Most men consider me very attractive. I have a lovely face with a great and easy smile, shoulder length brown hair and hazel eyes. At thirty-one, I am still 34B - 26 - 35, carrying 135 pounds on a five four frame. But, women... all women... are afraid of losing their looks, particularly single women like me who are fighting a war with a lot of younger competitors for the available men out there. So, I spend a lot on clothes and makeup. Really, I should spend more time in the gym, but, who has time. As an attorney struggling to make partner in a major firm, I barely have time to date.

The last guy I really dated was Warren Parker, an attorney who left my firm to go into industry. Warren and I were a hot, hot item a year ago. I did things with him I thought I would never do with a man. Worse than that, I let him take some photos of me. Well, I did not let him take the first ones. They were of me bound. After those, which he took without my permission, I let him take the ones of us together, using a delay timer on his Nikon.

I got them all back when we spilt up. I thought.

It had been a hell of a week. Many longs hours, many pointless meetings, even a court date in which the judge ate me out big time. By Friday at four, when I trudged back into my office to wrap up a bad week, I was exhausted and ready for a hot bath and cold cocktail. I found a large manila envelope in my chair. It was sealed with "personal" written in red and underlined. Examination of the envelope showed it was hand delivered and did not come through the company mail route. Standing, I zipped it open with my letter opener.

There was a typed letter and another, smaller envelope inside. The letter read:

"Hannah: Projected recipients of the enclosed envelope are (it listed the five name partners of my firm, the men who would make, or break, my future). Think about it."

I opened the smaller envelope, removing a single eight by ten black and white glossy photograph. The instant I looked at it, I felt the sweat break out on my face, the tingling in my limbs, the bile rising in my stomach. I knew I was going to faint. I fell to my knees behind my desk... gasping for air... struggling to breath... my chest tight, like someone had a band around me. I reached for the waste basket and puked my guts out.

The rancid, acid taste filled my mouth and nose as I puked again, green bile dribbling down my chin into the waste basket. I put my head between my knees to keep from fainting.

I wanted to scream... NOOOOOOOO!!!... WHO IS DOING THIS TO ME??? But, the only noise was the wheezing as my breath returned. Finally able to sit up without fear of fainting, I reached for the picture.

The photograph was of me. I was naked and on my knees with my arms pulled back severely, bound behind me at the wrist and elbows, arching my back and thrusting my breasts out. A rope bound my ankles to my thighs, keeping me kneeling on frog-style legs. The end of a black dildo was visible sticking out of my pussy. A gag was in my mouth. I was looking directly into the camera with a slutty, happy expression, telling everyone I was enjoying this immensely.

I puked again.

It was a long, sleepless night. Not even five Scotches eased the anxiety as I paced and wondered. I knew the pictures had to come from those Warren took of me but, dammit, I trusted him. And, I still did. I did not think he was the one responsible. Not Warren. He broke up with me and we parted on very good terms. But, if not him, who? Who in the hell was it?

Saturday, I was exhausted, sleepless and still in shock. Listlessly, I puttered around the house, doing a cleaning job worse than I care to admit. At eleven the mail came. There was another envelope. I started to shake just from seeing it. I checked it throughly: no return address; no indication of who sent it.

I looked at the photo first. It was me again, of course. I was on my hands and knees with an unidentifiable man fucking me doggy style. I remember when Warren made that one. He sat the camera so I facing right into the lenses. I was in obvious ecstacy.

The letter read: "Hannah: My, my. You *are* a horny little slut, aren't you? Like those big cocks in your sweet wetness, Hannah. What a lovely picture you take, too. Stay home this afternoon and get ready to go out. Do not call Warren. I'm not kidding, slut!"

I couldn't even eat lunch and I could not stop sweating. I drank gallons of water, afraid I would dehydrate. The phone rang at two twelve.

"Hi, slut! Ready for your pictures to be distributed!"

"Who are you! What do you want from me!" I guess it was my legal training. As anxious as I was, I was extremely intent, trying to get every clue. It was a woman's voice. It was voice I had heard before.

"I'll tell you that tonight! You're to do exactly as I tell you or the pictures go in the mail. Listen! Go to the store and buy a Wonderbra that maximizes what little tits you have. I want your nipples to show! Buy thong panties in hot pink and black thigh high stockings. Wear them with that super short black skirt; you know, the one you wore for the Christmas party in '96."

"It's too small. I have put on some weight."

"I know. I want your big ass to wiggle in that skirt like ten pounds of mud in a five pound sack. Wear the white see through blouse, the one Warren gave you for your birthday. Lastly, wear those black pumps with the six inch heels. What did you call them: 'My fuck me pumps.' Use red lipstick... bright red. I want your finger and toe nails painted the same bright color. Your hair should be loose on your shoulders. Understand?"

"Please... please... why are..."

"Shut up, slut! Be at Cody's in the Village at eight. Plan to stay out all night. See ya!"

She disconnected.

From deep inside me, a sob floated up. I began to cry: a deep, gut wrenching, soul emptying cry.

The crying jag ruined my time frame, and now, I was speeding through traffic because I was afraid I was going to be late. It was eight o two when I opened the doors to Cody's. Cody's is a hot pickup bar for the "to twenty-five" age, swinging, modern, very liberal, set. The women there are good looking young professionals. I was not the oldest person I saw. But, I was the oldest woman. My fear of being compared unfavorable in looks and age offset my fear of being exposed by my blackmailer. I felt the bile rise again and struggled to keep it down. Looking around for a familiar face, I saw one of the younger attorneys and a paralegal we had just hired. I did not know anyone else. Then, I felt a hand on my arm.

"Hi, Hannah. Remember me?"

"Sara Parker. Are you...?"

"Come on. Let's sit down. We have a table over here."

As I followed her across the room, the pieces fell in place. Sara was Warren's younger sister. Only twenty-two, she was a professional model, with a tall, lean body and a face that appeared in print and TV ads all the time. I always felt inadequate next to her. And, what women wouldn't. She was perfect.

But, why did she want... Wait! Sara had seen me kissing another man at a party one night. It happened while I was still dating Warren. Sara worshiped her big brother and I remember the angry, hurt look on her face when she saw me. Was this pay back for that perceived infidelity?

Sara guided me to the large table in back where six women and five men sat, all her friends out for a good time. They were all professional models... beautiful, lean, young. She introduced me as her aunt... Aunt Hannah... and, asked everyone to call me that. I felt like a maiden aunt... an old, unattractive, maiden aunt... Aunt Hannah. Sara was mean, a real bitch.

Men can not understand what I am mean by this. Women will know immediately. To be the oldest, least attractive women in a group is very humiliating. I looked at them: those lean, perfect bodies, narrow but cute bottoms, high, firm breasts. How could I compete? Sara might be mean but she was smart. She knew exactly how to humiliate me the worst.

Sara took me aside. "Now, here are the rules. You'll relax and have fun, or, act like it anyway. You'll dance with every man or woman who asks you. Dance close! Rub against them! Act like the slut you are! No drinking, but, I want you to order and eat three deserts tonight, the most caloric ones they offer. Can't let those chubby thighs get thin, can we? If anyone takes any sexual liberties with you, you're to happily accept them and encourage further ones. I mean any liberties, Aunt Hannah! Am I clear?"

"Sara, why...?"

"Answer me!"

"Yes, Sara. Very clear."

"That's a good, old, fat, slut!" she said patronizingly, giving my cheek a pat with every word.

It was the most miserable evening of my life.

Sara and one of her friends, Lucinda, kept making catty little remarks about my shape and age. Of course, by the end of the evening, everyone in Cody's knew me as Aunt Hannah. Women can be such bitches! I had cute, young things come ask me questions: girls I had never met, asking advice as if my age gave me experience and wisdom. And, the way they asked, implying I was so much older, did I remember when...

There were giggles all around as I ate the three deserts as ordered. Since that was all I had eaten all day, by the end of the evening I was bloated, making me appear even fatter.

I was asked to dance a lot but not as much as the other women at the table, who seemed to take particular pleasure at refusing a dance request but pointing me out as an alternative. I could see the disappointment in the men's faces. But, they danced with me.

Sara had told me to accept liberties. I did. And, many liberties were taken. If was not the men's fault, really. In these clubs, men always as a girl to dance. They make a move on her, maybe just a hand in the small of her back holding her tightly. If they do not receive a discouraging sign... resistance or a comment... they make the next move. Then, the next. That's the way it's done. The women's responsibility is to send the stop signs. My blackmailer had told me not to send stop signs. So, the men got progressively bolder with me.

The crowd had started to thin out. A man who had been after me all evening asked me to dance. I'd already endured his hands all over me when we danced previously. He guided me to the darkest part of the dance floor, whispering nasty things in my ear. Look, I'm not a prude. Under the right circumstances and with the right man, I would have been enjoying this. But, he was horrible! I couldn't help it. When I felt his hand under my skirt sliding between my legs, I froze.

I felt Sara's hand on my arm. I almost wet myself, afraid she had seen my resistance. She had. "We need to go, Aunt Hannah. Offer your friend a blow job in the parking lot on the way out."

The man heard Sara order me to perform oral sex on him. Most men would have jumped at this opportunity and I knew it. I was waiting for him to pull me outside. But, his eyes burned into me, then flitted from Sara to me. He knew something was strange. He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and walked away, saving me another humiliation and a mouth full of cum. I followed Sara to her condo.

There were only Sara and two other women and three guys there. Sara ordered me to act as waitress, telling me to call everyone "ma'am" or "sir". She gave me a small, white lace apron to wear over my skirt. I was hustling drinks when Mark came into the kitchen with Sara. Mark was twenty-one and an underwear model, meaning he had the hard body that could take the camera's eye. He also was Sara's boyfriend and an arrogant shit.