Chapter Six - KATYA
There are candles everywhere. Lined up on the edge of the tub in one-foot holders, standing in the corners of the room in three- and five-foot holders, and there are two candelabras with twelve tapers each, flanking each side of the double vanity. I have always loved candles. They are a yellow-white color and smell like vanilla.
It’s not enough light for a shoot, so I have proper lighting as well. And after I set up the candles I decided one camera angle wasn’t enough. So now I have three tripods.
Basically my bathroom has been turned into a studio and this is my day’s work.
I adjust the robe and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is messy, my makeup non-existent, and I’m surrounded by captured flames.
Mirrors and flames.
It brings back a lot of very bad memories.
But Claudette is gone now. Dead at the hands of Mr. Mysterious, no less. Oliver was there too. All of them, actually. Every Mister was accounted for that night. And they are almost all accounted for right now as well.
I stand in front of the tub, each of the three cameras already recording, and shrug the details off with my robe. Once the silky fabric slides over my shoulders it slips down my body in a silent whoosh of air, and makes a soft green puddle of fabric at my feet.
I say nothing. I will say nothing. Let him guess what I’m thinking.
It’s only fair. I’ve been guessing what he’s been thinking since we parted ways four years ago.
I pose for the camera. Something I do naturally now. Taking a moment to imagine myself staring into his eyes. I forgo the pouty lips and play air-kisses and just stand there. Let him appreciate me. Let him think about all the days and nights we’ve been apart. Let him wonder what I’ve been doing.
I start fondling my breasts, pinching my nipples to make them hard and bunched. My nails are just long enough, and the steam inside the bathroom just hot enough, to leave red marks on my fair skin.
He likes that. He likes the animalistic nature of sex.
I find myself unconsciously biting my lip and stop.
I am not a weak little girl. I am not trying to seduce him, or entice him, or make him want me.
He already wants me.
None of that play-acting stuff matters with Oliver Shrike. Everything with him needs to be genuine.
One hand continues to lightly scrape the skin of my breasts, while the other tracks down my ribcage with just enough pressure to make marks. It slips easily between my legs and only then do I let myself become aroused.
My lips part as my mouth opens. My heart beats faster. My skin prickles up, even though the heat in this room leaves no room for chills.
I will not moan for him. Not on camera. If he wants more he needs to come to me.
But I do enjoy it.
When the tips of my fingers find the sweet spot I smile and rub a little faster.
Do you like that? I want to ask him. Do you enjoy looking at me? Watching me? Do you want more? Do you want to feel me again? My body, my breath on the tip of your cock?
I come. Silently. He might not even notice, that’s how quiet I am.
And then I open my eyes and smile as I step into the tub. Sink down into the frothy white bubbles and let the hot water burn me. Turn my pale skin red, make my cheeks flush, relax my muscles, and ease my worries.
I soak there for a while, doing nothing. Saying nothing. Just enjoying the thought of him watching me take a bath.
It’s a peek into my day. That’s what they pay for when they buy my photos. The ones I make money off of are boudoir photos. And the videos too. But I actually do things in the videos. Sometimes I film myself ironing men’s clothing. A white dress shirt. Or a pair of slacks. Sometimes I wash windows naked. Not here though. Back in New York, when I was high up in that tower apartment so the only people who saw me were the ones paying for it. Or the telescope peepers, but what can you do? Sometimes I take a shower, or like now a sexy bath. Sometimes I cook or bake. But I do it all naked and I come on my fingers at the end. It’s just a little peek into my day. It pays the bills so I don’t have to use the money they put in my bank account every month.
Of course, Oliver doesn’t pay. He has never paid.
He tried to a few times. If we spent the night together, he would try leaving me hundred-dollar bills before he left. Or gifts. Diamond rings and necklaces. A car once. And then, of course, the tattoos.
The only thing I kept was the tattoos. I couldn’t really send them back like the car and the diamonds.
I look down at them now. The ones I can see, anyway. My left shoulder, the letters trailing over the rounded hill of my muscle. My left ribcage. My hip bone. And the one just above my pussy.
His words are engraved onto my flesh for eternity. Telling me what he wanted. Telling me everything I wanted to hear.
I squeeze some gardenia-scented soap onto a soft cloth and begin to wash, only occasionally looking at the camera. And when that’s done I stand up, letting the bubbles trail down my body like the clouds moving in the sky. I pull the plug and let the water drain, just standing there looking into the camera. Into his eyes. We wait together for the water to disappear and then I turn the shower on and wash the whole thing away.
When I’m finished I step out of the tub, dry off—making sure he gets a good long look at me—wrap a towel around my hair and, one by one, turn off each camera.
There are so many words on the tip of my tongue. Questions, and answers, and declarations. But I don’t want to say any of them now. Not even with the camera off. I have been saving them up all this time and I will not rush things. I will not ruin my one chance at having my say.
He will hear them. Every thought, every transgression, every regret, and every wrong turn—but he will hear them in person or not at all.
And I will only say them after he begs. After he realizes what I’ve done and why I’ve done it. After he understand what’s going to happen next. Who will be hurt, who will be saved, and who will be left standing.
Oliver Shrike. You might regret ever meeting me.
I take a deep, deep breath. Remove the memory cards from each of the cameras. And then walk back out into the living room. I sit at my desk, download all the footage to my hard drive, and then open up my editor and merge them all together into one perfect erotic story.
How will it end, Mr. Match? How will it feel to learn the truth? Will I break your heart? Or will you break mine?
I guess we’ll see.
I open up the Hook-Me-Up website, half afraid that my account will be deleted. But it’s not. It’s there. And he’s replied with two videos of himself—both jerking off from the look of the still shots.
I play the first one and he is frantic. Eager to come thinking about me. But the next one he is in control again. How he does love to be in control.
“You want to have fun again, Kat? You want to relive what we did back then?” He smiles at me. Like he’s looking at me the way I was just looking at him. Through a lens. A filter in front of our souls. “Then stick two fingers in your mouth and suck them like you used to suck my cock.”
I let out a long breath at his demand. His vulgar words and air of entitlement.
I was so young when we met. Only seventeen when my foundation began to crack and the walls that protected me all growing up crumbled down into a heap of waste and wreckage. He was always in control. So much older. So much more experienced. So much more protected than I could ever hope to be.
I wanted that. So bad. I wanted that fairytale childhood that he was given. And I needed things back then. So many things.
I got them. I got them all. But they were more expensive than I imagined. I gave up more than I ever got back in return.
It was a mistake, I realize. Many mistakes all in succession. One after another, after another.
I take a deep breath and upload my video. No title, no comment, just the footage. And then I log out, close my laptop, and walk to the window. I imagine him the way he looked this morning. Standing there. Confident, secure, satisfied.
Am I angry? Yes, but not because of his words, or his experience, or his control, or his entitlement.
I’m angry because his request turned me on.