"She's a Beauty" -- An SRP

She's a Beauty​

Wanted:​

+++ FOUND At least one Main Character, female, to play a Web Cam Sex Girl whose identity is uncovered.

+++ STILL NEED: More Secondary Characters, male and female, to play the Customers and/or "Playmates" for Customer Requests;
---- Long term roles for returning customers and others.
---- Short term roles for customers (in case you want to play but can't commit long term).

The Story:​

Web Cam Girl (you name her) feels her identity has been compromised when she begin receiving odd communications and packages.

I don't want to divulge much more, because it's supposed to be a mystery to her ... and therefore must be a mystery to you.

The Writers will set down the ground rules -- what they will and will not write about/participate in -- prior to beginning. (A hint: My PC is pretty vanilla and NOT a violent stalker.)

So, how does this thing work?

He'd never used a directional microphone before, but it was rather interesting, and rather simple. Just put the head phones on, point, and listen.

It was actually kind of fun, even an adventure. He heard unseen birds in the trees, then used to mic' to zero in on their exact location. He took it downtown and, sitting behind the cracked open tinted window, listened from his car to conversations in the park, in an open air cafe, on the steps of the Sheriff's office.

Then he discovered you could actually hear through things -- into buildings. Walls were tough; it was like being submerged in a swimming pool and listening to someone on the deck holler at you. You could hear the voices but only make out an occasional word.

But windows, now that was a different story: you could hear every word, as if you were sitting across the room listening to people talk in a normal, conversational volume. Oh, it had its limitations, of course: the conversation between two women at a coffee shop was hampered by the soft jazz coming over the stereo somewhere behind them; and a trainer's instructions near the window of his gym were crushed by the clanking of steel weights across the room. But still, it was very impressive what you could hear -- often, stuff others didn't want you to hear.

He played around with mic' off and on again for several days, between his shifts at work and classes at the Community College. He'd enjoyed several personal, intimate conversations; once he even caught a couple in the backseat of their car, recorded it, and replayed it that night ... for his alone time.

But, it was getting old. He considered going over to the Dark Side. There were a lot of people out there doing things they weren't supposed to be doing, talking about things they weren't supposed to be doing; if he could catch just one good conversation -- by a well-to-do cheating husband, or a local politician taking bribes, or a business person slipping money under the table to get something he or she wasn't otherwise entitled to -- well, that could possibly pay for the rest of his Bachelors Degree, possibly even his Masters after that!

But while listening in on private conversations was only a misdemeanor in this State -- he'd looked it up, online, just in case -- recording those conversations was a felony. And blackmail, well, depending upon who you were extorting, that could very quickly move into Federal charges.

No, he was just fine with spending a few minutes once in a while listening to the birds in the trees or eavesdropping on the young girls at the park talking about losing their virginity to a high school jock.



He sucked down the last of a local micro brew as his online movie ended, stretched and yawned, and stood to begin preparing for bed. He put the computer into standby, slid the window open for some fresh air, killed the lights, and dropped into his bed. His mind always raced for the first several minutes, making it hard to get to sleep some nights; he typically solved the problem with masturbation, but tonight he just wasn't in the mood.

And then he heard it. It was very hard to make out, but it was definitely a sound that didn't belong. He cocked his head, raised to an elbow, listened; it sounded far off, and it sounded like voices, one, maybe two. Then it struck him: he'd left the mic' on.

Without illuminating the room, he made his way to the desk at the window. The green power indicator light was on. He donned the head phones and heard her clear as if she was sitting in his room. He tried to make out what she was saying, but quickly realized she wasn't saying much at all, simply moaning softly, and occasionally giving a soft, short cry ...

... and as he realized he was listening in on a woman having sex -- possibly alone, possibly with someone else -- suddenly he found himself very much in the mood.

From the window across from his, a condo on the same floor of his complex that happened to have facing windows over the central courtyard area, he could hear the sultry voice of a woman, sounding like she pitched her voice low on purpose, moan. "Oh, yes, baby, right there. Right there..."

Was... was that a wet noise underneath her words?

"Fuck! Oh, baby, if only it were your thick cock pounding into me, yes... can you feel the warmth of my pussy, babe? Tight, wrapping your cock in warmth... oh, oh, oh, yes... oh! Faster, baby, faster!"

There was definitely something faintly audible other than her words, and since he could tell she wasn't currently with someone, it could only be... yes. Her fingers squelching around in her wet pussy.

"Touch your clit," a male voice pipes in, making him wonder at his conclusion that she was alone. But it hadn't sounded quite... real.

"Oh-!" her voice replies, pitch rising until it broke. And then there were more squelching noises, with no sound from her.

-Groan- "Yes, cum for me cutie!" It was a moment before panting was audible. "That was lovely, Chastity. Can I get a repeat performance a little later?"

"I'm gone at eleven," replies her breathless voice. "But maybe tomorrow? It's a Thursday, so I'm on at 10am instead of 2pm."

"I'll be waiting," is the reply, and then the well-known and overused 'buddy sign off' bleep.

"Yes of course you will, you bastard," comes the woman's voice, a light mezzo-soprano when not putting on an act. What did that mean, she just had an orgasm for a guy she hated? What kind of sense did that make? The sounds following this comment were hard to place; a swishing, maybe fabric? And a dull thud? Hard to tell what was going on in that room. But at 10:45, it was unlikely he would get anything else out of the mic tonight... right?

--Ring--
--Ring--
--Ring--
"Hi guy," came the woman's sexy-voice. "So glad you had a chance to call."

He adjusted the headphones and played with the directional microphones controls. The woman's voice was incredibly clear. Sometimes it sounded as if they were on opposite sides of a bedroom door; and other times the clarity was closer to being in the same bathroom, only on opposite sides of the shower door. It really was quite amazing ...

As was the conversation he was eavesdropping upon.

"Oh, yes, baby, right there. Right there..."

It was definitely a woman having sex! He could hear it ... the sex!

"Fuck! Oh, baby, if only it were your thick cock pounding into me, yes... can you feel the warmth of my pussy, babe? Tight, wrapping your cock in warmth... oh, oh, oh, yes... oh! Faster, baby, faster!"

Wait a second... He isn't there?

"Touch your clit." The voice was male, but ... apparently ...

Oh ... my ... god! The guy was on the phone having phone ... no, wait, did any one do that anymore? No, this was internet era, they were online; she was doing herself for the boyfriend. Probably overseas with the Armed Forces, what with all the wars they were involved in currently. My god, he wanted to be in the Army all of a sudden. Getting shot at and eating food out a box suddenly didn't sound that bad if the girl back home was fingering herself over the internet for him.

"Oh-!" She was moaning, obviously in great pleasure.

Sweeping the mic' left, then right, then up, then down, he had a pretty good idea of which apartment her voice -- and the sloshing sounds of her hands inside her -- were coming from.

There was a deep groan -- the man? It sounded like the man -- then, obviously the guy, "Yes, cum for me cutie!" Then some more groans, then heavy panting ... and, "That was lovely, Chastity. Can I get a repeat performance a little later?"

Chastity? What a second, doesn't that mean--

"I'm gone at eleven," the woman answered, sounding breathless, spent by the orgasm he assumed she had along with her boyfriend. "But maybe tomorrow? It's a Thursday, so I'm on at 10am instead of 2pm."

I'm on at ten ... instead of two?

"I'll be waiting," the man said, which was immediately followed by a tone that sounded like an IM or email sign off.

"Yes of course you will, you bastard," the woman responded, the earlier breathless post-climactic tone suddenly absent.

He heard another tone sounding, one he recognized but couldn't immediately place. The tone was intermixes with another: a phone ringing? maybe Skype on a computer? Then the familiar tone once again.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

"Hi guy..."

He turned the directional microphone's control box over; the red Low Battery light was blinking. Nooooooo... He turned away from the window, started across the room for the mic's carrying case, and came to the end of the headphone's coil cord. Shit!

"So glad you had --"

And then ... silence.

Christie "Chastity" Milaro eased her sore body between the fancy orange satin sheets she had on her bed for the single purpose of highlighting the peach tones in her skin while on camera. She'd had a good day, eight calls earned her a good chunk of change. While back-to-back calls were extremely tiring, she couldn't argue with the numbers in her PayPal account. She drifted off to sleep in the nude, cradled in satin, debating with herself whether she should block UrWhiteNight* or not.


Her only class the next morning was Cognitive Psychology, which was maddening. The professor knew what she was talking about, and had the experience to teach from, but she could NOT lecture for shit. Christie found her mind wandering to her client list, and whether or not she needed any special prep for the guys likely to call her.

She walked back to her condo, messenger bag swinging in the chill air, debating which of her toys would be her best option if either of her current two female clients called today. "Damn, I don't have any spare batteries," she muttered to herself as she entered the building, voting for the elevator instead of the exercise of the stairs to the sixth floor. If she was any guess, she'd have plenty of exercise by midnight tonight!

Christie hummed quietly as she set up her "stage", with video camera aimed at the bed and tiny webcam set up at her desk chair. Valentine's Day was over, but she stripped and donned white bra and panties that had a pink-glitter-heart print. Then she realized she'd left the shades open while she changed. "Shit... ah well." Nothing she could do about it now. She went over to the window and pulled the cord to lower the blinds. She used two desk lamps and a lava lamp to light her room with better lighting for the camera, anyway.

* I made this up on the spot, if this is someone's actual username, forgive me!

It was unbelievable how different things were in the daylight.

The night before, as he'd swept the directional microphone back and forth, up and down, he was sure he'd found the window through which his neighbor was sexing up her boyfriend. But now he isn't sure. Fifth floor or sixth? It wasn't the top floor, the seventh: "Widow" Thompson lives in the corner condo'; and his best friend for over a dozen years, Peter, lives in the unit inward of that with his family. (Just for fun, he takes a moment and imagined "Mrs. T" getting funky with Pete; it causes him to twitch a bit down there.)

Regardless of which floor it turns out to be, there are only three windows on each that could be her home; all he has to do was monitor all of the windows after ... 10am, didn't she say? Yeah, just monitor all of them until he finds her again.

Of course, the problem there is he goes to work at 10:30, and it's a 30 minute bike ride to get there, 50 by car because of locating a parking space and sprinting across several bikes of pedestrian only courtyards. And one more late start, and he'd canned. He wonders, would it be worth it, to hear a woman making love -- well, pretending -- to her boyfriend. The logical answer is no, but that doesn't change the answer he wants to give himself. Crap!

He sits back in the ratty old recliner before the window, where the desk had sat the night before, sipping at coffee and wolfing down cold cereal and a couple of string cheeses, a typical breakfast for him. He checks the stability of the tripod on which he'd mounted the foot and a half long mic', a tripod he'd stripped from the National Geographic telescope he used to to use to spy on one of his neighbors, Christie. He checks the aim of the mic', adjusts it to the 6th floor -- directly across from him -- then ... waits.

9:30 ... then 9:35 ... then 9:40. Shit! He glances past the opposing wing and sees the clouds rolling in; it's going to rain, and if he doesn't leave in the car now, he'll likely be riding home on his bike in both the dark and the rain. But, it's worth it.

A horrifying thought strikes him. What if she doesn't start up again? He couldn't even fathom the thought. He needs this; next to masturbating, this was now the most exciting sex he's having. Actually, better than masturbating, he thinks, 'cause I can always beat off during or after, right?

He perks up when he hears a door slam over the speakers now attached to the mics' output. He quickly jumps out of the chair, only to knock the tripod over and drop the directional to the floor -- causing him to clap his hands over his ears at the cracking and static sound blowing from the speakers. Crap! Crap! Crap! He gets it set back up again, aims it ... then relaxes, when he realizes it's only Christie ... Christie, um, Milano or Milan or something Italian like that.

He laughs at himself for his quick disappointment in it only being Christie. His neighbor is the most beautiful woman in the building: tall, thin, shapely, blond; she has a liking for tight fitting jeans and short skirts. On cold days -- or days like this with a sudden, unexpected rain -- if he saw her hurrying home from school, he used to casually change directions as necessary just to see her hardened nipples pressing outward, calling for his own personal attention, he always fantasized.

He had had many an opportunity to get an eyeful of the sexy Co-Ed. He used to watch her through the telescope often; the box had proclaimed, "See heavenly bodies up close!" which had always made him laugh. He used to watch her as she walked about her condo', cooking, watching television; on a couple of nights, he'd even sneaked a peak of her padding about her bedroom in a negligee, and once -- just for an instance -- caught sight of her topless, as she passed from what he assumed was her walk in closet to the bathroom.

Then, as now, he thought he'd hit pay dirt. And then, suddenly, the drapes came closed every night, and the fun was over. Still to this day, he peaked over her way every morning when he got up and then again anytime he passed his own windows, but saw nothing but an empty apartment or drapes.

Maybe she's Chastity? He laughed. Not a chance in hell! Christie, from what he'd been able to tell, was shy and quiet. He'd said hi to her every opportunity he got but had gotten no more than a polite smile or a quick wave. He wasn't ugly, so she wasn't shining him on for a lack of interest in him personally; he just didn't believe she had an interest in men ... and after last night's fun, it was obvious Chastity did.

The only times he'd ever seen Christie with a man, it had been any thing but romantic or intimate. She'd had a man over to dinner once -- this was before the drapes began closing -- and he'd watched the whole thing through the telescope. The guy had made several attempts to get close to Christie, and she's very effectively deflected them all. She was either very shy, very prude, very stuck up -- which that ever polite smile told him she wasn't -- or the guy had been a creep and she simply hadn't wanted him laying a finger upon her. Maybe she's into other women...?

He watches her now, wandering about the bedroom, slipping in and out of view; she seems to be moving a few things about, as if cleaning or reorganizing. He considers pulling out the telescope again, but without the tripod, it would be so unstable --

Suddenly, Christie reappears after several few minutes in hiding, in nothing but her bra and panties. Quickly, he's across the room, has his hands full of plastic encased high power lenses, and -- zip, clang.

He gets to the window in time to see the blinds still wiggling back and forth as they settle. Fuck! He looks to the clock on the night table: 9:55. Double fuck! Gotta go! He glances across at Christie's window again, wonders again, dismisses the whole Chastity possibility again, and heads out of the condo and the building, carrying then riding his bike as fast as he can.

He screams down the street recollecting the stories of The South Wing, commonly referred to as The Bordello by the horny old, and young, men of the building, for its over abundance of sexy, flirtatious, even promiscuous college age girls. And several of them live within the Chastity Habitat zone; a pair of lesbians, a trio of room mates, and one very bosomy babe who once flashed her tits to get him to help her get a new couch upstairs. Yeah, one of them is Chastity.

Then he curses himself: before he left, he'd flipped on the voice activated digital recorder he'd wired to the mic', but after he'd seen Christie come home, he'd pointed it at her bedroom window, and it was still aimed there. Crap! One more day gone without hearing the fun. Probably get hours of her listening to Oprah and, later, snoring herself to an early bedtime.

While he may be cursing himself, "Chastity" is getting her first caller. "Hey gurl," she drawls, a slight southern accent touching her normally accent-free voice. Did she just say... yep. If this first recording does nothing else, it will certainly reinforce his previous view that she likes girls. Her viewer is very vocal about telling Christie to finger fuck herself and what the viewer's reaction in turn is.

It seems Christie takes on something of a cowgirl persona for this caller, with some odd turns of phrase he never hears in this part of the state... but then, he doesn't actually know where she's from! Maybe it's just returning to her roots... but she's never given him that impression, even on the rare occasion she gets dropped off drunk. Always politely smiling, that same smile. And no accent.

She also apparently likes to be on display. Damn does this girl moan! Hearing the girl online talking about her body (with more than a few obscenities) only makes her groan louder, and she fingers herself through three consecutive climaxes while the girl online sounds like she does similarly. How could Christie know that her caller is one of their neighbors, the more promiscuous of the two lesbian chicks? Only her listener might get that idea, as the echoes of the internet call get recorded, one from the floor below Christie's window, one from Christie's laptop speaker. Just offset enough to clearly not be a funny speaker-noise. And since the girl online refers to Christie as "Chastity", who's to know if the pair even are aware?

The timestamp on the recorder cycles ahead two hours between her first call at 10:15 or so and her next caller, though there is a short (less than a minute) blip of something that sounds about as intelligible as mud. He'll have time later to ponder what exactly was going on, whether it was a muffled phone call in the other room, something caught from one of the other apartments that he was getting through brick, or even just Christie talking in her sleep after an especially impressive orgasm.

Christie's Schedule:
-10:15 "girl-on-girl" video chat, Christie gets 3 orgasms in a row
-12:22 ???
-12:48 male dominant has her use a dildo in specific ways
-1:26 silent caller gets a show that involves a close-up pussy webcam w/masturbation
-1:36 guy wants to talk dirty, doesn't sound like any cam action
-1:55 guy has her pose (directing her poses) so he can "take pictures"
-2:12 deep male voice tells her a story to masturbate to, she has two orgasms
-2:53 Chastity gets a video feed to drool over, sounds like an impressive cock
-3:15 caller who got a busy signal earlier talks her through fucking herself on dildo
(Shall I continue, or shall we say the recorder runs out of memory about then?)

It had been an un-fucking-believable day. He spent most of his work shift thinking of nothing but his exhibitionist neighbor. He was totally incapable of concentrating; every woman who walked into the store was a potential Chastity, and he fantasized about each in one way or another. Twice he was chastised for his poor customer service by his bitch of an Ex-Girlfriend, who'd been newly promoted over him to Shift Manager.

Then, just as he punched out and headed for his bike, the rain started: no rain gear, his rear wheel splash guard snapped off by some asshole; darkness, dodging drivers who somehow can't see his three headlights and three tail lights, each with a different alternating pattern, c'mon, are you serious. And twice, his mind racing about Chastity, he forgot to take newly learned short cuts, which only extended his 45 block trip.

Everything is recorded; he wonders, why am I in a hurry? He reminds himself as well that the mic' is pointed at Christie's unit, not Chastity's, which ever one it is. So, it's not like he's going to be listening to anything good today, unless she's still on when he gets home. He doubts it; Chastity's boyfriend would have been expecting her at 10am, not 8pm as it is now.

As he rides the elevator up to the 6th, he hopes beyond hope that the mic' has a wider coverage area; maybe Chasity lives in the unit directly below Christie. The sound quality wouldn't be the best, but at the very least, he would know almost for certain which apartment was actually hers.

He enters, drops his bike to the sheet of plywood protecting the carpet, and rushes across to the digital recorder. He presses the play button; nothing happens. Damn, still on record. He presses more buttons; still nothing but a flashing icon on the front. Dead? Are you fucking serious? Don't you ever check batteries, you fucking idiot?

He hurriedly searches for the wall charger, finds it, plugs the recorder in, waits, and ponders: was it dead before you left, and you just didn't see it? or did it run out after recording hours of kinky sex? He laughs. The most likely answer, of course, is that it picked up nothing at all.

Christie was a college student so, midday, she was likely on campus. Of course, he was a student, too, and he had a Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule. Today was Thursday: in his case, he'd worked all day; in her case, who the hell knows? He didn't know enough about her. Knowing his luck, she likely spent the day on the couch with a big text book in her lap, and he was going to end up with hours of Judge Judy and Oprah and Ellen in the background.

He stares out upon the South Wing, at the light from a few scattered windows illuminating the falling rain drops. There's nothing special about the windows, nothing different today than yesterday -- except, of course, that behind one of them is a neighbor who's a freaky wench, yeah, baby!

He checks the recorder -- still charging -- and realizes he's beginning to shiver. He heads for the kitchen, stuffs a Twinkie into his mouth, and heads for the shower. Under the hot water, Chastity returns to him. Oh, yes, baby, right there. Right there... Fuck! He grasps the shower head with one hand and his quickly swelling penis in the other, filled with as much liquid soap as he'd usually use in a week. Oh, baby, if only it were your thick cock ... yes... He strokes, a firm grip, the full length, increasingly harder. Can you feel my pussy, babe? ... wrapping your cock ... oh, yes ... Faster, baby, faster!

He doesn't masturbate often -- it's about quality, not quantity, he believes -- so the eruption comes quickly and goes on seemingly forever. He tightens his grip on the shower head as his ejaculations splash the tile, the soap dispenser, the shower mat. He ceases his strokes, simply gripping himself tightly, imagining his -- how did she put it -- thick cock being wrapped by her pussy as he luxuriates in the pulses that just won't stop. As he comes down, he rinses the soap and semen from him, and kills the water flow, then laughs. Bring it on Judge Judy. I can sit though hours of you now.

He dries, dresses, grabs a beer from the mini-fridge, and -- pressing the play button on the recorder -- drops into the window-side recliner. There is an immediate sound, which is good news, right? It sounds like a door slamming, triggering the recorder's sound-activation. And it's followed by on-again, off-again background noise. Great... Well, at least that answers the question about whether Christie is at home on Thursdays.

He glances across at the South Wing, at Christie's unit. The drapes are closed, and there is a light sporadically illuminating what should be her bedroom; computer possibly, but more likely a television, who knows, who cares. He's disappointed that months earlier she'd begun closing her drapes on a regular basis. Even if he hadn't been seeing anything erotic -- keeping in mind the lingerie shots and the one titty peak -- it was still nice to fill that need to have a woman in view. Since his break up with "Windy", he hadn't dated, hadn't really wanted to, so spending a night or two each week peeping on Christie or one of the other women in The Bordello had been a fantasy release for him.

As he listens to the recorder's back ground noise, he presses one half of the headphones to one ear and begins sweeping the directional microphone across the Chastity Habitat portion of the Bordello; in between, he sips at the beer, and stares across at Christie's darkened window.

He wonders about her; why is someone so beautiful so introverted, so shy. It's only an assumption of course; he only sees glimpses of her life, only sees her out on the sidewalk, hurrying away from or back to home. Hardly ever saw her with a man; sometimes she was with women, presumably college mates. He had -- in his dirty mind -- imagined them as lovers of Christie, but the evidence wasn't there; often he saw them studying at her kitchen table, or watching television, while other times they were in and out of the apartment within just minutes, too quickly he figured for anything intimate.

But what did he know? He was a guy. A guy could get off with a girl in no time at all; maybe a woman skilled with pleasuring her female lover could get her off in a few minutes, too. Who knew? He'd gotten Windy off in less than two minutes once, just with his fingers. God I miss that bitch sometimes.

Then his mind shifts to Chastity again, and he began to harden. He wants more of her. He hates that he screwed up recording today; he knew she was going to be on, as she put it, today at ten. With his luck, he'll never hear her again; what are the chances that he will be home at the same time that she's fucking herself in front of the web cam for her boyfriend? Especially it the guy is military, like he was betting; if the guy was in a combat zone or on a ship, it was likely that his access to the internet was limited, wasn't it? What the hell did he know?

And then he ponders something new. What about after? What about after you identify the apartment, identify who Chastity really is? What then? Do you really want to know who she is? I mean, right now, she's the most beautiful woman in the world, a sexy vixen with a killer body who, as in the shower, takes a moment from her Swim Illustrated photo shoot to lay herself out over the hood of a 2011 Charger and take your big cock into her pussy.

Some of those women in The Bordello aren't exactly S.I. swimsuit models. Does it ruin the fantasy to know what she really looks like? It's a hard question, especially for him; two of the best fucks he'd ever had -- Windy included --were less than fantasy-worthy women. And on the other end of the sex toy, two of the worse fucks he'd ever had were the prettiest girl if high school, and a runner up to the Bay Beauty Pageant, a gal six years his senior who knew less about pleasing her partner than he had. So, pleasure had nothing to do with looks; but, does fantasy? Yeah. The simple answer is Yeah, you betcha.

His mind suddenly turns to a comment Chastity had made the night before, after the boyfriend hung up, in response to his stating that he'd be waiting: Yes of course you will, you bastard. That didn't seem too friendly; not something you say to a boyfriend right after he talked you through two or three self-stimulated orgasms -- which, now that he thought about it, may have been faked. Her heavily panting, low, sexy voice while talking to what he assumed had been a boyfriend had ever so quickly peaked in pitch and sounded less stressed. Had she faked? For a boyfriend? Woman do it all the time, of course; whether to aid their lovers egos or just to simply get them the hell out of them so they can get some sleep ... or go to the bathroom and finish themselves!

"Hey, Gurl."

He flinches from his deep thinking, sits up quickly, steadies the mic' on the last window he'd been passing. The he realizes the voice is coming from the recorder speaker on the lamp table, not the ear phone pressed to his ear. He sets the mic' and headset aside and snatches up the recorder.

Two women, both with southern drawls, are talking -- greetings, and polite banter -- which throws him off for a moment; maybe the mic' hadn't been pointing at Christie's after all. He'd stood in line behind Christie at the market around the corner once -- the only time he'd heard more than a hello out of her -- and he knew she hadn't come from the South.

As he listens, he realizes he does know one of the voices. He knows it, but can't place it right away. It's more the words she says -- he's heard this woman's speech patterns before -- than just the accent alone. He's heard her before ... on campus? No, here, in the Complex, obviously. And then it comes to him: it's the Lezzies, as the envious old bastards in the South Wing call them. Jules and ... and ... oh, god, what the hell is her name? Unit 5-C South! Jules had once used the laundry room in the North Wing, his wing, and they'd had a long conversation, about school, about family, about life in general. He'd actually thought he might be meeting a future girl friend, until he'd flirtatiously made a comment about the panties she was taking from the dryer and she quite proudly began talking all about her girlfriend and their relationship. She was very proudly lesbian, and very happy to talk about; and he was more than happy to listen to her, while trying to keep his erection hidden until he get upstairs later for one of his periodic alone-times.

No, what he is listening to here isn't Chastity at all, but just a conversation between lovers in their own apartment, a conversation that quickly became very sexual. Suddenly, he realizes, this only gets better. Lesbian lovers in one unit, an exhibitionist in the other. Who the hells knows what else you're gonna hear?

Soon the conversation is strictly sexual, with the one he thinks is Jules giving direction to the other one until she comes -- not just once, but twice -- in long, high-pitched cries. And then there's role reversal, and Jules enjoys an orgasm. And this goes back and forth, with each giving direction -- harder, faster, deeper, flip it, baby gurl -- until finally there is only a lot of what sounds like heavy breathing and oh, god that was great compliments and some giggles.

And then -- his world is again turned upside down.

"Hey, gurl," the maybe-Jules informs the other lesbian, "I'll be outta town for a few days. The rodeo's in my home town, woohoo. Tight jeans and Western style button up blouses ... ya know ... grab the lapels and rip'em open ... show me them titties ... and no tearing buttons off!" "I hear, gurl" the other one laughs back to her. "Doncha be finding no cow girl to replace me, ya hear?" "I won't. I'd take the laptop with me, get ... in touch with you--" She says those words, in touch, very suggestively. "--but my girl's going with me ... might catch me." "Doncha worry, gurl. And doncha worry about me touching myself while you're in someone elses saddle. Ya know you're the only one for me." They laugh together, say their good byes, and again he hears the sign off sound of a computer.

What the fuck? Now he's just confused. What are the odds that he's listening in on two different units? Two units with online sex on two successive days? C'mon! Be real. So, one of the lesbians has to be Chastity. It can't be Jules; he knows her voice from the laundry, and he knows Chastity's as well. And then he thinks a bit more about the other woman's voice; it seemed, well, close, buy not quite right on. He'd recently done a paper on Intercultural Communications in America, and had studied hundreds of hours of recording of dialects -- accents, was his primary concern -- and how they lead to stereotyping in the job market. And, well...

Just as he was concluding that the other woman might be Chastity, more on-again, off-again back ground sound was cut by that familiar log on sound and Chastity -- this time it was in fact her voice -- was joined by a man who very forcefully walked her through exactly what to do with a big dildo she had. "Too big," she complained. "Are you this big...? Is this you in me, hurting me...? God you're so big... Where at? Oh, baby, please no, not there, you're too big."

Oh, god I want video! Sound -- as incredible as it was to have -- was suddenly not enough. By the sounds and the orders, it was obvious Chastity had this obviously large dildo shoved up her ass. "Flick it, god damn it. Flick it!" And Chastity moaned, and cried, and came, and went silent. And the man did the same, groaning and bellowing, "I'm coming in ya, bitch," then grunting loudly. And then ... the log off tone.

Un-fucking-believable. It was all he could repeat. Un-fuck-ing-be-liev-a-ble.

He was becoming convinced that Chastity was in fact Christie. She had to be. It made sense. The mic' had been pointed at her unit all day; she's begun closing her drapes, was it months or just weeks earlier, when she'd never done that before, except in her bedroom, and sometimes she even forgot to do that. The schedule worked with what he knew about college schedules.

Whether it was Christie or not didn't matter right now. He was simply enjoying the continuing show.

The next caller exchanged very short, very quiet greetings, after which he heard nothing but the sounds of sex, much clearer, as if the microphone Chastity -- Christie? -- was using was just inches from her pussy as she fingers and dildo's herself.

The next guy just talks dirty, the next after that apparently takes posed pictures -- he wonders, does she show her face? -- and the next guy, a bit more creative, reads her an erotic story, to which it sounded like Chastity is masturbating and again coming once, maybe twice.

All of the previous calls had been about Chastity performing for others, but the last one was different. There doesn't seem to be any sex sounds from her end, just her ranting on about the callers dick: "My god it's huge." "How big is it?" "God, I couldn't even get that in me." "Yes, of course I want you to beat off." "My god, go, go, go." "Oh yeah, squirt it all over me ... my god ... I wish I could taste you."

My god! Christie. It was hard to fathom. But it had to be her. It was the most incredible thing. He was listening to live -- or very close to it -- sex, he knew where it was happening, and he could now put a face -- and a body -- to the show!

The recorder went silent again. This must be where the batteries died, he knows.

He also knows that he is hard as a rock -- has been for the entirety of the playback -- and it's finally time for relief. He takes one last look across at windows on South Sixth, now all dark, and heads off for bed, to masturbate -- this time to Christie's face, inside Christie's body -- and to contemplate his next move. What do you do next? Simply continue to listen? Try to participate; find the website she's using and, he assumed, pay to play?

And then, of course, it came to him. Why should he pay to play? I ... know ... a secret.

Does he refer to her as Christie or Chasity?

The question had been weighing on his mind for days. I guess it depends upon the context. He's been fantasizing about her endlessly; she is now his exclusive alone-time image, and in those fantasies, he's with Christie, for whom he has a face and body to masturbate to. But, in his upcoming venture, he's sticking with Chastity for the expressed reason that he has no way of knowing whether Jules really knows that Chastity is Christie.

He finds that hard to believe, but he can't take the chance of exposing Christie. The two women live practically right under one another, with Jules and her girlfriend in 5-C, on the south side of the 5th floor hallway; and Christie in 6-H, on the north side of the hall on the 6th floor. When they'd been making love with one another over the the World Wide Web, the two women had actually been separated by a mere 30 or 40 feet! Baffling!

Baffling and unbelievable, but not unheard of. He remembered his uncle doing an Ancestry search for a missing cousin once, a boy-turned-man who no one in the family had heard from in over three decades. They eventually found him working in the same department store that the uncle did -- in fact, the two had had lunch together in the Company Cafeteria, at the same table, dozens of times during those years and never made the familial connection.

So ... does Chastity know of Jules? Does Jules know of Chastity? Better question: does the lesbian girlfriend going to the rodeo know who else in on the horse with her and her girlfriend? He recalls the Arsenio Hall line, The things that make you go ... hmmmm.

He's devised a plan to get closer to Chastity, and then Christie. (He reminds himself that General Custer had a plan, and that didn't work out so well; but it's the only plan he can come up with for learning more about Christie.)

For the past week, anytime there seems to be nothing going on at Christie's unit, he's been sitting in his car on the other side of the South Park, pointing the directional at Jule's place. He's learned quite a bit, in fact: Jule's girlfriend is named Sandra; Sandra is kind of a prude and not nearly as sexual as when the couple first got together clear back in high school; and Jule's sex drive has not only driven her to sex on the computer with Chastity, but also into the arms -- or thighs -- of another woman, Georgia.

Georgia, as it turns out, is an account executive at the department store, a woman of position. She is also the supervisor of MBA interns, of which Jules is one. And she is also happily married ... to a man.

That's a lot of secret information for one man to have over three women with secrets.

The problem is, Rick's only 20 years old -- still living with his mother in 6-G North, almost directly across the Central Courtyard from Christie -- while he finishes his degree, and he doesn't really have a lot of experience with blackmail.



He's at the bike racks at the south east corner of the complex when Jules exits, ready to head out on another fat burning bike ride. He's surprised when he sees her: she's changed her hair for what he considers the better, and dropped a bunch of pounds, regaining the missing hourglass figure she'd told him about that night in the laundry. Too bad you're not into guys, he pouts to himself.

They exchange pleasantries while she's unlocking her bike, then he asks, "Can I talk to you for a second, Jules?"

"I'm going for a ride. Can it wait?"

She mounts the bike and puts her foot to the pedal.

"It's about Chastity." He says bluntly. Jules hesitates, not looking his way. Then she returns both feet to the ground at gives him a hard look.

Okay. You have her attention.

You can do this, you can do this, you can do this...

It took him four more days to both come up with a plan to get in touch with Christie -- no, with Chastity -- and get up the courage to initiate it.

Getting the information from Jules of how to contact Chastity had been far easier than he'd expected; all he had to do was speak the names Chastity, Sandra, and Georgia in the same breath, and she was snatching a pen from a passer-by to scribble the web address and password down in his palm. She'd even turned over the code to her pre-paid account, giving him the remaining 65 minutes she'd been planning on using when she returned from the rodeo down south.

She questioned him, of course, about how he knew what he did. He lied: "People talk." Of course, she didn't believe him, but she was so upset -- and mortified -- that she let it go without further inquiry.

Just before Jules told him to never get within a hundred feet of her ever again in he valued his life, Rick asked, "So where does Chastity work from?"

"How the fuck would I know?" Jules spat. She'd then jumped onto her bike and, just before departing, threatened, "You tell anyone about this, and you'll wish you lived farther away then just the other side of the building, you little prick."

So, Jules either hadn't seen Christie's face, or she simply didn't know that Christie lived just yards above her. He wouldn't know until he himself logged on.

So, here he was now, sitting in front of his laptop with the web camera on and an exposed light bulb behind his head; in the extra monitor he'd set up, he looked like some CIA agent from a bad 70's espionage movie.

He'd gone to her Returning Clients Window the day before, selected Jule's online account -- Cowgirl-4-Cowgirl1988 -- and scheduled an appointment. He drew another deep breath, exhaled, reached for the enter key on the lap top ... then drew yet another deep breath, held it, exhaled, and reached again. He tapped the enter button; on the screen, a prompt told him the connection was being made.

And there she is, Chastity -- Christie -- with a wide smile on her fully revealed face. Jules has seen her and has no idea who she is, he realized. Unbelievable!

Christie is dressed in a sexy Western Style get up, with a tight, bosom raising western style blouse decorated with tassels, a tiny skirt that revealed her lacy thong, and dark fish net stockings held up by a sexy garter belt.

Rick ogles every bit of her, feeling his already awakened penis quickly swelling toward total rigidity. When he looks back up to her face, though, he finds a hard stare.

"Who are you?" she asks. "And how are you on this account?"

It had taken her the work of a few moments to get ready for this appointment--she knew what 'J' liked and had it on hand--but when the screen showed her the silhouette of an unknown man, she wanted to release the tie of the shirt around her midriff and hide in the folds of the tasseled shirt, far too large for her to wear without tying it up, but right then she didn't care.

"Who are you?" she asks, staring at the screen in hopes of getting some detail out of the dark figure's face. "And how are you on this account? Where's Jay?" She didn't want to reveal Jules' name, despite the fact she'd figured out who J was early on--open windows can be a bad thing for keeping secrets.

She'd stopped using the face-scambler with Jules after two calls, but she switched it on now. Whoever he was had seen her face, but it didn't hurt to try. "I'm going to report the account hacked and notify the owner." She started clicking her way through the "Help Center" at her website, which was hard to navigate, but she did find at last the page where you could report site abuse... and she hesitated. She'd never reported anyone before, and she wasn't sure how they went about it. Should she just go knock on Jules' door and tell her? Or was this the better route?

"Who are you? And how are you on this account?

Christie seemed to be asking the questions not to Rick, but to the little devil resting on his shoulder, who was his moral support, driving him on.

In his current Journalism class, he'd just recently finished a paper about the evolution of television news technology. He was too young to remember when, before teleprompters, the news Anchors had actually read the news from sheets of paper sitting on the desk before them. Later came cue cards, held by -- appropriately -- a cue card boy who stood next to the camera; this innovation had made the news seem more personal, as if the Anchor was addressing the viewer directly; but, the watchful viewer would have noticed that the Anchor -- whose eyes were on the cue cards, not the camera -- always seemed to be addressing their shoulder, just as Christie was addressing Ricks now.

Rick didn't have much time to consider the thought: Christie reached out of shot -- presumably to a cordless keyboard -- and click, just like that, her face was scrambled into just a "Cops" like mass of flesh tone pixels.

Too late, Rick thought to himself. I'll bet from now on, she'll start with it on and go the other way with her customers.

"Where's Jay?" she continued, her tone obviously heading quickly for the pissed off range of discontent. "I'm going to report the account hacked and notify the owner."

She turned back to the out-of-sight keyboard, and all of a sudden Rick realized he was about to get cut off.

"Christie, wait! Don't do--"

Oh ... fuck! Did you really ... just use ... her real name?

"Christie, wait! Don't do--" Her viewer clearly recognized his mistake before she did. She was so used to the Chastity nickname that it never occurred to her to think of it as an alias. So when he used her other name, it was just another way to get her attention...

About two seconds after he broke off, Christie's sexy body returned to its original orientation. She hadn't turned off the face scrambler, but that was probably to his benefit now as she was dead white and glaring bloody murder at him at the same time. Silence stretched on for a very long minute before she lightly licked her lips. It took her two starts to get the words out. "Who are you?" she whispered, barely audible. "What do you want?"

The question should have been 'How do you know my name?' but that would admit that yes, in fact, it was her name. And given the silhouette setup on screen, this guy had planned this from the start. It wasn't that he recognized her in the ten seconds her face wasn't scrambled, it was a set-up. He knew what she was doing, had somehow conned Jules out of her account... ohshit. If he knew where to find Jules, he knew where she lived. Where Christie lived.

She was, for the first time since she'd started this video-only arrangement, totally fucked.

"I want to watch you," Rick said immediately to her question. "That's all. I ... I just want to watch you."

He wondered, do I apologize for scaring her? For violating her privacy? He was 20 fucking years old; he didn't know how to handle this kind of shit. He'd only has a handful of lovers -- literally, not even that, since a handful meant five -- and everything he'd done with them had been so, what was the word ...? vanilla!

And here he was, staring at a sexy woman, a neighbor, who pretended to have sex with people on the internet! And he had her ... had her by the ... what, not by the balls ... the clit? That didn't sound right at all.

He wasn't sure what he wanted. But he knew what he didn't want.

"Don't fake it, Christie," he begged, using her name since, obviously, the pussy was out of the bag. "If all you're going to do is fake it, I'd rather we just talked for a while instead." He glanced to the tool bar running down the side of the monitor before him. "We have ... 61 minutes."

"I want to watch you, that's all. I ... I just want to watch you." Some guy knows who she is, and still he just wants to watch? Not show up at her door? Maybe it was some creepy old guy that knew she'd never fuck him even if he blackmailed her... but this guy didn't sound like that. He sounded her age, if she was any judge of badly-reproduced-by-laptop-speakers digital voices.

A tiny glimmer of hope dawned on her otherwise black outlook on life. This couldn't be some guy that actually was turned on by her doing it in front of a camera, could it?

"Don't fake it, Christie, if all you're going to do is fake it, I'd rather we just talked for a while instead. We have ... 61 minutes." She winced internally when he used her name this time, prepared for it as she was. Sixty minutes, did she have an hour to spend with the guy who wouldn't even show her his... face? Wait a minute, did that mean she knew him? Was he playing with her? Or did he just not want to take the chance, as she didn't? If he knew where she lived, and she was even more certain of it as she had more time to think, then he might know the chance of them running into one another. If he wasn't recognizable, she couldn't call him on it.

"I... don't know if I can," she hesitated. "I'll admit you've got me pretty scared here." She refused to add that the thrill and the mystery were actually turning her on... that was as good as thanking the guy who robbed you for taking your money. "I can try. What do you like?" she asked, clicking to turn on the other video camera's feed instead of the built-in web cam. "Can you hear me?" she asked the room as she moved back to her bed, in full view of the tripod camcorder. "Can you see me?" she asked. She doubted she was lucky enough to have accidentally cut off the call, so she sat nervously on the edge of the bed. She hadn't bothered enabling the face-jammer for the video feed... it was expensive to use for long, and since it was damnably clear she had already been recognized, the lack of money she was making on this call begged her not to turn it on.

"How do you want me?" she asked, then blushed. Blushing? she asked herself, annoyed at the reaction. I haven't blushed since... oh. Since last time she was with a guy face to face. Grow a pair, will you?" she urged herself, then giggled. "Sorry, that... that didn't come out how I meant it, exactly." She was also at loose ends for how to act, because this guy clearly knew her.

"Okay, look. I'll make you a deal. Tell me if we've ever met, and I'll do this for you. I... I just need to know if I know you." She didn't know why this mattered so much, that she could fuck herself silly for someone she didn't know but couldn't even take off the skimpy clothing she wore for someone she knew. Except Jules. Well... if she could strip for Jules, she could strip for this guy, too. So she rose and slowly untied the shirttails of her tasseled shirt, then slid it from about her shoulders. She was wearing an orange bra and panty set that was a shade or two darker than her sheets. She revealed the string bikini slower, chanting at herself the entire time that this was no skimpier than a bikini she wore to the beach...

"Don't fake it, Christie, if all you're going to do is fake it, I'd rather we just talked for a while instead. We have ... 61 minutes."

"I... don't know if I can," she responded.

His first thought was that she could only fake, either because she was frigid or not into guys in real life or simply couldn't make herself cum, despite all the orgasms he'd been listening to her supposedly experience over the last couple of weeks.

Then she said, "I'll admit you've got me pretty scared here."

The last thing Rick wanted was for Christie to be scared, and -- while it seemed such an obvious thing to have considered now -- he felt stupid for not having thought about it before. How do I make her NOT scared?


"I can try," she continued on. "What do you like?"

As he considered the question, she left camera view, and as another view replaced the first -- this one of a bed, not the one she sleeps in, her stage likely -- she reappeared again.

What do I like? What do I like? Well, sex.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes," he said, realizing he wasn't pressing the mic' button on.

"Can you see me?"

Yes ... all of you, in fact. When she'd moved to the other camera, Christie hadn't turned on the device to hide her face. He wondered whether that had been a mistake, or an intentional choice. A choice, he decided; after all, it was obvious he already knew who she was, so why bother?

"How do you want me?"

Again with the questions he had no idea how to answer. He remembered once with Windy, when they'd been sitting in opposite seats of a nearly empty transit bus on the way to a ski resort, and she exposing herself to him and telling him to tell her what to do. He'd been at a total loss; and when he'd finally gotten up the nerve to direct her, she'd just laughed and redressed and said, "Are you crazy? I was playing with you."

And now here he was with a woman before him, presenting him with the same question -- How do you want me? -- but this time, she wasn't going to laugh at him and put her close on and leave him there, exiting the bus with his bag before his crotch because he'd jizzled all over the inside of his jeans.

"Okay, look. I'll make you a deal." she said sitting on the edge of the bed and looking directly into the camera -- which made him feel uncomfortable because, for the first time, her eyes seemed to be looking directly into his. "Tell me if we've ever met, and I'll do this for you. I... I just need to know if I know you."

Rick didn't answer. He didn't know how to answer. You tell her who you are and it's over! But if you don't tell her, it might be over anyway.

After a long moment of silence, he assumed she was either giving up on a confession, or just giving him something to spur the confession on, because she stood, untied, and removed the overly-colorful Western shirt that she had donned, he suddenly recalled, for Jules.

Her bra and panties were orange, like the bedroom stage. How do you want me? Her question reverberated in his ears. She pulled the bra off, revealing an even skimpier bikini top below it, this one just barely concealing her nipples; then pulled the panties off, revealing a thong that in the monitor seemed no bigger a fortune cookie.

How do you want me? Christie reached for the bow tied at her hip. How do you want me?.

"Dressed!" Rick blurted out suddenly.

Christie looked at him questioningly. "What did you say?"

"I want you dressed," he repeated. "Don't... don't..."

"Don't take my clothes off?"

Oh, my god, are you really doing this? She's about to strip and finger herself so that you can beat off and spray all over your fucking computer monitor you idiot and you're telling her, DON'T?

"No," he said flatly, firmly. "Don't take your clothes off. Not ... now. Not like this."

Christie stared at him for a moment.

And then he had his answer. "You wanted to make me a deal, so I will make you a deal." He drew a deep breath. "Yes. We've met. It was ... a long time ago," he lied. He'd been watching her for weeks now, almost on the verge of stalking her; and that didn't even include listening in on her business with others.

"I used to live near you, but moved away. But ... I'm going to move back. And I want to see you, but not like this ... and not in person."

She's never going to go along with this, what're you thinking? You should never just think off the top of your pointy little head like this.

He plodded on. "I want to see you work ... like you do ... like you were going to do for me. But ... I want to see you do it ... live."