Original Skin by David Mark Read Free Book Online Page A

query about whether she touched herself when she woke up, and a one-line missive informing her that he is “so damn hard” at the thought of her.
    “Sweet,” says Suzie, hitting REPLY .
    She got talking to “Dom” last night, halfheartedly at first, distracted by the vampire movie she was watching on the laptop, then later with an enjoyable intensity.
    His advert on the website had been straight to the point. “Dominant male seeks under-30 playmate. Must be up for anything. Are you game? Put your body in my control. Be my rag doll.” He had put a little
x
at the end of the posting. She liked that.
    “Hey there,” she’d written in reply. “Saw your ad. Think we could have fun. Am twenty-six and Ok looking. Have played this game before. Love to be dominated and test myself to the limit. Am I your sort of girl?”
    Dom had replied within a minute. Told her he was “aching” to know more. Said he “yearned” for the taste of her. Was “consumed by a need to lick the tears from her face.” His words had a lyrical quality that Suzie approved of. Suzie likes words. Completed a year of an English-literature degree before her fiancé’s job moved them to Hull and they had decided that his new bumper wages made her continuing on the course a waste of time for both of them. When they split up not long after, she took solace in few things, but words were among them. She enrolled herself on a creative-writing course. Met the skinny, giggly, lovingly absurd little peacock who would become her best friend.
    Suzie enjoyed last night’s chat with Dom. He seemed genuine. She has been playing these games for a couple of years now and knows that, nine times out of ten, the blokes begging her to fulfill their every fantasy when they’re texting each other’s brains out will chicken out before meeting up. She has had text sex with countless online finds, but only a handful have had the bottle to say hello in the flesh, and fewer still have been able to deliver on their promises.
    “I want you to make me cry.”
    Suzie presses SEND . Waits a minute. Hopes for an immediate response.
    This is the thrill of it. For her, it is not the sex itself. It is the game of it all. The naughtiness. The apprehension and excitement that make her shiver and wriggle as she checks her screen time and again, waiting for a new message, like a wartime bride awaiting a love letter.
    Are you a big brave girl? You want to show me what you’ve got?
    Suzie grins as she reads the message and takes another sip of her juice before replying. She had half expected last night’s flurry of messages to be a one-off. She is used to the swift curtailment of her cybersex: all too often the result of a spouse coming home early or knocking on the bathroom door.
    “I am yours to command.”
    She stares at the screen for a moment, and when no answer is immediately forthcoming, she opens up one of the Internet pages stored in her FAVORITES section. She looks at the latest tattoo designs and wonders whether she would suit the small posy of dandelion seeds highlighted as the “tattoo of the day.” She isn’t sure. Her tattoos are all designs she has created herself, though it is the lilies and pink cherry blossoms that wind from the backs of her thighs to the nape of her neck of which she is most proud. She and her friend had gone on the same day: he to be adorned with peacock feathers, she to become a Chinese garden. The results were stunning. The tattooist couldn’t stop smiling. Took their pictures from every angle and asked if they would mind him using the images in his promotional material. They had preened and agreed, loving their own prettiness.
    Want to see what you can do.
    The message flashes up in the corner of the screen. She wrinkles her nose in disappointment. She has a limited amount of time. Wants him to send something not just suggestive, but filthy and obscene.
    “Anything.”
    The memory of the day of blissful agony in the tattoo parlor brings