Chapter Three #2
She used a cloth to remove the rest of her eye makeup.
Something about Blake was unsettling, like he was hiding something.
Nothing malicious, nothing that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
When you talked to some people, it was clear you were getting their full, honest self.
And some people gave the impression that you were only seeing a carefully cultivated version of who they were, packaged for you. That was Blake.
Eye makeup gone, she leaned in to meet her own gaze in the mirror.
She was the same way. She didn’t like letting people get too close.
Even her sister, Cora, who had been with her through the most difficult times of their lives, received a sanitized version of her personality: optimistic and in control, confident that things would be all right.
She broke her own gaze and turned to the toothpaste instead. There was nothing wrong with keeping parts of oneself only for oneself. She shouldn’t feel guilty about not letting people get too close. Especially not someone like Blake, who was her roommate above all else.
Back in her room, her residual drunkenness finally gone, she pulled on a pajama shorts set and reviewed the paperwork from Chauvel.
He had clearly laid out the conditions of the agreement without specifying the actual content; it was a generic contract she might see for any short writing gig, and it looked fair enough.
The delivery date felt soon, but she had time.
Also, she could break the contract, although breaking the contract would come with “forfeiture of any and all fees and benefits of their partnership.” Obviously, the specific benefits were left unwritten: whatever legally questionable measures Chauvel was undertaking to keep their money liquid, he wasn’t going to share, and she didn’t particularly want to know.
She forwarded the paperwork to her lawyer, Wiggins, for examination, then leaned back in her desk chair. She might as well start investigating the Scarlet Pimpernel.
He wasn’t hard to find; his website was the first link that came up in her search bar.
Before she clicked through, she scanned the rest of the results page: all info about the scarlet pimpernel plant, which she’d never heard of before.
The preview images displayed a small orange flower amidst nondescript leafy foliage.
She left the horticulture and went to the Pimpernel’s website.
The banner was simple, a beige background color and a swirling maroon font displaying his name.
She’d been expecting all blacks and grays, but this color scheme reminded her more of a historical novel than a kink site.
The home page didn’t have visible kink at all: links to a blog, an online shop, a bio, and that was it.
He had a sparse contact page, with one of those questionable forms that may or may not reach its intended audience.
She started with his bio, if one could even call it that.
The Scarlet Pimpernel is the pseudonym of a kink writer and educator in the Boston area.
He enjoys reading and spending time outdoors.
Wow, buddy, don’t give too much away. Of course, his domain was masked, as she’d expect from someone who wanted to remain anonymous.
His blog appeared to be all stories, and it was active: the most recent story was posted earlier that afternoon.
What started as a skim read immediately slowed down, her attention caught by the scenario he spun out in his story.
Maggie would never do something like the main character, meeting an anonymous guy in a hotel room, but the fantasy pleasantly blurred her lines of acceptable behavior.
Her heart quickened with anticipation and nervousness, as if it was her on that bed; blindfolded, yielding.
She could imagine the deep pleasure of getting touched exactly how she liked it, the frustration of that absolutely maddening ending where he left her on the verge of climax.
Maggie chugged more water, throat and face burning. This was supposed to be research. She hadn’t thought that research would turn her on.
Leaving the tab open, she clicked through various social media platforms. The Scarlet Pimpernel, or at least someone by that name, had a presence on almost all of them. All he did was share links to his blog post stories. No other real content.
She chose a platform and scrolled back, finding his first post about eight months ago.
She traced his blog entries back to about the same time.
Whoever he was, he apparently sprang into existence last winter.
Maybe there were signs of him elsewhere on the internet before that, though. She could start digging.
Or she could go right to the source and try to contact him.
She set up a new anonymous email address: going along with his flower motif, she called herself Curious Rose.
Enjoying your work, she wrote in his contact form. You’re a talented writer. I’m new to kink, but your blog makes me think I might like it. Then she clicked send.
At least she’d taken a step.
She drew circles with her mouse pointer in a corner of the screen, idly staring at the website headers, before clicking over to his online store.
He had a storefront through an online bookseller with ten novellas for sale, plus a few bundles of short stories.
All of them were published in the last eight months.
That was an impressive pace. Maggie had never tried to write a novel or novella, but the equivalent in articles would take her a lot longer than this guy was averaging, even without research.
She glanced up at the tabs on her browser. Her new email tab had a (1) next to it.
The Scarlet Pimpernel had written back. Thank you, the email read. I hope you enjoy the stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.
He was online right now. She quickly typed up a reply. How long have you been doing this? Your blog is pretty new. It was an easy question to answer, so hopefully he’d stay online and write back.
Her body hummed with quiet excitement just from starting down this road.
Another email! Her flash of excitement was perfectly normal, she told herself.
The online part of things is new, he wrote, but the kink isn’t. I’ve always known this is part of me. Some people always know and some people figure it out later, like you. I’m glad my blog might be helpful. It wasn’t why I originally started it, but it’s a nice side effect.
This was starting to feel like a real conversation.
Too bad email was slow. If he would chat with her, even over text, she could …
what, explore a little? Did they still call it cybersex?
Much like the username she’d chosen, she was curious, too curious not to push on.
She typed and deleted a few starting sentences before going for it.
Would you be willing to chat by text, or app maybe?
His reply email came back almost immediately.
OK, but don’t get your hopes up. His message was accompanied by a link to a profile on an anonymous chat app.
Maggie switched to her phone and downloaded the app.
These authentication things took forever: verifying her email address, setting her up with a username, blah blah, until finally she was looking at a very simple profile page.
His avatar was a red S in the font from his website header.
She couldn’t sit still and got up to pace while typing.
Thanks, this is easier, she wrote.
Yup.
Somewhat terse, but OK. She hadn’t expected him to be cautious. She’d thought he’d already be asking her if she’d been a bad girl, or something. Although he didn’t know anything about her, not even her age.
Ugh, that was a terrifying thought. How old are you? she typed. You’re legal, right?
LOL, he replied, which was enough to confirm his age even if he didn’t confirm it himself. Who typed LOL anymore? I’m staring down thirty, thanks. You?
Closer to thirty than twenty, she answered. Now that she had him on the line, what did she want to know? You said you didn’t start the blog to help new kink people, she wrote. Why did you start it?
An outlet.
She waited for him to elaborate further, but he didn’t, and there were no dots indicating that he was typing. An outlet for your creativity? she asked.
For my kinkiness, he replied. Another message came through a few moments after. I can’t play in person the way I’d like to anymore, so writing these stories helps me feel like I’m still tapping into this part of myself in some way.
He could have a lot of reasons why he couldn’t play in person anymore, but Maggie’s mind went to the negative ones.
Maybe he got called out for inappropriate behavior, or made enemies.
That would be consistent with Chauvel’s impressions of him.
I’m sorry you can’t play in person anymore, she said, instead of pressing him.
She couldn’t come on too strong. He was already telling her more than she’d expected from a first conversation with someone who didn’t even share contact info online.
Thanks, he replied. It’s the price of anonymity.
So this was about his identity. Maybe someone recognized him somewhere. Are you famous? Am I chatting with a celebrity? She added a shocked-face emoji and a wink.
You’ve figured me out. I’m Ben Affleck. She smiled at the phone. Internet Kink Guy had a sense of humor.
It all makes sense now. You want me to call you Ben or Benji? Maybe get some Dunkin?
Dunkin does sound good right now.
His playfulness was endearing. Maybe he’d be open to more of an actual conversation. Serious question, she asked. Do you not play with anyone at all anymore? Only write these stories? That doesn’t seem like a good substitute for the real thing.
This time, the silence stretched out without even any dots appearing. Maybe she’d upset him. But she really wanted to know. And it wasn’t like he’d logged out; he was still in the chat. Finally, the message arrived.