Abigail winced as the artist went to work - her newest ink, she knew, would be her masterpiece. She'd been nervous about getting such a large tattoo, but as soon as the idea popped into her head, she couldn't resist...
She couldn't resist.
This would be the piece that truly got her the attention she so desperately craved. The piece that finally put her above the rest of those sluts. This would, finally, make her stand out more than anyone and everyone else.
This tattoo would complete her.
"FW: fw: re re RE: Looking for luv? Sin up NOW!"
Despite the fact that no, she wasn't looking for 'luv', Abigail found herself opening the email.
It was idle curiosity, she told herself - her interest had been piqued by the fact that the piece of obvious spam had come from her co-worker Rob. She didn't know Rob particularly well - they'd never exchanged more than idle chatter, the occasional conversation over the water cooler.
He'd either thought she looked lonely and forwarded her the email, or (much more likely) he'd been caught out by some kind of dating site virus. Abigail was happy to find a distraction from her monotonous day-job, however, and so she opened the email and clicked through to DesireDating dot com.
A smile crept over her face as she browsed the site. No matter what she clicked, she could only find female profiles - it seemed more like a catalogue than a match-making site. After a few minutes of reading about the site's members, she realized how it worked - girls could make a profile for free, but only guys could message ... for a price.
Some of the profiles were obviously fake - porn star-esque models with albums full of lewd pictures, and self-descriptions that read like advertisements for hookers.
"Want 2 take ur cock in evry hol" - probably, Abigail smirked, written by the same person who composed the site's spam email headlines. They must have filled the site up with these fake women to convince men to join, force them to spend $5 a message to attempt to pick up clearly made-up "easy women".
The ridiculousness of the fake profiles made her laugh, and after a few minutes, she closed the site and continued calculating the estimated annual percentage increase of inner-city mortgages.
That night, after half a glass of wine, Abigail found herself opening up her laptop and typing in the URL once more - just to have another laugh, she told herself, but after reading through a few dozen profiles, she had to admit that it was something more than that.
It /had/ been a while since she'd dated ... work was so draining, and it took all of her energy just to organize a weekly meal with friends, let alone go to all the effort of putting herself out there, meeting men, dealing with rejection, creeps, the whole scene...
If the site only let men contact women, all she'd have to do was upload a few photos, a bit of information about herself. Surely there were a few nice, normal men on the internet - looking for someone like her, not just a "hot milf ready 4 ur cum".
Before she could talk herself out of it, Abigail finished her glass, and clicked the big, glowing "sign up now!" button. Within a minute she was typing out information about herself, picking the most attractive shots she could find of herself, and trying to work out if the user-name "officechick" was going to put people off.
After she finished, she sat back, lips pursed, and tried to work out what was wrong.
/Play to your audience/, she thought with a cheeky grin, adding a "sexy" to the beginning of her user-name.
If that was what men came to the website to find, it couldn't hurt to play along, just a little bit. Maybe this would be good for her – a chance to let her flirty side out. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd dressed for men, instead of comfort.
A few minutes later she closed her laptop, having uploaded a slightly saucy picture of herself in a bikini, added a few sultry phrases to her self-description, and quickly taken a self-shot showing off her cleavage.
That night, Abigail's dreams were consumed by the scrolling, glowing, blinking logo of the site. "Desire Dating" - it drew her in, enthralled her, and when she woke up, she was slightly embarrassed with the speed which she logged into her email, keen to see if anyone had selected her, to see if anyone had sent her a message.
She had no new emails. Even her spam folder was empty.
Trying not to be disappointed, to tell herself that it was just a stupid site, and that it was unlikely that anyone would even have had a chance to notice her profile overnight, Abigail saw a button that she hadn't seen before - "top girls."
/Why, / she wondered, /would a site want to highlight the most-messaged girls? Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a dating site? Once a girl's taken, she'll surely delete her profile... /
Clicking through, her confusion grew. The list closer resembled a "top 10 porn stars" - it was made up of all the profiles that Abigail had pegged as obviously fake. Artificially enhanced breasts, profiles that could have been sex phone-line transcripts, women with piercings and tattoos and dresses so short they could have been worn as belts.
Still, if this was what the guys of Desire Dating wanted, Abigail knew that she would have to adapt. She could feel her competitive side coming out, and after scrolling through a few of the most popular profiles, she knew exactly what she had to do.
An hour later, Abigail glanced at the clock, and was shocked to see how much time she'd spent re-doing her photos and profile. If she didn't run, she was going to be late to work.
Only once she was on the train did it occurred to her she probably should have changed - she'd picked out her most revealing clothes to take some new shots, and while it would still pass her office's dress-code, her outfit showed much more skin than she was used to.
/Perhaps/, she reflect, /perhaps that's not a bad thing. I am sick of being single, after all... /
Abigail was cute – not stunning, but certainly a looker. Her real strength was her curves, which she normally kept buried under as many layers as she could get away with. If she was serious about finding a man, perhaps it was time to stop hiding her body away.
She reached up and let her hair down, crossed her legs, and let her short skirt ride up slightly. The approving glances of the man across the aisle from her caused her to feel strangely warm, and when Abigail thrust her shoulders back to emphasize her cleavage, the warmth increased.
She felt good.
Two days later, on the same train to work, Abigail didn't even notice the attention her outfit drew. She was too focussed on her smart-phone - /Why, / she thought in irritation, /does the reception drop out as soon as we get into a tunnel? We're living in the 21st century, for Christ's sake./
Checking for new messages had become an obsession, and every day that her inbox remained empty seemed to double her frustration. As soon as she'd entered the office, she'd had the bright idea of updating her profile to reflect how men's attention had made her feel.
"I just love making heads turn," she'd written, smiling with the knowledge that this was sure to garner her at least a few more vistors, and – ideally - a message. "Nothing makes me happier than knowing a man is checking me out, imagining all the dirty things he could do to me."
As the day had passed, the men she worked with had started to notice the change in her wardrobe, and her head had filled with more fantasies ... which she'd dutifully typed out, in the hopes that the men of Desire Dating would enjoy them.
"I normally look so innocent, but inside, I'm thinking so many dirty thoughts. I want every man who passes by my desk to bend me over it, and fill me up. I fight the urge to jump on the desk and strip, every time we have a meeting. All I want is to be noticed, to be desired..."
A part of her had wondered if she was perhaps being too explicit, but she'd found the area of the site that listed your number of visitors, and discovered that the dirtier her writing, the more hits her profile got.
Still no messages, however.
As she'd wondered why she even wasn't worth the $5 it cost to send a message, she grew more determined to crack it. That night, she'd stopped off to buy some more revealing clothes - as she'd called a taxi to help her take the twenty-odd bags home, Abigail had to admit that she may have gone a tiny bit overboard...
It had been easy to talk herself into new underwear – she was long overdue. The two bags full of lacy, skimpy, sexy lingerie meant that she could throw out all of her old, dowdy panties and bras. The short skirts had been harder to justify, but she'd remembered how many of the "top girls" had been wearing short skirts. And corsets. And yoga pants...
With her new outfits, she'd spent a few hours with her new DSLR. Posing for increasingly naughty pictures, only stopping to jot down the erotic thoughts that taking the photos inspired in her. When she was done, the young woman was more turned on than she'd ever been in her life.
That night in bed, her fingers slipped between her slick folds, and got herself off twice. She'd masturbated before, of course, but never twice in one evening. As she drifted off, her last thought was how she should update her profile to add details about how much she loved getting herself off, about the dirty images that raced through her mind as she did, about how she'd love to have an audience some time ... some time soon.
.... There is more of this story ...