tion id="u3601a996-6e23-54a6-8285-b9d6f1b4f138">
Uncover Me
A. M. Hartnett
Table of Contents
She didn’t think of it as porn.
Porn was something some men watched in front of their computer, cock in hand and a box of tissues next to their keyboard. Artificial boobs and bad acting. A hard cock in a wet pussy or mouth.
What Carrie was doing wasn’t porn. It was just her blog.
Standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped turban-style around her hair, she wiped away the film her shower had created and stared at the reflection of herself. She tossed around the idea of taking a picture. She knew her readers liked it when she was fresh out of the shower, her skin pink from the heat and the spray and still shining with moisture, but the pictures were like any other creative endeavour: the mood had to be just right.
Carrie hung up her bath towel and went from the steamy bathroom to the cool bedroom, damp feet slapping on the hardwood floor. She stretched, grateful for the open window and the breeze that skittered across her bare back on what already promised to be a hot one.
Before she’d been single, the windows had been closed all the time. It was a wonder she’d been able to get a wink of sleep in the year she’d been with an ex who wore socks to bed. She liked the fleeting exposure of open windows and blowing curtains, of a warm breeze skimming over bare flesh in the darkness.
She didn’t go near her phone as she dressed. She left her tablet computer alone. There would be at least twenty little red dots over her blog application’s icon. There would be more as North America woke up, lengthy comments or just little nods of approval.
What she’d posted the night before had been a blurry black and white shot of her touching herself through cotton panties. Nothing major, just a little tease, but even the subtle posts got a reaction.
Carrie wrapped herself in her robe and returned to the bathroom to dry her hair.
Besides, if she looked at the phone and saw what her pet perverts had written, that compulsion might come over her. It could strike at any hour of the day and she’d be off like a smoker on their first break of the morning. At some point during the day, she’d tuck her phone into her pocket and retreat to the washroom – not the communal stalls across the hall, but the single room by the coffee shop in the lobby, the one with the locked door. She’d take a few sneaky shots: an open blouse, the saucy peek of a garter, a finger toying with her pussy. She’d post the picture, and then return to her desk with a tea and start the wait all over again.
On a good day, she’d make it until quitting time, until she locked the front door behind her.
If it was a hard day, she’d make another trip to the bathroom, or even sneak a quick picture right there at her desk.
She still hadn’t touched her phone when, half an hour later, she was completely polished and lacquered, with the kettle bubbling on the kitchen counter. The urge was getting stronger.
She wished it was Sunday. Carrie worked her guts off on Saturday doing all those little things like laundry and groceries just so she could put on all those naughty things she’d been picking up since starting the blog and become Maggie, the woman of the blog. On Sunday she slept late and then, for as long as she was awake, allowed herself to be that persona she had created.
But it was Wednesday, and she had days left before she could give herself over to her dirty pictures.
Once she’d put her coat on, poured her tea into a travel mug and checked her purse for keys, she couldn’t wait any longer.
She picked up her phone and tapped the home button.
Forty-three comments.
I really should turn the notifications off, she thought.
But if you turned off the notifications, you’ll never know who liked, reblogged or commented on the pictures.
That was the problem. She wanted to know.
She opened the blogging app. Scrolling through the notifications gave her a rush, to know that so many strangers had seen the previous night’s impromptu display.
Somewhere, someone
