Blackmailed Exhibitionist
by Glawrence

Chapter Six

An adventurous young woman faces impossible choices.

Devastation at the Racoon Diner

Even though it looked like I'd shaken possible pursuit after escaping the fairgrounds, I was still panicked. Lying naked in the back of a dump truck hiding under piles of trash offered little to hope for. A few stoplights later, I climbed out before the driver decided to use the compactor, falling on my knees in the gutter. Fortunately, the evening had not turned cold. I recognized the area. It was three more miles to Donna's house, and another mile to my apartment. Donna would think I fled home and be waiting for me. Leering. Drinking her damn wine. Wondering how I could possibly escape such an impossible situation. I couldn't face her now. It was too much. It was all too much.

And then I saw a familiar sight. A row of nice upscale condos in the Maplewood district. After several minutes of agonizing reflection, I reached a fateful decision. I was desperate now. Tired, sore, and covered in slime. There seemed little left to lose.

Two blocks later, while crouching behind a postal drop box, I studied the wide street. It was bright enough that I waited for a quiet moment, making sure there were no patrol cars, and made my dash, reaching the hedges on the opposite side. A second sprint gained me a stone path leading up several steps to a thick red door. I needed to think again. Was this a good idea? No, it really wasn't, but I was exhausted. Burned out. I knocked on the door so softly that I didn't know if anyone heard.

I jumped back when Ryan opened the door wearing brown slacks and a khaki short-sleeve shirt. He was very handsome at 6'2 and 190 pounds, with short dirty blonde hair and a square jaw. He was holding a beer. His eyebrows went up.

"Tracy? What is this? Why are you naked?" he asked. "What is that gunk all over you?"

I straightened before him totally vulnerable, shivering even though the summer night wasn't cold. Tears flowed down my cheeks. I began to speak but couldn't utter a word. This was a bad idea. Very bad. I turned to leave.

"Tracy, wait. Don't go," he urged.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," is all I could say. I stumbled going down the steps, barely able to keep my balance. I was out of strength. Ryan followed, grabbing me around the waist.

"No! No!" I shouted, fighting furiously. It was a good battle, for about fifteen seconds, and then there was no fight left in me. I went limp in his arms.

I recovered on the couch in his living room wrapped in a blanket. I noticed his phone on the coffee table recording me. Ryan was in the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. A First Aid kit lay open on the floor.

"My apologies for recording this," he gently said. "When a naked woman comes to a man's door late at night and starts screaming, he needs to protect himself."

"I understand. I'm sorry. I should go," I agreed. I tried to get up but could barely move. How was I going to get home? My apartment was still four miles away and I had no money. Or a phone. Would it be dawn soon? Would I need to walk through the city naked? Again. I fought to suppress the tears. My small body, only 5'4 and 112 pounds, had reached its limit.

"You should explain what this is all about, and don't say it's a bet or a dare, because I know better," Ryan cautioned.

"If I confess to a crime, can you say you caught me? Can you not mention I turned myself in?" I asked.

"What crime?" he said.

"Not murder or anything, but enough to go to prison. Can you promise to say I was caught?"

"Did you commit this so-called crime?"

"That's not important," I responded.

"I'm afraid it's very important," he insisted. Rather than hover over me, he pushed the coffee table back to kneel on the floor. Then he drew the blanket off my knees to apply ointment. They were scraped bloody from my day's adventures. So were my elbows. And other parts. I was bruised just about everywhere, looking like a purple quilt.

"I can't tell you," I said. "It's important for people to think I didn't turn myself in. This only works if being caught isn't my fault."

"What only works? You know this doesn't make any sense."

"If I told you, you'd think I was crazy. Or a freak."

"You've been running through the city naked for the last two months. That has to say something about your mental condition," he mentioned.

"You know? How? How do you know that? Did she--"

I choked off my words. If Donna knew I revealed her name, she'd release the photos. The fake blackmail evidence. Everything. It would be the end of the world. Who was this man? Was he trying to trick me? I felt my heart pounding. It was hard to breathe.

"Who? Tell me who you're afraid of?" he demanded, holding my arm.

"I can't. I can't. Please, just call the police. Have them arrest me. I'll confess to whatever they want. Anything."

I rolled over, facing the wall, and began to sob. I felt the blanket being pulled up to cover my bare shoulder, and then Ryan had both hands on me, seeking to offer comfort.

"I don't need to call the police," he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Tracy, I am the police," he answered.

I turned to look at him. The soft blue eyes offered no menace. He stroked my hair, so dirty and matted. A tissue was used to wipe the tears.

"Detective Ryan Sutherland," he said, showing me a gold badge. "I can read you your rights and arrest you for the theft at Neiman Marcus. Or you can trust me."

"How much time would I get for stealing that bag?" I asked.

"All of the bags," he replied.

"What do you mean?"

"There has been a string of thefts. Over $80,000 worth," he explained.

"No, that's impossible!" I shouted, sitting up. "I was only there once, and I didn't even steal the damn thing! I put the purse back on the table before I left."

"That's not what the surveillance photos are showing," he warned.

Oh no, I thought. How could this happen? I realized now it was hopeless. It was all hopeless. I was going to prison. For how long? That would depend on whatever lawyer Donna hired for me. If she was even serious about getting me a lawyer.

"This could be your last chance," Ryan said, feeling my distress. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Do you have something to drink? Something strong? Anything but bourbon. And can I have a bath?"

Ryan frowned, looking deeply into my eyes, trying to make a difficult decision. Finally, reaching a resolution, he carried me into the bathroom, ran blissful hot water, and fetched me a rum and soda. I was a total mess, from my hair to my toes.

"How did you acquire all this muck?" he asked, helping to sponge me off. With my permission. I barely had the strength to lift the soap.

"I was hiding in a trash dumpster," I said. "At the county fair."

"That's not an everyday thing for you, is it?"

"You don't follow the internet much, do you?" I asked.

"At the precinct, we get a morning briefing of anything that's important," he answered. "I had the afternoon off."

"Do you have your phone? Look up the Summer Festival," I said, sure my exploits had gotten noticed by now. And they really had. There were dozens of posts. My jump from the Ferris wheel was the local feature of the day. A dozen phones had recorded me. Fortunately, none had my name.

"My God," he whispered, watching footage of my daring leap. Twenty-five feet from a gondola into a foam-filled bouncy castle. He looked at the phone, looked at me, and looked back at the phone, like he could hardly believe what he was seeing. "Tracy, you could have been killed! What were you thinking? Why in God's name would you do that?"

"I'd run out of options," I answered.

"There are always better options than that. Is this a thrill thing? Some sort of extreme exhibitionism?"

"Do I look thrilled?" I asked.

"You look incredibly cute, and precious, and extremely stressed. And I want to know why," he firmly answered.

I reached for the sponge. My undercarriage had liquids in it that would cause infections. They needed to be scrubbed out. I twisted, trying to reach down. It was hard, embarrassing, and humiliating. I started crying again. I hoped Ryan didn't think I cried all the time. He took the sponge from my hand.

"This isn't sexual," he said. "This is a health issue. Can we agree on that?"

"Yes, sir," I agreed.

He began to wash my most sensitive areas, gently and with compassion, and when the clumsy sponge wasn't doing a good enough job, he used his soapy fingers to make sure my vagina was clean. I closed my eyes, savoring his touch. It made me sad to think I might not be touched again by someone so special for many years. If I was touched at all, it would be someone like Donna. In prison.

An hour and two more shots of rum later, I was lying on his bed shaking with raw emotions. I told him everything. Absolutely everything. Reading the exhibitionist websites. Recruiting Donna. Creating the blackmail evidence. Being trapped under the pier at the lake. Hiding in the furniture store at the mall. The dance performance at the water fountain. It poured out of me like a psychotic nightmare until I was left drained.

"This evidence she has against you is fake?" he asked.

"Yes, but I have no proof of any of this," I concluded. "Donna has all the proof. She controls everything. Sometimes, I think she controls my thoughts. There is no way out, except maybe jail. She won't be able to control me there. At least, I hope she can't."

Ryan remained quiet, only asking a few questions. What he already knew, and how he knew it, was a mystery. Was Donna leaking clues? Was Miranda getting nervous? Looking for a fall guy? I was the perfect choice.

"You've certainly gotten yourself into a fix," Ryan decided, getting me another drink. The recording he had started earlier had been turned off. What was he thinking? He read my thoughts.

"You could get me in big trouble," he said. "We haven't actually done anything, but a detective being so intimate with a person of interest could damage my career."

"I would never want that. I would never hurt someone trying to help me," I protested.

"You have hard choices ahead," he warned.

"Donna says that when I get out of jail, without a job or any money, I can still sell my body on a street corner. Like Loretta and her girls. She's looking forward to being my pimp."

"Have you done that? Sold your body?" he asked.

"Oh, no. Thank God that hasn't happened. During my runs, many have asked for favors. Even demanded that I ... do certain things. So far, I've managed to avoid that. But it's only a matter of time."

"Donna must really hate you," Ryan concluded.

"She doesn't hate me," I said.

"What do you mean? She must hate you."

"These are her fantasies. Being naked in public. Forced to sell herself to strangers. Being humiliated while under someone's complete control. But she doesn't have the courage to do any of this herself, so she's living out her fantasies through me. And because it's what she wants so badly, she thinks it's what I want, too. In a weird way, she loves me."

"I can't promise this will turn out well," Ryan said, trying to take it all in. "I'm just a detective, not a district attorney. But if it helps, I believe you. And you will never need to sell your body. Don't even consider that. Promise me."

"Ryan, I can't promise anything. I have no control. Even if I wanted to die, Donna wouldn't let me."

He grew solemn at that. "Have you wanted to die?"

"Sometimes. If those photos ever got out, what would my parents think? My family. Everyone I've ever known. I couldn't live with that. Even the thought of it--"

I felt his arms tighten around me as I began shaking. They felt so good. So safe. I wanted him to kiss me. Maybe more. But it would be unprofessional.

"Try to hang on a little longer. I have colleagues in the department. Maybe someone will have an idea. In the meantime, we need to set up a drop."

"A what?" I asked.

"A covert means of communication. Something this Donna person won't suspect."

"Donna says she has a spy in my office at work, and cameras watching my apartment. At any given moment, Miranda or one of her goons might be watching me. Donna would know if something was wrong."

"If you wrote something down, could you hide it along one of your routes? A message? Place it in a tree? Or under a bench?"

"I can try, but I don't know that it would work. I'll get nervous, and she'll start asking questions. I don't think I can lie well enough to fool her."

"We'll figure something out," Ryan decided. He saw the hesitation in my eyes. The fear. He probably guessed I wouldn't make a good spy.

"May I say something?" I requested.

"Please do."

Both of my hands were gripping the glass of rum so tightly that he made me ease up. I took another sip. I wouldn't be able to say any of this if I wasn't drunk.

"When you first started snooping around, I thought you might be one of Donna's spies seeking to trick me. Trying to get me into your bed so you could break my heart. And it would have worked. You are the kind of man I've always dreamed about, and Donna knows that. I can't help wondering that maybe ... maybe you really are one of her spies, and that you'll destroy me. But even if that's true, I'm still glad we had this night. I needed it so much."

I was crying again. Ryan remained silent.

* * * * * *

"We're going shopping," Donna said as we parked her car in front of a downtown store. Thankfully, I was wearing clothes. Casual slacks and a white frilly blouse. I looked out the window.

"A sex shop?" I said.

"It's a boutique. I got a tip on this one that they have a very special item. You're going to love it," Donna explained. I doubted that.

The shop was decorated in pink from one end to the other. I saw padded handcuffs, dildos, videos, lotions, and every sort of sex toy. Not my style. Donna was in heaven, moving from one display to the next and handling everything. I noticed a security camera and hoped Donna didn't expect me to shoplift anything. That wasn't going to happen.

The young lady behind the counter was on her phone, sending a text, which made us wait. Kind of rude, as salespeople are supposed to be more attentive to their customers. Twenty minutes later, the back door opened and a tall blonde woman entered wearing a red leather jacket with chains on her pockets. Her dark green eyes were fearsome.

"I hear you're looking for a particular product," she said to Donna, ignoring me.

"Yes, I'm--"

"You will address me as Mistress Huntress," the tall woman interrupted with a frown.

"Yes, please, Mistress Huntress," Donna agreed, more submissive than I'd ever seen her. "There is a device. In a message I received."

Donna showed her a printout. Mistress Huntress studied it and glanced at me.

"This is the slut you need to keep track of?" she asked. Even Donna was shocked by that.

"You see, sometimes my submissive--" Donna started.

"Address me as Mistress Huntress!" the demanding woman said, pounding the counter. "Or do you want me to punish your slave to teach you a lesson? Seems to me the little twat could use a good whipping."

I stepped back, looking for the door. Mistress Huntress grabbed my arm, pulling me into the backroom. I nearly peed myself. Donna followed. My new captor produced a brown cardboard box, undid the twine keeping it closed, and showed a black collar with a silver medallion embedded in the middle.

"This GPS collar is very exclusive," Mistress Huntress explained. "Waterproof. Weatherproof. Infallible. Is this what you need to control your slave?"

"Yes, Mistress Huntress. It looks wonderful," Donna said, holding it up to my throat. "She will look beautiful in it."

"No, I won't. Please don't do this," I whimpered, creeping backward. Mistress Huntress blocked my escape and roughly strapped the collar around my neck, grunting with satisfaction. I heard it lock. She handed Donna an electronic key.

"If you press the red button three times, the collar will open, but not for twenty-four hours," Mistress Huntress said.

"Twenty-four hours?" Donna asked in surprise.

"We can't have the slut finding a way to circumvent the surveillance. If she tries, you will have plenty of warning. You don't want her to escape, do you?"

"No, I don't want her to escape," Donna agreed, eyeing me gleefully.

"She's a pretty little thing," Mistress Huntress decided, pawing my thin white blouse. "Do you want to sell her?"

"No, she's special to me," Donna said.

"I will give you a good price. Is she humble? Does she kneel gracefully?" Mistress Huntress asked. She stepped close, tugging on my new collar. "Does she beg for mercy when kneeling at your feet, handcuffed and naked?"

"Very much so, but I can't sell her. At least, not right away," Donna replied. I felt so small, being bargained over like a product. Mistress Huntress sighed with disappointment.

"You must send payment to this account," Mistress Huntress said, her phone open to a banking app. "The store may not be associated with this transaction. This will also load the tracking function to your phone."

"I understand," Donna said, completing the sale. And then I was led from the store, my face red with humiliation. Mistress Huntress slapped my ass on the way out.

"I'll be seeing you again," she whispered. "When you aren't so overdressed."

* * * * * *

Donna and I met for our Wednesday lunch at the Racoon Diner, where we had been going for many years. The food was simple but good. Beer and wine but no hard alcohol. The pastries were first rate, attracting people from all over the downtown area.

"How do you like your collar, dear?" she asked, sitting at our usual window table.

"I would rather not be wearing it in public," I answered.

"Oh, but you're so cute. What are you telling people at the office?"

"I say the collar is to honor our veterans, and that I won't take it off until they are all safe."

"Very clever. You have been very clever lately. Too clever. For the life of me, I still can't imagine how you escaped that Ferris wheel. None of the videos show what happened inside the gondola."

"It could be the handcuffs weren't tight enough. You did put them on at the last minute. Half-ass, like you do everything."

"My, aren't we testy today? Well, I have a new idea. Something that will hit closer to home. The darkness helped in several of your early missions, and the mask protected you at the water fountain. Just like a headband prevented clear photos of your face at the fairgrounds, as ridiculous as that sounds. So, we're going to try something different."

After lunch and a glass of wine, Donna led me to her car parked around the corner. It was on a busy street. People were everywhere.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

"Here? We're in the middle of the city," I protested.

"Take them off," she repeated.

I stripped in the passenger seat, looking out the windows to see if anyone was looking. Donna gathered my clothes and threw them in the back seat.

"This is how it works," she said. "You are going back into Racoon's and order my favorite lemon croissants. I'll wait in the car for ten minutes and drive away if you don't return in time."

"I can't do that! I'm naked!" I cried.

"That is very obvious, dear," she replied with a smirk.

"Donna, no. Please, everyone knows me there. Don't make me do this."

"I have your lewd photos and the evidence of your thefts ready on my phone," she threatened, holding it up for me to see. "One push will reveal a few of the photos. A second push will reveal more. And more after that. How much do you want on the internet?"

"I don't want any on the internet," I softly answered.

"Then get going. You are on the clock."

This was going to be so humiliating. More than anything she had made me do before. I begged her to change her mind, but Donna was determined. She held up her phone again, proving the posts were ready to be sent. I was very disappointed in her, realizing she was going over the edge. What could I do? Something stupid. I decided to push her harder.

"What am I supposed to say? How do I explain walking in there without my clothes?" I asked.

"I don't care what you say, just do it," Donna insisted. I let the moment linger, keeping her in suspense.

"Okay," I conceded. "Just don't leave without me."

I got out of the car, immediately observed by half a dozen astonished people on the sidewalk, and walked around the corner through the glass doors into the diner. All conversation stopped. I noticed Donna had pulled her car out in front. She waited for a moment to watch me enter and then drove off. I knew she wouldn't be coming back. There were fifteen patrons sitting at the tables. Mr. Hank Sanders, the burly owner, stood behind the counter in his white apron staring at me.

"Tracy, what is this?" he asked, totally shocked.

"I need four lemon croissants," I hesitantly requested in a shaky voice.

"Sweetheart, why aren't you dressed?" Hank asked.

Every customer in the restaurant was thinking the same thing. Watching. Leaning forward to listen. People I had seen for years. Many were in business associations that both Donna and I knew. And there I was, my trim body and perky breasts exposed to the world. Thankfully, I had stopped shaving down below, providing a tiny bit of modesty.

"Please, Mr. Sanders, please. If I don't get the croissants, she won't love me anymore," I pleaded, starting to cry.

"Who won't love you? What is this about?" he asked.

"I've secretly loved Donna since college, and last night, she finally took me to her bed," I cried. "It was so nice. I was so happy. But this morning, she said I need to call her mistress. And obey her in all things. And if I didn't come in here naked, she wouldn't love me anymore."

I dropped to my knees sobbing. Tears ran down my cheeks. "I can't bear that she won't love me. Please help me. Please."

I rolled over on my side, curling into a ball. Fortunately, the tile floor was reasonably clean. Several women came to my aide, offering comfort. I cried harder, my heart broken. Someone put a tablecloth over me. Half a dozen patrons were recording me with their phones.

"That poor girl," a young woman said.

"I never realized what a foul bitch Donna is," her mother agreed.

"She'll never be invited back to the Key Club, that's for sure," Mr. Carl Roberts declared, a distinguished man in a gray suit.

"I didn't even realize they are gay," Amanda Sibert whispered, president of the local Kiwanis.

I was helped to the rear corner of the restaurant, only half-covered. I made sure the tablecloth hid my breasts.

"Honey, you are better off without that dreadful woman," Mrs. Templeton of the Women's League said, holding my hand. "Will you come with me to my church on Sunday? To seek God's guidance?"

"Oh, yes, Phyllis. Please, I would like that so much," I agreed, reaching out to her. "Thank you so much for helping me."

"You've always been a good girl. We'll work this out," Mrs. Templeton assured me.

Others came forward. Juanita Sanchez of the Realtor's Alliance, who my company worked with. Jimmy Harlson from the Moose Lodge. Sandy Phillips, a major distributor for Poppen's Department Store where Donna was the assistant manager. They wiped my tears, urged me to be brave, and offered consolation.

And then two cops appeared in the doorway, one of them holding handcuffs. Officers Mark Paris and Athena Sanchez, who walked the local beat. The restaurant grew quiet.

"We had an anonymous call," Officer Paris explained, a 40-year-old veteran with blue eyes and a crewcut. "We're here to arrest the naked girl."

They entered slowly, checking for other disturbances, and halted before me. They were not strangers, but on this day, they were not friends.

"Get up, young lady," Officer Sanchez sternly ordered. She was a little older than Paris, brisk and to the point. "We'll read you your rights."

Everyone watched for my reaction, and to be sure, I was scared. But running wasn't an option. There was no place to go. With a whimper, I instantly obeyed, dropping the tablecloth to stand nude before everyone, my head down in shame. I made no effort to cover myself, completely submissive to their will. I turned as Officer Sanchez prepared to cuff my hands behind my back.

"Goddamn it, Mark, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Hank said, suddenly pulling me away. He placed himself between me and the officers, shielding me with his body.

"Arresting her for indecent exposure," Paris replied, mystified by the question.

"This woman isn't on the street; she's in a private establishment. With my permission," Hank said. "And with the permission of my customers. It's a performance. An artistic performance. You have no right to interfere."

"Yes, it's a performance," a young man said a bit too eagerly, leaning forward.

"She's not doing anything wrong," Amanda shouted, jumping up. "What is it with you cops? Haven't you got anything better to do?"

The restaurant filled with angry grumbling. Several patrons rose to form a human wall around me. The police officers were stunned.

"Really, Mark, your behavior is most inappropriate," Mrs. Tempelton insisted, taking center stage. "This young woman is with me. A member of my church. Take your handcuffs and look for real criminals. And do it now before I file a complaint with my good friend, the police commissioner."

The officers exchanged looks and backed off, finding themselves in a hostile environment.

"What do you think?" Paris whispered to his partner.

"I think Hank may be within his rights," Sanchez replied. "Do you want to call in for further instructions?"

Paris studied the determined faces. Prominent people in the community. The kind of people cops try to avoid trouble with.

"We should go. I don't see any problems here. Mrs. Templeton, we're sorry for the misunderstanding," Paris apologized.

The moment they were gone, I sank to my knees, neither speaking nor crying. A girl with a bikini underneath her clothes gave me her shirt. Another woman gave me her pants, keeping her swimsuit. Sandals appeared from somewhere. I was soon dressed, sniffling and thanking everyone.

"I'm so sorry, Hank. This will never happen again," I promised.

"Do you need help getting home?" he asked.

"No, it's only a few miles," I answered. "I need fresh air, and time to think. Thank you, everyone, you've helped me so much."

I retreated into the kitchen, pausing at the back door and listening before entering the alley.

"This is unbelievable," Sandy Phillips said. "We'll need to reevaluate doing business with Donna's store after this."

"I'm thinking that, too," her associate agreed. "This could create bad publicity for my firm if we're associated with her."

"Those girls have always been such close friends," Mrs. Templeton said. "What would cause Donna to become such a pervert?"

I slipped out the back door and wiped my fake tears with a tissue.

Okay, Donna, I thought. Game on.

* * * * * *