Uncover Me

Uncover Me

A. M. Hartnett

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

She didn’t think of it as porn.

Porn was something some men watched in front of their computer, cock in hand and a box of tissues next to their keyboard. Artificial boobs and bad acting. A hard cock in a wet pussy or mouth.

What Carrie was doing wasn’t porn. It was just her blog.

Standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped turban-style around her hair, she wiped away the film her shower had created and stared at the reflection of herself. She tossed around the idea of taking a picture. She knew her readers liked it when she was fresh out of the shower, her skin pink from the heat and the spray and still shining with moisture, but the pictures were like any other creative endeavour: the mood had to be just right.

Carrie hung up her bath towel and went from the steamy bathroom to the cool bedroom, damp feet slapping on the hardwood floor. She stretched, grateful for the open window and the breeze that skittered across her bare back on what already promised to be a hot one.

Before she’d been single, the windows had been closed all the time. It was a wonder she’d been able to get a wink of sleep in the year she’d been with an ex who wore socks to bed. She liked the fleeting exposure of open windows and blowing curtains, of a warm breeze skimming over bare flesh in the darkness.

She didn’t go near her phone as she dressed. She left her tablet computer alone. There would be at least twenty little red dots over her blog application’s icon. There would be more as North America woke up, lengthy comments or just little nods of approval.

What she’d posted the night before had been a blurry black and white shot of her touching herself through cotton panties. Nothing major, just a little tease, but even the subtle posts got a reaction.

Carrie wrapped herself in her robe and returned to the bathroom to dry her hair.

Besides, if she looked at the phone and saw what her pet perverts had written, that compulsion might come over her. It could strike at any hour of the day and she’d be off like a smoker on their first break of the morning. At some point during the day, she’d tuck her phone into her pocket and retreat to the washroom – not the communal stalls across the hall, but the single room by the coffee shop in the lobby, the one with the locked door. She’d take a few sneaky shots: an open blouse, the saucy peek of a garter, a finger toying with her pussy. She’d post the picture, and then return to her desk with a tea and start the wait all over again.

On a good day, she’d make it until quitting time, until she locked the front door behind her.

If it was a hard day, she’d make another trip to the bathroom, or even sneak a quick picture right there at her desk.

She still hadn’t touched her phone when, half an hour later, she was completely polished and lacquered, with the kettle bubbling on the kitchen counter. The urge was getting stronger.

She wished it was Sunday. Carrie worked her guts off on Saturday doing all those little things like laundry and groceries just so she could put on all those naughty things she’d been picking up since starting the blog and become Maggie, the woman of the blog. On Sunday she slept late and then, for as long as she was awake, allowed herself to be that persona she had created.

But it was Wednesday, and she had days left before she could give herself over to her dirty pictures.

Once she’d put her coat on, poured her tea into a travel mug and checked her purse for keys, she couldn’t wait any longer.

She picked up her phone and tapped the home button.

Forty-three comments.

I really should turn the notifications off, she thought.

But if you turned off the notifications, you’ll never know who liked, reblogged or commented on the pictures.

That was the problem. She wanted to know.

She opened the blogging app. Scrolling through the notifications gave her a rush, to know that so many strangers had seen the previous night’s impromptu display.

Somewhere, someone had gotten hard or wet at the sight of her fingers creeping beneath cotton. Someone had been overcome with a compulsion of their own. Someone grew flushed and breathless. Someone lost themselves in a fantasy about that woman in the chaste panties.

Many someones, if forty-three comments were an indication.

By the time she locked the front door behind her and headed down the stairs, the urge was stronger than ever.

She knew she’d never make it until noon.

She didn’t even make it to work.

The light at the corner of Republic and Oak was a painfully slow wait, but that morning it was just enough time. Carrie reached into her purse, opened her photo app and pulled up her skirt.

Beneath her smart black outfit, she’d paired sweet pink lace with black stockings and garters. With one foot on the brake, she lifted her other leg and angled the phone.

The final shot was saucy perfection.

At the next red light Carrie uploaded it, then dropped the phone back into her purse.

She felt lighter now, but she knew it would only be a few hours before the compulsion came back. She sucked in a deep breath as she eased into the clogged downtown core.

I might make it until five.

Buried in her purse, her phone peeped with a notification, and she knew she’d never make it.

* * *

‘Are you sure you can’t tough it out until the end of today?’

Carrie balanced the phone between her chin and her shoulder as she dug into the depths of her purse. She could hear the aspirin bottle rattling, but it was as though it darted from one end of her purse to the other in an attempt to escape its fate.

Much like the tearful young woman on the other end of the line.

‘I can’t,’ the woman said. ‘I just can’t. It’s too much.’

There was at least one of these failures in a month. No matter how well a person scored on their typing and computer tests, there was always a chance that they would prove utterly incapable of performing menial tasks in an office full of strangers.

Carrie had been in their shoes after her own university years. She couldn’t even count the number of times she’d stuffed envelopes in a cold boardroom, feeling sorry for herself as one after another curious bureaucrat came along to get a look at the temp, but she’d done it. That’s what you did when you were a temp, especially if you were a young temp with no experience. She just wished more of Turner & Associates Talent’s employees realised this.

‘All right, Brit,’ she said, ‘I’m going to need you to stick around until noon for me, OK? I’ll give the department manager a call and get her to sign your pay stub for you.’

‘I don’t care about the pay stub. I just want to leave.’

Carrie paused in her search for pills and clutched the phone. ‘Did something happen?’

‘No. I just don’t like it. I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to wait for the department manager.’

‘You need to get paid.’

‘I don’t care.’ The girl sounded as if she was on the verge of tears. ‘I’m only doing this because my mom told me I had to do it or else she wouldn’t pay my rent.’

‘OK, OK. Just … just tell the supervisor you have an emergency call, go outside and get on the bus.’

She hung up the phone and bit back a scream at the thought of getting in touch with the office manager. Though polite on the surface, she was the breed of bitchy that was usually reserved for high-school math teachers. She would sigh and remind Carrie that this was the fourth temp in three months they had lost. Carrie would apologise and bite her tongue to keep from telling the old witch to fuck off and take her business elsewhere. Part of her hoped they would do it anyway. If they wanted another girl sent over, Carrie would have to figure out which of those on her roster she could sacrifice this time.

By the time she had finished her call and had suffered what was the verbal equivalent of being flayed an inch at a time, her raging headache was going nowhere and her pills seemed to want to stay that way. Abandoning her search, she tossed her purse aside and rolled her seat away from her desk. She was at the door of her office when she remembered her phone docked on the credenza.

She was surprised to realise this was the first time she’d thought about it since she’d sat down in front of her computer that morning.

And then the need hit her, wiping out thoughts of the headache and sarcastic clients. She needed to be alone. She needed to show off just a little.

She sucked in a deep breath and tried to will the urge away. The hardest thing she could have done that day was walk away, but walk away she did, straight to reception.

‘Kayla, do you have anything for a headache?’

The receptionist raised eyebrows that were dark and heavily pencilled. ‘That bad?’

‘I’m tired of talking to people. Tired of people who want, who need, who are never happy.’

‘Then you’re never going to get a moment’s peace in this line of work.’

Kayla opened her desk drawer, and Carrie marvelled at the order in which it was kept. She used to envy people like Kayla: married with children but still showed up at work looking refreshed, while Carrie herself could barely stand to get out of bed most mornings. Perhaps it was because Kayla didn’t have to work. Perhaps working was freedom for Kayla while it was a yoke for Carrie.

‘You have vacation time coming up, don’t you?’

Carrie nodded. ‘Two weeks.’

‘Going anywhere special?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it. I might fly into Montreal for a few days and then drive down into the States. Or I might just hang around in my apartment. Thanks.’ She accepted the tablets in her palm and slapped them into her mouth, letting them sit on her tongue while she filled a cone at the water cooler next to Kayla’s desk. She went on after she’d swallowed. ‘I might just split the difference with a few days in Montreal and a few days at home.’

‘What about Mexico or Cuba?’

‘I don’t do beach vacations. I sightsee, or else I read. Hey –’ she leaned on the edge of the reception counter ‘– have they started renovating in 605?’

‘Not yet, or at least I haven’t been driven insane by hammering yet. Why?’

‘Nothing, I just thought I heard something earlier.’ Carrie refilled the paper cone and drank in a gulp. ‘I’ve got calls in to three girls for Doyle & Follett. Can you do me a favour and just give them the basics if they call? I’m going out for lunch today.’

* * *

Suite 605 used to be the offices of Yellow Gate Realty. The company had exhibited a complete lack of creative thought when they’d chosen canary-yellow walls. On sunny days, the corridor in front of the office looked like it had been drawn over with a neon hi-lighter where the colour seeped through the glass panes flanking the door.

Not any more, as Carrie discovered – after finding that the door was unlocked. Some work had been done in the offices. The walls were now eggshell and, with the exception of a small, dusty pile of debris, the office appeared ready to be leased.

For now, anyway, it was Carrie’s studio.

She chose the corner office, locked the door behind her, just in case, and placed her purse on the floor. She remembered the husband-and-wife team who had owned Yellow Gate and probably shared this office. They were an older couple who only ever spoke business when they rode the elevator with Carrie. The woman, middle-aged and impeccably dressed, was always fiddling with her earrings while her husband toyed with his Blackberry. They hadn’t looked happy, and yet they had worked together day in and day out in that office for over twenty years and always seemed to be a united front. The business had folded when they ultimately divorced. Rumours in the building whispered of a fling with the secretary, though no one was ever really clear whether it had been the husband or wife doing the flinging.

No one is ever what they seem, Carrie thought as she plucked the buttons of her blouse. A neighbour likes it rough, your boss likes to watch his wife getting fucked by another man, the janitor is into pegging, and the courier who needs a signature for those fun little accessories you ordered goes back to his truck and jerks off to streaming porn.

Once she was down to her bra and panties, she returned to her purse and collected her phone and the thick paperback she now carried with her everywhere. She hadn’t read a word. Reading wasn’t what she had bought it for. It was a makeshift tripod, and with it she could tilt the phone high enough to capture her entire body but omit her face.

She rested it on the floor and, having opened the application with a self-timer, pressed the button, then stood facing the trio of large windows, her back to the camera.

Three seconds.

As she ran her hand along the curve of her ass, she turned.

One second.

Growing hornier by the second, Carrie dug her fingers into the plump flesh.

Click.

She started the timer again. This time she stood in profile as she unhooked her bra.

Three seconds.

The garment buckled, and a shudder went through her as the cool air puckered her nipples.

One second.

The garment fell, and she cupped her breasts.

Click.

Once more, one last time. Only now she laid the camera flat on the floor and knelt. She set the timer and watched the woman pull aside her panties.

Three seconds.

With her free hand, she stroked one finger along her sex. On-screen, her bare pussy shone with the arousal she’d built up just in the last few moments.

One second.

She slipped one finger inside herself.

Click.

For a few seconds after the last shot, Carrie remained in her pose, watching the display that went on. Taking pictures at work had always proved problematic. By the time she had finished, she was always so horny she couldn’t wait to get home and finish off. Today at least she had a little bit of privacy.

Her eyes on the camera, she moved her fingers between her thighs. It was a ritual that had preceded technology: when she was younger, she used to prop a mirror between her legs and pretend it was someone else’s finger playing with her. Years later she’d tried a finger vibe, but in the end it was the fantasy of being toyed with by some unseen figure that made her come.

Behind two closed doors, she didn’t worry that anyone might hear the breathy little sounds she made. Each gasp of pleasure that followed the trail of her finger around her clit burst from the back of her throat.

The last thing she saw before the screen went to sleep was bare pink flesh shiny from contact with her sex.

She closed her eyes and sank on one hand. In her mind, a faceless stranger knelt behind her. She imagined his breadth and his strength eclipsing her. Her clit throbbed as she envisioned him mounting her. She pushed against her knees, rocking forward and backward to the motion of her hand, rubbing herself to match his unrelenting pace.

Unable to stay upright any longer, she bowed to the floor and pressed her face against the carpet. Her fantasy man grasped her hips and held her in place as he pumped her.

Her climax surged up and she squeezed her lips together to keep from screaming. The man of her imagination thrust hard one more time and vanished like dust. Everything vanished, everything but that throbbing burst of euphoria that held her in its grasp.

She rolled onto her side and sucked in a deep breath. Her fingers stilled around throbbing flesh. She threw her arm over her eyes, barring the light pouring in from outside. Blindly she felt around for her phone, then she peered at it from beneath her forearm.

Eighty-seven messages.

She posted her latest gallery and stretched out on the floor, too lethargic to get up. She knew that number would be more than doubled by the time she got home. It always did when she was feeling naughty at work.

Chapter Two

I’ll have to rein it in before I get caught stripping and rubbing out at work, she thought as she headed home for the day.

The very thought of stopping bothered her. She liked the way she felt when she took her pictures. She liked the person she was in the pictures.

She had been nineteen when she’d first shared a grainy picture taken with an external webcam. She’d taken shots for boyfriends, and in her last relationship she had let Frank film her as she went down on him.

This was different. Taking them, sharing them was as exciting as foreplay. How could she get so turned on by the thought of someone out there, perhaps in some faraway country, getting off as he scrolled through a series of pictures of her stroking her wet pussy? How was it possible that posing alone in her living room, sunk into a chair with one leg slung over the arm and a camera between her thighs, made her so horny?

It had started when she stumbled across a blog linked by one of her favourite erotic writers. From there, she found blogs of women just like her, regular women and couples, who just liked sharing. She had been inspired by others who did it not for money but for the thrill of it.

The married couple who kept a sex diary of their swapping lifestyle, or the bisexual student who was cataloguing his post-small-town sexual experiences one Polaroid-style snapshot at a time. So many videos, photos and stories from ordinary people like her who were just eager to show off.

And so she’d started her blog, which she simply titled Dirty Pictures. She created a persona, Maggie, who liked to dress up in the most sinful lingerie and play with a collection of toys, who liked to show off for a faceless and adoring audience.

Dirty Pictures was her thrill, her compulsion, and it was becoming her addiction.

One that was starting to get out of hand, if having to break and enter that day was any indication. The urge was always with her, and it was getting worse. How does one quit exhibitionism?

The possibility of having to do so rankled with her as she approached the intersection where she had taken her pictures that morning. She wasn’t addicted. She just liked the novelty of her pictures. One day the novelty would wear off, and that would be the end of it.

This new obsession had everything to do with Frank and the shitty card he’d dealt her. She needed the pictures now. She needed the pictures to feel, to stamp out the embers of anger and betrayal that still rekindled themselves far too frequently.

As much as she wanted to retreat to the sanctuary of her apartment, she had run out of tea. Tea was her last excuse. As long as she had tea, she could put off going to the grocery store and just pick up her lunch at one of the dozens of shops that surrounded her workplace. She could pop down to the pizza shop at the end of her road, or head in the opposite direction for fish and chips to go, from the pub around the corner, but she would not do without her tea.

She pulled into the grocery store and, before getting out of the car, slipped her hand into her purse to touch her phone, then yanked it away.

I don’t have to look, she thought. Not yet. Not until I get home. There’ll be time enough for that after the dishes are clean.

And so she went shopping, gritting her teeth as she ‘excuse me’d and ‘sorry’d her way from aisle to aisle. By the time she’d amassed a cart full of goods to get her through another week, she was seething. She hated being in large crowds of people, or even small crowds. She’d made it less than an hour and was standing in the checkout line when she caved, reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.

It was a mistake to even look, but she just couldn’t help herself.

One hundred and eleven messages.

She smiled and opened the app.

‘I’ll bet it doesn’t take much to make you wet, Maggie.’

She peeked over her shoulder at the older man standing behind her with a scowl. He probably didn’t even own a computer and got his rocks off with the same VHS he’d had since the 80s, playing it in the same worn-out machine.

She scrolled down.

‘At work, rubbing myself under my desk. Can’t stop thinking about you touching yourself through your panties.’

Her finger quickly swiped through the messages, catching the ones from her favourite readers – though some professed as much, she still couldn’t bring herself to think of them as fans:

‘Gorgeous, but need more of that clear dildo opening you up to get me hard.’ This from a man in Ireland.

And from a bisexual tattoo artist in Oregon, ‘Would love to bury my face between your thighs.’

And from the couple who kept their own record of their swinging lifestyle, ‘Love it when you wear garters.’

The usual suspects, and a few newcomers, some of whom didn’t even read English and responded in what she guessed was Swedish.

She kept scrolling, contemplating her Sunday performance, when, in the midst of the adoration, a startling phrase caught her eye.

‘Keyes Tower?’

Her blood ran cold as she read on.

‘Can’t believe it. So close. PMed you. Please message me back.’

Keyes Tower.

Her office building.

Someone had recognised it.

Finger shaking, Carrie deleted the comment and dropped her phone back in her purse.

The next few minutes stretched on. She leaned on her cart feeling frozen.

Someone, some stranger, knew where to find her.

* * *

As soon as she threw open her front door she dropped her bags and headed straight for the computer. The damn machine seemed to take for ever to boot up. She clicked the shortcut for her blog and enlarged the last photo she had taken that afternoon.

She had been so eager to take her pictures that she didn’t think about the view from the window. And there it was, behind the lewd woman in the pictures. It was barely noticeable in the corner, but unmistakable to anyone who worked or played downtown: the domed clock tower that squatted in the centre of the city. Behind it, the signal masts from the fortress in the background.

As careful as she had been to turn off geotagging, as careful as she had been to show as little of her apartment as possible, she had given herself away with a single landmark.

Carrie rested her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her hands.

Could it really have been so thrilling just hours ago when she took that picture? Could she really have been flooded with glee over being adored as she stood in the grocery lineup? And now she felt sick.

Since starting her blog, since becoming Maggie, Carrie had been careful to keep the persona separate from her true self. It was why she never showed her face. She wanted the adoration. She wanted the fantasy. She wanted to keep her obsession behind drawn curtains and locked doors.