The days after the photo shoot were a mess of confusion for me.
I tried hard to concentrate at work, but showing properties and getting my commissions were the last thing I was able to focus on during that time. I was barely able to function cognitively at all. Every piece of spare mental energy I had was spent reconciling the depraved actions I had undertaken and the intense but terrifying feelings and desires that they had awoken in me.
Had I really said and done those things? Had I really transformed from suburban wife to some kind of desperate cock-craving whore over the course of one afternoon? I just couldn't wrap my head around how it had happened, and how I had been so complicit in my own swift demise.
The other thing that changed for me was my sexual behaviour. In the bedroom I was more frustrated than ever. To be honest my husband and I didn't make love that often anyway, but this frustration was now overlaid with the fact that his "vanilla" approach just didn't seem to do it for me at all any more.
And worse, I found I was locking myself away and masturbating at least twice daily - sometimes more often. And each time all I could think about was Paul, his demeaning language and his dismissive, arrogant but somehow compelling aura, as I performed wanton sexual acts on command for his camera, stuck somewhere halfway between a porn star and a trained seal. I would often finish these masturbation sessions deeply ashamed and humiliated, quietly weeping at my own lack of moral fortitude. I would frequently resolve to put these thoughts out of my mind. Which I did, until a few hours later when I became insatiably aroused again, and the cycle of masturbation and shame started afresh.
And then it came. As I knew it would. As I knew it HAD to.
A plain white rectangular package arrived at work. I discovered it when I returned to the office from a morning out running open inspections to pick up some paperwork for my afternoon client visits.
When I filled out the various paperwork/waivers etc for my "modelling" job (yeah - right), for some reason I had put my work rather than my home address as my primary contact. Some lightning burst of intuition had made me do it. Whatever the reason, at that precise moment I silently thanked my lucky stars, because I was certain I knew what would be in the package. And I was quite certain it was something I definitely didn't want going home to hubby.
The package had been left for me on my desk by our receptionist, Alyssa. It was addressed to me by name, care of the office, and the address label had been printed out of a word processor. There was no return address on the package, but none was needed, I knew where it had come from.
As was often the case during the day, no-one else was in the office except for Alyssa. She was right out the front behind the reception desk, and with a closed door between her and me in the inner office where all the salespeople worked, I knew I was unlikely to be disturbed as I ripped open the paper packaging with trembling hands.
And sure enough, a DVD in plastic casing fell out of my hands onto my desk with a quiet clatter.
The casing of the DVD was clear plastic, it did not have a title or pictures like one you might buy or hire. The DVD itself was also blank looking, just plain silver. However inside the casing was a folded handwritten note. I opened up the plastic container and read the following:
"Impressive. You might want to discuss your future. Regards, Paul."
Beneath this short note was his phone number. I still had it in my phone from our initial session.
Although I had been anticipating this moment, the reality of it came crashing down on me hard. For a second I felt like I couldn't breathe - and my head was spinning with emotions of fear, anger, confusion and I'll admit, arousal. Questions were running through my mind so fast, and my silly head wouldn't be calm and quietly long enough to allow me to focus and answer them.
How many copies of this film were there?
Had he put this on the internet?
What exactly was in those damn release forms I signed when I went to the studio? I hardly read them I was that nervous...
Had he sent other copies elsewhere - to my house? No, he didn't have my address...I thought...hoped.
What were the exact things I actually said and did, and how much of it was captured on camera, and in what level of detail? I mean, I was sober and complicit, but I was in such a heightened state of arousal and shame that my exact memory of what occurred had dimmed slightly...how bad was it? Oh god - was it as bad as I thought? Worse?
When is the first chance I'll have to watch this without being interrupted?
And the big one...what was he going to do next, and what did he want from me?
