Chapter 1: Anon
I'm still on cloud nine, panting and shuddering from an orgasm so powerful it almost made my heart burst. My bullet vibe never seems to disappoint, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
It’s not that I have much experience with sex. Both of my exes were too focused on their own pleasure, and I usually remained unsatisfied, forced to finish things on my own.
But that's all in the past now. I shake my head, banishing the ghosts of my previous relationships, and reach for my phone while still lying on my back.
I deactivate the Internet, as I always do before taking a naughty picture; I don't want any of them ending up in my cloud account. I'd be mortified if one ever popped up on display while I was showing my parents pictures of my cat or my craft projects.
I've never sent nude pictures, not even to my exes. I don't think I could ever trust someone with something so delicate or let them have that much power over me. But I do enjoy admiring my swollen pussy after a thorough masturbation session.
There is something magical about the way it glistens with juices and sweat, how my usually hidden inner labia perk out shamelessly, and how my clit still throbs with the final aftershocks.
Tonight's naughty play makes no exception. If I wasn't such a prude, my picture could be a masterpiece in a sex gallery (if such things exist—I hope they do; it would be a shame not to). I take a long look at it, then delete it from both my gallery and my trash folder before reactivating the Internet.
I get out of bed, grab my toys, and head into the shower, where I experience another blissful orgasm. It's true, women are indeed good at multitasking. Maybe too good.
I return to my bedroom wearing my fluffy bathrobe and open my wardrobe to grab a clean pair of pajamas when my phone vibrates with a notification.
I look at the screen and see a new chat request on Messenger from someone calling himself simply "Anon." I usually send these kinds of messages straight to the trash folder, but the preview of this one catches my attention in a confusing way, so I click on it to read the whole thing.
Anon: You had a lot of fun tonight. I hope I'm invited next time.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. What the hell is this person talking about? Did he… No, that's impossible. It's just a coincidence, one stupid random message sent to the wrong person at the wrong time. But for some reason, I reply anyway.
Alyssa: Do I know you?
Anon: No, but I know you better than you imagine.
Alyssa: No, you don't. Goodbye.
But I don't have time to press block before the picture I receive next makes my blood run cold. It's the one I took and deleted less than half an hour ago, my swollen pussy in the foreground.
I almost drop my phone as I start shaking, my brain desperately searching for a way out. There's no explanation for this. That picture is deleted forever. My phone didn't have access to the internet.
I pinch myself, hoping this is just a nightmare I need to wake up from. It doesn't work, though. My mind finally stops spiraling and starts thinking logically. So instead of admitting the picture is mine and asking him how he got it, I text something else.
Alyssa: Ew, get a life or find other random people to watch your porn, you creep.
I barely have time to blink before another message with a picture pops up.
Anon: How would you feel about me sending this picture to random people, Alyssa?
I gasp and drop my phone with a thud at the sight of the picture I took a couple of months ago, naked in front of my bedroom mirror. That's me right there, face showing, my body on full display: collared, with clamped nipples and the string of my egg vibrator hanging from my pussy.
I'm startled by my phone ringing. I pick it up, my hands shaking uncontrollably. It's him. I press decline and start sobbing, suddenly feeling like I'm running out of air.
My phone vibrates again with a message.
Anon: Pick it up or you'll regret it.
I don't have time to collect myself before my phone starts ringing again. This time, I try hard to suppress my sobs and accept the call against my will. I don't say anything, and for a second, neither does he. I hate that he can hear my distress through the silence, my ragged breathing giving my fear away.
“Good girl. I thought I'd have to send those pictures to all of your friends to catch your attention.”
His voice is distorted, like the ones in crime documentaries when they try to protect victims or witnesses.
“What do you want?” I spit, my voice rough and laced with fear.
“I already told you what I want, Alyssa.”
I'm confused and struggle to find something to say next while trying hard to suppress another sob.
“I don't—”
“I said I want to be invited to your next private party. Just one time. I wanna be the one to bring you pleasure, and then I'll delete the pictures,” he says calmly. “Well, unless you realize I'm a lot better than your toys and decide you want a more permanent arrangement.”
“Never,” I retort, outraged. “I'm calling the police. My father—”
“I know your father is the police chief, Alyssa. How do you think he'll feel when the whole department sees his precious daughter posing like a whore?”
“I'm not sleeping with you.”
“Check your messages.”
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the screen. Anon sent me a link. I feel like I'm going to puke. It's a draft website full of photos I took during and after my masturbation sessions. Pictures that I can't claim are fake, not since my bed, my mirror, my bathtub, and all the other tiny details clearly show that the images were taken at my house.
“I'm sure you missed seeing those pictures, Alyssa. It's such a shame you always delete them afterwards.”
“But how did you even—”
“A magician never reveals his tricks,” he says lightly. “I can make you a star, Alyssa. Publish that website and let the world know you for who you truly are. Or…”
He pauses dramatically, and I brace myself for what comes next.
“We could spend one passionate night together, and all of this will be forgotten. Your choice.”
“What if I don't like any of those choices?”
“Tough. You have to pick one.”
“But there must be something else—”
“You have until midnight to make a decision. If you don't text me before 12, I'll publish the website and send the link to all of the contacts on your phone.”
Before I can say anything else, he hangs up. I stare at my phone in disbelief. My whole life ruined in just five minutes. Both options feel like a sentence, and I have less than two hours to decide which is the one I could live with.
If I sleep with my blackmailer, I'll be risking not only my mental health and my safety, but he could still use the compromising pictures to blackmail me further.
If I refuse, I'll be the talk of the town, and my family’s reputation will be ruined. I won't have the courage to look them in the eyes ever again, and I'd probably lose the job that I love so much and my friends too. I'll lose everything.
I feel trapped. I’m running out of time, and I have no fucking idea what to do. Both options could spiral in ways that are hard to anticipate.
I spend the next hour trying to find a way out, but it's futile. There is no way out of this mess, not without me getting hurt one way or another. My phone lights up with a new text.
Anon: Clock is ticking.
I look at the time. It's 11:45 PM. I have 15 minutes left to come up with a plan. And then it hits me. There could be a way out. A dangerous one, but still a way out.
If I tell him that I agree to have sex with him, I could try to find a way to uncover his identity. We'll have to meet eventually, so I could take a picture of him and have some leverage too. Even if we do end up sleeping together, at least I'd know who he is, and I could threaten him if he refuses to delete my pictures.
My phone vibrates in my palm.
Anon: So?
It's 11:59. I take a long breath as I type.
Alyssa: I'll do it. I'll sleep with you.
I'm still on cloud nine, panting and shuddering from an orgasm so powerful it almost made my heart burst. My bullet vibe never seems to disappoint, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
It’s not that I have much experience with sex. Both of my exes were too focused on their own pleasure, and I usually remained unsatisfied, forced to finish things on my own.
But that's all in the past now. I shake my head, banishing the ghosts of my previous relationships, and reach for my phone while still lying on my back.
I deactivate the Internet, as I always do before taking a naughty picture; I don't want any of them ending up in my cloud account. I'd be mortified if one ever popped up on display while I was showing my parents pictures of my cat or my craft projects.
I've never sent nude pictures, not even to my exes. I don't think I could ever trust someone with something so delicate or let them have that much power over me. But I do enjoy admiring my swollen pussy after a thorough masturbation session.
There is something magical about the way it glistens with juices and sweat, how my usually hidden inner labia perk out shamelessly, and how my clit still throbs with the final aftershocks.
Tonight's naughty play makes no exception. If I wasn't such a prude, my picture could be a masterpiece in a sex gallery (if such things exist—I hope they do; it would be a shame not to). I take a long look at it, then delete it from both my gallery and my trash folder before reactivating the Internet.
I get out of bed, grab my toys, and head into the shower, where I experience another blissful orgasm. It's true, women are indeed good at multitasking. Maybe too good.
I return to my bedroom wearing my fluffy bathrobe and open my wardrobe to grab a clean pair of pajamas when my phone vibrates with a notification.
I look at the screen and see a new chat request on Messenger from someone calling himself simply "Anon." I usually send these kinds of messages straight to the trash folder, but the preview of this one catches my attention in a confusing way, so I click on it to read the whole thing.
Anon: You had a lot of fun tonight. I hope I'm invited next time.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. What the hell is this person talking about? Did he… No, that's impossible. It's just a coincidence, one stupid random message sent to the wrong person at the wrong time. But for some reason, I reply anyway.
Alyssa: Do I know you?
Anon: No, but I know you better than you imagine.
Alyssa: No, you don't. Goodbye.
But I don't have time to press block before the picture I receive next makes my blood run cold. It's the one I took and deleted less than half an hour ago, my swollen pussy in the foreground.
I almost drop my phone as I start shaking, my brain desperately searching for a way out. There's no explanation for this. That picture is deleted forever. My phone didn't have access to the internet.
I pinch myself, hoping this is just a nightmare I need to wake up from. It doesn't work, though. My mind finally stops spiraling and starts thinking logically. So instead of admitting the picture is mine and asking him how he got it, I text something else.
Alyssa: Ew, get a life or find other random people to watch your porn, you creep.
I barely have time to blink before another message with a picture pops up.
Anon: How would you feel about me sending this picture to random people, Alyssa?
I gasp and drop my phone with a thud at the sight of the picture I took a couple of months ago, naked in front of my bedroom mirror. That's me right there, face showing, my body on full display: collared, with clamped nipples and the string of my egg vibrator hanging from my pussy.
I'm startled by my phone ringing. I pick it up, my hands shaking uncontrollably. It's him. I press decline and start sobbing, suddenly feeling like I'm running out of air.
My phone vibrates again with a message.
Anon: Pick it up or you'll regret it.
I don't have time to collect myself before my phone starts ringing again. This time, I try hard to suppress my sobs and accept the call against my will. I don't say anything, and for a second, neither does he. I hate that he can hear my distress through the silence, my ragged breathing giving my fear away.
“Good girl. I thought I'd have to send those pictures to all of your friends to catch your attention.”
His voice is distorted, like the ones in crime documentaries when they try to protect victims or witnesses.
“What do you want?” I spit, my voice rough and laced with fear.
“I already told you what I want, Alyssa.”
I'm confused and struggle to find something to say next while trying hard to suppress another sob.
“I don't—”
“I said I want to be invited to your next private party. Just one time. I wanna be the one to bring you pleasure, and then I'll delete the pictures,” he says calmly. “Well, unless you realize I'm a lot better than your toys and decide you want a more permanent arrangement.”
“Never,” I retort, outraged. “I'm calling the police. My father—”
“I know your father is the police chief, Alyssa. How do you think he'll feel when the whole department sees his precious daughter posing like a whore?”
“I'm not sleeping with you.”
“Check your messages.”
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the screen. Anon sent me a link. I feel like I'm going to puke. It's a draft website full of photos I took during and after my masturbation sessions. Pictures that I can't claim are fake, not since my bed, my mirror, my bathtub, and all the other tiny details clearly show that the images were taken at my house.
“I'm sure you missed seeing those pictures, Alyssa. It's such a shame you always delete them afterwards.”
“But how did you even—”
“A magician never reveals his tricks,” he says lightly. “I can make you a star, Alyssa. Publish that website and let the world know you for who you truly are. Or…”
He pauses dramatically, and I brace myself for what comes next.
“We could spend one passionate night together, and all of this will be forgotten. Your choice.”
“What if I don't like any of those choices?”
“Tough. You have to pick one.”
“But there must be something else—”
“You have until midnight to make a decision. If you don't text me before 12, I'll publish the website and send the link to all of the contacts on your phone.”
Before I can say anything else, he hangs up. I stare at my phone in disbelief. My whole life ruined in just five minutes. Both options feel like a sentence, and I have less than two hours to decide which is the one I could live with.
If I sleep with my blackmailer, I'll be risking not only my mental health and my safety, but he could still use the compromising pictures to blackmail me further.
If I refuse, I'll be the talk of the town, and my family’s reputation will be ruined. I won't have the courage to look them in the eyes ever again, and I'd probably lose the job that I love so much and my friends too. I'll lose everything.
I feel trapped. I’m running out of time, and I have no fucking idea what to do. Both options could spiral in ways that are hard to anticipate.
I spend the next hour trying to find a way out, but it's futile. There is no way out of this mess, not without me getting hurt one way or another. My phone lights up with a new text.
Anon: Clock is ticking.
I look at the time. It's 11:45 PM. I have 15 minutes left to come up with a plan. And then it hits me. There could be a way out. A dangerous one, but still a way out.
If I tell him that I agree to have sex with him, I could try to find a way to uncover his identity. We'll have to meet eventually, so I could take a picture of him and have some leverage too. Even if we do end up sleeping together, at least I'd know who he is, and I could threaten him if he refuses to delete my pictures.
My phone vibrates in my palm.
Anon: So?
It's 11:59. I take a long breath as I type.
Alyssa: I'll do it. I'll sleep with you.
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