synopsis: Amanda wants to get into the online porn business, but she’s determined to do it anonymously. Fortunately, ThePowerofPleasure.com has just the program for her.
Amanda stared at the blinking button and chewed her lip. She’d already checked the consent box, despite not having read the terms of service as thoroughly as she should have. She’d input her chosen username (“Mandy Barr”—Amanda was surprised to find it hadn’t been taken yet and wondered if that meant she’d been clever or just too subtle) and had supplied a nicely anonymous e-mail address. She’d even set up a post office box in a nearby Atlanta suburb, using another false surname: Holmes. That was where the money would go. She hoped.
Amanda thought she’d been careful enough, but she was no expert at this sort of thing. Well, she told herself, it’s not like I have much choice. And at least they didn’t ask for my real name. “Taking anonymity to the next level” was the company’s motto.
The button blinked cheerily at her: “Sign me up for my free three-month trial!”
“Okay,” Amanda sighed, and clicked.
It was a hoary old clich�: the bright young coed paying her way through college by stripping. But at least Amanda was putting a twenty-first century spin on it, not to mention avoiding actual physical contact with her audience. She was only going to strip online.
Amanda wasn’t shy about her body, but she did want a choice about whose lap she danced in. She’d visited a couple of strip clubs with old boyfriends (and fake ID’s), and while some of the clientele had seemed perfectly normal, there’d been others she wouldn’t have trusted to stuff a bill between her toes.
Fortunately, Google really had been her friend. ThePowerOfPleasure.com was a startup web host offering enough free space to get Amanda going in her new career. Sure, she’d have to put up with some annoying, flashing banner ads; and this particular outfit also required its users to test products for them. But as long as Amanda could do it all anonymously, she was fine with that. Hell, she’d be better than fine if the website made her enough money to keep on top of her tuition; she’d be ecstatic.
Besides, the product samples weren’t just sex toys. There were shampoos, cosmetics, vitamin supplements, mp3’s—all kinds of interesting things. Amanda’s first thought, on reading POP’s guarantee of anonymity, was that it must be housed in some Third World country that had no fear of US prosecution. But if the product descriptions and pictures were accurate, everything was made right here in the US - in high tech labs, no less. They might actually be a step up from the quality Amanda normally used.
Anyway, free was always good when you were a college student.
She’d made the right decision, Amanda thought, and hummed along with the music as the POP software downloaded.
Amanda tossed and turned, still too upset to sleep. Duncan had left almost two hours ago, after a prolonged argument over the website that he’d never had a chance of winning. Her not-quite-live-in-lover was a sweet guy, and his heart was in the right place. But it was Amanda’s body, and no one else was going to tell her whom she could and couldn’t show it to.
As for the spam issue, well, Amanda hadn’t specifically requested that POP advertise her site that way; but it was included in the free package, and it would bring in more business. Besides, she didn’t believe in karma.
Amanda chuckled to herself as she considered whether Duncan had been more outraged by the stripping or the spamming. Not that she’d done either, yet. Amanda had only downloaded the software a couple of days ago and was still learning how to use it. The POP site designer was a surprisingly complicated program; and while the help files really were helpful, they were all in video format, and they all had the same incredibly boring background music. Amanda hadn’t found any way to turn the music off without silencing the audio entirely, so she was just doing her best to put up with it. Thankfully, the longer she listened, the easier it became to tune out.
Then there was the matter of the pictures. In keeping with its vaunted anonymity policy, POP had suggested several methods its users might employ to keep their faces offline. Amanda had been pleased, especially when she found an option that suited her tastes just perfectly.
Still, whoever she chose to photograph her would have to see her in person.
Amanda didn’t trust any of her friends or collegemates to keep her secret, so she’d chosen a professional shutterbug from the POP database. Like her, the photographers were strictly anonymous; all she knew about the woman she’d selected (based on a tiny sliver of smile under black bangs) was that she lived in Atlanta and specialized in erotica.
For the hundredth time, Amanda wondered whether it would be safe to show the photographer her face when they met, or whether she should wear some kind of mask. But that would be taking the anonymity thing entirely too far...wouldn’t it?
Sighing, Amanda rolled over again and punched her pillow. She was never going to get to sleep tonight, and she had an 8:00 class tomorrow. Maybe she should just cut the damn thing.
Suddenly a new thought occurred to her. That music was so droningly awful that it almost put her to sleep at the computer. And POP had offered it as a free mp3 for review. What if she downloaded the full music file and played it through her earbuds while she lay in bed? It would probably knock her out cold.
It did. In fact, she slept so well that she decided to use it every night from then on out.
Amanda took a deep breath and clicked “Publish.”
A pleasant, low chime announced the operation’s success, and she eagerly followed the link to see how her website looked “live.”
At the top, of course, was that huge, flashing banner ad; but Amanda was used to ignoring that by now. The damn thing was all over everything POP put out. Funny how they were so helpful, high-tech, and discreet in some respects, and so clueless in others. Sometimes Amanda wondered if the organization was run by a bunch of virgin geeks who lived in their mothers’ basements.
She scrolled down to the first image of “Mandy Barr” and grinned. Her all-natural breasts rode proud and full atop her ribs, nipples hidden by discreet starbursts that her viewers could pay to remove. Her head was draped in a white lace veil, its folds gathered loosely around her face from her hair down to her upper lip. Her pale lower lip pouted temptingly beneath it.
The lipstick was a POP product, and every bit as good as Amanda had hoped it would be. It had stayed on all through the day without fading or smudging, even when she’d shared a post-shoot dinner with the photographer, a delightfully snarky woman in a black wig that Amanda would never have known was a wig if she hadn’t been told.
Amanda’s new company really did take anonymity seriously. In fact, the photographer had actually encouraged Amanda to call her by the last four digits of her POP serial number: 2520.
2520 had been working for POP’s parent organization, One World Future, for several years, and she swore it was the best decision she’d ever made. It had certainly made her rich, Amanda thought, peeking at the company card when 2520 paid for both their dinners. The photographer hid the name on the card with her thumb, so all Amanda saw was OWF’s logo: a world map with all the continents overlaid by computer circuitry.
Smiling a little at the memory of being thwarted, Amanda scrolled on down the webpage, checking out the rest of her teaser pictures. The last one showed a whole row of stars lined up between her wide-spread thighs.
She hadn’t planned on being that explicit when she first signed up with POP; but 2520 had explained, with charming bluntness, that the money was in the pussy shots. Amanda had to go that route, if she wanted make enough to pay her tuition.
The hard facts of the matter, coupled with the photographer’s cheerful, seen-it-all attitude, finally convinced Amanda to give in. But, she told herself, there was no way she’d ever get into the really kinky stuff. She had to draw the line somewhere.
Amanda blinked awake under Duncan’s nudging hand. He was trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t make it out over the music in her earbuds. Reluctantly she removed them.
“All right,” Amanda groaned, “I’m awake.” She glanced at the clock and ground her teeth. “Duncan, it’s not even 3:00 AM yet.”
“I know. Sorry.” Her boyfriend’s face was almost invisible in the dark, but she could picture his expression, just from the tone in his voice. “It’s just that you were saying some seriously creepy things in your sleep.”
“I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“You do now. You’ve been doing it for about a week, but I haven’t been able to catch any words until tonight, so I wasn’t worried.”
Amanda sat up a little. “And now you are worried? Why? What did I say?”
“At first I thought it was just ‘no,’ and ‘I don’t want to’; but then you started saying, ‘I want to.’ Then there was something about illusions, and then it just turned into gibberish that sounded like some kind of computer code.”
Well, that was a relief. “Aw, Duncan,” Amanda sighed, “that’s nothing to worry about. You know I’m studying programming now so I can do more with the website.”
There was a long moment of silence. Just as Amanda was about to settle back into her pillow, Duncan spoke again. “Yeah, about that website-”
“Duncan, not now!”
Realizing she’d sounded more angry than she’d intended, she reached out to caress the line of his jaw. “Don’t worry, honey. Nobody’s forcing me to do anything I don’t want to do. Now please, let’s go back to sleep.”
She felt his mouth begin to open again and gently pressed his lips together. “Please, Duncan?”
He didn’t respond. After a moment she took her hand away and plugged in the earbuds again.
“Hello, Ms. Barr,” read the POP e-mail. “Now that you’ve reached the halfway point in your three-month trial, and now that you’ve seen the monetary results of harnessing the Power of Pleasure, we would like to offer you a new opportunity.
“You already know that every paid subscriber to POP and its sister organizations is assigned a unique serial number. With it, that subscriber can access an ever-increasing array of services.
“Ms. Barr, we are now pleased to offer you a temporary serial number of your own, which you can use to visit our chat rooms and forums, download new widgets and programs, and even try out some of POP’s premium products for free.
“Click here to be assigned your temporary POP serial number.”
Amanda didn’t even have to think about it. As much as the wording made her giggle, she had to admit that she really had “seen the monetary results of harnessing the Power of Pleasure.” She’d already made enough to pay off her first year of college and had taken a nice bite out of the second year.
Plus, Amanda felt so much happier and healthier now that she was living on OWF products. They really were a much better quality than she was used to. If the organization really was run by virgin geeks living in their parents’ basements, then their parents must be Nobel scientists, and their basements equipped with the best labs on the planet.
Amanda couldn’t believe her luck, stumbling onto such a fantastic program while it was still under the radar and affordable. Once OWF broke big, as it was certain to do, people would be clamoring for its services. They’d pay just about anything. And here she had access to all of it, practically for free.
Amanda couldn’t wait to get her temporary serial number and start mingling with the “real” OWF members. She’d be one of them soon enough, of course. There was absolutely no question of her ending her subscription when the three-month trial was over.
She hummed along with the now-familiar music as the system did whatever it did; then a large, blinking number appeared on her screen: 00027X8POP475389TEMP. The “TEMP” on the end was a little disappointing, but Amanda still felt a burst of excitement. She felt almost...legitimate now.
Several minutes passed before she realized she was just staring at the screen in a pleasant fugue. That was strange. It wasn’t time for bed yet, so she really shouldn’t be tired. But who cared? She had her serial number now, and she couldn’t wait to start rubbing shoulders with the rest of the anonymous elite.
A month and a half later, Amanda was so pleased to drop the “TEMP” from her serial number that she had the remaining digits tattooed in a daisy chain around her ankle.
“Not bad,” 2520 commented, in a voice that plainly implied otherwise.
Amanda flashed a mock-pout. “Hey, it’s cute!”
“Yep, cute,” 2520 answered dryly. She seemed about to go on, but then stopped herself.
“Cute, but-?”
The photographer sighed. “Okay. ‘Cute’ isn’t exactly the image One World Future likes to project. But it’ll do for now, for a newbie.”
She winked, and Amanda grinned and rolled her eyes. Yeah, she was a newbie, but she wouldn’t be for long. She had gotten in on the ground floor of something huge, and in the end, she’d be proud to call herself a senior member.
“Dear 00027X8POP475389,” began the e-mail, “As a staunch supporter of One World Future products, and as one of our most popular POP models, you are cordially invited to participate in a week-long photo shoot to kick off the second, more public phase of our marketing campaign. We will fly you and a guest to New York City on a private OWF jet, house you in a private OWF hotel, and provide for your every need with OWF products—all to maintain the high standard of excellence and anonymity that you have come to expect from One World Future.
“In return, all we ask is that you continue to help us promote our products, both in public advertisements and on your website.”
Amanda grinned. The second phase? More public? She’d been right: OWF was going places! Of course, it was too good not to. Her chest glowed at the thought of the organization she loved so much getting the attention it deserved.
It took her almost ten minutes to remember the first part of the e-mail, the part that said she was one of POP’s most popular models. Things like that just didn’t matter anymore.
Amanda and Duncan had broken up several months earlier, fairly amicably. Duncan just hadn’t been able to stomach Amanda’s new cyber-life, especially when she started the heavy bondage shoots. He was just too much of a nice guy. No, make that a Nice Guy. Amanda still adored him, even if they’d never really meshed as a couple.
And surely, even a Nice Guy like Duncan would succumb to the temptation of a vacation in New York. Good thing she still had his phone number.
Her ex’s voice warmed the moment Amanda said hello. He’d obviously missed her, and wanted to know everything she’d been doing since the breakup. No, Amanda admitted, she wasn’t dating anyone new. She just didn’t have the time these days. Her website and other POP-related activities took up almost all of her free time.
“Oh.” Duncan’s voice cooled several degrees. “I was hoping you’d moved beyond that.”
Amanda’s brows knit. “Duncan, why would you think that? One World Future is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m happier and healthier than I’ve ever been in my life, and I’m making a ton of money.”
“Sure you are, Amanda.” His voice tightened. “But what else is happening to you? I did a little research on OWF, right after we broke up. I was worried about you. And what I found out worried me even more. No, I take that back: it scared the shit out of me. Arnold Imhoff is more of an unknown than any CEO should be able to be, in this day and age; and his organization sounds more like a cult than a company-”
The music playing behind her hit a particularly resonant note, and Amanda gave up trying to follow Duncan’s argument. She couldn’t believe, now, that she’d ever thought this music was boring. The more she listened to it, the more beautiful it sounded—and the more full of hidden depths and meanings. Nowadays she kept it playing around the clock. Sometimes it was just background noise to keep her company, and sometimes it swelled up inside her until it blocked out almost everything else.
Amanda loved those moments, and 2520 encouraged her to seek them out more actively. She said they brought out the best poses in her model. In all her models.
As Duncan’s voice grew more strident, his reasoning even harder to follow, Amanda reached a sudden conclusion. “Okay, fine, Duncan,” she sighed, cutting him off mid-rant. “If you’re going to be that narrow-minded, then I don’t want you to come with me, anyway. I’ll take 2520 instead—and I’m sure I’ll have a lot more fun with her than I would with you.”
She hung up before he could start in again.
5389 (She liked to think of herself that way now, when she was among her OWF “family”) lolled among the slippery white cushions, letting the music wash over her mind like cleansing water. She must have had more wine than she thought, or maybe it had just been particularly potent wine. Since the grapes had been grown in OWF vineyards, that wasn’t out of the question. Everything OWF was always better than everything not OWF.
5389 stroked the thigh of 4157, a male model she’d chatted with on several occasions but hadn’t met in person until today. Well, she still hadn’t met him strictly in person, since 4157 was bound in skin-tight black leather from head to toe, revealing not a centimeter of real skin. But then again, perhaps the black leather was 4157’s real skin, his inner skin. Just as 5389’s real skin was lace.
The designers had chosen their costumes for them, and for the other eight models in the shoot; and 5389 had been content to let them take charge. After all these months of online correspondence, she knew they understood her better than she understood herself. They’d created her with this garment in mind....No, wait. They’d created this garment with her in mind. 5389 giggled, realizing how very drunk she must be, to make a mistake like that.
She let 4157 run his featureless leather hands across her breasts, almost completely exposed beneath the patterns on her bodysuit. The material clung to her every curve, but beyond the curves themselves, there was little of the real 5389 to be seen: just a hint of pink at breasts and labia, of brown at eyes and head.
2520 lay on the cushion right next to 5389, caressing both her and 4157.
The photographer hadn’t revealed her own history as a model until just before the shoot, when she’d suddenly appeared on the set in a clear, smoky latex catsuit that left only her mouth and crotch bare. It was the first time 5389 had seen her without her wig, and she was strangely unsurprised to discover that 2520 shaved her head. “The more anonymous, the better,” her friend had winked. “You really ought to try it yourself, kid. You wouldn’t believe how liberating it is.”
Back among the cushions, 5389 nuzzled her patterned-but-featureless face between 2520’s breasts. The photographer was wearing a new OWF custom perfume, and the scent was at once muskily human and enticingly alien. 5389 inhaled deeply and swooned back against the cushions, dizzy, ecstatic, aroused almost to the point of mindlessness.
2520 pounced atop her, tearing the lace apart with her teeth and thrusting deep into 5389’s eager mouth.
5389 sucked hungrily, desperately, while the cameras clicked and whirred around them. She didn’t have the concentration to spare in considering that this was her first lesbian kiss. All her attention was focused on her mouth.
Then 2520 tore through the lace at her crotch, and 5389’s attention shifted to her clit. It thrummed beneath the other woman’s fingers like a plucked bowstring, and she began to moan. God, why hadn’t Duncan ever excited her this much?
“That’s right, that’s right,” murmured the familiar voice above her. “This is where you belong. On the bottom. You’ve known it all along, haven’t you, 5389? You were born to submit. We were all born to submit. Say it with me.”
“We were all born to submit,” 5389 moaned, inhaling a completely different scent as her head was pushed toward 2520’s crotch. “I was born to submit. To submit. Sub-ahhhh-mit.”
The rest of her words were smothered in slick, wet flesh.