Camilla Pt. 08

I couldn't sleep after I found out about the photos. They were of me. He reassured me no one could see my face. But it was still me. I was torn open. Exposed. He was invisible. The unseen cock. Safe and hidden.

Why would he do anything like this? I thought we had been friends. I shared my body and my sexuality with him. I had felt brave and sexy. Now I felt ripped open. Raped. I thought I could elegantly put words together to express my violation, but I couldn't. It was a cold, raw thing.

Why had he ever wanted to do it?

"C'mon sweetheart," he purred in his thick accent, "you are beautiful. I split the money with you. I give you $500 upfront. Right now, here." His breath, smelling strongly of tea tinged with orange warmed my face.

"I don't want the money, Stavros," A ball of ice chilled my stomach. "I didn't give you permission to do that."

"If you don't want the money, fine. You can do these things for free? We can make more?" he laughed.

"You didn't have my fucking permission to do this. Can you take them down?"

"Look, when you were doing this, when my cock was in your mouth, right? I didn't hear anything from you except piggy moans!" He smirked. I hated him. I hated myself more for showing him so much - for giving him so much of me.

He closed the space between us and touched me once more, but it felt cold. All trust gone between us. I felt an entire world watching us now and judging me. They judged the size of my ass. The red blotches on my skin. They would call me a whore and want to find me and expect more of the same from me. It was all they would expect from me.

All the stupid catty things I would do after seeing pictures of girls would be done to me. I hated seeing girls do it. I pitied them. Now, I had a world of people seeing me the same way - through his view of me. I didn't want him to touch me.

"Please." I pushed him away from me. I avoided eye contact to stop from crying. There was an overwhelming frustration welling up inside of me. Perhaps I should've seen his face change from a patient lover to a violent monster.

He swatted my hand away from him. Hard.

"Don't fucking push me away," he said. "I'm not fucking disgusting. I am not someone who deserves to be pushed away."

The slap had opened his shirt, revealing his chiseled, muscular chest. His soft lips, which not too long ago kissed me so, made me orgasm over and over again, were now twisted into a cruel frown.

He seethed. His face red and twisted. It promised another slap. I braced for it, my body tensed.

But then he softened, calming to explain the fundamentals of life to a dumb, stupid, scared girl.

"Camilla, you are beautiful. What do you do for work?"

"I told you."

"Tell me again."

"I work for a marketing firm."

"Marketing what? You make what? Sixty thousand a year? Maybe?"

"Maybe, so?"

"You work so hard. You are not appreciated. I know this about you. I know it completely."

"So?"

"So? You have something that can make you so much money without you even trying. Much more now than you can make in marketing." He paused, and his mouth softened even more, readying for another kiss. He smiled mischievously. My knees buckled in relief at not having this be confrontational - or violent. I retreated to our wonderful moment again; perhaps such a level of passion between two people requires such violence. He's right, I shouldn't be scared.

"That beautiful ass. Could I see it again?"

"No," I giggled uncontrollably, hating myself for being so easy. His boyish demeanor was infectious. While I still felt violated, I could not stop my nervousness and fear seeking any escape from the confrontation. It was easier to smile and make this not be as ugly as it was. My body grew hot, reacting involuntarily to his proximity, his smell, and all the things his presence represented. The gasping, the electricity. The practiced roughness of his touch. His steadiness, letting me fall into my body so unashamedly. How my body hungered for that now and the adrenaline only added to the sharpness of the thrill. Was getting it at such a cost worth it?

His hand was on my waist once more. His lips electrified my neck. My resolution collapsed. I was such a stupid whore of a girl. Everyone does photos of themselves on the internet, you couldn't actually see my face, could you?

"How much money could I make?" I asked, catching my breath as his fingers skillfully and lightly cupped and massaged between my welcoming legs. I grew hotter and more ready for him with each confident stroke.

"$5,000," he said in a whisper, "First. Then more for more."

Wait, first?

"First? What do you mean?"

He grabbed my shoulders and pressed me against the wall, pinning me. My body panicked slightly, trapped. My face flushed, confused. One hand pulled down my t-shirt, exposing one breast to him. He squeezed it, kissing it wetly. My knees quivered again.

"Everyone will hunger for you as I do. They'll want to see more."

"More?"

"Yes. More. More. And more." He cooed into my ear. His hand was moving rhythmically under my pants, against my panties. I gasped again. My head spun from the swing of fear to pleasure. The sensation of him across my lips sent torrents of warm, wonderful pins and needles through my body. The world tilted. His lips were on mine. Another hand held my head the way I liked, pressing me to him. Controlling me. The world dipped and swiveled dizzily as my body gave in to his touch.

"More. More. More." He whispered seductively.

More. More. And more exposed. More people seeing my body. More ways to be seen. More acts. Worse acts. Recognizing me. My mouth. People in my other life. Ruined.

"No. No, I can't."

I tried to gently push him away. "Can't all of this just be between us, Stavros?"

The first push didn't move him.

The fireworks shut down.

My second push didn't move him.

He wasn't listening. I felt my pants being pulled down once more. It was happening again.

My body tensed and recoiled. The air became cold between us. I panicked.

The third push had no love. It was filled with panic and fear. It was resisting the deception. The force of my push sent him across the small office where we were. He crashed into a mess of a desk filled with papers, multiple cell phones, and computer monitors.

"No. Stop." I said, catching my breath. I needed air. I felt my throat close and my lungs strain for oxygen.

His hand was suddenly on my neck, grabbing it tightly. A gasp caught in my throat. His entire body pressed against me, pinning me to the wall.

"Wait. Stop. What are you doing?" The words squeaked out of me. I was helpless. His face was so close to mine, so in my space, I tried to push back against the wall, against him. I couldn't move. I flailed. I was trapped. Trapped. Trapped.

"Wait. Wait--Camilla from Marketing. I will not bruise you. I'm doing this so I do not bruise you." His body was a strap of muscle restraining me in place against the wall.

"Listen. Listen. Listen, little Calla Lilly. Beautiful-assed woman. I need you to calm down and listen."

"I don't want to calm down. I want to go." I still fought. The lack of oxygen from panic and his position made me feel claustrophobic. I felt like I was going to pass out. My head swung to the left and right, avoiding his face. His nose was close enough that it brushed mine.

"I will give you the photos." He relented. "No more fighting. I will take them down."

"You will?"

"On one condition."

"What is it?"

"We fuck again. Right now. You need to consent for this."

I was destroyed. Oxygen starved. Weak. There was - had been - such heat between us. My body had buzzed and sweated. The choice of giving in was easier than running away scared. Consent would perhaps be a control of the situation, wouldn't it?

"You'll give them back to me and take them down?"

"Yes."

"If we fuck right now?"

"Yes, your beautiful ass. Us together."

This was a rollercoaster. I was scared. Then aroused. Then scared. Aroused. My senses steadying as he eased off but kept his body close to mine.

"I betrayed you. I get it. We're broken up. I know. Would you give me a pity fuck? I will never have another like you, please?"

"Oh god." I muttered. There was so much tension and ache in me. How would a fuck make that?

"Please? Please. You have the control now, see? All of the dollars."

I couldn't move. I couldn't escape. I couldn't do anything. I needed the photos and he was looking for a fuck. With me and my beautiful ass. I had leverage.

"The expression is 'all the cards,'" I said, smiling slightly. The tension broke between us.

He didn't wait another second. He spun me, tore down my spandex pants, and kicked my legs apart. I tried my best to steady myself, but the presence of his tongue splitting my vulva apart made me cry out in surprise. My legs shook again. The adrenaline and intensity of the moment before, my body prickling and his wet tongue painting me with saliva exploded through to my fingers.

I cried out again as he grabbed and pulled my hair, jerking my head back. I told myself I wanted this - my body in exchange for the photos - and this was a respectful interaction between me and someone that did this to other women. I wasn't alone. It wasn't just me. It was just his dumb way of getting control and sex. It was painful. But I could play along. I could. I could. I could.

I felt his cock penetrate me in one gigantic thrust. I wasn't ready. I wasn't wet enough, and his shaft burned and ground inside me. I grunted and groaned through my teeth, my head pulled back at an uncomfortable angle, my hands digging into the wall to steady myself.

His hips hammered into me. I screamed as a lance of fire ripped through me. He grunted in response, not slowing.

His pumping seemed to go on for hours. My hands scratched, and skated across the wall blindly, struggling to keep myself steady. I heard myself moaning and grunting, trying to control the moment. I was desperate to put my own reality on what was happening.

My panties were stretched across my open legs an dug into my ankles. My pants were rolled into a tight ring on the floor. His animalistic rutting rocked me. One of his wiry hands was gripped tightly on a cheek. The other held my shoulder where thick muscular fingers dug in deep, pulling me towards him.

He came with a yell, pushing me hard into the wall, pressing and lifting me with a few final breaths.

Then he fell away, panting and laughing. Leaving me leaning against the wall, my ass red and aching.

It was over.

And I didn't want to seem frightened. I turned around slowly, pulling up my panties and leaning against the wall as I pulled on my pants, ignoring his ejaculation glazing my ass and squishing between my cheeks and lips.

He watched, chuckling as I rolled my pants back on and composed myself. He hadn't even taken his pants down; his cock flopped out of his zipper.

"Give me them." I focused on what was needed, not the horrible thing I just did.

He grabbed his cock, folded it back into his pants, searched his desk, and picked up a thumb drive.

"The pictures will come down in a few weeks." He said, handing it to me.

"Weeks?"

"Weeks. It takes time. Another site could pick them up. I can't control that."

"But you said - "

"I said I'd take them down, and I have begun to do so. It takes time." He pushed the thumb drive towards me, insisting. "These are the originals; you can delete them if you want. Now go. Go. Leave me alone, you fucking whore. You got what you needed, didn't you?"

"What the fuck did you say?"

"I said, 'you got what you needed?' You got a fuck. You always want to fuck. You can't talk. Get the fuck out of here. I'll tell my friends you are fucking whore."

Outside Stavros's studio on the street, everything seemed 10 feet away. Had I reached out to open a door, reached a rail to help walk down a stairs, or pressed a button to change the street light, I would not have reached it. I'd lean and lean and never touch. Everything was always just out of reach. I was always some strange distance away.

Shame and pain. Pain in my backside. Stavros had been strong and careless. His hard fingers had left aches on my body. I wanted to rub them and caress the pain but I was outside, a million miles from my apartment. It seemed like it took me hours to get home. I don't remember walking there.

My hands stumbled with my apartment door lock. I felt drunk. My hands kept crashing against the knob. My fingers felt thick and immovable. I looked at them as someone else's hands, and I, from my distance, tried to control them through someone else's body.

He hurt me. We fucked, and he hurt me. This was nothing like what had happened before. He hadn't treated me that way before. His touch was so foul. So distant and insensitive. He had treated me like a naive little girl. A jerk off. An object for him to use to cum. One he had slept with and taken pictures of -

The pictures.

The thumb drive.

My thumb drive.

I had it now.

I plugged the drive into my computer and looked through them. There was a girl there. Me. She looked happy at first. Then later videos. My panting. Shrill and undignified. I called out, mewing like a cat. My ass was white and blotched with red patches. I was disgusting. I looked unhealthy. The camera turned to look at Stavros. It never captured his whole face. It caught his eyes. Those stupid fucking eyes, so fucking confident. His fucking smirk. I wanted to kill him for what he just did to me and having those photos get out.

I called him. But he didn't pick up the phone. I called him again and again. And again. And again.

Then I stopped calling. The sun had gone down. The apartment was dark.

A white-hot ball of rage burst from inside me.

A field hockey stick in my hand. I was screaming. I was screaming. Howling. The table in front of my couch smashed into pieces. Dark, black tendrils of rage lashed out and shattered shelves, flung plates from their cabinets, pulled out drawers and tossed them across the room, chairs lifted high into the air and were smashed on the floor, the television wrenched from the wall and spilled into pieces on the floor.

I found a bottle of vodka. I downed it, trying to drown the fire inside of me.

The floor surged and greeted me. The contents of my stomach splashed around me.

No police came.

No one even knocked on my door.

No one was concerned.

Because I was invisible. I was unseen. I was the type of girl Stavros thought he could fuck and forget.

I awoke the following day where I had fallen, among the pieces of my room, my life. I felt twisted and broken.

Another wave of shame and disappointment. I lost my nerve and destroyed everything I had because of him. My refuge was broken. I gave him everything. All of me. Yelled and screamed, and nothing. He was still there. I was here, among my vomit and pieces of what I had built up as Camilla from Marketing.

The contents of my refrigerator and cabinets had been strewn among the broken television, chairs, and tables.

I didn't want to look at it anymore. I gave up trying to find any sense of it.

I pulled myself together. Showered. Changed. The dull hangover kept my anger and disgust at bay. I pulled on an outfit that would show I wasn't a victim. Not some fearful and damaged flower. I had what could not be taken from me.

My rage.

I went for a walk. It led me to the park. I saw yet another gangster. Probably one of Stavros' crowd. The neighborhood seems to have so many Slavic people. The barbers. The hairdressers. All rough but beautiful. Probably their women would be able to control them better. They all had their secrets to control things. Their unspoken rules and ceremonies to keep their men in check. Stavros was not with them. He went with me, women like me, to do the things with me he couldn't do with them. A real man.

Maybe I could be a Slavic girl. I could have my secrets. I could have my unspoken ceremonies, talk in a language these men, all of them, would understand - and obey. I could keep him in check.

Maybe even hurt him.

I could create that one thing that could hurt him. Camilla from Marketing. I would get my revenge.

I saw Ed.

***

The heavy brown wood of the handle molded to my palm and made the gun seem lighter than when it was first given to me. Camilla's perfume was all over me.

I got my final paycheck that Friday. At 2 pm on the day she left my apartment, my cock flaccid and me feeling small and humiliated, an email arrived from Kata letting me know the meeting went perfectly. The project received many accolades from the Steering Committee, paving the way to better things. As a reward for my hard work, I didn't need to come to the office for my final two weeks. She "rewarded" me with two additional weeks' pay for my hard work and - remember, not coming to the office at all. It was a glowing email. She had CC'd HR. I knew she didn't want to look at me again.

HR followed up with an offer for another opening with another department. It was no different in length or compensation, just more of the same, but not with Kata. I didn't respond immediately. Not just yet.

Monday and Tuesday, I moved from the bed to the couch. I ordered pizza. I went nowhere. The space I occupied contracted to be a few steps in my already small apartment. I saw the sun rise and set from bed. I was a hair's whisper on the ass of life.

Kata's anger, her disappointment of me had stung so profoundly, I seemed to avoid thinking about it at all. I didn't know why she did what she did, or maybe I wasn't ready to figure it out. It would challenge my world. I feared what it would reveal. I stood looking down deep into the darkness. It was easier to watch television and masturbate. Just as I had done for so long before. Maybe I was avoiding something more profound than just Kata's disappointment of me.

By Thursday, in anticipation of a big chunk of money coming and knowing I'll have to interview for another job at some point very soon, I went looking for a barber. I planned on treating myself well the whole day. I wore a comfortable tracksuit that made me look like a wealthy retiree. I wrote and cashed a personal check for $700. All for me. I would spend it on anything I wanted. A bagel with extra cream cheese. A watch. Maybe a shirt. Maybe a shave. Anything to reward me for being me. For not thinking. For enduring the pain of being me. Anything but touching the raw, combusting pain and fear just under the surface.

The barber shop was one of the new places that seemed to appear with the gentrification of neighborhoods. A shiny, chrome place glorifying the cosmetic treatment of men to embarrassing levels. The two barbers sat waiting for customers in their chairs. Watching four screens all playing the same basketball game. They were coiffed perfectly, long beards manicured and shiny. Their skin was covered in black and white prison tats. My presence created a ripple of confusion. No one should be coming in at 11 am for a shave - especially not someone with a garish tracksuit. If I didn't fit the mold, I wasn't part of the regular world. In their minds, that meant I was probably part of theirs.

I didn't want to be a small, disappointing man. The man a woman like Kata would think nothing about jerking off on her tits and leaving him sagging into his couch, his cock in his hands, and two weeks extra pay to never see him again. "You're such a fucking child, Ed." She said. She had seen through the facade of my eager servitude. She saw the man that watched loads of porn, guiltily looked at young women's lycra butts on social media, and lusted after women I couldn't have. I hated her for peeling it all away so quickly. It showed I didn't hide it as well as I thought. She left me raw, exposed, and ashamed. I had looked down over my belly at my useless cock in my hands. The one thing so important to me was just a moment and a wrinkled, dirty shirt to her. She was more than me. She knew it now. Like my wife and girlfriends. They turned away and left because they wanted more. It was the absolute worst thing to realize, and it hit me deeply.