded buttocks were exposed. She flushed further at the thought that she might be observed through the gaps between the books and the shelves, or on camera. However, she knew it was unlikely. She fought off an urge to attack the man like an animal. She wanted to slap him, and keep hitting and kicking him until he was down, but she couldn't do it. Instead she just watched her powerlessness grow as the man rubbed his open palm across her butt-cheeks and then gave one cheek a tight squeeze before letting go and letting the dress hemline fall back to its intended position. She had never felt so violated in all her life.

"Very good. You get an 'A' in 'listens to, and follows, instructions.' Come with me. It's time to start our big adventure." He said.

"Wait a minute. How do I know you aren't just going to take me into the woods and hack me to pieces?" Melinda said.

"I guess you don't 'know' that, but I suspect that you don't believe it. Our limited interaction gave you no reason to suspect I'm a killer. It might not have given you reason to think I was a blackmailing bastard either, but that is a little more believable, right?" The man, who she thought was named Joe, replied.

"OK, how do I know you won't get what you want and still release the photos." Melinda asked.

"Oh, that one is easy. Remember the Cold War, now that you've seen my face, we can both destroy each other, and thus, if you do as I say, I have no incentive to do anything to incur your wrath. If I released the photos, you would just implicate me. Let's continue this talk while walking." Joe said.

"Alright, then we should just call this a Mexican stand-off, and each go home." Melinda said.

"Nice try, but our situations are not strictly analogous. I'm already divorced. My ex-wife already sees me as a dirt-bag, and thus, by extension, the daughter who lives with her probably thinks I'm a dirt-bag from all her mom's trash talk. Also, I'm not a public school teacher. I'm an independent securities trader. I'd lose a client or two, but I'd probably gain a few as well who like the idea of having a type-A personality running their mad-money portfolios. Mostly, I'd suffer an embarrassment, but would still have a job and no spouse. You, on the other hand... I don't relish anyone knowing about this, but you have far more to lose. So just do what I say for the day, and we both go our separate ways."

"You say that, but you'll still have the pictures and 'less to lose', and may come back for more. You clearly want to publically humiliate me judging from the fact that you were trying to make me look like some sort of ogling pervert with that last task." Melinda said, letting out all the questions that had plagued her since she received the email and decided to comply.

"If I were interested in publically humiliating you I would have told you to dress slutty and go to a Barnes and Noble and pick a far more risqué book than is carried by a public library. Haven't you heard, it's the internet age and no one goes to the library any more? That said, I understand why you would be reluctant to take my word, and it's impossible for me to prove I've deleted all the photos because they are digital and can be a million places at once. However, if I lie, I risk you getting so mad you call my bluff. Believe me, in my line of work I see people shoot themselves in the foot on the principle of the matter all the time. I, obviously, don't expect you to believe me, but I will say that even a bastard like me can have an ethics of sorts. I struck an implicit contract with you. You spend a day doing as I say and you are in the clear, and I intend to honor that agreement. Like it or not by showing up, you agreed to honor that agreement as well." Joe explained as they walked out of the library, and onto the sidewalk.

It was a beautiful autumn morning outside with azure skies overhead.

"So are we done with the '20 Questions' here, or what?" Joe asked.

"I've got just one more question. Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?" Melinda asked struggling to keep her voice from cracking from sadness about the injustice of her present situation.

They walked a canyon between tall office buildings at a leisurely stroll, and there was almost no one on the streets this Saturday morning to overhear Joe's soliloquy. "Ah. Well, my dear, you've probably already guessed that I'm an evil bastard, and that's about all the explanation there need be. You are looking at this all wrong. You are looking for a reason in an unreasonable world. Bad and unfair shit happens to people all the time. It doesn't have to be your fault. Haven't you read about when 'bad things happen to good people'? If you want to know, 'why you?' It's as simple as a.) you are a pretty woman, b.) the opportunity presented itself - I recognized you from back when I was bouncing at a strip club right after college, and one fortuitous night was assigned a bachelorette party in the ladies' side of the club, and c.) life is not fair, Princess, get used to it. If you're asking 'why am I am doing this', the answer is more complex. I could say I'm engaging in thrill-seeking necessitated by life in a world in which the mundane and prosaic grind a person down. Our ancestors got used to getting their tickers going by having saber-toothed tigers chasing their asses, and, in a small tribe, an aggressive SoB like me had a shot at ruling the roost. Now days, if you insist I wax philosophical on the subject, in order to imbue my life with some sense of control and exhilaration, I have to play games like this. If that explanation makes your mind rest easier than just accepting that I'm a mean son-of-a-bitch, then, by all means, run with it." Joe said.

Joe ushered Melinda into a parking deck, into the stairwell, and up the stairs. When they got to the third level, they exited the stairwell, and walked, with clacking heels echoing in the empty space, down to an adjacent corner where Joe popped the locks on a shiny black BMW that was parked nose out.

"Get in the front passenger seat." Joe commanded, and Melinda complied.

After Melinda got in, Joe followed suit by getting into the driver's seat. They just sat in silence for a moment. Joe made no move to start the car. He just sat there looking ahead.

"Look you don't have to do this." Melinda said softly. She was trying to appeal to some humanity that the man had steadfastly tried to show her did not exist.

When that tack didn't work, she changed course. Speaking up louder and more confidently, she said, "I mean, you are not a complete ogre. It might be possible for you to get some sort of woman without hijacking her."

Joe just smiled at the latter comment. She had broken the silence and was working through her basket of tricks to get him to engage. It was all part of the sophisticated mind-fuck he was carrying out. He wanted her to know that he was unflappable. Her insult merely amused him because it was a clear act of desperation, and he wanted her to be acting out of desperation. Besides he knew he was considered not too shabby for a middle-aged man. He worked out and had a chiseled face that at least some women found attractive, though others found a bit hard - though not ugly. Women who batted their eyes over Leonardo DiCaprio or Brad Pitt might not go for him, but a woman who like the Marlboro Man would swoon. His close-cropped brown hair might have a little salt in it and his well-muscled physique might not be as lean as it was when he was 20, but he was doing alright. He was not blackmailing the woman because it was his only option, but rather because the other options were so spectacularly boring.

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