They say that you should always be wary of getting what you want. Sometimes, when your innermost desires are realized, you find that your life is changed completely. That certainly happened to me. But I don’t regret it. Not for a second.
My name is Amy. At least, it is as far as you’re concerned. I can’t tell you my real name because I’m kind of a celebrity. I’m a news anchor for AYTV, broadcasting to twenty million Americans every day. I’m kind of on the fourth rung of celebrity, but soon I will be moving up. Thanks to a recent change of circumstances, and the help of a new patron who has a lot of influence, I will be starting work for one of the national networks in a few weeks time.
Don’t get me wrong, I deserve this shot. I’m good at what I do. I’m perky and cheerful in the mornings, but I can do solemn, and I’ve even been told I have good comic timing when I introduce the lighter items, like footage of a skateboarding duck or a politician falling over. I was even voted the second hottest female anchor in the region in a kind of creepy internet poll.
I love the thrill of the news industry. I adore the drama, the hustle, the excitement, and the buzz I get when the cameras go on, particularly if a big story is breaking. I didn’t grow up as a typical exhibitionist; I’ve always been kind of quiet, and I’d never thought of myself as a performer, until I got a part in a production of Grease in tenth grade. As soon as I stepped onto the stage, I felt calm, happy and alive. It’s been that way ever since. The bigger the audience, the better. It’s like there’s a whole other side to my personality. But that’s not the only other side to my personality
I guess I look like the girl next door. I’m often described as wholesome. I don’t know what that means, exactly. It makes me sound like a high fibre snack. It also makes me feel guilty; always has. All my life, people have been telling me I was a good girl, even when I wasn’t particularly well-behaved. There’s even a meme about me circulating on social media, in which my face is superimposed onto a nun’s body, and I’ve had emails asking me to dress up like that for Halloween. I guess I just look like a good girl. If only they knew! All those guys out there fantasizing about corrupting me, when it reality, it would be the other way round.
I do get a lot of fan mail, but my agent gets them first. I’m very careful of my privacy and I have to be extremely careful of anything I do in public. These days, one wrong move can be the end of your career. That’s one of the reasons why dating was hard. I had dated occasionally, but not with any success. All my dates fell into two categories: older industry execs who turn out to be creeps, and younger, fit, sports guys are usually boring and vacuous.
Caution wasn’t the only reason why I didn’t date much. The fact is that, up until a few weeks ago, I had got used to the idea that no man was going to be able to satisfy me. You see, about that other side of my personality, well the truth is, I am kind of, well, filthy. Behind closed doors, my favorite hobby is reading hard core erotica; the really extreme stuff.
Most nights, I ran home, tore off my clothes, took a long shower, retreated to my bed, opened up a book and then opened up my legs. I can tell you’re shocked!
The overriding theme of these books was submission. Most of the stories were about girls being tricked or forced into bondage and then forced to endure one sexual torment after another until finally they surrender to a life of wanton sex and servitude. Oh I know it was wrong and I had tried to stop, really I had. Ditching that bad habit would have made a lot of sense. But I couldn’t help it. And I always thought that, as long as it was my little secret, what harm could it do? Turns out, it could do a lot of harm. Guilty little secrets can be life changing.
It started a few weeks ago. I’d got home from the office on a Friday evening. I was pretty tired and just wanted to slip into my casual clothes and chill for a few hours. I’d just climbed up to my bedroom and taken off my blouse when my phone pinged. It was a text. Casually, I picked it up.
‘I’ve been watching you.”
Immediately I felt a chill running through me. What should I do? I threw the phone on the bed and hoped that whoever it was would go away. That didn’t work. Every minute, there was a new text. Eventually, angrily, I picked up the phone and replied, telling them to get lost.
‘Don’t think you can speak to me like that. I know where you live.’
‘No u are lying,’ I replied
‘227 Westchester Street.’ I froze. This person did know where I lived. My heart was thudding now. What should I do? Taking a deep breath, I texted back to say that I was going to call the police.
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I know what you do in your spare time. I know about your dirty books.’
My face flushed. I looked at myself in the mirror. Guilt was written all over my face. How could they possibly know? I replied that I didn’t know what they were talking about.
‘Look behind the light fitting in your bedroom. You will find a camera.’
For the second time I felt a creeping cold feeling down my spine. Quickly, I climbed up onto the bed and looked. There it was! A tiny camera, attached to the light fitting, aiming directly at my bed, where I lay, where I read my books, where I touched myself! I ripped the camera off and threw it onto the ground.
‘You bastard!” I texted furiously. ‘I am going to the police.’
‘No you won’t. Unless you want your videos all over the internet.’
I hesitated. Could I take the chance? If a video of me masturbating made it onto the internet, I don’t know what I would do. It could be the end for my career.
‘What do you want? Money?’
‘No. Tomorrow you will get a package. Open it. Follow the instructions’.
That was it. Nothing else. I tried to find out what was going to be in the package; who they were, what they wanted with me. But they had stopped replying. Eventually I dropped the phone on the bed, and when I turned to look at myself in the mirror, I saw that my nipples were hard, poking through the silky black material of my bra.
* * * *
The package arrived early the next day. My hands were shaking when I opened it, sitting on my bed. What was inside came as a shock. There were two clear plastic bags. In the first was an in impossibly sheer black lacy body, along with a thong and stockings. In the other, a collection of outrageous bondage gear. I recognized some of the items from my stories: a bright pink ball gag, ankle cuffs, a collar and lead, wrist cuffs and a paddle.
There was a note too. It was typed. It simply instructed me to put on the clothes, the cuffs and the lead, to leave my apartment door open and to be kneeling in my bedroom at 11 that night.
I told myself that there was no way I would be doing that. But as the day went by, I found my mind drifting continually to the bondage gear. I could feel a little tingle inside me, and I couldn’t explain it. The number that had texted me was not responding and as the day drew on and darkness fell, I felt increasingly trapped. I couldn’t go to the police; I couldn’t risk it.
At 1030 that night, I walked into my bedroom, slipped out of my clothes and pulled on the lacy body, the thong and then the stockings. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked hot, I had to concede. My blonde hair framed my face perfectly. I was slim, toned and my breasts were heavy and full. I would never have bought this outfit for myself, but I couldn’t help admiring how it looked on me as I turned this way and that in front of the mirror.
Next came the cuffs and the collar. It took me a while to adjust them, but they felt natural, comfortable. I am usually sensitive to anything constricting my neck, but the fur-lined collar, though it was tight, felt somehow right. Finally, I padded across my apartment to the door. With my heart thudding, I unlocked the door and returned to my bedroom, kneeling and facing the door.
I waited. It seemed like an eternity. Several times I heard footsteps in the distance and paused my breathing, only for the footsteps to fade. My heart was thudding in my chest so hard it felt like it was shaking the whole room. What was I doing? This was madness.
Just when I was thinking about dashing back out to close and lock the door, I heard more footsteps. These steps stopped. I heard the sound of my door opening. Whoever it was had entered my apartment. There was no turning back!
I heard heavy footfall across my apartment and then the door of my bedroom opened and I saw him. My tormentor. My stalker. My nemesis.