New! We All Do It

Joe X

An erotic mystery story of a young career woman discovering explicit nude images she does not remember taking circulating the internet! She sets out to find out the truth before it ruins her reputation... 

(*contains spanking, public nudity, sex, some bondage, nudity, and some femdom on female)

Am I a bad girl?

I don't think I am. I stand admiring myself naked in the bathroom mirror. Twenty-eight years old and still looking good. Long black hair, big green eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, white teeth. My breasts are round and plump with large erect nipples. Down below I can see my slit just below my clean shaven mound. My legs are long and my bum is firm and dimpled. I could be a Playboy model if I wanted to. Which of course I don't.

What I do want is a ....

********

We all do it don't we (no I don't mean  pleasuring myself, though I do that as well when I get the chance). We all sometimes surf the net absent-mindedly and Google ourselves to see if there is anything about us there. There never is. Lots of things about people with the same name, even people called Phoebe Morrison and I wouldn't have thought my name that common, but never anything about ourselves. It doesn't stop us looking though.

So it was that hot July day I sat in front of my computer, supposedly looking to find a way to keep up the payments on my north London flat, and tapped in the words "Phoebe Morrison".

There were the usual million and a half results but right at the top was a Phoebe Morrison with a social networking site entry. That was new. That was interesting. Who was this namesake? I clicked on the link and up it came, the thing that was to change my life forever. The pictures on the site weren't of another Phoebe Morrison. They were of me. And in all of them I was stark naked.

And I wasn't just naked. I was posing naked, like the girls do in girly magazines. Raunchy and sexy that is, but not pornographic, a naked body, nothing very rude showing. I might have done some crazy things in my life, but I've never posed for a photographer with no clothes on, and certainly not like that! I might have dreamt of doing it, but I'd never done it.

My first thought was that some prankster in the office, probably that fat bloke Tim, had photoshopped my face on to some bodies from a nudie website, but then I looked closer. It looked like me. It definitely looked like me. There was the silly butterfly tattoo on my left bum cheek I'd had done as a teenager (well I said I'd done some crazy things) and there was the little mole on my left boob. Could somebody have painted those on a model? That would be it. Make up a model to match my naked body and photoshop my head. Not many people had seen me naked, not many people would know about those tell-tale features. Though when I totalled them up: ex-boyfriends, girls in the gym, flatmates in my college days (we hadn't been that inhibited in our flat), some people at work, it probably came to quite a few. And one of them was playing this prank on me, and had gone to some trouble to do it.

What on earth was I to do? Go to the police? Had there been any actual crime - and it would be so embarrassing, a load of red-faced coppers sniggering over 'my' naked body.

No the obvious thing was to write to the social network, tell them somebody had set up a false account in my name and get them to take it down. Then ignore it. There's nothing pranksters hate more than to be ignored.

I penned off an indignant e-mail and paid no attention. A reply came back a couple of hours later: 'Thank you for your recent request to have the images on the Phoebe Morrison website removed on the grounds of copyright breach. Can you please confirm that you are the genuine person portrayed in these images by sending us 1) An image of yourself holding a notice bearing your name and your signature and 2) a copy of a picture ID to confirm your identity.'

What a load od bureaucratic rubbish. Still, what choice did I have. I scribbled out the notice, took a picture of myself holding it and scanned in my driving licence. I sent them off and reckoned that would be the end of the matter.

It was the next day when I got a reply: 'With reference to your claim to be the person represented on the Phoebe Morrison site, I have to inform you that close examination of the images on the site...' (Close examination! I bet they looked at them closely) '...shows that these do not appear to be of the same person as the images you supplied. We do not therefore intend to take further action.'

Not of the same person! No further action! What were they going on about?

Indignantly I went back onto their social network. The Phoebe Morrison depicted was a grey haired old lady on holiday. She was fully clothed.

At first I was shocked, then I smiled. I'd won. Whatever I had done had scared off the silly prankster. Not that I intended to let it rest there. It had to be that Fat Tim from IT. He had the computer skills. It would be just like him this sort of prank.

I closed my laptop and set out for my therapist. Now you're going to think I'm some sort of crazy that hallucinates. It wasn't like that at all. I just had this problem with tension. On the big occasions that is. Like when I have to give a presentation. It was my Boss, Philip, who had suggested Rupert.

"Stupid name for a bloke," said Philip, "only suitable for cartoon bears and gigolos, and as far as I know Rupert is neither. Still Amanda recommends him highly."

Amanda was Philip's long suffering wife. Long suffering because Philip was into (and I mean literally into) anything in a skirt.

Rupert was a Jungo-Freudian, whatever that is, herbalist. And he was doing me the world of good.

"Darling Phoebe," schmoozed Rupert. He was that sort of person. He could have been a gigolo if he'd wanted to. He had a soft rich voice like molasses and the softness and richness gave it a strange aura of authority. What Rupert said you believed.

Rupert had got to the bottom of my anxiety. It wasn't fear. Anxiety is something different, something physical; when it starts it seems to take over your entire body, your fingers tingle, your heart thumps, your head feels as if it is about to explode, you feel you must run and scream and shout or it will take over everything.

And Rupert had got to the bottom of it. Sexual repression. It was Freud who had first found that sexual repression was at the heart of anxiety and that sexual freedom would bring calm. That was what his therapy was aimed at. And it worked. As soon as I felt the tension rise I knew that I needed a wank.  A good wank.  One that would calm me down. And it always worked.

As always Rupert gave me his mixture of soothing herbs, asked me to lie back on his couch and I started to relax as he took me back to my childhood, where, he said, the origins of my repression lay.

As ever I drifted off and dreamt that dream. It was as it always was, wonderfully relaxing. I was almost becoming addicted to it.

I woke refreshed. Stupid computer site forgotten. I had vanquished IT Tim and his stupid pranks. Tomorrow was another day.

Tomorrow was not only another day. It was Monday and back to work for me.

I worked at PWAds, offices just of the Regents Canal, selling internet advertising, owned and run by Philip Wright with sundry assistance from his wife, who never came into the office which led me to think she was either a recluse or a tax fiddle.

As soon as I got there the familiar old tension creeping back. Was I imagining things or was Fat Tim sniggering when he saw me. He was. I was bloody sure of it, but there was nothing I could do about it without evidence. I couldn't go to Philip without something firm to go on. I'd have to go back to that stupid networking site.

That evening I googled my name again and clicked on the link. What came up made my heart give a leap. A picture of me identical to the one I had sent in confirming my identity holding the signed notice giving my name. Identical in every respect that is except one. In this picture I was stark naked. But that wasn't the worst. Superimposed on the picture in the bottom right hand corner was the scanned image of my driving licence giving my full name and address.

Tim was an expert on Photoshopping as everyone knew, but this was really cleverly done. Anyone looking at would have really thought it was me. How had he got hold of my e-mail to the networking site. Where had he found the body double. With so much to be done this was obviously a carefully planned plot.

There was nothing else to be done. I would have to see Philip.

Next day I walked in past his stony faced secretary, Karen; she was young, she was pretty, and she didn't like me.

"Philip," I said, as I sat down opposite him, "I have to speak to you about Tim."

I saw the short lived cloud pass over his face. "Not again," he said, "Remember what happened last time."

"That was a travesty," I replied.

Last time. Last time I had complained about Tim, he meant. I'd got sick of his stupid innuendos that he thought were funny and made a complaint of sexual harassment against him. It had caused Philip no end of trouble and Philip didn't like trouble. He had had to get an independent arbitrator in, and in the end nobody else in the office had backed me and Tim had been vindicated. He'd been ten times worse since, thinking himself invulnerable, and now look what he was doing.

"He's gone too far this time," I said. And I saw a sudden cloud pass over his face.

"What are you accusing him of then. No another joke out of Carry on up the Khyber."

"If only it was.." And to an increasing look of astonishment I told him the whole story.

"And you say Tim has done this?"

"Who else could it be. He has a grudge against me. He has the IT skills and well, he's the sort of person who would do it."

"In other words no evidence at all."

"I don't need evidence. I know it's him."

"Well," he looked resigned, "we'd better have a look at this website then."

"You want to see the pictures!"

"I don't want to see them. I have to see them if I'm going to do anything. Anyway you say it isn't really you and I have seen you naked you know, in case you'd forgotten."

******************************
As if I needed reminding. It had all started a couple of years ago at a staff away weekend conference. I had drunk too much, somebody had suggested a stupid stripping game and I had ended up naked. I had also ended up in bed with Philip being given the most comprehensive fuck I've ever had in my life. Philip was a three times a night man, or it might even have been four (lucky Mrs Philip I say). Anyway it had become a bit of a regular thing after that - I don't mean getting naked in front of everybody I mean Philip giving me a regular seeing to. It wasn't like I was in love or anything, or like an affair; it had just been a way of getting fucked from time time to time. And that was good for the anxiety. So Rupert said.

Anyway that was how people in the office, like Fat Tim, had seen me naked and would be able to produce those pictures.

So I googled my name to show him and clicked on the site. An old lady knitting came up on the screen.

"They were there before," I yelled, "they were, they really were!"

"Perhaps you're getting overwrought," said Philip, "the Yokohama Group meeting is coming up. You mustn't get overwrought. You know what happens when you do."

The Yokohama Group meeting. That had been when it had all started, at the time I first started with Philip. I had become so nervous, so anxious about it and everything that I couldn't sleep. Eventually I had taken one too many sleeping tablets. They had waited for me to arrive at the meeting, but instead of my arriving they got a message from the police. I had been found wandering down Oxford Street stark naked unable to remember how I had got there.

The police had been very kind. Their doctor said it was a fugue. An unconscious flight from an uncontrollable and unbearable situation. Suggested I had got counselling, and Philip had suggested Rupert. Rupert had been my saviour, put me back on an even keel, I had been all right since. Until now.

"Are you getting enough?" Asked Philip.

"What? Counselling? I see Rupert every week."

"No, you know I didn't mean that. Do you need a fuck?  Celibacy isn't good for a girl like you. Makes you overwrought."

I shouldn't perhaps have done it. But I was overwrought, and perhaps he was right. It was what Rupert had said.

I took my clothes off. One thing I knew about Philip was that he liked the girls he was fucking to be naked.

"Karen," he said into the intercom on his desk, "I'm in conference with Miss Morrison. Not to be disturbed under any circumstances for the next thirty minutes."

A girl was never disappointed with sex from Philip. Foreplay was never his thing, nor were compliments. He never said, "You're looking lovely today", or "What a gorgeous sexy body you have". I would have liked that, but I knew I would never get it from Philip. There was only one person in his life and that was Philip. He prided himself on his sexual prowess, but on the emotional side, nothing.

What he liked a variety of positions. Over the desk, up against the wall, hands and knees, and a suitable climax in all of them. No lovey-dovey stuff. Just a good plain fucking.

"Go and see Rupert again," said Philip, as I left his office, "he'll help."

I nodded and hurried past the stony faced Karen back to my desk. Fat Tim ambled over to me, a cup of coffee in his hand, "I need to see you later," he sniggered, "that is if you've nothing on," he sniggered again.

I looked at him and glowered. He was positively gloating.

"Just to go over the bare essentials," as if he had just made up some sort of witty remark.

At that moment Karen marched up, flung my knickers down on the desk and announced to everyone, "You forgot something."

Oh Great! Now everyone knew. And it hadn't helped. A thorough seeing to in Philip's office. It hadn't helped one little bit.

It suddenly occurred to me why Karen was so stony faced to me. She was jealous. Of course. She was Philip's secretary. There was no way he wouldn't be giving it to her on a regular basis. She wouldn't still be his secretary if he wasn't. She had probably missed out on today's ration because of me.

I felt that old familiar panic taking me over again. My head started to swim, the tingling in my fingers and round my mouth. Grabbing my bag I stuffed my knickers in, stood up and rushed out.

I made an emergency appointment with Rupert for that evening. I had to stop things getting out of hand.

It helped of course. The couch. The herbal relaxation. I would never have taken tranquilliser pills, but natural herbal remedies. That was something different. I drifted off as I always did and dreamt.

I was so relaxed that evening. The pictures had gone. Whoever had done it had given up. I could fight Fat Tim and Stony Faced Karen any day. I switched on the computer. I knew I shouldn't look at the page, but it had become a compulsion, and as I clicked I sensed that something was wrong.

There was a video uploaded. The look-alike model was standing in an office, an office very like Philip's, wearing nothing but a pair of knickers, my knickers, the ones I had stuffed in my bag.

Then she spoke, "My name is Phoebe Morrison. I am the office slut. I drop my knickers for anyone," then she turned, bent over the desk and pulled down her knickers.

How had he done it. He must have grabbed my knickers from my bag, but how had he got the model so like me. Her voice. Everything. So exactly like me. I knew you could do a lot with faking videos, but this much?

I decided that I should look systematically at who the culprit might be. It had to be somebody who knew me now surely, and somebody had seen me naked. That was really only the people at work who had seen me make a fool of myself at the conference. Turnover is high in our type of company and only three people were left who had been there then: Tim, Philip and Karen. Tim was the obvious suspect - he had a grudge against me, he had the computer skills and well, frankly I thought he was the sort of person who would do it. As for Philip - what motive did he have? I didn't know about his computer skills, but he was a brilliant man and I reckon he could do anything. Karen was the least likely suspect. She didn't like me, possibly she was jealous, but her computer skills as far as I could see were limited to word processing and Powerpoint presentations.

Tim was the man I reckoned and I reckoned I knew how I could find out. He would have to make the basic video with the model, if I could follow him I would locate her then I would have the evidence. It seemed simple. When he left the office I crept after him. He took the tube up to Kings Cross, then strolled down some back streets until he reached a rather sleazy looking establishment. 'Cross Kings Sauna and Massage', it read, 'Ladies and Gentlemen welcome'.

That was it. It was the sort of sleazy dive where he might pick up a girl to act as a model. He went in through the door. There was only one thing for it. I would have to follow him. I gave it five minutes and crept in.

"Nice to see a lady in," sniffed the girl behind the counter, who seemed to have a cold, "or are you after a job?"

"No, I've come for a...," I looked hastily up at the price list on the wall, "...a half hour special.". It was the first thing I saw.

"Here's your towel then. Room 3. Just pop in and take your clothes off. If you would like to pick one of the girls she'll be along to see to you shortly," and she showed me the pictures of the masseuses on the wall. There was one who looked as if she could pass for me.
"I'll have her, Linda," I said.

"Linda is with a gentleman at the moment...," I bet she was - plotting with Tim, "...but she'll only be a few minutes if you just strip off and lie down on the couch."

I hadn't really intended to have the actual massage, but the opportunity of pumping Linda was too good to miss. I handed over my thirty pounds, crept along to Room 3. It was a cubicle about ten feet square. In the middle was a massage couch, along the walls and on the ceiling were mirrors so you could watch yourself being massaged. I stripped off, put my clothes on a chair in the corner and lay down my heart thumping.

It gave a leap when she came in. She was really very like me. Same height, same sort of figure, same shape face.

"Face down first," she said and poured warm oil over my back, "nice to have a lady to work on," she said, echoing the receptionist, don't get many in, a few regulars that's all, "It was the special you wanted. That's right?"

"Yes," I gasped as she kneaded my buttocks. I had no idea what a special was, and in any case I had other things on my mind.

"Is this a full time job for you?" I asked.

"Yeah. I do a bit of acting as well though."

"Straight acting or... Or...," I didn't quite know how to put it.

"Porn you mean?"

"Well yes."

"Yeah I do a bit of that. Artistic stuff you know. Nothing gross."

Nothing gross! Ha! There was one thing I had to do. One thing that would confirm my suspicions. See if she had the butterfly tattoo on her bum cheek.

"Can I ask you something?" I was going to have to be subtle here.

"Sure."

"It's like a special request."

"Go on."

"I'd like you to strip naked for me to do the massage?"

I'd expected some sort of shocked response, but she'd probably heard it all before.

"Sure. Twenty quid extra."

"I'd like that," I said.

Without a word she slipped off her masseuse uniform. She had nothing on underneath. Perhaps it wasn't that unusual a request. I needed her to turn round though, so I could see her bum.

"Okay, turn over love. Let the dog see the rabbit," she slapped my bottom and I turned face up.

Oil was poured over my stomach and breasts and she started to work again.

"What sort of porn do you do?" I asked, pumping her some more.

"Why? Looking for a job are you?"

"No, just curious."

"Curiosity they say, killed the cat."

Oh! She was massaging my boobs and was now tweaking my nipples.

"Nice that, isn't it?" She said.

Was it some sort of warning?

"Yes," I replied.

Her hands moved to massaging my thighs.

"A special wasn't it?"

"Yes."

It was then that I discovered what 'a special' was.

He fingers moved delicately between my slit and felt out my clitoris.

"Nice?" she asked again.

"Very nice," I said. I'd asked for a special and I'd have to go through with it. I involuntarily let my legs fall apart and she worked me up to a noisy climax with her right hand while fondling my boobs and nipples with her left. She was obviously well practised. She must have had a few lady customers.

Soon my back was arching and my hips were bucking as I came to a climax. But even through it all I knew I had to look out for the butterfly. She turned and bent over to pick up her uniform. Pink, round and smooth her bottom cheeks were flawless. There was no sign of the butterfly tattoo.

I got dressed and crept out the room. At the same time the door to the room opposite opened and a man came out. Tim.

He grinned.

"Sounded like Linda gave you a good seeing to," he said.

He knew. He absolutely knew!

Scarlet with shame, I turned on my heels and fled.

I'd ruined everything. Of course it wouldn't be a permanent tattoo on her bum, it would be stencilled on, and she'd have recognised the tattoo on my bum immediately. There'd never been a chance she'd tell me anything. And now Tim knew I was on to him. The panic started to take over and I grabbed the phone. I just had to see Rupert again.

Rupert was his wonderful calming self. Of course I didn't tell him what was going on. He believed that sexual repression was the cause of anxiety. The therapy was for me to act out sex in my mind in a state of deep relaxation. The herbal medicine induced the relaxation and a dreamt those erotic dreams. Not that I could ever remember them when I woke. It was as if a block had been put on their recall and they remained forever just beyond my consciousness.

It worked however. The relaxation was total. When I got back home I was ready once more for my battle with Tim and Linda.

I switched on my laptop and went to the Phoebe Morrison site. There was another video uploaded entitled "Phoebe Morrison - A Slut Gets Pleasured'. My heart gave a jump as I clicked to run it.

It depicted in intimate detail, me, no I mean Linda, lying on a bed stark naked being pleasured by a naked woman. I did not recognise the naked woman. She was blonde, busty, maybe in her mid-thirties. Probably another of the girls at the massage parlour, I thought.

The woman's fingers worked the girl's clitoris expertly, probing her vagina rhythmically, until she orgasmed. Linda really was a good actress. She sounded exactly like me, but then of course she'd had first hand experience.

But Tim had gone too far this time. A video pretending to show me being sexed was not only embarrassing, it was, well just too much. The panic started to rise in me again. He would have to be stopped. I would have to confront him. I lay awake all night planning how to do it.

Of course plans went out the window when I saw him there the following morning, his stupid fat face grinning at me. I had been going to be subtle but the panic took over again. I could feel it rising, taking me over, making my head swell until it felt like bursting.

"I know what you're doing," I yelled at him. His jaw dropped so the obvious thing to me seemed to be to punch it. I'm pretty feeble though and my fist just bounced off. Horrible Karen came out and wrestled me off, and then Philip, and he explained I was under a lot of strain with the Yokohama visit and eventually I was put in a taxi and Philip took me home.

"I'll sort things out at the office," he said, "but you need to calm down and you know the best way to do it. Get your clothes off Phoebe.."

He was right. I'd made a fool of myself again. And I did owe him. I stripped naked like he liked and let him try out some of his more adventurous positions. It was the least I could do. And I enjoyed it. As I always do. Philip was right. Being fucked always relaxes me.

"Go and see Rupert," said Philip as he left, "For God's sake woman get yourself sorted out."

But the sex had calmed me down. I knew exactly what I was going to do. Linda was the key to the whole thing. She must be doing it for the money, so the answer was simple. I would offer her more money.

It was still morning but 'Cross Kings Sauna and Massage' was still open. I asked for Linda by name and she was free.

I lay on the bed naked waiting for her.

"I'll give you more than him," there was no point being subtle.

"I know what you've been up to. I'll pay you more than him."

"More than who? What have I been supposed to be up to."

"With Tim Webb. I know it all and you know I know and you're going to admit it all."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The old panic started to come back.

"Yes you do you bitch, you know and you're going to pay."

"Don't you call me a bitch."

"Bitch, slut, whore," I yelled at her. I was losing control again.

"I think you'd better go," she said.

"You don't get away with it that easily, " I yelled. And before I knew it I'd snapped completely. I launched myself at her kicking and screaming. I'd drag a confession out of her by force if I had to.

It didn't work. We were of course similar build, but she obviously knew more about naked wrestling than I did. She got my arm and twisted it up behind my back. In that position she was in control of the situation. The next thing I knew she had me forced over her knee, bending over so that my bare bum was an inviting target.

"I'll teach you," she shouted, "coming in here accusing me of things. I'll teach you you bitch."

There was a loud whistling noise and a loud thwack. It was a couple of seconds before I realised that her hand had connected with my left bum cheek.

"Yow!" Gosh it stung.

Thwack. My other bum cheek this time. I was being bare hand bare bum spanked. And hard.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. I tried screaming. I tried kicking my legs, but the spanking continued. I could feel my bottom getting hotter and redder. And the hotter and redder it got, the more the spanks stung, and the louder I yelled and kicked, until my face was as red as my bum and the tears ran down my cheeks. It wasn't so much that it hurt, but the indignity of having my bare bottom spanked like a naughty schoolgirl.

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop it you bitch. Ow!"

I screamed and yelled enough to wake the dead. Until the door opened and a big burly bloke stood there with security written on his jacket.

He stood and watched my bottom getting warmed for a couple of minutes then, "What the fuck's going on," he said, "you'll have the rozzers on us."

"This bitch attacked me," said Linda, "I'm just giving her a bit of her own medicine."

She stood up, letting go of my arm as she did so.

"This bitch, " I yelled, "this fucking bitch," but I got know further. The security man grabbed me and pulled me through the door.

"You. Out!" He said, "we're not having ...ing troublemakers here," and he dragged me, still stark naked, along the corridor, past the waiting punters and pushed me naked out into the street.

Oblivious of the stares of the passers-by I yelled back.

"Where's my clothes. Where's my fucking clothes."

But he just stuck his head out the door.

"Fuck off,"

A naked woman chucked out into the street in central London is bound to attract attention, especially when she's displaying a bright red bottom.

Quite a crowd of gawpers had gathered round.

"All right," I said, "have a good look why don't you. Never seen a naked woman have you," and I walked off down the street. It was a mile to walk home, let people stare if they wanted to, I was buggered if I was going to be cowed.

I had to ring next door to get back in. I'd left my key with my clothes back at the massage parlour.

Gerrard opened the door. He was a nice guy. Kind, considerate, helpful. The exact opposite of Philip. I thought he would take fright at a naked apparition appearing at his door, but not a bit of it.

"My God what a gorgeous sexy body, he said.

Compliments always turn me on and I hadn't had a fuck for hours so it was some time before I got my spare key and let myself in.

I'd got home. I'd walked naked for half an hour through the streets of London. If I could do that I could do anything. But first I had to see Rupert. The events of the day had taken their toll. I'd been in two fights, I'd been fucked, I'd been spanked and I'd been paraded nude in front of gawping onlookers and fucked again. I needed that relaxation session like I needed nothing else.

I got dressed and went straight Rupert's consulting rooms. I didn't have an appointment, but his receptionist said I could see him after his current client.

Ten minutes later she came out of Rupert's room, his current client. Blonde, busty, she looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place her. She looked at me and gave a double take. Perhaps she recognized me as well. A faint scowl passed over her face which she quickly mastered and replaced with a forced smile. She held out her hand.

"Margot Wright," she said, "I believe you work for my husband's company."

Oh My God. Mrs Philip. His wife. She who was supposed to be the recluse. And I'd been fucking her husband that morning.

"Phoebe Morrison," I grasped her hand, fighting back the rising panic.

"Nice to meet you," she forced out between gritted teeth. My God she knew. I could tell it as a certainty. She knew. But she just withdrew her hand and stalked out.

Rupert followed her into the waiting area.

"Phoebe!" He said in his honey coated voice, "How lovely to see you."

And the rising panic started to subside almost immediately. It was that which must have triggered the memory. I had never met Philip's wife. How did she know me? And how did I recognise her. And suddenly it came to me. In startling clarity. As if a veil had been drawn back and the surrounding fog had cleared.

I was lying on Rupert's couch. He handed me the glass of herbal relaxant. But this time instead of gratefully imbibing, while his back was turned I poured the liquid into the pot containing the rubber plant next to the bed. I was going to need a clear head if I was going to get to the bottom of things.

Rupert sat beside me and I listened to his melifluous tones as I feigned my usual descent into sleep.

"Listen Phoebe. Listen to my voice and only my voice. Empty your mind of all other things as I take you down. Down into a place where you are so warm, so comfortable, and you hear my voice, my voice which you will obey. My voice which come to you as if in a dream. A dream in which you will obey my voice, as you have so many times before. A dream which you will forget on waking. A dream which will seem like a distant memory just beyond the horizon of your recall. Do you understand me Phoebe. Will you obey my voice. Will you dream with me."

The dreams. Those dreams which as he said had been blocked from my memory, came flooding back to me. Without the soporific effect of the potion my memory was unlocked. I remembered. There in some sort of studio, naked, posing for photographs, and later with notice and later with...

Yes it had been her. I had been right. She had been the woman pleasuring me on the pornographic video. Amanda Wright. Philip's wife. What hornet's nest had I strayed into. Was Philip involved. He had recommended me to Rupert. Was that all part of some plan to strip me and humiliate me?

I had to know. I had to play along.

"Will you dream with me?" Rupert asked again.

"Yes," I replied, "I will dream with you."

"That is right Phoebe. You will obey my voice. My voice which is telling you to remove all your clothes. You will obey my voice won't you. My voice that tells you that you must be naked."

I had to go along with it. I had to know.

I stood up and started to remove my clothes. Leaving each garment strewn upon the floor as I did so until I stood there quite naked.

It was at that moment that Amanda came back into the room.

"Let me see the little slut," she hissed.

It was as I had guessed, a set up between them.

"Slut, whore..." She hissed again, "she's been fucking my husband again. I know it," she said, "Make her tell us what she's been doing to day."

"Listen to my voice," said Philip, "Listen and obey. Tell us. Have you had sex with Philip today Phoebe."

"Yes," I replied, "He came to my house and we had sex."

"And did you enjoy it Phoebe."

"Yes, very much."

"And what are you?" Asked Rupert.

I knew the answer to this. I could remember every minute of those 'dreams' now.

"I'm a whore and a slut."

"Say it for the camera Phoebe," and only then did I notice that Amanda was filming everything.

"My name is Phoebe Morrison," I said to the camera, "And I'm a whore and a slut. I fuck other women's husbands."

"Now Phoebe, listen to my voice and obey, what else have you done today.".

And I told them. All about my visit to the massage parlour, about my accusing Linda, the fight, the spanking, everything. It was perhaps a mistake, but I was desperate to play along. To find out if Philip was somehow involved. To know everything.

"How nice for you," sneered Amanda, "I think we have our little scene for today, don't we Rupert. Tell her to come through to the room."

"Listen to my voice and obey Phoebe. Come through to the room."

I followed them through a door into a room. It was another office, but fitted out like a little photography studio. And I remembered everything now. There was the corner where I posed like the Playboy model, there was the desk where I'd dropped my knickers and there was the bed where I'd been pleasured.

"Listen to my voice," said Rupert, "and obey. Bend over the bed Phoebe."

I did as I was told. Was I going to get ...ed this time? I would have to put up with it. I had to know. I bent over the bed.

"Put your arms out Phoebe."

I put out my arms and before I knew it Rupert had manacled my wrists together. The manacles passed through a hook in the wall so I was immobilized bent over the bed. It was only then that I realised. Their little videos mimicked what I had been doing during the day. Posing naked, being fucked by Philip, being masturbated in the massage parlour.

Today I was going to be spanked.

"Here use this," said Rupert to Amanda, handing her a table tennis bat."

"It's a pity she won't feel it," said Amanda.

"What do you mean?"

"Because she's in a trance. She won't feel it."

"Oh but she will," said Rupert, "She's not in a trance. She's just play acting. Aren't you Phoebe?"

"I'm in a trance," I tried intoning. But it was no good. He knew.

"I'm afraid the games up," said Rupert, "but the little tart deserves a good spanking anyway. Dimple side I think Amanda."

By which he meant the table tennis bat, not my bottom. My bottom has dimples on both sides. I was about to get my second spanking of the day and held fast over the bed I was powerless to stop it.

"You bastards," I shouted, kicking my legs and screaming, "you fucking bastards."

Thwack. The bat landed on my left bum cheek with a loud slapping noise.

"Ow. Fucking bastards!"

Thwack. Right bum cheek. This was far worse than the bare hand spanking from Linda.

"Fucking bastards!"

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

My poor bum was glowing red hot and tears poured down my face.

"Beg for mercy," hissed Amanda, "Go on slut. Beg."

"Fucking bastards," I wouldn't give them the pleasure.

Thwack.

"Beg, this goes on till you beg."

Thwack.

- Oh no it doesn't I thought. They might have me now but not for long. I was working the hook out of the wall. Three spanks on each bum cheek so far. Another couple on each and I reckoned I'd be free.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.

I gritted my teeth as my bum felt on fire and gave one last pull. I was free. I pushed Amanda, kneed Rupert in the balls and dashed out the room, through Rupert's consulting room and out into the reception area. Two ladies were sitting there, his next clients, reading Vogue. Their jaws dropped at the sudden appearance of a manacled naked girl.

I looked at them and smiled, "One of Rupert's special sessions this morning," I said, patting my glowing red behind, "Enjoy!"

And I walked out the door. It was a two mile walk back to my flat in Highbury, not that I cared. Even a manacled naked girl walking along the street with a pink bum won't stir the average Londoner into any sort of action beyond a long stare and the occasional mobile phone pic.

I knocked on Gerrard's door.

"Sorry again," I said, winking.

The affair with Philip was clearly over and boy, was I in need of a fuck.

******************

So, here I am, in front of my computer. I don't work for PWAds any more. Indeed it doesn't exist any more. Not since Amanda left Philip. She'd been the technical wizard behind the company. She'd been the one who put the virus on the memory stick with Rupert's 'Relaxation' message. The one that had given them control of my laptop. The videos of me had only ever been visible to me. It was Amanda's idea of revenge. I don't think Rupert knew about it till I told him.

Amanda left Philip and she and Rupert emigrated I believe. Well let them. I'm doing all right.

I turn on the laptop and, as we all do, I Google my name.

The words 'Phoebe Morrison Porn Star' appear.

With a sigh I click on it. There on the screen appears a scene secretly filmed from behind two-way mirrors in a massage parlour. Two girls are fighting. One of them is naked. The naked one is forced over the knee of the other and given a good old fashioned bare hand spanking. I wince at the memory of my bottom glowing red hot twice in one day.

Then I look at the stats.

22,517 hits.

A long career in selling internet advertising is a help for me here. Advertising revenue on that page is ten pounds a hit. Nearly a quarter of a million.

The video ends and the credits come up.

A Phoebe, Linda and Tim Production

My share is 40 percent. I look at my mortgage statement. It's in the black.

"Get your knickers off," shouts a voice from the kitchen.

"I'm not wearing any Gerrard," I shout back.

Life is good.