Public Display of Everything

Public Display of Everything by Cara Dee Read Free Book Online

Book: Public Display of Everything by Cara Dee Read Free Book Online
Authors: Cara Dee
    Regardless, I click on the feed and end up with a mile-long list of messages. They're all about me. Some described what they were seeing, some took pictures…two filmed. Wading through comments about my physique and requests to see more, I steel myself before I open up the last video, captioned, "Full video."
    As I push play, I can't help but wonder if Flynn has watched it.
    Wishful thinking.
    The next day, I show up at Flynn's place with a bag from Tesco full of snacks. His building faces Hyde Park, and with the sun shining brightly, it feels a little odd to be heading indoors for a whole day of watching movies, but I'm not gonna complain. In fact, this couldn’t be better.
    Flynn buzzes me in, and I walk up three flights of stairs—not even the rich and famous can count on having an elevator—before I come face-to-face with his door. Now is the perfect opportunity to get Public Display of More out of my head, because since yesterday, it seems it's all I can think about.
    Nothing shows the slightest indication that Flynn has watched the video of me, which frustrates me, which makes me feel arrogant— why don’t you wanna look at me beating off, Flynn? —which cracks me up at my own insanity, which I ignore by getting hard and getting off.
    Yeah…that’s new. Yesterday I discovered that the thought of Flynn filming me makes me hard as a rock.
    Can't really help it, though. On another page, appropriately titled "The Studio," I'd found Flynn's members putting up clips of themselves. Similar to "Live Online," except these were more orchestrated and rehearsed. Like amateur porn with a voyeur theme, and not live.
    One woman had filmed her husband from the inside of a closet while he was on the bed fucking himself with a dildo. Another couple had obviously been engaged in role-play, and the video was of a woman dressed in clothes for younger girls; she was on a couch, waiting for "Uncle Fred" to visit. Meanwhile, the man was already there, filming her from the staircase.
    These images keep fucking with me.
    Turning me on.
    "I blame it all on you, Flynn," I mutter to myself and knock on his door.
    Only a couple seconds later, Flynn rips the door open, a bright smile on his face. "Hello, Cory."
    I smile back and remove my shades. "Hey, you." It's simply impossible to be a downer in his presence. I hold up the bag from the grocery store. "I come bearing snacks."
    "Exceptional." He opens the door wider to let me in. It smells like lemon air freshener, fabric softener, and whatever scent Flynn uses on himself—shampoo, deodorant, aftershave. "I've Googled movie marathons, so I'm prepared, too."
    I chuckle and shrug out of my flannel shirt and sneakers, leaving me in jeans and a T-shirt. "What kind of preparations?"
    "This way." He speaks as he guides me through the apartment. "I wanted to make sure I got the right movies, appropriate clothes, and best food for a day such as this one."
    Appropriate clothes?
    I grin and sneak a peek into the living room. It looks simple enough, aside from the arched windows and the fireplace in the corner. Jesus . Someday, I want a place like this. It's not extravagant, but still with an upper-crust feeling. White walls, hardwood floors that look rustic with age, a large entertainment center with a TV, a cozy-looking couch… Yeah, I want.
    "This is a nice place," I comment, peering down a hallway. There are three doors, presumably leading to bedrooms and a bathroom. There was one bathroom in the entryway, too. At least I think so; there was a brass sign with the letters "WC" on it.
    "Thank you. It used to be Grant and Amy's. Well, I lived here then, too. Now it's only me. Amy lives closer to work."
    Behind his matter-of-fact words, I sense that air of loneliness again.
    I hate it and wish I could take it away.
    We reach the kitchen, and it's fairly small, but that’s not surprising. Houses in London are either narrow as fuck and have like three stories, or they're simply compact.

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