A Psycho From The NSA Hacked My Computer And Blackmailed Me Over My Porn Addiction

I masturbate too much.

Way too much.

I am not particularly proud of this. In fact, it’s something that really bothers me. However, can you really blame a guy? An ever expanding universe of perversions is just one click away. Hundreds of websites are available to fulfill every fantasy I could possibly conceive. Pornography used to be so tame, but now every fathomable fetish and sexual peccadillo is filmed and available for free. Not that anything I watch is illegal, but I shudder to think, what if someone I knew saw some of the shit I look at while whacking it?…

After an obligatory moment to wallow in shame, I closed the incognito window (I live alone as I have for my entire adult life, and I don’t even know why I bothered with private browsing. I guess it made me feel better not to be faced with my perversions on the off chance I needed to look through my browsing history). I brought my laptop from my bedroom to my living room and checked my torrents looking forward to a carefree day off from work.

Being a teacher, the salary isn’t great, but you can’t beat the amount of vacation the occupation affords. The regular school year had ended, and I was still two weeks off from summer school. While the majority of my colleagues use this time to actually go on a vacation, I was content with catching up on movies and shows I missed. Though my relationships with others were tenuous at best, my internet connection was strong. I had a long day ahead of me watching Blue Ray rips on VLC with random sessions “incognito” interspersed liberally.

I took a break from soaking in my ill gotten gains to check my mail. As I opened my front door I soaked in the fresh Maryland air. I savored it knowing that this would more than likely be my only journey outside that day. On the way to the mailbox, I debated having another go. Though I didn’t feel a strong drive to do so, I made peace with the fact that my boxers would be around my ankles in my bedroom as soon as I made it back into the house. I sorted through my mail.

Among the random bills and junk was a letter from my ISP. Somewhat perplexed (the monthly bill wasn’t due to arrive in at least a week), I opened it. Contained within was a warning letter informing me of my copyright infringement. This wasn’t the first time I had received such a letter. I regarded the paper with a frown. Concern began to fester, how many warnings does one get before legal action is taken? While I contemplated this in my home, I closed my torrents. In the pile of mail I saw an unmarked envelope I hadn’t noticed before. Intrigued, I opened it to find in giant letters with chicken scratch handwriting,

I CAN MAKE THIS GO AWAY

This was followed by a phone number jaggedly scratched into the worn paper.

I looked at it with curiosity.

As the day went on and I kept furtively gazing at my paused torrents with mounting lust, I decided to call the number.

The phone rang exactly once. I received no greeting. After a moment of silence, I decided to speak up.

“Hello.”

Silence followed for an uncomfortable frame of time. I looked at my phone to make sure the call had not disconnected.

“Kyle Joshua Walters.”

I nearly jumped off my couch. Not only did I find it eerie that whoever this was used my full name, the voice was deep and distorted. It sounded otherworldly. It took me a moment to gather myself and realize that whoever was on the other end of the line was using some sort of voice distortion device. Naturally, this put me ill at ease. Anxiety coursed through me as I responded.

“Y-yes.”

“I can make this go away. No more worries. $500. You pay that. Its done. You need to. You will…”

I waited expecting him to continue to speak. Silence greeted me. Even though he was using voice distortion, there was an unmistakably frantic and disconnected nature to his speech. It sounded so… unstable. Who the fuck was I talking to?

This whole enterprise really bothered me. I felt violated by this intrusion into my carefree day off. I grew angry. The asking price was way too high. Plus, I knew enough about Tor, etc. that if I really wanted to continue torrenting without the apparently prying eyes of my ISP I could.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked as rage continued to build inside me.

No answer.

“Well I’m not fucking interested, and you should really mind your own business. I’m hanging up,” I replied finding strength in my anger.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING HAN-”

I pressed end.

The oddity of the call stayed with me for an hour or so. The latent fear and righteous indignation it drudged up lingered in the still air of my empty apartment. However, after another incognito session followed by watching a movie in my downloads folder, I pushed it out of my mind. As I went about my routine the following morning, it had already found its place in the background of my thoughts.

That is until my routine brought me to the mailbox. Inside was a lone envelope fat with its contents and, again, with nothing written on it.

On the way back inside, I opened it. Nothing in the fucking world could prepare me for what lay inside.

The first page contained a picture. It was a picture of me with my hand on my penis in the throes of masturbation. I stared at it for a full minute. I looked grotesque. My eyes were closed tightly. My mouth was pulled back into what looked like a grimace. The bottom of my shirt tucked under my chin accentuated my turkey neck and the rolls of fat comprising my chest and stomach. It was hideous. Truly fucking shameful.

I looked fucking disgusting, like a goddamn beast in heat.

Just deplorable.

There aren’t enough words in the English language for how embarrassing this picture was.

My blood ran cold. I folded the paper and searched my immediate surroundings thankful that no one was around to see the baneful picture and my reaction to it. I ran inside.

As my thoughts began to race, I came to a stark realization that my mind fought against at first, but there was no mistaking it. This picture was taken from my webcam. With the angle of the shot, it couldn’t possibly have another source. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen the green light indicating that I was broadcasting to the outside world. I pulled out the papers once more when I was in the sanctuary of my bedroom.

I pored over them. It was link after link to some of the websites I had been visiting. Page after page of my sins that I had attempted to hide and erase staring back at me. I finally reached the tenth and final page and the links ended. Written below them were my social security number, date of birth, the password I recycle for use online in every permutation I give it, followed by the same chicken scratch writing I had seen the day prior. However, there was such an intensity to the pen strokes on the paper that he had torn right through the page.

HAVE I GOTTEN YOUR ATTENTION NOW YOU SICK FUCK? ONE MORE CHANCE. CALL NOW!

He had.

I picked up the phone and called the number. Again, it only took one ring before I received a response.

“ARE YOU LISTENING NOW. YOU FUCK?!” He screamed into the phone. It was like the voice of Satan. Hellfire and brimstone raining down upon my ears. I immediately regretted the tone I had used with him the previous day. The forceful and aggressive nature of his delivery of these words coupled with the voice distortion were so terrifying it took me a moment to find the courage to speak.

“Y-Yeah,” I squeaked. Followed by a weak, “why are you doing this?”

“I WORK FOR THE GOVERNMENT. THE SHIT YOU FUCKING PEOPLE LOOK AT IS FUCKING DISGUSTING! I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU. FUCKING EVERYTHING! FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS TOMORROW. EVERYONE WILL SEE. EVERYONE!!! CARRIE. STANLEY. MR. WHITFORD. EVERYONE!!! YOU FUCKING HEAR ME!!!

I shuddered as he named my mother, father, and my boss. How much did this guy know? I guess if he had unfettered access to my comings and goings online, my phone calls, texts, etc… Jesus… I guess everything. How could something like this happen? Isn’t there safeguards against this? Doesn’t the government screen its employees? I had found myself in a fucking living nightmare.

“Don’t. Please don’t.”

“Pay. One chance. You pay you fuck. You disgusting.. “ His voice dropped in timbre and volume briefly. I breathed a sigh of relief. Thinking that I was maybe dealing with a sane human being on the other end of the phone. Those hopes were dashed as he continued, finding a viciousness to his delivery that I couldn’t have fathomed before this conversation.

“YOU MAKE ME SICK! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU IF YOU DON’T!!!

“Alright, I will.”

“You fucking better. Tomorrow. 9AM. Outside your school. Alone, you FUCK! DON’T FUCK AROUND.THIS ISN’T MY FIRST RODEO MOTHERFUCKER! BRING IT OR YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD!”

As I hung up the phone, my thoughts grew in volume and remained alive and manic. I spent the afternoon pacing around my apartment too terrified to settle on any particular plan of attack. By evening, I realized what I had to do.

I drove toward my school arriving in front at 9AM sharp. I expected to see an unmarked van with tinted windows. I imagined a dark silhouette sitting in the driver seat. I could see the door opening of its own accord while a silenced pistol began to peek slowly out of the darkness. So many cliches had played through my head about how this would go down, I was absolutely shocked by what actually greeted me in front of the school.

A waifish man (if you could even call him that) was sitting on the steps of the school. He was a skinny, nebbish looking person. He sat there twiddling his thumbs. A nervous expression was plastered on his face. All of the fears that I had accumulated were essentially dashed to pieces. I got out of my car with a newfound confidence. The fucker barely looked me in the eyes as I wordlessly handed over the envelope. I marveled at the pretense of our conversation from yesterday. All bark and no bite as they say.

As the police descended on this fuck from every angle, I caught my breath and let it out effortlessly. The greatest onus of my life up to this point had been lifted off of my chest.

As he was led away in handcuffs, the feeling of triumph remained in my soul even after I had made my way home.

I entered my apartment and, reinvigorated by the victory of the day, I entered my bedroom for a victory fap. It was glorious. The culmination of the anxiety of the past few days led to a thunderous and wholly satisfying orgasm.

I hopped in the shower afterwards still in the afterglow, and remained there for a time going over the success of the day. Unparalleled elation filled my mind as I showered for what seemed like an eternity. However, this was tempered by an odious thought that, out of nowhere, forced itself into my brain.

I had my misgivings to my plan initially. What if there is some sort of immunity for employees of what I can only assume is the NSA, even if it is a low level analyst? I ultimately decided to take the risk safe in the knowledge that there is no way that blackmail could be condoned. The conversations I had at the police department completely removed this fear. That wasn’t the thought that was overtaking my mind.

You don’t know what this guy looks like. What if?…

I reeled from this thought, but decided to pay it no mind. I am neurotic and paranoid by nature, and I had an inkling that my ever active mind wouldn’t allow me this moment of jubilation.

I exited the shower naked and wet. I grabbed my laptop. I touched the keyboard and brought it out of sleep… and nearly dropped it as I saw what lay before me on the screen. While I was in the bathroom, the desktop picture had changed. It was a photo of me with my pants around my ankles. It took a moment for the horrible realization to grab hold. I was wearing the same clothes I had worn that day, and the angle wasn’t from the webcam. It could have only originated from one source.

Under my bed.