You Will Show Me Everything Ch. 01

[Author's note: This story is part of the On The Job Challenge 2024]

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Oh shit, he answered back. My heart rate spikes and I have that strange, dry feeling in my mouth. He answered back and now I have to do it. I'm at work and I have a Masters Degree in Engineering and I need to send him a naked full-body picture of myself looking like a fucking dumb bimbo within the next five minutes.

How did I ever get into this mess?

I get up from my desk, taking my phone with me, mind racing. The bathrooms would be easy but he doesn't want that. He doesn't want a picture of a bimbo slut in front of a toilet bowl. Where? I pace down the corridor in my neat workwear, trying to work out what I'm going to do.

The meeting rooms are all glass-fronted. If I stripped off there, anyone could walk past. Anyone could look in on me and see their well-respected, intelligent work colleague pouting like a blonde airhead for the camera. The mere thought of it ignites that feverish ache in my crotch.

Four minutes.

It's not as if I didn't ask for it, but now I'm here, heading down the fire stairs to the basement carpark, taking the steps two at a time, conscious of the seconds ticking by. Why on earth am I even doing this, sending a picture of myself to a stranger? Worse, sending a naked, full-frontal picture of myself?

No, it's too late for self-delusion: worse than that. He wants a picture of me naked looking like an airhead slut in my birthday suit pouting for him, full body with my face clearly visible, to post on a forum where everyone will see me. I know what will happen from there, the way the picture will spread across the internet, from chat group to chat group, turning up on threads in all the little corners of the internet, spreading way past the point that I'll ever have a chance to stop them.

I open the door and hurry out into the basement, heels clicking on the concrete as I stride between the parked cars into the corner of the carpark. This looks good: out of the way of the door, three rows back, in the gloom, sandwiched between a hulking SUV and the bare concrete wall. No-one will see.

Three minutes.

Then the irony hits me, that I've found a spot where I can do this unseen but he wants me to send the picture to him so that he can show it to everyone. I work in a technology company; there are bound to be people on my floor who frequent the same forums I do, or have friends who do, who will stumble across a new picture of a woman exposing herself in public. I begin to strip off.

I'm fresh meat, I'm going to get noticed.

Two minutes.

I find myself folding my skirt, like there's still decorum in this situation, like I'm not about to be humiliated everywhere if I do this. I unclasp my bra, shaking my breasts loose, watching how they wobble as I shimmy my panties down over my hips. I work out, but I'm not supermodel standard, softer curves to my body that have stopped me feeling comfortable naked. It's been a thing, all my life.

I was the one at the pool who stood behind the rest of my friends when they took pictures in their bikinis and bathing suits, using their tight, trim bodies to shield myself. I was the one who talked last when boys came up. Even now, years later, even with all the work I've put in, there's still the shadow of that girl who wasn't quite enough. I look down at myself and I see her still, like none of it made any difference.

One minute.

For some reason, I run my fingers through my hair. I'm blonde now, growing it long, good enough to get looks from some of the guys I work with. I glance at the door to the stairwell. The place is utterly silent but I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I raise the phone, angling it down at my body, like I'm just taking a selfie, like I'm not stark naked, staring up at the lens. I take the picture.

The phone clicks and I check it, suddenly catching my breath. What I thought was a delectable pout looks like something else. I stare into the eyes of the woman on screen and see a lost, hopeless look on her face, and it's so fucking hot it makes me want to touch myself, right there in public in the back of the carpark, thrusting my fingers inside myself until I come.

Thirty seconds.

I find his contact details and attach it, but then I stop.

I feel lightheaded, like it's euphoria, but it's also panic. If I tap the button, he's going to have a picture of me showing him everything. I know what he's going to do with it, because he's told me in explicit detail. Worse, I've seen him on the forums and I know what's going through his head.

Then there's that voice in my head too. This is why I don't have a boyfriend: because I'm getting a twisted thrill out of this. I get off on it, on the stories I read about being exposed, being stared at, laid out in front of strangers with no control. I'm so strait-laced during the day that no-one I work with, none of my friends or any of my family, would ever dream that this is what gets me off, and it's too much to even begin to explain to them.

Still, if I tap the button, then he's going to tell everyone. I shouldn't do it. I really shouldn't. He could destroy my life. My cheeks are burning because I've stopped breathing, staring at the picture of my bare body. I'm so very horny, more than I ever recall.

Five seconds. Four, three, two.

Send.

I can't help myself, my hand diving down, my fingers driving inside, rubbing furiously as I stare at myself on the screen. My body trembles and I climax on the spot, clenching myself around my fingers, spasming powerfully as the orgasm surges through me. I finally remember to breathe.

As I come down, the reality sinks in. I realise what I've done, and it's too late. I can't recall the message, and he wouldn't let me anyway. I'm sopping and my hand is slick with my moisture, my legs quivering like I've just sprinted a mile. Gradually, I begin to dress myself, conscious of the scent of my pleasure on my hand as I button up my blouse. I pull my panties up my legs, feeling the dampness there beneath the soft cotton as I shield my nakedness again. I slide my phone into my pocket and then take a deep breath, stepping back into my heels, every inch the professional employee that my colleagues see every day.

I make my way back towards the stairs. Only then do I see the security camera mounted on the ceiling. Did it see me? Would it have had a clear view of what I was doing behind the SUV? My heart spikes and I feel pins and needles in my wrists.

Right now, is the security guard saving off the last few minutes of footage onto a private drive? No, the angle's wrong. No, I'm safe, aren't I? I look up at the little black dome and concede that I have no idea how much it saw, and then my blood goes cold as I realise I'm staring directly up into it, my face now clearly visible for anyone to see.

I make it to the safety of the stairwell, but I can't climb the steps because my legs are trembling too much. After the euphoric high of exposing myself and then the shattering orgasm after, I'm coming down and the cold light of day is seeping in. I take out my phone and hurriedly delete the picture I took, and then the sent message, leaving no trace of my disgrace. I tap out a quick message to him, asking him to delete the picture, that I've changed my mind. He's a reasonable person, isn't he? He'll know that I want him to stop, that this was all a mistake, a game.

I stare at the screen, but there's no response. Eventually, I climb the stairs and return to my floor. I wash my hands in the kitchen, trying to purge the scent of my climax, but I can still smell it somehow, like it's been burned into my brain. Then there is the damp patch in my panties, but surely that's not the source, surely the people I'm in my next meeting with won't be able to smell the passion on me. It's all in my head, right?

I sit down at my desk again, putting the phone next to me, but all I can do is stare at the screen. He hasn't replied. Reluctantly, I get up and go to my meeting.

They're dealing with the same issues as last week, and I'm on autopilot, letting them all talk while I nod occasionally. The discussion turns to the technical details and I have to answer questions, but it pulls me out of my head a little more, and the miasma of my catastrophic decision begins to recede. By the end of the meeting, I'm feeling normal again, talking to my boss about next steps, when my phone buzzes in my pocket and my blood runs cold.

I excuse myself and hurry back to my desk, checking that no-one can oversee me. He's replied back. My hand is shaking as I tap the message to open it. I see the words and for a few moments my mind goes blank, my thoughts turning to white noise in my head.

Then I understand; he's right, I made the choice to send the photo to him, it's already done. I know what I am: a dumb bimbo slut, but now I'm his dumb bimbo slut and from this point onwards I'm going to do exactly what he asks me to.

All I can do is wait.

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[Next chapter: he gets in contact and I receive my instructions. He's going to show me to everyone.

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