Dark Fantasies: The Call Girl 01

Introduction


The Photographer and His Wife Chat about Their New Image Series

Madeline is...um...excited? to do this series. As she pointed out (as a negative!), she's already...um...exposed on my blog.

"I wasn't talking about being exposed, Honey. I was talking about you putting up my whole..."

I don't have a camera, so you don't get to see the look on Madeline's face. I'm not allowed to say it's amusing. It's...

"It's a reflection of the fact that I'm humiliated by going insane with Noëmie and that was on your blog for all of your pervert followers to see."

Kettle, black.

She sighs. "Yes. I'm a pervert and now you've talked me into not just doing these photos for you, but letting you put it up on this fucking blog. And, no, before you say something, I'm not backing out of my promise. I just..." She points to her face with an expression full of emotions.

"this."

We're going to be AI pioneers in this space, Sweetie!

"I'm not sure DemonDreams is even AI. Didn't Ryan invest in it, and didn't she say something--"

We swore not to say anything. And I don't want to mess around on that promise. So, tell me about this dark fantasy of yours, Sweetie...

For readers unfamiliar with Madeline and her exploits, this series makes reference to her recent time/space travels to an exoplanet, where she acquired advanced technology of almost magical powers. Technology that any government would do far worse than kill for. Ryan Palmer, family friend/occasional studio model, also had to summon her father, Beelzebub (aka, Bub) to get them out of a jam. We all live on the largess of Ryan's demonic currency arbitrage talents. This is not a tale intended for people immune to goofy elements in their erotica.

Chapter 1

Ms. Magdalena Gaviria Bautista,

Whoever sent me the Signal message knew how to get my attention. I changed my name when I moved to the U.S., even before I got married. You know that, but I don't think more than two other people outside of my family do, and you know how often I speak to them. Not to mention I didn't think anybody but your and Ryan had my Signal address.

Some mistakes can be forgiven. Others need to be redeemed through action and sacrifice. This involves a matter that must be redeemed.

While this person has my attention, I have to wonder about their sense of drama. As I read, I kept waiting for the pitch for me to accept Jesus as my salvation. You know how I feel about that. As I move to delete the message, I accidentally scroll enough to see a photo of me. One of the ones where you're trying out that new light and I'm wearing the big straw hat you hated. Not one you ever published on your blog. One you took last night. I don't even think you've moved that batch into Lightroom yet. I look around, wondering what kind of absurd, not funny joke you're playing on me. You aren't here. I read on.

You and your husband should not have tried to steal from us, and certainly not millions in crypto.

Steal crypto? If it weren't for Ryan's crypto-currency trades, we'd barely have enough to cover our mortgage, let alone travel the world for your hardly-profitable blog, but Ryan doesn't need to steal from anyone. She's got a demonic intuition for currency arbitrage! I laugh, realizing I've fallen for some kind of phishing email. But my laugh doesn't last--this person, people, whatever, know my birth name. They have a photo of me you never published or even put in a cloud backup. Could Ryan have fucked around with some kind of criminal organization?

You're a forensic statistician by education, so undoubtably after you read this, you'll look through your accounts, contact Ms. Palmer, etc. You have two hours to investigate and reply before our associates take action. At that point, your only chance at redemption will be the extended and excruciating sacrifice of your, your husband's and Ms. Palmer's lives. Should you be curious about what such a sacrifice involve, I suggest you Google "Cartel tortures."

My personal recommendation to you, as somebody who appreciates your beauty and intelligence, is that you don't reveal any of this to anyone, including your husband. Ask yourself about the photos I've attached and how thoroughly compromised every system in your home and digital life must be fore you to be getting this message. Don't think about running off to the house in Las Palmas, either.

I put my phone face down on the table next to me and get a glass of ice water, hoping to calm down. This has to be a joke. I call your name again. This can't be real. You and Ryan wouldn't fuck with the Cartels, or any criminal organization. Neither of you would steal from them. This fraud. That's it. Like in the New York Times article recently. Except they have that photo. I scroll some more. There's more photos. Some from your blog, but others--oh, God! some of ones that were far too explicit for you to publish. There's one I made you delete. And more from last night's photos.

I pick up my phone and go into the bathroom, like I'm reading one of the emails from my mother where she tells me I'm going to Hell and you're taking me there. Except message is threatening to take me to a Hell that actually exists.

Once you accept this is real--and certainly within two hours, because there won't be any time after that for anything other than pleading for mercy we will not have--you are to get dressed. Wear the body chains from the attached photos, the tall leather boots, leather gloves and a pair of panties--lacy and barely there. On top, wear the leather coat. Wear your normal jewelry. Other than that, don't wear a single thing, not even a Band-aid. Put your wedding band over the gloves.

Then call the number below. A car will arrive for you within 15 minutes. You can redeem your debt tonight. Assuming you comply, you will arrive home before this time tomorrow, if you desire, and your debt will be forgiven.

Consider yourself blessed, Madeleine. Nobody who has stolen so much has ever been offered such generous terms for redemption.

The person who messaged me is correct. The urgency somehow pushes my panic aside as I examine everything I can with this message, trying to find some evidence that it's a weird scam or a prank. But I don't call you or Ryan. No matter how insane and impossible this situation is, deep in my gut, I know this is real. I went to a fucking exoplanet with your goddamned time transmographier. If that can be real, this can be. And is.

I shout, "FUCK," and a long slew of Spanish profanity as this sinks in. My brain is screaming "deep in my gut" is no substitute for careful, dispassionate examination, but Googling everything I could about the message and it's header information doesn't help. Signal lives up to it's promise of end-to-end encryption that denies me any help or hope.

Hola, Cariño, Ryan had a fight with Mercedes and wants me to come over. Sounds like I'll be there all night. We might end up going out to brunch tomorrow. Can you order something from Noon-a-kabob? Don't delete those hat photos--I like it!

Love you!!

I'm digging through the prop room clothing storage, looking for the fucking boots this bastard is demanding I wear, panic rising in my chest, when I get your response

If you have a hot lesbian threesome make-up sex with them, take pictures!

I slide to the floor, sobbing. This puta fucking asshole isn't joking around. There's no pretend threesome with Ryan and Mercedes. He wants "restitution" for crimes that likely never happened. I'm going to cheat on you. Cheat on you in a way that will break your heart.

Before I have a chance to pull myself together, I get a text from the number I had to call for a car. The driver is here and I still haven't found the boots he wants.

Extended and excruciating sacrifice. I fly into the shoe room, dumping boxes on the floor as I hunt for the boots he wants. If this sick fuck is a he. It has to be a he. Fuck! Where are those fucking boots?

The coat barely covers me and the driver keeps looking back. My heart races with fear and humiliation as we turn north. There's champaign. Expensive champaign, just like this old Rolls that Ryan would envy. I hate drinking when I'm upset, but this is different. I have a glass. It doesn't calm my nerves.

No, it doesn't calm something worse than nerves. I'm terrified by this person. The fact that he had my Signal number, the photos you never uploaded to anything. You've been super careful not to sure identifiable details. This coat was never in a shoot, but he knew I owned it. He must have known it's the kind of thing you toss over a sweater and jeans before going out, not something that works over the little I'm wearing. He wants me humiliated, shamed...sacrificed. But for what slight? There's no way you or Ryan ripped off the cartels or the mafia, or anything else. Could this be connected to my sister's husband's family? It's such a stereotype--Colombian family involved in the drug trade. I've never believed it, but...puta. No. This has nothing to do with crypto, drugs, anything. Even if I had a secret stash of...

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

A secret stash. He knows so much about us, Cariño. Noëmi doesn't know much of anything about us, but she has those devices implanted in her. If she didn't go back to the future exoplanet... Jesus. They want the Transmographier. They probably even want Conceptionalator. It might not work, but if this fuck knows about it--he has to know about it--he probably works for a government, and there's no way they won't want to take it apart and find whatever Area 51 tech they can.

Except he didn't ask for it.

The driver looks back at me. I got so freaked out, I didn't discretely cross my legs. He's probably been staring at my panties the whole time. Maybe we'll crash and I'll die before anything terrible happens.

I glare at him through the mirror. His eyes dart at the road for a second, then go right back to my crotch.

I'm dressed for a pervy fuck to get hard over. Not like I'm delivering advanced technology that could permanently alter the global balance of power. I cross my legs, which just exposes most of my breast, until I pull the coat tighter.

I drink a second glass of the champaign.

Cariño, I didn't drink it because of the future tech. That can't be why I'm here, not dressed like a high-end call girl. I drink it because....

The driver's eyes meet mine, holds them. He licks his lips, like as soon as he parks, he gets to taste me.

I drink it because my heart isn't just racing from fear.

I'm not in this car dress like this because we tried to cheat the cartels or because we have weird future alien tech. I'm here because somebody, some man saw my pictures, read about me and wanted me so much that he broke a million laws, paid people who have insane skills to invade our lives just to have me for a night.

The thought of this exciting me makes me want to jump from the Rolls in the middle of Lake Shore Drive traffic, but the tension in my belly is creeping down my abdomen to someplace more primal.

I lose track of where we were driving, too caught up in my thoughts. We're not at some North Shore mansion. We're outside a super tall in the Loop. The driver turns and looks at me directly, making no attempt to hide that he's hoping for me to be even more exposed. He's in no rush and I'm too unsure of what is happening to do anything more than sit and feel embarrassed.

Finally, he grins and hands me a card made of handmade paper that feels expensive, unique. it's blank except for "Room 70." Typewritten. With a mechanical typewriter. Odd. Even more odd is room 70. This is a very tall building. How does it have a room 70, not 701, or 700A? There must be hundreds of rooms. maybe thousands.

He nods to wards the lobby.

My coat doesn't have buttons, only a belt. It barely covers the chains--chains that leave my nipples exposed--and even if I pull it closed and synch the belt tightly, my lacy panties will be exposed.

I fidget, trying to get the coat to cover more. The moment I called the number, I accepted I'd have to have sex with this man. Put his penis in my mouth and vagina. Make him come, perhaps even twice. But somehow the thought of walking into a building--there's a crowd in the lobby. Some kind of event. Walking into a building full of people who will know I'm there as a prostitute.

The driver nods towards the lobby again.

I get out and try to walk with confidence. At first, I think nobody will notice me. Just another person who belongs there. My coat doesn't read slut, and my boots are so high, they cover my legs almost to my ass. From behind, I'm a woman in stylish leather pants.

But I don't know where room 70 is. What room 70 is.

The security guard laughs when I approach her. A knowing laugh. A contemptuous laugh.

I'm a plaything. A fucktoy who probably doesn't even trade in cash. She thinks I've been purchased far more thoroughly than any call girl.

"Room 70?"

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes, but take me to a door disguised as part of mirrored wall. An elevator. She slips a card into a reader, hits a button without a label, then steps out.

"He never pays," she says as the doors close.

The elevator doesn't have any stops over than the unlabeled floor. No sign indicates where in the building I am as I go up. He never pays.

Pays what?

The elevator stops and the door opens upon a short hallway. I take a step forward and the elevator closes. Off to the side, there's a small alcove where a service cart sits. No severed heads. Good.

My heart starts racing again as I walk towards a charcoal black door. 70. Don't expect to return before morning.

I inventory everything I'm wearing. The chain shirt--less than a bra than decorations to draw eyes to my breasts. Lacy panties my husband loves to take off me. Boots that drive him wild. Leather gloves that go up almost to my chest. My wedding band over the gloves.

He doesn't want to fuck me. He wants to own me. Wants to see a married woman submit. And I don't have a choice but to submit, even if the cartel stuff is a lie. This man has power that extends far beyond the law, or maybe to the law, to every nook and cranny of the police and judicial system.

My hand hovers over the doorknob, breath shallow, heart pounding in my ears.

Thump, thump, thump.

What if I go to the police? There has to be some police he couldn't have bought, even in Chicago. The FBI, maybe. But what if he knows about the technomage stuff. Maybe he doesn't believe it, thinks that was all CGI and AI, a weird bit of (retrospectively humiliating) porn you and I came up with. I came up with. But all it will take is enough to get the FBI and CIA and whatever black site intelligence agency deals with exo-tech to believe it's worth looking into. Maybe black sites aren't as horrible as what the cartels would do to somebody who ripped them off, but it won't be much better.

I have to go through with this.

Will he undress me? Or make me display myself to him. Show off his prize.

My fingers are on the collar of the coat, tracing my flesh like he might. My breath is shallow. Part of me wants this. He doesn't pay the call girls. The people who he fucks for the sake of getting his rocks off. But I'm not a real call girl. He wants more than that from me. He wanted my wedding ring on the outside of my glove where he can revel in the conquest. He's not going to fuck me. He wants to possess me.

Part of me knows I have to run.

I don't. I open the door and step in. He's sitting next to a bed with an extremely bright light next to him, casting him in impenetrable shadow.

He's got one of the chairs you designed in the room, except it's covered with alligator or crocodile hide. On a table--the alu table you designed--he's posed all the fetish gear you created. The handcuffs, collar, chains... All the same, but different. He recreated all of this. He...

"Stop. Take off the coat."

My hands go to the belt.