Authors: Cara Dee
I don’t need his apologies.
"Is all this legal?" I ask in a hushed voice.
I nod absently, turning back to the tablet. My stomach tightens. This sounds cool and all, but there's still the issue of the job offer.
"I'm not into voyeurism." I'd never judge anyone else for being into it, but it's not my thing.
. I mean, I've never tried it, but I can't imagine… "What would this job entail?" I glance up apprehensively.
Flynn seems to hesitate, too. But for being so nervous and awkward, I gotta hand it to him. Walking up to a complete stranger like he approached me…? That takes balls.
"The members keep inquiring about me." He drops his gaze to the table. "I started the site when I turned eighteen—I had this vision, you see? God, of course you don’t. I'm sorry," he rambles. I can't help but grin. "Anyway, for the past four years—" I'm quick there, noting his age: twenty-two "—it's grown, and people are curious about…me." He pauses. "It's easy to be confident and outspoken online, but imagine if they knew?" He appears genuinely torn up about this. "They're expecting a Dom type—"
"Is BDSM involved, too?"
I learned about that lifestyle the wrong way. It was the one and only time I took a job as a private chauffeur. My client wanted me to call him "Master," which I found fucked-up, but I did it because I had bills to pay. However, I looked up the term after my first shift, and it opened up a new world that included a whole lot of whips and chains.
I kept an eye on that dude from there on out, and the day he told me I'd look good in a ball gag, he ended up in the hospital with a cracked jaw; I got fired and was nearly arrested.
"No, no." Flynn shakes his head quickly. "But you know the type?" I nod, getting it. "Yes. So. I am nothing like that." He bites the inside of his cheek. "They'd be incredibly disappointed if they saw the real me. I would ruin their image, and I do not like ruining things."
That’s…that's crap. I get what he's saying, but it's crap. Fuck, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know this guy, and telling him—hell,
guy—that he looks good, that he's sexy…I can't do that anymore.
"I need someone to pretend they're me," Flynn nearly whispers. "Someone whose features I can type into my profile, and… Of course, I would continue my work as I've done previously, but there would be information about me that isn't truly mine." I nod slowly, the pieces falling into place. Flynn pulls up another page on his site—his profile, I note. "I've always kept it vague. Not even my paid admins know what I look like."
Reading his info, the little he has posted, raises some questions. "It says here you have light hair, which is true, but—" I point to my own, which is brown. "Your eye color is listed as green." Again, mine are brown. "And height…oh, you haven't filled that in."
I'd say he's half a foot shorter than I am. He hasn’t filled in anything under body type, either.
. Same with age—no info.
Sexual orientation: Heterosexual
Of-fucking-course he is.
"Never mind. I get it." I lean back and scratch my nose. "So, I guess this is a one-time kind of job, then? Like, you borrow my info and that’s it?"
Seems like one hell of a detour to be dishonest to me. He could've easily just lied and put down whatever info he wanted. Right?
"Well…" Flynn looks away and grimaces. "Here's the thing—Goodness, I can't. I can't ask you. My friend back home in the States warned me. She said it would be inappropriate of me to ask, so now I can't." He covers his face with his hands. "I apologize sincerely for bothering you."
"Hey. Don’t." Reaching forward, I nudge his hands away, then sit back once more. "You've come this far, yeah?" I grin and shrug. "Might as well continue. And—" it's my turn to make a face "—I could use the money. I really do need a job."
He's already shaking his head. "No. I can't. You've already said it's not your 'thing.'" He actually makes air quotes. "This would require being on display."
. Not good at all. I shift in my seat. "Ominous." Still, I'm too curious now to back out. I can always say no, but I wanna know more. "Come on, tell me." I give him what I hope is a convincing smile.
He stares silently at me for a solid five seconds, then breaks away. His ears tint red. "Running this kind of site…I have learned I cannot be shy and hesitant." He exhales shakily. "They want to see me. In a window or something. Well, outside too, but most people show themselves in windows."
That confuses me—talk of "outside," then windows. "You mean a webcam thing, right? Like, they'd see you in a chat window?"
"No." He gulps. "A real window. In person." The next time he looks me in the eye, he starts speaking in a rush again. "Your face would be hidden. They'd only see your body. As you…you know…masturbate."
"Wait." My eyes bug out. "You want me to do
While my heart starts racing, I look around me as if I'm guilty of a crime and don't want the police to throw me in jail.
"You would masturbate in a window."
. I run a hand through my hair and swallow against the dryness in my throat. Flynn has the wrong idea about me. Does he see me as some suave motherfucker? I'm hardly that. I wasn’t one of the cool kids growing up. People keep telling me I have the looks, but I'm a damn goof. The class clown. The "friend."
The one time my family stayed in the same place for more than two years, I was in the drama club and the music club. I almost flunked social studies, I needed a tutor in science, and math made me dizzy. I also tend to trip over air.
The only subjects I got A's in were history and English.
"Cory, I'd give you a thousand pounds."
Planting my elbows on the table, I rest my forehead in my palms and tug at my hair. Down on the floor, I see my fucking duffel bag, reminding me just how badly I need the money. It's fucked-up how scruples vanish when there's money involved.
"Give me some details of what would happen," I mutter. "The wheres and whens, I mean." Against my better judgment, I'm not running for the hills. "How all this works."
Jacking my dick where people can see me, even though I wouldn’t show my face, isn't exactly appealing.
Would Flynn watch?
That thought causes a flare of heat to spark up inside me.
"I would rent a hotel room in a quieter part of the city," Flynn explains. "We'd let the members know the time and place with an ad under
'Come and See.'
Those in the London area can do what they want with the information, but several will probably show up. They, um…they'll park nearby."
And watch as I beat off.
"What if…" I frown and face Flynn. "Who's gonna stop one of those voyeurs from filming me?"
"No one. That happens often. There's even a page for it." He shows it to me, too. Yup, right there. "That’s partly why the consent clause is important to agree to, because these members end up on the site in various states of undress."
Overwhelmed, I scan the collection of videos of people who're having sex with others lurking. Probably in the bushes. Christ. It just got a little seedy. If I see a trench coat now, I'll probably shout
I'm not a fucking prude, but this is definitely uncharted territory.
Another tab titled
has my attention, and when I click on it, I see it's a section for webcam shows. Members who fuck their partners with a webcam aimed at them, allowing people on the site to watch the live feed.
"Isn't this an easier option?" I point to the screen. "It would still be live, but it could happen in the privacy of a bedroom."
grant out-of-towners a chance to take part in the experience if I go the webcam route," he agrees, choosing his words carefully, "but I fear it's not gutsy enough. I have dodged these requests for so long, coming up with excuses and whatnot, that I feel I should offer them more. And the real-life events, where members drive to a location to watch somebody else, are the most popular."
Not much I can say about that, 'cause what do I know?
"But, as I said—" Flynn leans closer "—if you agreed to this, no one would have to see your face. I would be there, but I'd obviously give you privacy, for the, ah…event."
Event. That’s one way of putting it.
"Are you into all this?" I can't help but ask. "I mean, you gotta be. It's your site—I'm guessing it's a full-time job, too." The ticker in the corner of the page reveals there are currently six hundred members
. How many are there in total? Then a member's fee every month? Damn. "But you're not into…having people watch you?"
"I'm very fascinated by voyeurism." He's suddenly all matter-of-fact. "It's not a compulsion or a lifestyle for me, though. But yes, I would prefer to watch rather than be watched. The latter makes me very nervous."
"You and me both," I mumble under my breath.
But I already know I'm gonna say yes. A part of me feels compelled. Another part is just desperate for cash. 'Cause what else would I do?
I'll keep looking for work, and this gig with Flynn will keep me afloat for a few weeks.
Sign me up for a jerk-off session in public.
I haven't noticed any activity on your page, so I'm not sure if you're even seeing this. It's been weeks, and I feel horrible. Are you still in Chicago, or have you moved to London? Please get back to me.
Hope you're well,
Four days later, I enter a three-story inn in northern London. It's just me and my trusty duffel bag. There's no way I'm leaving my belongings at my hostel in Bayswater.
For ten pounds a night, I get a bed in a twelve-bed dorm and a continental breakfast of toast, jam, and shitty coffee. It's extra if you want a locker for your things, which I can't afford.
Flynn meets me in the lobby, and aside from two quiet "Hello"s, we're silent until we reach the room on the second floor. What's gonna happen now, I have no idea. Jack-off time isn't for another two hours.
When Flynn and I spoke over the phone the day before yesterday, he told me it was best we got here early. That way, we'll have both been camped out in the hotel room for a while by the time the first member shows up in the parking lot right outside the window.
"Thus, our faces remain a mystery,"
I'm trying not to think about
The room is simple but more than all right. Two twin beds, a tiny desk with a swivel chair, an outdated TV on a stand next to the desk, and a comfier chair and a small table by the large window. Obviously, the fucking window makes me think about
"You weren't at the pub yesterday," Flynn mentions quietly.
I throw my duffel between the two beds and collapse onto one. Goddamn, now this is a bed. Not a luxurious one, but anything beats the bottom bunk under a German guy who's eaten too much sauerkraut.
"I wasn’t in the area," I answer, stifling a yawn. I've been job-hunting ever since I left the pub last Friday, but I've been forced to stay near Bayswater because my Oyster card has expired. The subway—
—is expensive as it is, but without that card, it's enough to ruin you. Then again, I probably would've avoided the pub anyway. Tammy's texted me a few times, obviously curious about seeing me at the same table as "the kid."
I'm not ready to divulge.
"Do you live around there?" I ask.
"Oh, no." Flynn shakes his head and sits down on the edge of the other bed. Being the poor fucker I am, I can't help but notice he's holding a paper bag from McDonald's. "I live in Lancaster Gate." Huh. That’s right next to Bayswater. "My brother's wife works at the British Museum, though. We meet up for lunch sometimes, and if I have to wait for her, I stop by at the pub. It's a nice establishment."
I smile and sit up, curious about this boy. "I love that museum. I can get lost in there for hours." But much like it's been a long time since I watched porn, it's been ages since I spent time at the British Museum. I could go anytime, I suppose, but I'd feel like crap going there in dirty clothes.
When I was a kid, my mom and I used to dress up to go to a museum, sorta like some people do when they go to the theater and whatever.
"I like it there, too." Flynn ducks his head and busies himself with the takeout bag. My mouth waters, and a silent snarl rumbles in my stomach. Shit, I haven't eaten since breakfast, and it's what, almost seven PM now?
"I didn’t know what you like, so I bought a little bit of everything." Flynn looks up with a helpless expression. "I hope that’s okay." Without another word, he hands over the bag.
"Oh." I'm surprised—and a little uncomfortable. No one's ever bought me food like this before, and I'm so used to getting by on my own. "You didn’t have to do this." I send him a small smile. "But thank you." I pull out a Quarter Pounder and take one of the drinks, my stomach growling in approval.
Flynn shrugs and sets the rest of the food on the nightstand between the beds. Then he digs into his Big Mac, and I do the same with my burger after taking out the pickles.
"So…" I chew and swallow. "You're American."
"Stupendously observant." He grins and removes the lid to his strawberry milkshake. "Yes. I was born in Toronto, but my parents were Americans working there, and I grew up in Seattle." He takes a sip, and he seems to hesitate to go on. But in the end, he does. "I never knew my dad, and my mom died when I was little. My brother Grant and I moved to Seattle where our grandparents live. What about you?"
. I never should've asked. I don’t feel comfortable revealing much. "Army brat." I point to myself and fake a smile. "I've been all over." I look down at my burger and take another bite. Flynn looks too interested in what I'm saying, so I decide to give him a little bit more. "After college, I worked a few months, then came to London. It's been a dream of mine since I was a kid."