Blackmailed Exhibitionist Pt. 05

The Blackmailed Exhibitionist

Part 5

by G. Lawrence

An adventurous young woman finds danger

24-year-old Tracy Anders' best friend is using blackmail to compel her to ever more difficult missions. And as the challenges grow harder, some episodes (such as this one) become darker. A warning from the author: this episode belongs in nonconsent/reluctance, but I fear changing categories will cause the episodes to get scattered on the Literotica website, so I am keeping all nine chapters of The Blackmailed Exhibitionist in the same category. Readers troubled by shifting categories should avoid reading this series. The characters are over 18 years old.

Chapter Five

Ambushed on the Waterfront

"You've been very clever lately," Donna said in an ominous tone as we drove into the bad part of town. "Tonight, we'll see just how clever you are."

She was dressed in a nice suit. Once again, I was naked, sitting in the passenger seat hoping no one would notice. Traffic was light this late in the evening.

"Donna, hasn't this gone on long enough?" I whimpered. "I'm not sleeping or eating. My work at the real estate office is suffering. It can't be fun for you anymore."

"It's not about fun. It's about you giving me what I want, and your little games are making that difficult. Miranda is even more unhappy with you. She thinks you have a secret plan to expose her illicit activities."

"She's just paranoid," I protested. "I'm not looking for trouble with her."

"She is looking for trouble with you," Donna warned.

We stopped before a rundown bar on Front Street just off the alley. "Put these on," she ordered throwing a sack to me. I looked inside.

"I'm not wearing these. They're worse than the hooker costume you had me wear on that street corner with Loretta and her girls."

"You're going out of this car into that bar," Donna insisted. "You can do it wearing these or nothing, it's up to you."

"What's the mission? Where am I going?" I asked.

"The bar is the mission. The challenge is getting back out."

I put on a short red skirt, a tight thong, and a loose button-down blouse with no bra. Calf-length black boots finished the assembly. "I'll get raped in there wearing this outfit," I complained.

"You're smart and pretty. Miranda is already inside with her camera. They won't do anything to you while she's taking pictures. Now get out."

I emerged on the sidewalk, realizing at the last minute I didn't have money or a phone. Donna slammed the door and drove off.

The smart thing to do was run, but Miranda would know I bailed and rat me out. I hoped she didn't know I'd been listening to her conversations with Donna and guessed she was deep in bad business. Not just the $3,000 handbag she stole from Nieman Marcus, but other thefts. Maybe even a gang. Was Donna having trouble financing our escapades? I doubted there was a way to turn Miranda in without getting caught, but that didn't mean I wasn't thinking about it.

The Strangled Rooster was a classic dive bar with flashing neon lights, dirty floors, pool tables, and seedy customers. The twenty or so patrons, nearly all male, stopped to look as I walked in. I saw Miranda sitting at the bar with a drink.

"Quitting work early?" she said, getting up to hug me. "What will your pimp say?"

"Donna will learn to live with it," I answered. "It seems she let you off work early, too."

Miranda returned my impertinent comment with a dark frown. I should not have been provoking her but my nerves were frayed. She had me sit on a stool, the red skirt riding up to the top of my thighs.

"A double for my friend," Miranda ordered. A shot glass appeared before me. Bourbon by the smell. Not a drink I would normally want, being sensitive to the effects. I noticed Miranda and the bartender exchange glances. They knew each other.

"Down the hatch," Miranda said. I hesitantly sipped mine. "No, no, dearie, that's not how it's done."

Miranda took hold of the glass, put a hand around my neck, and virtually poured it down my throat, much of it spilling on my breasts and the obscene blouse. Many in the bar laughed. I tried to wipe my face, but the bartender wouldn't offer me a towel.

"Another round, Sam," Miranda announced.

"No, I'm good," I said, bending over to wipe my face with the shirt, hoping not to expose more cleavage than necessary. At 5'4 and 112-pounds, my body was curved in all the right places. Not the biggest breasts, but nicely shaped. I never got any complaints. Every man in the bar was staring.

"We are celebrating," Miranda said, giving me a cold stare. "I'll say when we stop drinking." Then she leaned close. "Whatever happens tonight, you're not allowed to say no. Sam will be watching." The big bartender in a white apron briefly glanced in my direction.

"You can't be serious? Around these guys? Are these Donna's orders?" I asked.

"I don't care what Donna thinks. They are my orders, and tonight I'm going to teach your little bitch ass a lesson you'll never forget."

I looked around the room. Too many rough men were watching us. Miranda appeared in her element, talking loud enough to be the center of attention. I was forced to have another drink, getting woozy. Miranda had stopped drinking.

"Let's shoot a game of pool," Miranda decided.

"I don't know much about pool," I confessed, not looking forward to bending over the table. The skirt wouldn't hide much, and the thong underneath would hide even less. Miranda grabbed my hand to pull me over.

"Get lost, this is our table," a fat balding creep objected. He looked like a down-and-out dockworker. His blubbery friend was just as gross. Their blue work shirts were dirty. The stained jeans reeked of motor oil. The pool table had seen better days, the green felt worn. The floor was covered with grimy straw.

"How about a game? I have $100 that says I can whip your loser ass," Miranda said.

"You're on, bitch. Let's see the money," the big ape agreed.

"You can hold my friend as collateral," Miranda replied, pushing me into the other guy's arms. His pudgy fingers took hold of my shoulders, but I managed to wiggle free, backing up against the wall. Miranda took her time selecting a cue stick, taking one down from the rack, giving it a thrust, and then checking out another. Her opponent grew impatient, snarling at the delay. Finally, Miranda made her choice and won the lag, giving her the first shot. The balls were racked.

"Watch this, you pathetic puke," she said, getting a strong break. She sank a striped ball, and then another. Without doubt she was good, studying the table like a hawk. Soon all the striped balls were gone as she circled, calling out her shots. It drew a rowdy crowd.

"8-ball, corner pocket," she declared, getting a cheer as the ball dropped in. The bartender brought her a drink. It looked like water to me.

"Where's my hundred bucks, loser?" Miranda demanded, waving the cue stick. The two guys, Jack and Carlos, dug through their pockets, finding enough to pay the bet.

"You can't do that again," Jack stupidly said.

"Sure I can," Miranda answered. "As long as I have my good luck charm."

Miranda came up to me, planting a big wet kiss on my lips while hugging me close. Her hand pulled up my skirt, letting the room see my butt.

"What do you think, my little pet?" Miranda said. "Shall we teach these bottom feeding motherfuckers what a sack of pathetic pukes they are?"

"I'll be teaching the lesson here," Jack replied as others growled.

"Put up or shut up, dick-weed. Double or nothing this time. And to prove what a cock-sucking joke you are, I'll let you have two shots for every one I take," she challenged with a drunken swagger. Though she was not remotely drunk. I was looking for the exits. A backdoor. A service entrance. Wondering where I would go if I made a break for the street. Half a dozen burly men had me hemmed in, and I was getting very scared.

"You're on, bitch," the angry longshoreman agreed. Miranda allowed him the break and he sank a solid ball. A second. Then he missed. Miranda gave him a second chance, and he made that one. I was hoping the arrogant slob would win. And then it was Miranda's turn. She circled the table while putting chalk on the tip of her cue stick.

"Hey, loser, if you and your hairy girlfriend can't pay the bet, maybe you can offer blowjobs to your lowlife friends," Miranda suggested. "$10 bucks a pop. I'll take pictures for my scrapbook."

"We'll see who blows who," Jack responded, pounding his cue stick. Miranda just grinned.

"Corner pocket. Side pocket. Corner pocket." With ruthless efficiency, she cleared the striped balls off the table, leaning over to show her legs and tight butt. Though forty-two years old, she wasn't a bad looker.

"Okay, you stupid shit, watch and weep. 8-ball, side pocket," Miranda said, sinking the black ball and winning the game. She raised her arms in victory, dancing around the room hooting and hollering. Making a spectacle of herself. "Okay, cocksuckers, where's my money?"

Jack and Carlos needed to borrow from their sleezy buddies, grumbling. Miranda did everything she could to rub it in, her wild green eyes daring them to object.

The game had attracted everyone in the bar, about a dozen men. The two women who had been there earlier were gone. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, creating a wispy mist. Drinks flowed freely, and many were drunk, leering at me without pretense.

"Okay, nimrods, I'll give you a break," Miranda said, standing next to the table. "You can't beat me, so I'll let you play my spunky little friend. She loves a challenge."

"The bitch don't look like she's gots no hundred bucks," Carlos complained.

"Oh, she doesn't. My friend is betting her clothes," Miranda replied.

"Miranda, not that!" I shouted, trying to back away.

"You all heard her. She's shy but totally onboard. Aren't you, my love?"

I didn't see a choice. Miranda hadn't said my name all night, preserving my identity. How long would that last if I defied her? Several were taking pictures with their phones.

I went to the table and was handed a cue stick. I'd only played a couple of times, mostly smacking balls around. This wasn't going to be good.

"You can break, little darlin'," Jack said. When I leaned over the table, he smacked my ass, making me jump. Everyone in the bar laughed. It wasn't funny to me. I struck the white ball and it went off to the side, missing everything.

"That's a scratch," Miranda said. "Give him one of those shiny black boots."

"I don't have to strip yet. The game isn't over," I objected.

"The rules are the rules," Miranda responded.

"Yes, little darlin', the rules are the rules," Jack said, getting in my face. "And I expect to be paid in full."

He shot next with a powerful stroke, sinking a striped ball. Then two more. He missed the third time. I walked around the table trying to find an angle that didn't involve showing my butt. One shot looked fairly easy. I hit the white ball, but it missed my target and went into a corner pocket.

"Another scratch," Miranda said. I leaned down to remove my other boot. She stopped me. "Let's make this interesting."

Before I realized it, she reached under my skirt to pull down my thong. When I struggled to stop her, Carlos grabbed my arms, allowing Miranda to strip the thong off, giving the entire bar a glimpse of my lady parts. I was glad not to be waxing anymore. She giggled and threw my underwear on top of a florescent light fixture hanging from the ceiling.

"Mistress, please don't do this," I cried.

"Oh, we haven't even started. Have we boys?" Miranda said. "After you lose your clothes, you'll be playing for forfeits. I bet these gentlemen can think up a few exciting dares for you."

I looked at the mob, seeing how hopeless it was. Miranda waved to Sam, who brought over another drink.

"Down it goes. All of it," Miranda said, forcing the glass to my lips. "Believe me, you're going to need it."

The game resumed. Jack knocked in two more balls. I missed a shot and was told to surrender my other boot. All I had now was the ridiculous red skirt and a soaked blouse that let my tits show through. Jack only had the 8-ball to go, but he didn't sink it right away, making me climb up on the table and shoot while his friends got to watch my bare ass. I hadn't got a single ball in yet.

"Get used to being up there, honey," Jack whispered. "You're going to be spending a lot of time on this table tonight. On your back, and on your knees."

My hands shook so badly that I scratched again. My opponent didn't wait for me to take anything off, sinking the 8-ball to win the game.

"Your clothes are mine now," Jack said, coming at me. "And everything underneath them."

I looked for Miranda, only to see her standing at the front door. What was she doing? And then I found out. She waved at me with an evil smirk and disappeared, pulling the door shut.

My, God, I was thinking. I needed to say no, though I knew it wouldn't stop them. Could I beg for mercy? Run? Run where? Miranda had gotten me drunk and they all knew it. I stepped back, bumping into a fat oaf, and then threw up, spraying Jack's work shirt and pants.

"Goddamn bitch!" he yelled, grabbing my hair with one hand and tearing my blouse open with the other. It exposed my breasts and one shoulder, the rest of the blouse hanging by threads.

I used both hands, trying to cover up. Someone took hold of my arms. I struggled, but it was no use, being surrounded by a sea of lustful men. Tears were streaming down my face as they closed in.

"Time to get the bitch naked," Carlos said, reaching for the skirt. Though I fought back, his fingers were in the waistband, pulling the skirt down to my knees. I grabbed with both hands to stop him but he was stronger. I dissolved into a puddle before their eyes, whimpering without a friend in the world.

No, that wasn't true.

"That's enough," a tall good-looking man said, wearing gray slacks and a brown sportscoat.

"Mind your own damn business," Jack said, seeking to ignore him.

"Let the girl go. I won't warn you again," the man said. "No still means no."

"The slut hasn't said no," Carlos responded.

"I'm saying no for her," the apparition insisted, pushing both of them away from me. I was on the floor now, kneeling in my own vomit, gazing up at all of them. I could only see the man's back. Jack and Carlos were ready for a fight. The man peeled off his sportscoat as if ready to accommodate them. The drunks paused, angrily staring in surprise before retreating. Did he have a gun?

The bar was silent. Sam came running from behind the bar.

"Look, she was asking for it," Sam said. "Coming in here like this. Mouthing off to everyone."

"I didn't hear her mouth off to anyone," the tall man said. "Your red-headed friend did the mouthing off. Don't think I didn't see what happened here. If you want trouble, you've got it."

Sam needed to think on that for a moment, and then pulled Jack away. I struggled to tug the skirt back up.

"Excuse me, miss. My name is Ryan Sutherland. Can I take you someplace?"

I couldn't talk. He drew me off the floor, found my boots, and helped me out of that horrid place, leaving my underwear hanging on the light fixture. A score of disappointed drunks watched me go. One slapped my ass. Others made unkind remarks. I was surprised when none of them followed us to the sidewalk.

It was cool outside. I was unsteady, never good at holding my alcohol. We took a few steps, and then a few more. My first thought was to look for Donna, or Miranda. Were they watching? Taking pictures? The street was dark and empty. The rough sidewalk felt strange under my bare feet. When we passed a trashcan, I dumped the shiny boots inside.

Ryan led me toward the beach two blocks away where there was an outdoor shower. The shops were closed. Drunks lingered in the alleys. A few cars went by, none slowing down for the half naked woman stumbling through the city. When we reached the beach, I turned on the water to stand under the cold spray. What clothes I had left were ruined, the blouse nothing but a rag. I tore it off, bundling it into a ball and tossing the shreds on the sand. The hated skirt went next. I ripped it in half, throwing the pieces into the darkness. It left me standing naked before the strange man.

What does he want? I asked myself. What will he do to me now that we're out here alone? The yellow lightbulb was weak, but he appeared to have short dirty blond hair, a light stubble on his chin, and deep blue eyes. I'd have swooned if I hadn't been feeling so sick and terrified.

"You've had a rough night," Ryan said. "Can I take you home?"

"Not right away," I said, barely able to speak. Donna would be there. Probably Miranda. What would they put me through? What questions would they ask? Just thinking about another confrontation was causing me to hyperventilate. My hand gripped my chest. Another reached for the shower pole, seeking support. My legs grew weak as I found myself sinking to the cement floor, the drizzly water raining down on me.

* * * * * *

I woke up on a couch in a nice apartment, seeing daylight through the windows. The furniture was simple and sturdy. A family photo, mom, dad, young woman, and Ryan was mounted above the fireplace. There was a bookcase, lace curtains, and thick carpets. My body was in sweatpants and a t-shirt three times too big for me. A wool blanket covered my legs.

"At last. I thought you'd sleep all day," Ryan said, coming out of the kitchen. "Can I get you coffee? Tea? I'm guessing no bourbon."

I tried to laugh, though my head hurt. "No bourbon. Not ever again," I replied.

"Comfortable?"

"Yes. Nice family photo. No pictures of a wife or children?"

"I've never been married," he answered.

A few minutes later, he returned with two cups of coffee, putting one on the table in front of me and sitting in a chair nearby.

"Just so you know, I needed to clean you up last night. You were in bad shape. But nothing happened."

"You rescued me," I said, tears creeping into my eyes. He looked a little surprised at that. Like he was wondering if the tears were sincere or a woman's ploy. He was still dressed casually with a white-collar shirt, brown pants, and loafers. Kind of dorky.

"Can you tell me what that was all about? I'll wager you've never been in a bar like that before, certainly not dressed like a hooker."

"It was a--"

I was going to say I lost a bet. Or it was a dare. He would never believe either story, and I would feel like a fool saying it.

"I can't really explain."

"Your friend hung you out to dry," he said, leaning forward to study my response.

"She's no friend of mine," I bitterly answered, sipping the coffee.

"What's your name? You have no ID on you. You didn't even come in with a purse."

I briefly wondered how he had noticed that. "Tracy Anders. I work for Breton Real Estate in Lawndale," I said.

"You sell houses?" he asked.

"I process loan documents."

"You're a finance girl?"

"I have a business degree from Stanford."

"That's a good college. Wealthy parents?" he asked.

"Scholarship. My mom and dad own a small farm in Ohio. They aren't rich."

"What the hell were you doing on the waterfront at that hour?"

"Please don't ask me to explain. It wouldn't make any sense."

"How are you feeling? Injuries?"

"I don't think so," I replied, moving my arms and legs. My crotch was sore, probably from those perverts grabbing me. I didn't think it was more. Where had my skirt and blouse gone? I couldn't remember.

"You can file a complaint against that bar," he said. "They never should have allowed that to happen."

He was studying me again. Did he know Miranda had choreographed the event? And that I had entered willingly? Almost willingly?

"I wouldn't want my name revealed," I honestly answered. "It would be too embarrassing."

"They were taking pictures."

"But they don't know my name. I'd like to keep it that way."

"It's your decision, as much as I'd like to see those guys taken down."

"Why did they back off like that? A whole room of angry drunks."

"I can be convincing when I need to be," he answered. "What do you want to do? Would you like a ride home now?"

I kept waiting for him to make a move on me and felt disappointed when he didn't. He was really good-looking with a pleasant, masculine voice. The accent was tinged Midwestern, like mine.

"That would be nice, if it's not too much trouble," I agreed.

Ryan had a cozy condo in the Maplewood district not far from the county fairgrounds. I'd probably run past it a few times while jogging. We rode largely in silence, his two-year-old Honda Civic clean and comfortable. He watched me get out before my apartment building and nodded before driving off. It never occurred to me to ask how he knew where I lived.

Donna was not there when Ryan dropped me off. Did she think things had gone too far? I turned off my phone, drifted for an hour in the bathtub, and spent all day Sunday in bed trying to put the horror out of my mind. It wasn't easy. I didn't know what to do, fearing Donna's next mission might be even worse. I did know I hated her and Miranda to the very depths of my soul. If I was going to take a fall, I wanted to take them down with me.

* * * * * *

To my surprise, Ryan appeared at my office on Monday wearing a nice off-the-rack brown suit. I was at my desk, prim and proper in a new powder blue blouse and long black skirt, wearing my reading glasses. I greeted Ryan with a big smile.

"I just wanted to see how you're doing," he said, earning envious attention from my female co-workers.

"I'm doing so much better, thanks to you. Can I buy you lunch?" I asked.

"Lunch sounds terrific," he agreed with a soft grin.

I didn't take him to Racoon's, fearing Donna may be watching our favorite hangout. We went to a quaint Italian restaurant around the corner instead. I decided to skip my usual glass of wine, having club soda. Ryan drank water. He had lasagna. I ordered the house salad. We made small talk, mostly about my job. He didn't mention his.

"You are very pretty. You know that, don't you?" he offered.

"Thank you, sir," I said with a flattered smile.

"You must have lots of boyfriends," he suggested.

"No, no boyfriends," I said.

"Girlfriends?"

"I'm not gay. At least, not yet," I responded. His expression narrowed some on that, trying to guess what I meant.

"You seem so normal," he calmly remarked.

"As opposed to-- Oh, I see what you mean. As opposed to that crazy girl in the bar?"

"It's hard to see the shy office girl and the waterfront harlot as the same person," he said. "What is it with you and Mrs. Evans?"

"Who?"

"Miranda Evans," he clarified. I hadn't remembered that was her last name and had no idea she'd ever been married.

"We have a mutual acquaintance," I answered.

"Business acquaintance?" he pressed.

"You're asking a lot of questions."

"I'm just curious what kind of person would set you up in a dive bar to be gang raped," he explained with a touch of quiet anger.

"I don't really know her, and their business is none of my business, so I've never asked. Please, let's drop this."

"Okay," he reluctantly agreed. "Let's talk about fun stuff. Who is your fashion designer?"

I reacted with surprise and then felt his infectious smile. It took a bit of nerve for him to say such a thing.

"First let me ask who your fashion designer is. Walmart?" I responded.

"You are a sassy lass, aren't you," he said with a big laugh. "I bet you get in all kinds of trouble."

"More than I should," I replied, nibbling at my food.

It was nice pretending to be a regular girl for a moment, having lunch with a handsome man. Though I began to wonder. Is he too good? Is Ryan another of Donna's assets? Was that why she wasn't waiting for me outside the bar? Because she knew Ryan was watching me?

I began to feel uneasy, but Ryan was so nice. The kind of man I could never resist. Would he take me to his bed and then break my heart? Was this Donna's latest scheme? I would need to be careful.

* * * * * *

To be continued...

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