M, An Exhibitionist Woman

Editor's Introduction

I discovered this diary in the back of a cupboard full of junk shortly after I moved into a new flat. It's a large, desktop-style journal with a two-page spread for every day of the year, but it's battered and incomplete. The back cover is missing, as are a number of pages. At first glance, I was unimpressed and was about to throw it away, but then I looked more closely. The story that emerged was bizarre. I read all the way to the end in a single sitting.

I don't know who the author was or the name of the woman involved, since he confined himself to initials for identification, but I've decided to publish what I found, albeit without permission. I suppose you could call my decision an act of shared voyeurism – which would be quite apt in the circumstances.

I've edited the diary a lot. There are many routine entries I've decided to omit entirely. However, I've followed the thread of what I see as the central story – the core relationship – as closely as I can. I hope others find it as fascinating as I do. – P.B.

~

The Diary

17th March: My first faculty meeting. I felt very much the new boy, sitting round the table with all the famous faces. I kept my mouth firmly shut throughout. Surprisingly, though, I found those Big Beasts of Eng. Lit. a bit less than impressive close up. Maybe they only shine at conferences.

There was a woman there I'd never heard of. She impressed me. She didn't say much but, when she did, she was persuasive. They listened to her.

Oh, and I may as well admit it, I fancied her. I'd put her at a few years older than me, but not too many. Perhaps she's thirty-five or thereabouts. She was tall and slim, in a grey wool dress that looked expensive, with her dark blonde hair drawn back in a chignon - is that the word? I remember grey eyes as well – but can eyes be grey? Maybe they're really pale blue. I remember them, anyway.

What got to me most was her reserve – her style. I'm a sucker for impossible women. I'll never get her.

I'm going to try, though.

21st March: Her name is M ____. (I feel rather like an eighteenth century novelist, Fielding or someone, using just an initial like that. Of course it's an affectation – but who's going to read this? I like it: the mystery, I mean.)

M, I've discovered, specializes in Literary Theory - an aspect of our industry I've done my best to avoid. Apparently she's published quite a lot already, and all of it's so abstruse only a handful of people can understand her. But she's said to be brilliant. (Bad luck for me, since I'm definitely not.)

They've given me the later seventeenth century for my lectures. They want me to teach Dryden. I'd rather do Rochester, though.

29th March: It's funny the way writing a diary feels like chatting to a friend. I noticed that with Pepys. The diary's a secret, but it's written to be overheard. It's weird, like a letter to no-one. But all writing's weird, really.

I saw M today, striding across the campus. (Her legs are very long.) I gave her a smile and she waved! I was on Cloud Nine for about ten minutes, thinking she remembered me from the faculty meeting; thinking maybe she fancied me too. But then I remembered almost bumping into a famous film star a few years ago in Leicester Square. My jaw dropped in surprise when I recognised her, and she flashed me the most brilliant smile. It was so dazzling, it was as if we were old, dear friends, or even one-time lovers. But of course she'd never seen me before in her life. She was just being professional, I suppose.

So I started thinking M's wave to me might have been the same. Maybe she vaguely remembered my face. Perhaps she thought she'd seen me at her lectures or something. Maybe she waves at everybody.

So I ended up feeling quite down. Every silver lining has a dark cloud round it.

1st April: Spoke to M at Morning Coffee today. (She doesn't usually come. I've been looking out for her for ages.) Her eyes are grey! We chatted for about ten minutes. She asked me about my thesis. When I told her it was on Rochester, she grinned. I wouldn't have thought a Literary Theory type would go for the bawdy stuff, but she seems to. Said she'd like to read it. I said I'd drop it off at her office.

Now I'm in a funk. (And that's an old-fashioned expression, isn't it – like something from the thirties. It's a phrase I'd never say out loud.) But I'm worried. Even academic writing can be personally revealing. What if she thinks I'm a filthy pervert? After all, Rochester was. She's such an ice maiden, she might freeze me with one look as soon as she's read it - and that'll be the end of the dreams I'm harbouring.

But there was that grin at coffee. Very broad – almost lupine. I have to go through with it anyway. I'll take it to her tomorrow. Nothing ventured, nothing ... - Well.

14th April: She read my thesis and she liked it! She said it 'highlights the socio-sexual tensions that have persisted from the Early Modern period right down to the present, and the fractured aesthetic that accompanies them'. Even more excitingly, she quoted Rochester back to me – at length:

Quoth the Duchess of Cleveland to Councillor Knight,
"I'd fain have a prick, knew I how to come by't.
I desire you'll be secret and give your advice:
Though cunt be not coy, reputation is nice!"

"To some cellar in Sodom Your Grace must retire
Where porters with black-pots sit round a coal fire;
There open your case, and Your Grace cannot fail,
Of a dozen of pricks for a dozen of ale."

"Is't so?" quoth the Duchess. "Aye, by God!" quoth the whore.
"Then give me the key that unlocks the back door.
For I'd rather be fucked by porters and car-men
Than thus be abused by Churchill and Jermyn!"

Of course it was weird, the way she switched from high academic discourse to Rochester's crude smut without missing a beat. She looked quite serious as she recited – it's amazing she knew it all by heart! – but she must have known she was turning me on. Which she was. I staggered out of there later with my thesis under my arm and my prick trying to punch a way out of my trousers.

But I got a result! I chanced my arm - another obsolete expression! - and suggested we have dinner some time, to discuss the seamier side of the seventeenth century and so on. And she said yes!

I'm in, I think. I think I am. I hope I am. I really hope so!

16th April: Amazing! I'm still buzzing from last night. There's so much to say and my head's still spinning. I don't know if I can write anything down at all. But I'll try. Bare bones only:

We ate at a Greek restaurant but I don't remember much about the food. M was reserved: pleasant, charming even, but much more detached than I would have liked her to be. I suppose I'd been hoping to steer the conversation round to dirty talk, à la Rochester, but she started telling me about Reader Response Theory instead. Under different circumstances I might have been interested but, as it was, I kept getting lost in her eyes. (OK, that's a total romantic cliché. But I did. She mesmerised me.)

I suspect she knew it. In fact, I'm sure she did. She talked through all three courses – mezze, main and desert. And through it all I was plotting and scheming how I might get her home and into my bed. In the end, I fell back on the old tactic – get her drunk. So I suggested another bottle of retsina, or maybe some ouzo to go with our coffee, but she shook her head.

"No," she said. "I don't really want another drink. Let's go to my place instead, and fuck like bunnies."

So we did.

Her body is amazing! Without clothes, she's long and pale, but rounded too. Her skin's so smooth – and she shaves her pussy!

She's super-flexible. You can feel muscle under her skin – not beefy muscle, but a supple firmness. I spent a lot of time just tracing the contours of her arms and legs.

And the sex was pornographic! Right from the start, she showed no inhibitions. Anything went. I blush to write it, but she actually kissed my arsehole. And I kissed hers too - I could hardly avoid it after she'd done mine. We went down on each other a lot, too. And the fucking was amazing. OK, I keep on saying it – Amazing! Amazing! Amazing! But it was. It was fucking amazing. It was amazingly amazing, the amazing fucking fucking!

I really don't have the words to describe what we did. Imagine being in bed with a very affectionate python, perhaps – one that knows just how much to squeeze you, then throws in a few extra pounds of pressure for good measure. She took my breath away. She's sex on legs, and her thighs have such a grip!

We made love – made sex – all night. I was so zonked in the morning, I forgot to ask for another date before I left. Must get round to that. It's my top priority.

17th April: Disaster! She's going to Vienna for the whole Easter vacation! There's some bloody conference or other. She's giving a paper. Well!

She leaves today. No time to see me. To say the least, it's an unfortunate hiatus. I can imagine her coming back next term and smiling at me vaguely, with no acknowledgement of what was just a one-night stand. Wham-bang, thank you, Sir. All that.

No, I don't just imagine it. I think that's what'll happen. I'm going to be miserable for three straight weeks, not knowing – then I'll be even more miserable for months afterwards, after she's come back and it's official that she's dropped me.

Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh bugger!

The human race would be much happier without sex. Socrates said so, and he knew a thing or two.

22nd April: This is torture. I've been trying to prepare my lectures for next term, but concentration is lacking. Bloody Dryden sends me to sleep (How could such a bore get to be Poet Laureate?) and, anyway, my thoughts always stray back to M.

I tried to get drunk last night. No good. I had two glasses of wine and gave up. I'm mooning like a love-sick bloody schoolboy. I'll be writing her poetry next.

Oh, well. Two weeks to go. Then it's crunch time.

15th May: M is back! She flew in last night and called me straight away. Could she see me? Could she come over? Could we fuck? (Yes, she actually said that on the phone.)

When she got here, she was like a tigress. (I know – another bloody cliché! But there's a reason clichés are clichés. It's because they're bloody true.) She grabbed me and dragged my clothes off, backed me into the bedroom, pushed me back on the bed, leapt on top and had her way with me. (My, aren't I the nineteenth century heroine?) I don't know what else you'd call it, though. She climbed aboard and straddled me, then stuffed my penis up her hole. (I know that's crude, but it felt like that.) If I'd objected, it would have been rape – no question. But I didn't object, of course. I loved it all.

After that first mad bout, we made gentler pornography all night, interspersed with a bare minimum of talking. Vienna had been 'alright'. The conference had been 'reasonably interesting'. Her hotel had been 'OK'. Viennese food was 'good'. Then she grabbed my cock again and demanded further sex. She's the first truly insatiable woman I've ever met. But I'm pretty sure she likes me now, at least.

12th June: Summer Vacation's almost here. We'll be free to do what we like. And, wonder of wonders, M doesn't have a conference to go to! She's cancelled everything!

We can spend the next three months just having sex if we want to. I'd like that. At the beginning, I thought she'd overwhelm me – that I wouldn't be able to keep up with her appetite. But it seems the more sex you have, the more you want. I'm almost as sex mad as M is now. And I've lost a lot of weight; my stamina's improved too.

I've been spending most of my free time at her flat for the past few weeks. It's so much bigger than mine. I think we're thinking of moving in together. Nothing's been said on either side, but the idea's in the air. It seems much too soon in one way, but it also feels overdue.

This really is the woman of my dreams: bright, articulate, sensitive and sexy. How can I refuse to live with her if she wants me to? I'd be a fool to say no.

16th June: A very strange day: exciting, certainly, but disturbing as well. I haven't come to terms with it yet. I don't know if I ever will.

We decided to take the train up to London. No plans; just to wander about. I imagined us holding hands along the Embankment, then having dinner in a cosy little restaurant, with a shade too much alcohol, maybe. It didn't turn out like that, though.

When we got to Charing Cross, M said she'd like to go to Greenwich. So we walked down to the landing stage and got on a river taxi. It was a warm day, with just a little breeze. Very sunny, very pleasant, all the way to Greenwich.

When we arrived, she said she'd like to take a walk in the Park. She wanted to show me something. That's when things turned strange. That's when I started to feel out of my depth a bit.

We walked up the hill towards Blackheath. M seemed to be searching for something in particular. She paused a couple of times and looked around, then shook her head and moved on. I asked her what she was looking for, but she wouldn't say.

Eventually, we reached a broad path with benches spaced along it. She liked the look of that. She stood a while, looking up and down. Then she pointed to a bench. "You sit there," she told me. "I'm going to that one." She pointed two benches along, on the other side of the path.

I gave her a look, hoping for an explanation, but she just said: "Watch." Then she sauntered off to the bench she'd chosen and sat down.

There was nobody about, except for a few passers-by – people walking their dogs, that kind of thing. It was peaceful, but I wondered what M was up to. With anyone else, I'd have thought it was a joke of some kind – but she was so bloody serious. She wasn't messing about.

A bloke came along with a dog on a lead: a middle-aged-looking bloke, in a tee-shirt, wearing long shorts.

M was wearing a blue dress, strapless at the top, with a shortish, flared-out skirt. As the bloke drew level with her, she flipped the hem up into her lap.

I don't think he noticed at first; then he did a double-take. Even from where I was sitting, I could see she had no knickers on.

When the man did notice, he obviously stiffened. He'd become terminally self-conscious; didn't know where to look. He didn't stop though. He put his head down and hurried on.

But when he'd gone a few paces, he had to stop and turn. (Couldn't resist it, probably. I don't blame him.) M's skirt was still up. The bloke stared for one beat, maybe two. Then he shook his head and walked off. When he came past me, he muttered: "There's some bloody funny people about!" I didn't know what to say. I saw his ears were red.

After he'd gone, there was nobody about for a while. M's skirt was still bundled in her lap and her thighs were spread. I could see her pussy quite plainly. I was so flummoxed, I must have been gawping at her.

I started to go to her but she waved me back. "Just sit and watch," she called. "Please! Just watch me!" So I did as I was told.

Around then a couple of women came up the path with buggies. M pulled her dress down, unhurriedly. By the time they reached her, she was completely respectable; just a pretty woman sitting on a bench in the sunshine.

Then there was a pause: a long moment of stillness when nobody came past. But then two youngish blokes turned up. They were jogging. I hoped M would let them go, but she didn't. As they got close, she lifted her skirt again and spread her legs.

The joggers went about three paces past her, then one of them pulled up and shouted: "Fucking hell!" The other one, who maybe hadn't noticed, looked back at his mate and said: "What?" The first one looked towards M and jerked a thumb. The second jogger looked back and said: "Fuck!" He was grinning from ear to ear.

They ambled back towards her. She looked straight at them. Her expression was weird: wide-eyed but neutral; almost blank; unsmiling. I saw that look on a stripper once, when I was dragged into a strip club on a stag night: a naked body; an empty face: a mystery.

I was feeling pretty worried. These blokes might be tough. I didn't know what would happen. I wasn't sure I could defend her against two of them, either.

When they reached her, the first one said: "Hello, darlin'. Givin' it an airin', are you?"

The other one sniggered. "Givin' it some sun, maybe," he suggested. "Gettin' a bit of a tan on it."

M just stared back at them for a moment - then she pulled down her top. Her naked breasts sprang free. "Fuck me!" said one of the men.

I was halfway off the bench. But his "Fuck me!" was more an expostulation than an instruction. In fact, M's baring her breasts like that seemed to shock the pair of them. They ogled her for a moment, but I think they thought she was mad. That's my theory anyway, arrived at after the event. Mad people are frightening - even sexy, beautiful ones.

Whatever it was, jogger number one turned to his mate and said, abruptly: "Come on. Let's fuck off." And the other one said: "Yeah. Right." They turned away and ran, though the second one looked back over his shoulder and shouted: "Be careful you don't get sunburn on it, darlin'!" I watched them to the end of the path; then they were gone.

I think I wanted to hit her. No - I didn't want to do that. I wanted to give her a bloody good shaking, though. To knock some sense into her.

The risk she was taking – the risk was ridiculous. At the least, she might get arrested. And the worst would be very much worse than that.

I stood up again and started towards her. M was pulling her top up. Her skirt was already down again.

"Just one more," she pleaded. "Alright? One more?"

I suppose I could have said: 'No! Enough's enough!' But I didn't. I went back to my bench and sat down. M looked up the path expectantly. She seemed totally relaxed. I didn't understand her.

Her third victim appeared. (Was he a victim? Is being exposed to a pretty vulva an assault? Is it an insult? Or is it charity?) Whatever it was, she flashed another man – a bearded West-Indian guy with a Rastaferian hat. I think he might have been stoned – or maybe he was just very cool. He saw M's exposed pussy as soon she lifted her skirt, and he smiled and nodded sagely.

"Yeah, baby, yeah!" he said. "Sometimes you gotta, ain't you? You a very pretty lady," he added. And he went on up the path.

M didn't cover up until he'd disappeared from view. Then she stood up abruptly and came to me. I stood up too; she leaned in against me; hugged me; buried her face in my chest. I could feel her warmth: her heat: her fever. She was trembling.

"Come on," she whispered. "I know a place." She took my hand and led me up the path.

At the top of the hill there are some public toilets. It's quite a large, brick building, surrounded by rhododendrons. M took a quick peek, to check that the coast was clear, then dragged me forward. We didn't go inside. She led me off the path and plunged into the shrubbery. It was dense and the stems were thick, but we forced our way through the masses of waxy leaves and ended up at the back of the building.

"Nobody can see us here," said M. And she unzipped my jeans and delved in for my cock.

I haven't had many knee-tremblers in my life. This one was a revelation. She pulled her skirt up and hooked one long leg round behind my thigh. Then she tried to feed my cock inside her. It felt incredibly clumsy, but it was exciting. No – that's a weak word. It was mind-blowing.

I remember the head of my cock bumping against her pussy as she tried to get the angle right. I was so hot and hard, I very nearly came from that alone. But we managed to make the connection finally. I sort of scrunched down and pushed my cock right up her. M stiffened instantly. Then we fucked really hard, with her back against the wall. It didn't last long but it was so intense! Towards the end, she raised her other foot off the ground and wrapped both legs around me. She was completely impaled on my prick, hugging me tight with both arms and legs, sandwiched between me and the brickwork. Our position was so precarious, we nearly fell. I think that – our teetering on the edge – was what made me cum. I remember standing there as I spurted, pumping into her. Her arms were round my neck; her mouth was on my mouth. I knew she'd cum as well, though I couldn't tell when. But she was suddenly limp in my arms – limp and soft and warm.

We stood like that for as long as we could, not wanting to break the spell. But she was heavy. Eventually, I had to let her down. I thought of my semen leaking out of her, down her pale inner thighs.

"Do you need to go and clean yourself up?" I whispered.

"No, darling," she whispered back. "I'm going to let it drip."

She let out a dirty laugh. Then we sneaked out of the shrubbery, and back to the main path. We strolled across the heath, and found a pub for a late lunch. I was full of questions, of course, but when I started to ask them, she laid a finger on my lips and said: "Shh."

"I know we have to talk about this," she told me. "But tomorrow – OK?"

So we've left it 'til tomorrow. We're home now; she's asleep. I've been writing this for hours – trying to make sense of it all.

17th June: The morning after the day before.

Well, we had the conversation. Over breakfast, actually. It went on a long time.

I was trying not to badger her, but I was so mixed up – there was a lot of pressure, there. Pressure to let things out.

I told her how I felt. How yesterday had been so sexy, but so bloody frightening. How I'd been scared for her. How that had made me angry even when I had a raging hard-on.

I was on the verge of telling her she mustn't do it again. But I knew that would be stupid. I'm glad I didn't fall into that trap. As much as I wanted to, I didn't have the right to say it.

M listened and let me talk. That's the problem with clever women. She can just sit and say nothing and I flounder deeper into the morass.

In the end, I ran out of steam. Then she took over.

"We're getting very close, aren't we?" she said. "I mean, we like each other. I like you anyway. A lot.

"That's why I needed to show you what I did yesterday. I've lived with two other men before, but neither of them could take it. My kink, I mean. They both left me. It was hard for me, both times. Really hard, because I loved them. So I didn't want us to get too far along before you knew."

She let me think about that for a minute. Then:

"I need to do what I do. I'm careful – I never do it here in town. I always go away somewhere. But I can't give it up."

"But the risk - ," I said.

M repeated: "But I'm careful."

"Careful!" I exploded. "You could have been raped yesterday! Those two blokes – you couldn't have stopped them if they'd tried."

"But they didn't," she said. "I've been flashing my cunt at strange men for a long time now. I can tell the really dangerous ones. I let them go by."

I don't remember what I said then, but it was decidedly sceptical.

"Listen," she said. "The risk is part of it. Without the risk, there'd be no point. But I never let it go too far."

"And the police ...?" I asked.

"I've never been arrested."

"Maybe you've been very, very lucky."

"Perhaps I have," she said.

"But I can't give it up," she added. "I really can't."

We left it there. I'm sleeping at my own place tonight. I feel terrible. I can't stop thinking about it. I want to have her even more than ever since that thing in Greenwich. It excited me - of course it did. But I can't let her keep on doing what she does.

18th June: We met for lunch in a pub – out in the beer garden, where we could talk without being overheard. We'd both calmed down a bit, but there was still some tension.

She talked about the ethics of what she does. She does have ethical doubts. "I know I embarrass people sometimes," she said. "Even men. And it is part of the fun, seeing them squirm as they go past. Seeing them try not to look.

"But I feel guilty about that. It's like an assault isn't it? I don't really want to upset people. That's my only reservation."

After the pub, we went back to her place and made love. It wasn't nearly as fierce as that fuck in the park behind the toilets. It was as if we'd been married for years.

Afterwards, I left and came home. She didn't try to stop me. We may be drifting apart. I can't do much about it.

14th July: Almost a month has gone by since I last wrote about M. We're back in the old routine. I've almost moved in with her. Everything's good.

I think she's given it up. She hasn't told me, but I haven't seen any signs.

I'm keeping my flat on though. Just in case.

3rd August: We had a row. A big one.

M came home late last night. I was already in bed. She wanted sex. She was desperate for it.

We fucked each other like maniacs. It was brutal really. Even after we'd cum she was still at me. She sucked me 'til I got hard again, then it was Round 2. And so it went on.

When we finally finished, my cock was sore. I expect M was too, though she didn't mention it.

Then I did something stupid. I asked her what had happened, to make her so incredibly horny. And she told me. I wish she hadn't.

She'd been to Norwich for the day. She'd walked round the town for hours, displaying herself. Showing her cunt to people, as she put it. On the train home, she masturbated under her skirt, with the people around her watching. (Or trying not to, I thought. I could imagine the tight, embarrassed silence in the carriage.)

I didn't say anything at first, but she took my silence as an accusation. Which it was. I think, now, that she told me about Norwich to provoke what happened next. She was bringing things to a head.

"Why are you so prudish about this?" she asked me. "Are you jealous of the men who look at me? I don't fuck them, you know. I don't have gang-bangs. I just let them peek at the goods, that's all."

I said I wasn't prudish. I wasn't jealous either. I was just concerned for her. We'd been through it all before.

I said I'd thought she'd stopped doing it. She laughed at me.

"I've been going off on my little jaunts for the past month," she said. "I just didn't tell you. I knew you'd be awkward about it. But now I have, because you asked. Would you rather I'd lied to you?"

I said I'd rather she didn't do it at all. That I'd never be able to relax, thinking of her getting raped or murdered.

"And if you're arrested," I asked, "do you think you'd keep your job?"

"I won't get arrested," she told me.

"For a very intelligent woman," I said at that point, "you're incredibly fucking stupid!"

"For a supposedly enlightened man," she countered, "you're bloody repressive, aren't you? You're a bloody conformist, would-be patriarch in your own hypocritical way."

It was around then that I got out of bed and started putting on my clothes.

The last thing she said – well shouted - as I left, was: "You really ought to read some Queer Theory! And, no, it isn't just about gay people, if you're jumping to that conclusion! It might open your eyes a bit!"

I had no answer. I slammed the front door as I went. Childish, I know.

5th August: Two days without hearing from M. I know I could phone her but I can't bring myself to do it. I'm so fucking miserable and worried – worried about what she may be up to.

12th August: Still no word from M. I phoned her this morning. She wasn't in. Tried again around lunch time. Still no answer. Tried at eight o'clock this evening. Still not there.

I think she may off on a 'jaunt'. Well, fuck her. I'm not my ex-lover's keeper!

19th August: Now things are really difficult. I don't know what to do. I feel like a rabbit caught in headlights. I'm frozen.

M phoned me out of the blue around ten o'clock last night. It was the first time we'd spoken since the row. I thought she'd try to make peace, but she was very brisk.

"I think I've found a compromise," she said. "Come over."

So I went to her place. I still had a key, so I let myself in. The living room was in darkness, but there was light coming out of her study door. I heard her voice before I got there.

"Yes, Bigboy," she was saying, "I am a fucking slut."

"Yes, Hardman. Of course. I love it up the arse."

"Do I what, JB? Eat pussy? Only when I can't get cock."

"Am I wet? You bet I am, JoJo. It's pouring like Niagara down there."

When I went in, she looked up immediately. And smiled. She was sitting at her computer, wearing just a tee-shirt, speaking into a microphone.

"Hang on a minute," she said to her audience. "I have to deal with something quickly."

Then:

"I've set my laptop up in the spare room," she told me. "It's ready - you don't have to do anything. Just switch the speakers on, that's all - otherwise you won't be able to hear me."

She flashed me another smile, then turned back to the computer.

"Sorry about that," she said. "A visitor. Yes, my boyfriend. Will he join in? Not tonight, JB. At least, I don't think so, anyway."

I tore myself away and went to the other room. I jogged the mouse to bring the laptop out of standby, and there was M in her study on the screen. It was a webcam site. She was on one side, looking into the camera. On the other, there was a box for 'chat' – which was rapidly scrolling down.

It contained a stream of filth, all directed at M. Most of it was barely literate. All of it was obscene.

I sat down and switched the speakers on. M was responding to her admirers, as she had been when I came in.

"You want to see my pussy, JB? Well, OK then."

She adjusted the camera so it focussed on her belly and thighs. Then she pulled the tee-shirt up. She was nude below. She touched herself between the legs, tracing the thin shadow of her naked slit, then brought her spread fingers up, into view of the camera. There was a distinct silver thread stretching between two of them.

"Now do you believe I'm wet?" she asked them.

The lower case responses rattled by:

'fuck yeah bb';

'UR HAWT';

'i wanna cum on you biatch';

'i wanna ream your pussy';

'pm me bb';

'open my cam bb. I wanna cum for you'.

M readjusted the camera to show her face, put her sticky fingers in her mouth, and sucked.

"I taste so sweet," she said. "Aren't I a dirty girl?"

There was a broad grin on her face. I could see she was having the time of her life.

She took the tee-shirt off. Her lovely breasts were bare. She put her hands on them and jiggled them.

The chat screen said:

'show pussy bitch';

'show ass';

'show asshole';

'you got a dildo bb?';

'ASS ASS ASS';

'PUSSY';

'ASS';

'FEET FEET FEET';

'show me your cunt you dirty whore'.

How did I feel? There was something in the pit of my stomach, something curdled between revulsion and excitement. I was sure now she was mad. But my cock was erect. Whatever my head was thinking, simple biology governed my prick.

M was laughing. She stood up, took a pace or two away from the camera, and turned round, bending. There was a plug in her arse, jammed right up it. It must have been there when I'd stepped into her room a few minutes before. She must have been sitting on it.

I was in shock. Perhaps incongruously – or maybe not - Rochester floated into my mind. He'd have been delighted by this. He'd have called M a whore too, but he'd have liked her. He'd been friends with the King's whore, Nell Gwynn. His attitude to whores and sluts was as ambivalent as our modern one. I remembered Nelly's verse from the Dialogue of the King's Mistresses:

'When to the King I bid good morrow,

With tongue in mouth, and hand on tarse,

Portsmouth may rend her cunt for sorrow,

And Mazarin may kiss mine arse.'

I'd been so drawn to Rochester that I'd written my Ph.D. on him, but I'd never really entered the sleazy-sexy world he inhabited until now. M was already part of that – and immersing herself in it with abandon - with gusto. As I stared at the screen, she pulled the butt plug right out of her bum for a moment, then plunged it back in again. She gave the most erotic groan I've ever heard – much deeper, much earthier and much more heartfelt than anything I've evoked from her myself.

I went on watching. She buggered herself for a while, then took a vibrator and began to stimulate her clitoris. She'd put the camera on close-up. Her cunt and arsehole filled the screen in perfect definition. We heard her groan as the vibrator touched her. She grunted: "Oh, fuck!" Then her cunt contracted and clear liquid pulsed out. 'SQUIRT! SQUIRT! SQUIRT!' said the chat box. "But I did already," said M with a throaty laugh.

I think she went on for about an hour. At one point, I remember, she said: "I hope you're wanking hard, boys!" And weirdly, even though I knew I could fuck her later, I realised that was what I wanted to do as well. There was no dignity here; no control. There was just rampant need and sex: a nightly Saturnalia; a virtual orgy.

I didn't masturbate. I nursed my erection 'til she went offline, then went back to M's study. She was slumped in front of the computer, looking exhausted, as if she'd just finished a marathon. But she looked up when I came in. Her eyes were shining.

"Isn't it marvellous?" she asked. "Isn't it exciting? This is so much safer than flashing in streets and parks. It's completely risk free. I can show off to thousands of people with no chance of being touched, let alone being raped or arrested. And if I want to, I can watch their cams too. I can watch them wanking over me! I can see them spunk!"

"Does this solve your problem?" she asked. "If I just do this – no jaunts? Will it put your mind at rest?"

I didn't answer. I grabbed her by the shoulders, then lifted her up and half-carried, half-dragged her to the bedroom. I threw her down on the bed, got my jeans off, and stuck my prick in her without preliminaries. She was wet enough. She squealed and laughed.

I fucked her as hard as I could for as long as I could. I didn't think or care about her orgasm. I don't know if she had one or not. When I came, I rolled off her and just lay there, breathing.

"So, what do you think?" she asked almost immediately, as if our previous conversation hadn't been interrupted. "Would you like to join in next time? I could suck your cock on cam. You can cum in my face."

"I'm going to get my breath back first," I told her. "Then I'm going to fuck you up the arse. Alright?"

"Alright," she said. "I can't wait. Really."

And when I was hard again, I did just that. I buggered her brutally. She didn't complain.

Now, eighteen hours later, I don't know where I stand. M is happier than I've ever seen her – radiant, in fact. She obviously doesn't blame me for acting like a pig in bed last night. But I do. Do I want to become that person all the time? Am I going to spend my evenings fucking her before thousands – doing every dirty thing imaginable - a complete slave to my prick?

What is she turning me into? Is it what I was all along?

I don't know what to do. I'm still at M's place now, but I may go home tonight. Perhaps I ought to leave her for good. She's completely mad after all.

But is that true? Is she mad, or simply honest? If I were Rochester, I'd fuck her and think nothing of it. I'd enjoy her for what she is: lover or slut, no matter. But I'm not Rochester. I haven't got his balls – his arrogance.

I'm worried about what happens when somebody notices - when all this gets out. It could ruin our careers. We'll have students sniggering in the corridors behind our backs.

She came into the room just now. My prick stood up instantly. I think she's going online again. I can hear her fiddling with the camera. I ought to go and

Editor's End-Note:

And that, I'm afraid, is where the diary finishes. All the other pages are missing. I have, of course, scoured the flat for other clues to the identities of these two people, but so far without result. I've also been online, searching for a tall, pale English woman with grey eyes – but I've drawn a blank so far.

So the diary has to stand, I'm afraid, as a mere momentary glimpse into two other lives: as if the curtains had been opened on a lighted window, then swiftly drawn closed again. – P.B.

     ~

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: The first Rochester poem quoted ('Quoth the Duchess of Cleveland to Councillor Knight ...') is just called 'Song'. He may have written it between 1671 and 1676, though dating Rochester's writings is notoriously difficult, since almost nothing of his was published in his lifetime. The second quotation, which I've called 'The Dialogue of the King's Mistresses' for the sake of clarity, is normally titled 'Dialogue' alone. It's tentatively dated to 1676.

If anyone's interest in Rochester has been piqued as a result of reading this, there are several good modern collections, including:

i) Vieth (ed.): 'The Complete Poems of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester' (Yale, 1962)

ii) Lyons (ed.): 'Rochester: Complete Poems and Plays' (Everyman [Dent], 1963)

Beware, however, of earlier editions. They were heavily censored and usually bowdlerized.]