Blackmailed Exhibitionist Pt. 08

An adventurous young woman faces her final challenge

24-year-old Tracy Anders' best friend has been using blackmail to compel her to ever more difficult missions, but now the battle between Tracy and Donna is reaching its conclusion. As this series progressed, some elements have grown darker, though this final episode is somewhat lighter. And let's be clear, this is a fantasy, not real life. There is nudity but no sex. The characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * * * *

Chapter Eight

Fighting to the End

I woke up in my own bed. In my own apartment. The handcuffs were gone, and I was in pajamas. Not my pajamas. Cotton. Very soft. My knees and elbows were wrapped. A bandage nearly covered my left eye. I didn't hear anyone else. What the hell?

I tried getting up, but it was hard. My body didn't want to move. I rolled on my side, slid off the bed to my knees, and tried to stand. That wasn't working so well, either. I heard the front door. Was it Donna? Hopefully not Miranda and her thugs. I considered ducking into the closet but even crawling that far was impossible. I was doomed.

"Tracy? What are you doing out of bed?"

It was Ryan, carrying groceries. I looked up in disbelief before bursting into tears. The handsome police detective set the bag down to take me in his arms.

"It's okay, it's okay, you're safe now," he whispered, stroking my hair. It had been washed by someone. I was still crying, unable to stop. He pressed me against his chest. "I know how scared you must have been. Please understand that from the moment I realized you were gone, every cop in the city was looking for you. Miranda's henchmen got away, but it's just a matter of time until we catch them."

"How did I get here?" I asked, sniffling.

"That's a little complicated."

I was lifted back on the bed. Tucked in. Ryan went to the kitchen with the groceries and returned with a cup of Earl Grey. "This will help settle you down." I sipped slowly.

"Thank you. Were you here all night?"

"Yes, I slept on your couch." He reached over to the dresser, retrieving several bottles of pills and a glass of water. "You need to take these."

"What are they?" I asked.

"A pain killer, antibiotics, and a sedative."

"Why?" I questioned.

"Tracy, you were banged up pretty bad last night. You need rest now."

"I am a little sore," I confessed.

"Only a little?"

"Okay, maybe a little more than sore. Last night is kind of a blur."

I noticed Ryan looking at me with the strangest expression.

"What is it?" I asked.

"What do you remember?"

"You and I were in the restaurant, and then Miranda lured me into the alley. She kidnapped me, stole my clothes, and said she was going to torture me. I really didn't like that idea, so I jumped out the window of her car and started running. Carl and that other guy eventually found me in a store somewhere. I think Carl was going to shoot me. Then police cars showed up and they ran away."

"We have surveillance video from the mini-mart. It's not public yet, but everyone in the department is sharing it."

"That is so embarrassing. I must look like a mess," I said, wondering if my hair was brushed.

"Sweetheart, you put your body between an armed assailant and a wounded police officer. You sat there, on your knees, willing to take a bullet for Officer Franklin. She thinks you're crazy, but she's also very grateful. We all are."

Ryan was choking up. I knew the bond between the men and women serving in uniform was strong. A thin blue line. Such loyalties run deep.

"I don't know. I wasn't really thinking, just reacting. They were after me. It didn't seem right that someone else should be hurt. How is she?"

"Pam is okay, just bruised. Her vest stopped the bullet. She was the one who chased you to the alley, covered you with a blanket, and carried you to a patrol car. She says you weigh nothing and need to put on weight."

I laughed a little. My mother always said that, too.

"That's better. I'm glad to see the light coming back in your eyes," he said, taking my hand. "You were ... you were in bad shape when we brought you home. Our doctor had to tranquilize you before treating those injuries."

"Was it that bad?" I asked.

"I may owe you an apology. A doctor wanted to keep you under observation overnight. In a mental ward. For a psych evaluation. I said no. I told him that by this morning, you'd have it back together and be ready for a fight. Am I forgiven?"

I tried not to smile.

"You've studied me very closely, Detective Sutherland," I teased. "Is there anything about me you don't know?"

"I know that under your quiet exterior, there's a fighter," he answered. "I suspect a woman of terrific passions, and inherent decency. A woman who's embarrassed when she puts herself before others. And a person who wants to see Miranda taken down. Am I wrong?"

"You told the doctor the truth, detective. I am absolutely ready to get back in the game," I answered, trying to straighten up. "What else do you need to know?"

"Something important," he whispered, suddenly leaning forward to give me a kiss. A light one. I looked at him, wanting more. He pulled me close for a far more passionate embrace, blissfully robbing me of my breath.

"I was so afraid of losing you," he muttered, squeezing me tightly. "What you did. Escaping from the car. Evading them until we could get there. Staring Carl Mathers down while he was pointing a gun at you. That was very courageous. It was your best run yet."

"Are my runs becoming famous?" I asked.

"I can't talk about that. Not now. Just so you know, we brought you back here so Donna wouldn't discover you've been speaking with us. We don't want her warning Miranda. You might consider this an undercover operation."

Ryan's phone issued an alert. "It's Donna. Can you handle her?" Ryan asked.

"I think so. I sure won't tell her about you," I replied.

"I'll be in the closet again, listening. There are two detectives in the apartment across the courtyard, and a patrol car standing by, so you have nothing to be afraid of."

"Ryan, I'm always afraid. I have been since this nightmare started. But thanks for trying to help."

He disappeared into the hall closet. A moment later, I heard a key turning in my front door. Donna entered holding frosted donuts and a bottle of wine.

"Oh, good, you're awake," she said, sitting on the foot of the bed. Then she noticed the bandages. "My God, honey, what happened to you?"

"I fell down a flight of stairs. It's nothing," I answered.

"Tell me about you and Miranda. She said you were on a mission last night and ran off. I didn't schedule a mission."

"It was just a misunderstanding," I said. "Miranda is such a nice lady. She must have become confused."

* * * * * *

Donna decided to wait an extra week before scheduling another mission. She wanted a naked streaker, not a bandaged escapee from an emergency room. But finally, she announced there was a new plan. The biggest one yet. I realized it would be the last one and put my affairs in order. I cleaned my apartment so Mrs. Johnson wouldn't have to. Wrapped up projects at work. I wrote personal notes to friends, leaving them in a box on my kitchen table. Mementos and photographs were packed and addressed to my parents in Ohio. After seeing pictures of their naked slut daugther that Donna threatened to release on the internet, I didn't know if they'd ever talk to me again, but I had no place else to send them.

Ryan asked me out on a date, still posing as an insurance adjuster. I didn't know if he wanted to see me, or if he needed an update on Miranda, who I hadn't seen since the kidnapping attempt. He was looking better than ever. Tall and handsome like a 30-year-old football player. I was stressed, nervously toying with the collar Donna made me wear.

"Good news," Ryan whispered over club sandwiches at his favorite deli. "We caught Carl Mathers and Jeepers Sanderson. Several more, too. Gathered in a warehouse behind Poppin's Department Store. We're still looking for Miranda." I briefly glanced over my shoulder, as if Miranda might be standing there. Which Ryan noticed.

"Poppin's? Does that mean Donna is involved?" I asked.

"We don't have proof of that yet. We're keeping everything under the radar for now. Just keep talking to her. She may reveal more than she thinks."

"I'll try. You know I'm not a good spy," I confessed.

"Don't worry, we have that covered," he replied.

* * * * * *

Donna was unusually quiet as we drove downtown on a Wednesday afternoon. She wore jeans and a pullover sweatshirt despite the warm weather. I was in a long plastic windbreaker and tennis shoes. And nothing else.

"Going to explain the mission?" I finally asked.

"When we get there. You've gotten so good at escaping that I won't divulge anything prematurely," she answered.

"You can still call this off," I hinted. "We were friends once. That could still mean something."

"We will always be friends, Tracy. But I need to do this. I can't say why because I don't know. I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you have," I replied.

"You have hurt me, too. We'll need to see how this plays out."

That left me a small hope that maybe Donna would change her mind, though it certainly wasn't anything I was counting on. And then I saw our destination.

"The ballpark?"

"Yes, the Seals are playing the Giants today. It will be a sell-out crowd," Donna confirmed. "Forty thousand people. All there to see you."

"Oh, no. Please, you can't do that," I pleaded, having no strategy for such a challenge.

"Already done. We have box seats only a few rows behind the home team dugout. Very expensive, and worth every penny."

The ballpark was downtown not far from the fairgrounds where I'd made my daring leap from a Ferris wheel only a month before. The videos were still popular on the internet, with speculation about the naked stunt woman's identity. Ryan knew, which meant the police department probably knew, but they weren't saying.

We pulled through the entrance, paying way too much money to park. I studied the chain-link fences, and exits, and possible escape routes. Donna noticed.

"Not this time," she said. "We're playing by my rules now."

"How is Miranda doing? Is she playing by your rules?"

"What do you know about that?"

"More than you think. Her crew has been arrested and she's on the run now. How long until she rats you out?"

"She may have faked the evidence of you stealing the bags from Neiman Marcus, but I can prove she was the real thief," Donna answered. "Miranda is no threat to me."

"And what about me?" I asked.

"What about you?"

"I didn't fall down any stairs. Miranda kidnapped me. Stripped and handcuffed me. Carl almost shot me. All because she thinks getting rid of me will silence you."

Donna was quiet. I don't know if she believed me, and didn't really care. I was going to be arrested today. Probably sent to prison. Donna thought I would come to her begging for help, but I'd already decided that would never happen. Whether she realized it or not, we were together for the last time.

We parked in a huge lot with thousands of other cars. Fans were entering the stadium with their team jerseys, hats, and banners. Donna put a floppy red straw hat on my head and a yellow straw hat on her own. We waited in a long line until we reached the gate. It was a good crowd, excited about the big game. When we reached the gate, the ticket taker gave me a long look. Did he suspect I was naked under the windbreaker? We were held up several minutes while passing through the security scanner. It would be embarrassing if they asked me to remove the jacket.

Once inside, we passed the hot dog stands and pizza vendors. Hawkers were selling souvenirs. The restrooms were already full. I remembered Angela and Carla helping me in the restroom at Sullivan Park just before the water show. I would have been caught that day if not for their amazing ingenuity.

Suddenly, Donna gave our floppy hats to two little girls, stopping to buy baseball caps instead. It seemed odd, though having a Seals hat was fun. Red always looked good on me. I tugged the hat down against a light breeze, glad not to be handcuffed.

It was a beautiful ballpark, with thick green grass and flags waving. We walked down a long aisle to the box seats, passing thirty rows of boisterous fans only minutes from gametime. Donna's seats were only twelve rows behind the Seal's dugout. I would have loved these seats if I was going to be watching the game. We squeezed past a middle-aged couple to settle in, apologizing for making them lean back.

"Do we have time for peanuts?" I asked. "How about a beer?"

"No," Donna grouchily replied, looking in all directions. She seemed nervous. Then she showed her phone to me. My photos were loaded and ready to send.

"This is how it will go," she quietly explained, taking my tennis shoes. "This is the biggest game of the year. Everyone is here. When the Marine Corps Band finishes playing the Star-Spangled Banner, I will pull that jacket off of you. You will run down the aisle, climb up on the dugout roof, and jump to the field. You will then run to home plate, wave your arms, run to the pitcher's mound and wave your arms again, and head for centerfield. Miranda is there waiting for you. She'll open the gate, help you into a van, and drive off. If you are fast enough."

I knew Miranda wasn't at the centerfield gate. There was no van. Donna wanted to see the expression on my face when I was trapped in the outfield with no escape. Being grabbed by angry security guards. Dragged away naked, humiliated before forty thousand cheering fans. I needed to fight back tears.

"One last thing," Donna said, ready to launch her most evil demand yet.

"Which is?"

"When you reach the pitcher's mound, I want you to shout, "Death to America."

"No! No, I will never do that!" I objected.

"You can, and you will. Now calm down before you draw attention," she insisted.

"My father was in the Navy. Your father was a veteran, too. You can't seriously think I would ever say that?"

"I can and I do. Because if I press this key, your father will never speak to his shameless slut prostitute daughter again."

"I don't see how I can do this," I whimpered.

"You have no choice but to try. What? No clever backup plan? No ingenious disguise? No gullible fools to help you escape?"

"No, I know you've won," I conceded.

"Nothing to say?" she gloated.

"Only that this game cost me my best friend, and that will always make me sad."

Donna stared at me, speechless. Before she could say anything, the band started playing. The U. S. Marines wore sharp blue uniforms with gold buttons. Flags were flying. Drums, pipes, and horns sounded. Student cadets were frozen at attention. The ball players lined up outside the dugouts, watching as the audience stood with hats removed. I had my hand over my heart.

The song ended. The band lowered their instruments. The flag bearers began to move off the field. The players retreated into their dugouts out of view.

This was the time. My last moment of freedom. I stood up, and without Donna's urging, pulled the windbreaker off, throwing it into the rows behind me. Then I squeezed past the startled couple, my bare ass brushing their knees saying, "Sorry. Sorry."

I stepped out into the aisle. Dozens, and then hundreds of eyes turned in my direction, seeing a nude woman standing among them. And why wouldn't they look? I was in my prime. Pretty. Shapely. Long hair down to my shoulders. I made no effort to cover myself, giving the unsuspecting audience everything they could ask for. And then I started running down the stairs toward the field, my pink butt wiggling. If they were expecting an excited streaker looking for a thrill, they were disappointed. I was wiping tears from my eyes as I sprinted toward the dugout and jumped on the roof, prepared for my final disgrace. I was not going to shout what Donna wanted. Never. Let her send the photos.

I never reached the field. As I made my leap, a giant baseball player suddenly appeared in front of me. It was Yoshi Takamura, the famous Japanese all-star. He caught me in mid-air, clutching me over his shoulder. Someone threw a blanket over me. It was as if they knew exactly what I was going to do. I was carried down into the dugout, through dreary green corridors, and without a word, deposited on a cot in a back room. The door closed, leaving me naked under a fleece blanket and a white light bulb.

* * * * * *

It seemed like hours, but it was probably only ten minutes when the door opened. More lights came on. I had been sobbing so hard my eyes were glassy. Rumbling noises from the stadium shook the room, though I couldn't make out any distinct sounds. I wondered if I could make a break for it, until seeing a dozen cops clogging the hall, gesturing and chattering like magpies.

A tall policewoman entered wearing a sharp blue uniform and a gold badge. Handcuffs hung from her belt. She wasn't carrying any clothes for me. It started me crying again, clinging to the blanket like my life depended on it.

"What's wrong, honey?" she asked, closing the door behind her.

"Am I going to be perp-walked like this? Naked through the stadium? In front of all those people?" I whimpered.

"No! For God's sake, honey, no. Don't you remember me?" she asked.

"No, I'm sorry."

"I am Officer Pamela Franklin. You tried to take a bullet for me."

"In that store," I vaguely recalled. It took me a moment to put that together.

"That's right. And now I am here to protect you. I requested this assignment," she said. "No one is going to hurt you or embarrass you, I swear it."

"It won't matter. My life is already ruined," I replied. "Something bad has happened. It won't be long before everyone knows."

"I don't care what anyone knows, or thinks they know, or what they say," Officer Franklin said, kneeling next to the cot and taking my hand. "I know what I saw. I saw a courageous young woman put her life on the line for me. Nothing will ever change that."

A few minutes later, the door opened again. As Officer Franklin stood back keeping guard, a tall woman in a nice charcoal gray suit entered. I had met her before.

"Mistress Huntress?" I asked in confusion. She offered an amused smile.

"I have another name," she replied. "Katherine McEnroe, assistant district attorney."

I stared at her, uncomprehending. Katherine's expression changed as she realized how clueless I was. She sat on the cot, tucked the blanket tighter, and wrapped her arms around me. The sudden warmth was surprising. And comforting.

"Tracy, I am so sorry we couldn't act sooner. And sorry that, in the beginning, I didn't believe you," she softly said. "When Ryan told me about all of this, I thought you were a member of Miranda's gang manipulating him. After watching you these last few weeks, I know how wrong I was. Please forgive me."

"Watching me?" I asked.

"That's not a slave collar you're wearing; it's a surveillance device. Ryan said you wouldn't make a good spy, so we came up with another plan. The department has been recording audio, video, and your location from the moment I pretended to be a dominatrix and locked it around your neck in that sex shop."

It took me a moment to realize what she was saying, but I had no idea what it meant.

"Am I still going to prison?" I wondered.

"Sweetheart, no. No, of course not. You've been cleared of everything," Katherine assured me. "We have Donna and Miranda under arrest with a mountain of evidence, thanks to you. And those scrapbooks you sent Ryan allowed us to get a court order to seize the fake photos you guys made, not that we needed it."

"What? What about the photos?"

"Donna must have suspected something. We were following you the whole time and had stadium security on alert looking for you. We tracked you when you were coming through the gate. It threw us off for a moment when Donna switched hats, but your collar gave away your location. We were able to hear her entire plan. Let me ask, were you going to shout, 'Death to America'?"

"Never. And Donna knew I wouldn't. That's when I knew it was over."

"Ryan told us your greatest fear was those sex photos getting out, which is why we delayed the arrests. We had a jamming device in case Donna tried to post them, but she deleted them instead."

"Donna did what?"

"She deleted your files. The photos. The videos. The fake evidence. She deleted all of it," Katherine explained. "She may have wanted to avoid blackmailing charges, or maybe she never had any intention of using them. We don't know."

The door opened again. The hallway was still filled with people, but I only saw Ryan. I rushed to hug him but found him cool. My happiness at finally being free faded. He noticed.

"Can we have a few minutes?" he asked.

Katherine and Pamela discreetly departed, closing the door on their way out.

"It's okay, Detective Sutherland, I understand now," I said, dropping back down on the cot. The blanket fell on the floor, leaving me exposed, but I didn't care. I did use a corner of it to wipe my sniffles.

"What do you understand, Tracy?" he said, kneeling next to me. And pulling the blanket up.

"You only pretended to like me to capture Miranda and her gang. It was your job. Thank you for helping me. I would have gone to prison if not for you."

"I think you underestimate our criminal justice system. The truth would have come out eventually, and you would have been cleared. Embarrassing photos might have been released, but you never would have been convicted of those crimes. And as bad as running naked through the streets might sound, in this city it's only a misdemeanor."

"What happens now?" I wondered.

"The stadium is finding clothes for you. Compliments of the Seals. Once you're properly dressed, we'll take you home. You can go to work on Monday if you want to. You'll need to deal with your fans. Now that your identity is public, Tracy Anders websites are popping up everywhere."

"Tracy what?"

"On the internet. You already have a hundred thousand hits."

"Websites!" I shouted.

"You are famous," Ryan replied, offering his phone. The images showed my panicked flight through Sandusky Mall. My performance in the water fountain at Sullivan Park. My daring jump from the Ferris wheel. Even my fake tears at the Racoon Diner. And now the most recent scandal, my desperate leap off the dugout roof into Yoshi Takamura's arms in front of 40,000 screaming fans. And Yoshi's winning grin as he caught me. This was going to be so embarrassing.

"Thank you for being so nice to me when I needed it," I said.

"Nice? Is that all this is? Don't you want to keep seeing me?" he asked.

"Of course I do, but just now--"

"Tracy, there are reporters in the hall. I didn't want them taking pictures of us until we're ready," Ryan said. "And once we are ready, I want the whole world to see us together."

I was so happy that I threw the blanket away and crawled into his lap, getting the kiss I craved for. And planning to get a lot more.

* * * * * *

Life can play funny tricks on us. Apparently running nude isn't quite so scandalous as I thought, provided it's done tastefully. Magazines offered money to share my experiences, and I wasn't shy about agreeing. Morning shows interviewed me. There were webcasts. My bosses at Breton Real Estate transferred me to the sales department to show fabulously rich buyers around expensive homes. I never take my clothes off, but the clients remain hopeful.

My feeble attempt to protect Officer Franklin in the mini-mart put me in good graces with the police department. I haven't gone on any runs lately, but if I do, it's unlikely I'll be arrested. To help with their fundraising, I'm posing for a nude calendar in the fall. After all, it's for a good cause.

Ryan and I dated for six months before moving in together. I love him like nothing else in the world, and it turns out my eccentric hobby has boosted his career. I think he's going to propose.

After ten months in a mental ward, and two more in county jail, Donna was being considered for parole. I went to visit her, being escorted to a private room. I could have requested she be handcuffed to the table but thought that was going too far.

"Tracy, dearest, thank you so much for coming," she said, cautiously standing before me in an olive-green jumpsuit. She had lost weight. Her eyes looked sad. I didn't hesitate to give her a heartfelt hug. We sat down at the table close enough to brush knees.

"I hear they are letting you out in a few weeks," I mentioned.

"Well, Miranda was the one doing the stealing. I only offered to rent her storage space. It helped that I turned state's evidence before she did," Donna replied with a quiet smirk. "Thank you for not opposing my parole."

"Thank you for not sending those photos," I responded.

"I'm not sure if I ever would have. I like to think I wouldn't. When the police were closing in, I deleted them so they wouldn't end up in evidence somewhere. I'm so sorry I went crazy. And even more sorry that I hurt you."

I could tell Donna was sincere. We had known each other for a long time.

"What are you plans?" I inquired.

"That's harder to know. The bank foreclosed on my house. The one my parents left me. I won't have a job, and my money went to lawyers. But something will turn up."

"Can we be friends again?" I asked.

"Friends? Why in the world would you ever want to be friends with me again?" she exclaimed.

"I feel like I got you into this, and you did push me like I asked you to. Even if you pushed a little too hard."

"A little? Tracy, I was a fucking lunatic! But yes, I would so much like to be friends again, if you'll let me."

"That makes me happy," I said with relief. "I was the one who bought your house at the foreclosure sale. It's yours again. Pay me back when you can."

"You? You bought my house?"

"Yes. And Mr. Washington is willing to give you your job back at Poppin's."

Donna stared at me like I must be lying.

"Why would he do that?" she asked.

"I offered to make personal appearances free of charge," I said. "It will be fun."

"Personal appearances? What are you talking about?" Donna pressed.

"I'm sort of a celebrity. So many offers are coming in, I need to hire an agent. Hey, maybe you can help me with that? You were always good at business."

"Wait, wait, wait, this is coming too fast," Donna said, shaking her head. "You're making money from all those things that happened?"

"Oh, yes, really crazy money," I answered with a sigh. "The world is such a strange place."

* * * * * * * *

The end.

Author's note: Thank you to readers who have supported this series