We All Do It

We All Do It We All Do It

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica


Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica


Who's posting my picture?


Who's posting my picture?

Chapter1 (v.1) - Am I a Bad Girl

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: July 30, 2020

Reads: 94

Comments: 3

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: July 30, 2020





Am I a bad girl?


I don't think I am. I stand admiring myself naked in the bathroom mirror. Twenty-eight years old and still looking good. Long black hair, big green eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, white teeth. My breasts are round and plump with large erect nipples. Down below I can see my slit just below my clean shaven mound. My legs are long and my bum is firm and dimpled. I could be a Playboy model if I wanted to. Which of course I don't.


What I do want is a ....




We all do it don't we (no I don't mean  pleasuring myself, though I do that as well when I get the chance). We all sometimes surf the net absent-mindedly and Google ourselves to see if there is anything about us there. There never is. Lots of things about people with the same name, even people called Phoebe Morrison and I wouldn't have thought my name that common, but never anything about ourselves. It doesn't stop us looking though.


So it was that hot July day I sat in front of my computer, supposedly looking to find a way to keep up the payments on my north London flat, and tapped in the words "Phoebe Morrison".


There were the usual million and a half results but right at the top was a Phoebe Morrison with a social networking site entry. That was new. That was interesting. Who was this namesake? I clicked on the link and up it came, the thing that was to change my life forever. The pictures on the site weren't of another Phoebe Morrison. They were of me. And in all of them I was stark naked.


And I wasn't just naked. I was posing naked, like the girls do in girly magazines. Raunchy and sexy that is, but not pornographic, a naked body, nothing very rude showing. I might have done some crazy things in my life, but I've never posed for a photographer with no clothes on, and certainly not like that! I might have dreamt of doing it, but I'd never done it.


My first thought was that some prankster in the office, probably that fat bloke Tim, had photoshopped my face on to some bodies from a nudie website, but then I looked closer. It looked like me. It definitely looked like me. There was the silly butterfly tattoo on my left bum cheek I'd had done as a teenager (well I said I'd done some crazy things) and there was the little mole on my left boob. Could somebody have painted those on a model? That would be it. Make up a model to match my naked body and photoshop my head. Not many people had seen me naked, not many people would know about those tell-tale features. Though when I totalled them up: ex-boyfriends, girls in the gym, flatmates in my college days (we hadn't been that inhibited in our flat), some people at work, it probably came to quite a few. And one of them was playing this prank on me, and had gone to some trouble to do it.


What on earth was I to do? Go to the police? Had there been any actual crime - and it would be so embarrassing, a load of red-faced coppers sniggering over 'my' naked body.


No the obvious thing was to write to the social network, tell them somebody had set up a false account in my name and get them to take it down. Then ignore it. There's nothing pranksters hate more than to be ignored.


I penned off an indignant e-mail and paid no attention. A reply came back a couple of hours later: 'Thank you for your recent request to have the images on the Phoebe Morrison website removed on the grounds of copyright breach. Can you please confirm that you are the genuine person portrayed in these images by sending us 1) An image of yourself holding a notice bearing your name and your signature and 2) a copy of a picture ID to confirm your identity.'


What a load od bureaucratic rubbish. Still, what choice did I have. I scribbled out the notice, took a picture of myself holding it and scanned in my driving licence. I sent them off and reckoned that would be the end of the matter.


It was the next day when I got a reply: 'With reference to your claim to be the person represented on the Phoebe Morrison site, I have to inform you that close examination of the images on the site...' (Close examination! I bet they looked at them closely) '...shows that these do not appear to be of the same person as the images you supplied. We do not therefore intend to take further action.'


Not of the same person! No further action! What were they going on about?


Indignantly I went back onto their social network. The Phoebe Morrison depicted was a grey haired old lady on holiday. She was fully clothed.


At first I was shocked, then I smiled. I'd won. Whatever I had done had scared off the silly prankster. Not that I intended to let it rest there. It had to be that Fat Tim from IT. He had the computer skills. It would be just like him this sort of prank.


I closed my laptop and set out for my therapist. Now you're going to think I'm some sort of crazy that hallucinates. It wasn't like that at all. I just had this problem with tension. On the big occasions that is. Like when I have to give a presentation. It was my Boss, Philip, who had suggested Rupert.


"Stupid name for a bloke," said Philip, "only suitable for cartoon bears and gigolos, and as far as I know Rupert is neither. Still Amanda recommends him highly."


Amanda was Philip's long suffering wife. Long suffering because Philip was into (and I mean literally into) anything in a skirt.


Rupert was a Jungo-Freudian, whatever that is, herbalist. And he was doing me the world of good.


"Darling Phoebe," schmoozed Rupert. He was that sort of person. He could have been a gigolo if he'd wanted to. He had a soft rich voice like molasses and the softness and richness gave it a strange aura of authority. What Rupert said you believed.


Rupert had got to the bottom of my anxiety. It wasn't fear. Anxiety is something different, something physical; when it starts it seems to take over your entire body, your fingers tingle, your heart thumps, your head feels as if it is about to explode, you feel you must run and scream and shout or it will take over everything.


And Rupert had got to the bottom of it. Sexual repression. It was Freud who had first found that sexual repression was at the heart of anxiety and that sexual freedom would bring calm. That was what his therapy was aimed at. And it worked. As soon as I felt the tension rise I knew that I needed a wank.  A good wank.  One that would calm me down. And it always worked.


As always Rupert gave me his mixture of soothing herbs, asked me to lie back on his couch and I started to relax as he took me back to my childhood, where, he said, the origins of my repression lay.


As ever I drifted off and dreamt that dream. It was as it always was, wonderfully relaxing. I was almost becoming addicted to it.


I woke refreshed. Stupid computer site forgotten. I had vanquished IT Tim and his stupid pranks. Tomorrow was another day.


Tomorrow was not only another day. It was Monday and back to work for me.


I worked at PWAds, offices just of the Regents Canal, selling internet advertising, owned and run by Philip Wright with sundry assistance from his wife, who never came into the office which led me to think she was either a recluse or a tax fiddle.


As soon as I got there the familiar old tension creeping back. Was I imagining things or was Fat Tim sniggering when he saw me. He was. I was bloody sure of it, but there was nothing I could do about it without evidence. I couldn't go to Philip without something firm to go on. I'd have to go back to that stupid networking site.


That evening I googled my name again and clicked on the link. What came up made my heart give a leap. A picture of me identical to the one I had sent in confirming my identity holding the signed notice giving my name. Identical in every respect that is except one. In this picture I was stark naked. But that wasn't the worst. Superimposed on the picture in the bottom right hand corner was the scanned image of my driving licence giving my full name and address.


Tim was an expert on Photoshopping as everyone knew, but this was really cleverly done. Anyone looking at would have really thought it was me. How had he got hold of my e-mail to the networking site. Where had he found the body double. With so much to be done this was obviously a carefully planned plot.


There was nothing else to be done. I would have to see Philip.


Next day I walked in past his stony faced secretary, Karen; she was young, she was pretty, and she didn't like me.


"Philip," I said, as I sat down opposite him, "I have to speak to you about Tim."


I saw the short lived cloud pass over his face. "Not again," he said, "Remember what happened last time."


"That was a travesty," I replied.


Last time. Last time I had complained about Tim, he meant. I'd got sick of his stupid innuendos that he thought were funny and made a complaint of sexual harassment against him. It had caused Philip no end of trouble and Philip didn't like trouble. He had had to get an independent arbitrator in, and in the end nobody else in the office had backed me and Tim had been vindicated. He'd been ten times worse since, thinking himself invulnerable, and now look what he was doing.


"He's gone too far this time," I said. And I saw a sudden cloud pass over his face.


"What are you accusing him of then. Not another joke out of Carry on up the Khyber."


"If only it was.." And to an increasing look of astonishment I told him the whole story.


"And you say Tim has done this?"


"Who else could it be. He has a grudge against me. He has the IT skills and well, he's the sort of person who would do it."


"In other words no evidence at all."


"I don't need evidence. I know it's him."


"Well," he looked resigned, "we'd better have a look at this website then."


"You want to see the pictures!"


"I don't want to see them. I have to see them if I'm going to do anything. Anyway you say it isn't really you and I have seen you naked you know, in case you'd forgotten."

© Copyright 2020 Joex. All rights reserved.


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