Never Trust Anyone Chapter 2: Caught In The Act
Obviously, none of the contact details here are real.
Chapter 2: Caught in the Act
Sunday morning. She slept at one, but was awake by 6 a.m. Work after all came unpredictably. A Monday to Friday 8 to 5 job is a myth as far as her profession is concerned.
Monique noticed that she had strewn her clothes on the bedroom floor. "I'll pick them up later," she said. She took her towel and headed to the bathroom. Soon, water from her shower fell over her body, like standing on a waterfall in a paradise far away. As her fingers roamed into her clit, she felt the urge to play with it.
"Uhhhhhh," she purred, biting her lips as her middle finger touched the entrance of her love hole.
She could no longer stand after a minute. Her knees buckled as orgasm once again took hold over her body. She didn't have much free time, so all she could do when she's not doing anything is to play with herself.
Monique sat on the bathroom floor, closing her eyes as her fingers went faster in and out. She let herself drown in the ecstasy of worldly pleasure, as her body became thoroughly wet from the drizzle over her head.
As soon as she came to her senses, she quickly finished her bath and fixed herself. She wore a blue tank top – blue being her favorite color – and jeans. She wasn't going anywhere, after all she had other people do stuff for her, but she was getting fed up with her shorts and dresses.
As she flipped into her phone, Monique brewed her coffee and prepared a sandwich. She quickly scanned through her feed on Instagram. She rarely posted there, but it was her favorite social media site.
She then sat down, took a sip of coffee, and then moved over to Facebook. This site she didn't like, and she'd simply press "Mark all notifications as read". She couldn't let it go though, because of the fear of missing out. No surprise therefore, that all she'd do was go straight to Messenger. She got three new messages. One from her best friend who said she had bought her a pizza. She hearted that one. Another was from a friend who told her, "Hi, dude! Have a great Sunday. To her, Monique replied, "Thank you! Happy Sunday too." The last was a reply to a message she sent, teasing that certain "friend", which she really didn't consider as one. Monique simply marked the message as read. She couldn't be bothered to read it.
After finishing her breakfast, Monique moved back to her bedroom. She opened her laptop to check her work e-mail. The screen read, "1 new message". Monique blew a raspberry. Yes, this Sunday was not going to be a break for her. "Hi. Draft court filing for our case on the power company. Send by Monday 12 noon. Thanks."
Monique set out to work. She spent the entire morning downloading all court decisions that could possibly help her firm's client win the case, and spent the entire afternoon reading all of them: a hundred decisions. To keep herself awake and interested, she would squash her legs together, but was careful not to make her vagina act up. "Focus," she'd whisper to herself repeatedly. And to make sure her hands were preoccupied, she'd crumple sticky notes, of all sizes and colors.
And then her screen flashed, "1 new message". She quickly opened the message, not paying attention to the title or to the sender.
What Monique saw left her mouth ajar and her small eyes wide.
It was her. But not really her.
The picture was edited. After all, her "face" was taken from her graduation picture, but pasted into a girl tugging into a man's penis. It was then where she checked the details of the e-mail. The subject was "My user-friendly fuckmeat is now a lawyer, I see" from the e-mail address goodgirlmonique (at) throwaway (dot) com.
Chills went down Monique's spine. She didn't know how this vulgar person got her name, her picture, and her e-mail. Her work e-mail no less. She took a deep breath, and clicked "move to trash".
The screen immediately went black.
"What the fuck?" She frantically pressed all the buttons. No dice.
She opened and closed the lid of her laptop. Nothing.
And then, she decided to ask for help. She opened her phone, but it was also frozen, except for four words: "Check your laptop, baby." Monique felt numb and cold.
She opened her laptop again. The picture that wasn't her again flashed, but this time with a message. "Miss me, baby girl?"
The screen contained a box which allowed her to reply.
"What the fuck?" She typed.
"You're my fuck." The reply read.
"Get out of my laptop." Monique then looked at her phone, which now also showed the cursed picture. "And my phone. Fuck."
"No, we're just getting started."
"Stop it, or else!"
"Or else what?"
"I'm a lawyer." She didn't want to use the L-word, but things were getting out of hand.
"A lustful lawyer."
"I know, but you don't scare me, baby."
"You should be."
"Why should I?"
Monique has completely lost her cool. She wanted to invoke the name of anyone who could scare off this creep. Her family was well-off, and so had many powerful connections. Maybe she could even use her law firm. Sure, she was just an associate, the rookie, the lowest of the low. But still.
"Do you know where I work for?"
Monique's profile on her law firm's site popped on screen.
The screen then flashed the words, "Wrong move, bitch."
"Why do you know so much about me, you creep?"
"Okay, who are you then?"
"WHO ARE YOU?"
"I'm your master, and you're my slave."
Monique furiously bashed on her keyboard, "I AM NOT YOUR SLAVE."
"You'll do as I say, my dear toy."
Monique's heart started to beat fast. "And if I don't?"
"You wouldn't want to lose your job, would you?"
Monique didn't. She had worked hard for this for the past nine months. But she bluffed, "See if I care."
"Law firms wouldn't want naughty girls now, would they?" The screen then flashed Monique's profile on her law firm's website again. But this time, it included an edited picture of her holding an erect penis. The words "FIRM OF SLUTS" were in bold capital letters.
"No one would believe that."
"You think, bitch?"
"You can't do that."
"Put that picture there."
"I was able to find you, didn't I? To hack into your laptop, your phone. Maybe even your life?"
Monique bit her lips in frustration, and her eyebrows crunched. The stranger was correct. If he, or she, or it, could find Monique's name and of all things employment details, he or she, or it, could destroy her reputation and get her fired.
"So, are you going to play along?"
Monique heaved, "Fine".
"Good, now I want you to masturbate in front of your computer." The screen then changed to a feed of the integrated webcam on her laptop.
"You can see me?" Monique frantically typed.
"Haven't you seen Snowden?"
Monique then pouted, looking pointedly on the camera.
"You look so cute when you pout, Monique fuckmeat. Has a nice ring, doesn't it."
She shrugged off the name. She certainly didn't like being teased playfully, but this? Being called a "bitch"? "Fuckmeat"?
The flustered girl sighed, "What do you want me to do?"
"Strip for me while dancing."
Monique then looked at her body. She sighed and stood up, but a loud scream blared from her computer. The poor girl in horror put down the screen of her laptop.
"Monique, are you alright?" Monique's mother shouted from the kitchen.
"Yes, mom," the now distressed girl screamed back. Monique had been hard at work for many reasons. One was saving up for a condominium unit, so she wouldn't have to live with her mother anymore. Whoever is messing with her laptop, threatening to put unsavory pictures "of her" on the wild, would surely mess up her plans.
Monique then let out a deep breath, before another high pitched scream played on her phone.
The screen flashed, "Open your laptop."
She did what she was told. On her screen were the words: "You're not going anywhere, my plaything."
She typed in, "Where do you think I'm going?" She thought to herself, "It's lockdown. Where else am I going to go?"
The response came quick, "I saw you getting up." The screen played the clip of her standing up, her face grimacing when the scream played from her laptop, until the camera went black, likely because she put the screen down.
"I was gonna close the door."
"Why, my bitch?"
"Don't call me that."
"Okay, Monique fucktoy."
She didn't reply and instead clenched her teeth. She thought of just crushing her laptop. It was expensive, but she could afford it anyway. At this point, she was desperate. She'd do anything for her mysterious hacker to shut up and leave her alone.
Just as she was about to stand up to look for something she could use to smash her laptop, another high-pitched scream played. Monique quickly sat down in response. Her mom stayed silent, meaning she didn't hear the cut-off scream.
"Now, go play for me." The screen flickered, with this message in big bold red letters.
"Will you leave me alone?"
"Play for me now, and I will leave you alone."
Monique was too exhausted to resist, but the door was still open. She couldn't have her mother see what she would be doing.
"AND DON'T YOU DARE STAND UP AGAIN!"
Monique smashed the keyboard while typing, "I HAVE TO CLOSE THE DOOR! WHAT IF MY MOM SEES ME?"
"Let her watch how slutty her daughter has become."
Monique deeply sighed. Her will to resist had been broken. She was willing to bare her body, to spread her legs, to play with her private parts in the full view of this person who possibly she didn't even know. But she thought, "I still have some decency. I'm not letting mom watch me."
"You look so cute when you're frustrated, Monique. Okay, I'm reasonable. Take a picture of your mom right now, and send it to me."
This was quickly followed with a postscript: "And then you can play for me, away from prying eyes except my own."
The flustered girl then rationalized to herself, "If I'll be showing myself naked to this guy, I might as well give him my mom's pic. At least whoever he is doesn't want a naked picture of her, too." Whatever warning bells might have played, the poor girl didn't heed them.
"Fine," Monique stood up, and complied with the stranger's instructions.
Upon sending the picture, whoever she was talking to replied, "I can see where you got your looks, baby."
Monique was a spitting image of her mom. They were even called "sisters".
"Happy now?" Monique asked.
"Not yet, now go play for me, my doll."