Chapter 1 - Performing For An Online Master

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to lose control?

I'm not normally like this. Yeah, I know it's a cliché. The kind of thing a girl says right before she does something incredibly stupid. But it's true. I'm the kind of person who plans her meals two weeks in advance, colour-codes her calendar and sorts her socks by the day of the week. The closest I get to spontaneity is buying a box of fancy cereal if it's on special at the supermarket. Everything about me is meticulously planned. Being organised is what keeps my world from falling apart. At least it used to.

It all began with Mlungisi. He's my now very ex-boyfriend. Although, to be honest it was never a proper relationship to begin with. For one thing, he's as selfish in bed as he is everywhere else. Mlungisi's the kind of guy who thinks that foreplay is a five-minute hit job. Looking back, I should have spotted the signs. He forgot my birthday, his Valentine's Day card looked like it had been fished out of a dustbin, and now this.

I'd been telling him for days that tonight was important. I had an interview for that position I'd applied for — two floors up at Ridgeway Assurance in Sandton, where the carpets are nicer — and everything was arranged to celebrate my inevitable success. My new dress was ready, the cinema was booked and I'd managed to snag a reservation at that hot new place in Parkhurst. I even sent him one of those "don't forget" messages, because apparently I'm the kind of person who has to remind her boyfriend to give a shit about her life — just like I had to remind him where certain bodily "spots" were (not that he ever remembered).

So, what happened?

I didn't get the job.

Despite weeks of preparation, a fresh twist-out and an absolutely perfect outfit, the panel at Ridgeway objected to my explaining how they could increase their productivity by reorganising the department. I'd even made a handy flowchart showing them how. But apparently, "thinking outside the box" does not include handing your interviewers a plan for institutional restructuring.

Yoh.

So that was the end of my dream of moving up in the world of Human Fucking Resources. And the end of the extra money that was already spoken for — a slice home to my mother, a slice to the rent, and the rest of it spent in my head three times over. In that moment, all I wanted was to curl up with my boyfriend, grab takeaways and forget about the whole humiliating affair. But no. Even that was too much to ask. Turns out there's some Carling Knockout tie on that I'm supposed to give a damn about, and Mlungisi's gone down to the tavern to watch the match with his boys.

Naturally, this turned into a blazing row. And now I have his parting words ringing in my ears. "You just don't know how to be happy. You suffocate everyone with your obsessive need for control."

Can you believe that? Me, controlling?

He can voetsek.

All right then. Fine. For once, I'm going to prove him right. I'm going to control exactly what I want. And right now, it's to feel desired by someone whose name isn't Mlungisi.

So, here we are. Tonight, I should be tucking into a veggie pizza at Da Vincenzo, laughing over a glass of wine and celebrating promotion. Instead, I'm sitting on my bed in my pyjamas with a microwave meal for one.

At least I still have wine. I take a sip from my glass (my second, don't judge) and let the Merlot linger on my tongue. It's not bad for the price and I like the way it's already making my lips begin to tingle. The warmth spreads through me, loosening the tension in my chest.

I set the glass down on the bedside table, next to my e-reader and the insanely expensive detangling brush I treated myself to the last time I thought I was getting my so-called "life" together. It's a black oval paddle with flexible bristles and a smooth, curved handle, and it cost more than the wine, the meal and the pyjamas put together. I don't normally drink alone, but tonight I'm in a rebellious mood. For once I'm tired of being predictable.

My housemates are out (Kea's off with her boyfriend and Thuli's gone to her yoga class) and the house — our sagging three-bedroom slice of Melville — is feeling different. There's something in the air. Or maybe that's the Merlot talking. Whatever it is, I'm feeling ever-so-slightly tipsy and I'm craving... I don't know. Attention? Maybe I just want someone to make me feel like more than Mlungisi's convenient weekend shag.

On a whim I grab my laptop from its spot beneath the bed, my mind wandering back to those late-night pillow fantasies — the ones where, just for a short time, Sensible Fundo is replaced by somebody reckless and carefree.

I balance the computer on my thighs and flip open the lid. The fan hums softly and a wave of subtle heat creeps through the fabric of my pyjamas.

It's not the only warm thing in the room. The wine has put a heat in my face. Or perhaps it's the thought of what I'm about to do.

I fire up my browser and start typing into the search box, entering the first words that spring into my head: "Dirty chat. Anonymous. No strings." My finger hovers over the enter key. I shouldn't be doing this. I know I shouldn't. But the wine is doing the business, and for once I really don't care.

I hit the key, and the search results throw up a list of seedy websites. But right there at the top is a name that catches my eye: "Elysian." My heart races, a drumbeat that echoes in my ears. It sounds completely different to the others. Less like a back-alley brothel and more like an exclusive, private club. Definitely my style.

My fingers tremble as I click it, and...

Suddenly, I'm in a different world. A stream of chatter races by, and a large red pop-up appears out of nowhere. For a moment I worry that it might be a virus, but it's just asking if I'm a member of the site. I tell it nooooo and then it wants to know my sex and username.

"Female," I say. "Bored and lonely." I'm not lying, but is this a good idea? I suppose I'm about to find out.

I'm in. The website is buzzing with sex talk. It's not exactly what you'd call "Shakespearean" prose, unless old Willy boy liked to talk about fucking in the ass. I immediately wonder if I've landed in the right place after all.

The rational part of me wants to slam the laptop shut and go back to my wine. But there's another part — a wilder side — that's already intrigued. Just for tonight, good old sensible me can stick her spreadsheets where nobody's going to find them.

On one side of the screen is a list of usernames and an icon like an email inbox. In seconds it turns red. I click the image of an envelope, and a blitz of words appears.

The first three messages are random saying hello. But others are more... descriptive. Mikey88 wants to know if I'd like to suck his dick (probably not right now, Mike), MuscleMan asks if I want to watch him cum (nope, sorry), Momma_Issues just sounds weird and Sp?ke! has sent me an unsolicited photo of his cock (I assume it's his anyway).

Haibo.

It's not bad looking (bigger than Mlungisi's) and it does give my chest an extra thump. But seriously, guys — this isn't how you do it.

That said... how do you do it?

I start with the hellos. HardLover_19's at the top, so I go to him first.

I don't use "ru", by the way. I'm not twelve.

You'll also notice I told him the truth. I could have said anything there — it's the internet, I could have been a leggy model with a flat in Umhlanga — but I decided to be honest. It's one of my better flaws. Do I dare tell him what I actually am? That I'm what people call the "girl next door" type? I'm not magazine-cover material — my nose has got a slight bump and my teeth aren't perfectly straight — but I've caught enough second glances at the robot to know I've got something going for me on a good day.

And yes. On a site like that, with the inbox I've just described, I answered "reading."

Reading.

As though anybody in that room wanted to hear about the novels of Lydia Rose (she's my favourite author, by the way).

I cringe and grab another sip of my wine.

What do I say now? I don't exactly have masses of experience in the sex department to draw on. I know my way around (I think). But HardLover_19 here is probably expecting something... I don't know. What is he expecting?

I find out soon enough.

"Describe yr pussy," he writes.

Wow! Talk about skipping the foreplay. I thought it was bad enough with Mlungisi and at least he tried to make it seem like he was interested, even if it was only a fumble and a quick rub between my legs.

Sorry, HardLover_19, I'll be doing no such thing. I shake my head and sigh. Do these lines actually work on people?

Clearly, this isn't going well. I've only been here for five minutes but I'm rapidly reaching the conclusion that this online chat thing isn't doing it for me. And when HardLover_19 writes, "I want to fuck u now," I know I'm out.

I close the messages, take another sip of wine and contemplate putting on the TV. I'm still angry, but the mood's fading and the idea of downing the rest of the bottle and zoning out to something mindless is growing more appealing by the second.

I'm about to close the laptop and hit the couch when the envelope turns red again. It's probably more horny pervs. But I click it anyway, because I'm not quite ready to give up on the hope of finding what I'm after.

It's a message from a man called Thorn. "Good evening," he says.

I set the glass of wine back on the bedside table and reply: "Good evening."

My words disappear into the electronic ether. There's a short delay before Thorn responds. "Tell me," he writes, "how are you finding it on here? Rather like wading through a cesspit, isn't it?"

Something about his tone makes me pause. After the barrage of dick pics and come-ons and slang, his formality is... intriguing.

"It's boring," I write. Then I bite my lip, wondering if I'm baiting him.

Thorn responds. "What is it that you're looking for?"

Now that is a very good question. What am I looking for? Something a bit more interesting than HardLover_19, that's for sure.

I decide to stick with my policy of being honest. "I've just split up with my boyfriend," I write. "We had a row. I was turned down for a promotion and instead of being there for me, he ran off to the tavern with his boys. I came on here because I'm feeling lonely, and I wanted someone to talk to."

Is that too much? It looks like an awful lot of words when I write it all out. The reply comes swiftly. "I can help you with that."

Can you indeed? Call me sceptical, but from what I've seen so far, I'm hardly convinced. But let's see. "Go ahead," I type.

"First," writes Thorn, "we need to establish the rules."

Something about that word makes my stomach start to flutter.

"What rules?" I ask.

Thorn writes back without delay. "Rule number one is that you have to tell me your name."

I pause. I know I should lie about this. I should say something like "Lerato" or "Refilwe" or "Palesa." But I don't.

"Fundo," I write. (Nobody gets Nomfundo except my mother and Home Affairs.)

"Thank you, Fundo. Now, I need to know your sexual boundaries. What are you not prepared to do?"

I blink at the screen. It's an unexpected question and I'm not sure how to respond. I mean, obviously I'd never do anything disgusting or illegal. But apart from that? I've never really thought about it.

"I don't know," I type. Then I groan as soon as I hit enter. Eish. It's such a lame response, and now I'm worried this guy's going to think I'm some innocent little bookworm.

There isn't time to fret though, because a few seconds later, Thorn writes: "Don't worry, I can help you find them."

My eyebrows arch at his reply. Is it arrogance or confidence? My heart begins to race, wondering what else he might be able to help me find.

But before I can overthink his words, Thorn continues: "Why did you split up with your boyfriend?"

I blink again. It's a personal question, but isn't this what I wanted? Someone to give me some attention? Someone to listen to my tale of woe? Someone to be on my side?

"He thinks I'm too controlling," I type.

"And are you?"

My hand hovers over the lid of the laptop, a familiar defensiveness rising in my chest. But something stops me closing it. Maybe it's the wine. Or maybe, for once, someone's asking the right questions.

"Sometimes," I write. "Maybe. I don't know."

Thorn's response is immediate and precise. "Have you ever considered that control is just another form of fear? Don't you wonder what life would be like if you learned how to let it go?"

My chest tightens. "I can't," I write. "When I'm in control, everything feels safe."

"Don't you find it exhausting," Thorn replies, "always having to keep everything perfect, always being the one who has to hold it all together?"

My heart almost stops. It's as though he's reached right through the screen and touched a nerve inside me. "Yes," I write. "That's exactly what it's like."

"And you think that if you relax your grip for just a moment then everything in your life might fall apart?"

My eyes narrow. His words are like a key opening a lock. And when it does, the truth comes flooding in. I'm trying to arrange the world around me, thinking that if I can gain enough control then I can stop myself from getting hurt. But in reality, my desire for control is the thing that's stopping me from living. In a single day it's cost me my promotion and my boyfriend.

"Yes," I type.

There's a calculated pause in Thorn's reply. Then he writes: "True power comes from knowing when to surrender. Have you ever experienced the pleasure of giving it up willingly?"

I swallow hard. "No."

"Would you like to try?"

My mouth goes dry and my heart thunders hard against my ribs. My fingers tremble as I type. "Yes," I write again.

A dark promise crawls over my skin as I realise he's right. All my attempts at meticulous order have brought me to this moment. This is my choice. And isn't that the ultimate form of power — consciously deciding to hand over the reins?

I'm not losing control. I'm choosing to give it up. Just to see how it feels. Temporarily.

Right?

The next words on the screen make my thighs press tightly together.

"I am the controller. Your task is to follow the rule. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I type.

"The rule is this: You will do exactly as I say, when I say it. No questions, no hesitation. Do you understand?"

I down the words like a shot of neat vodka. It's a sharp and dangerous feeling. I'd blame the wine, but that's too easy. There's something else here, something I've been missing with Mlungisi and his fumble-prod-bang-snooze approach to intimacy. The thought of surrendering control to this stranger makes my pulse race in a way that scares and excites me.

"Yes. I understand."

A heavy silence fills my room as I wait for his response.

Finally, it arrives: "Where are you, Fundo?"

I tell him, "At home."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"What room are you in?"

"My bedroom."

"Tell me what you're wearing."

I glance down at my pyjamas. They're pale blue cotton with tiny stars. They're more "cuddle-me" than "femme fatale" but there's something wicked about wearing such innocent sleepwear while doing something so decidedly not.

"It isn't exactly stockings and suspenders," I say. "Do you want me to lie?"

"No. I want you to be honest. Always."

"I'm wearing pyjamas," I write.

"Are you on a laptop?"

"Yes," I tell him.

"Is your webcam working?"

Suddenly I'm not liking it. I roll my eyes and put my hand on the lid, getting ready to slam it down.

But I don't. What's holding me back? Curiosity, or something more?

"Yes," I type.

"Cover it up," says Thorn.

What? I'd have thought that the guys in this place would have wanted it on. It's such an unusual thing to say that I find myself asking "Why?"

"Because imagination is the most powerful sense we have. And because I want you to feel every sensation."

My stomach does a slow and dangerous flip as I read the words.

I don't have anything to cover the camera up with, so I slide off the bed and grab an old payslip from the papers I keep filed in a drawer. I fold it in half, then half again, and slot it onto the laptop. The paper covers the webcam.

"Done," I say.

Thorn writes back. "How are you feeling?"

"Slightly tipsy. Red wine," I reply. And "Curious." Then I add "Horny." Because, you know, I am.

Thorn thinks about this. "How often do you masturbate?"

The question sends heat crawling up my neck, but I don't keep a record so I'm not sure of the overall average. "Maybe once a week," I write, taking a rough and ready guess. "It depends how busy I am."

"When was the last time?"

"A few days ago," I say. Then I add "Lol," because I think it'll keep it light. Then I try to delete that because "Lol" makes me sound like a ditzy teenager. Then I realise that I've already hit send and I cringe.

There's another pause before Thorn replies. "How do you do it?"

I'm not sure how to answer that one. It'll take more than this little text box to describe. So, I'm relieved when Thorn adds, "Do you pleasure yourself with toys?"

That one's easier. "No," I write. "I don't own any."

Don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against dildos. A girl has a right to get off however she likes. I've just... I don't know. I suppose I've never felt brave enough to order one and have a courier hand it over at the gate of a house with two housemates in it.

"Just your fingers then?"

"Yes." Is there any other way to do it?

Thorn waits for a moment, then: "D'you remember the rule?"

Of course I do. It's only been a few minutes. I'm tipsy, not a goldfish. "Yes," I write.

"Leave your microphone on," he writes.

Leave my... what does he mean by that?

My question is answered seconds later when a box appears on the screen. There's a picture of a video camera and it wants to know if I'll accept a connection.

Thorn is calling me!

I know, I know. This would be a really good time to bail out. And that's what I tell myself as I try to force my brain to make a decision.

When it does, it's another surprise. I think of it like this: the webcam's covered up so he can't see me, right? I'll just click accept and if I don't like what I see — or hear — I'll leave. No harm done. Besides, it's this or the TV, and let's be honest, another night of watching other people's fictional love lives isn't going to fill this void.

I click accept. There's another couple of pop-ups asking for permission to use my mic and camera. I click them and then a larger box appears. It's got one of those spinning wheels in the middle. When it stops there's... nothing on the screen.

What's going on? Did I click the wrong thing?

But then a smooth, well-spoken voice says: "How are you feeling?"

It's Thorn. He sounds older. I immediately place him being somewhere in his... forties? He sounds like he went to school somewhere expensive, and for some reason the word "professional" springs to mind. He sounds assured. Like a doctor or a pilot or a... I don't know, just someone who knows what they're doing.

His words send a prickle of gooseflesh down my arms.

"Still tipsy and curious," I tell him.

"Before we continue, I need to give you a safe word."

A safe word? It sounds like something out of those dirty books that Thuli's always trying to get me to read. My wine-fuzzed brain tries to process this. It should probably worry me more than it does, but his voice makes everything seem so reasonable.

"The word is 'Barcelona'," says Thorn. "I need you to repeat it back to me."

"Barcelona," I say, wishing very much that I was there instead of sitting in my bedroom.

Thorn makes a sound of approval. "Any time you feel uncomfortable, or you want to stop, you just need to say the word. Do you understand?"

I catch myself biting my lower lip. It's a nervous habit that I thought I'd broken years ago. This feels as though I'm signing some sort of contract.

"Yes," I say. "I understand."

"Good. Now take your top off."

Each word has the stamp of someone used to being obeyed. My initial reaction is shock. Am I actually going to do this? I'm used to being in control, so this surrender is making me feel completely out of my depth. But I can't deny that there's a sense of liberation too — a freedom that comes from not having to think about every little decision.

My fingers tremble at the hem of my pyjamas. I've done this hundreds of times, but never like this. Never with a stranger's voice to guide me.

Dutifully I pull the fabric over my head. I'm not wearing a bra (down time), so when I drop the pyjamas on the floor, I'm topless.

"Done," I say. I try to sound confident, but even with the wine there's a tremor in my voice.

"What about your bra?"

"All gone."

"Good."

There's a moment of ripe anticipation. My heart's racing, my mouth's as dry as sand and that spot between my legs is starting to moisten. I know he can't see me, but I can't stop myself from imagining Thorn here in my room, rugged and handsome in a sharp black suit, his eyes moving over my body, taking me in, assessing every curve and imperfection. Would he like what he sees? Would he be pleased with his obedient little student?

"I want you to feel yourself," he says. "Using both hands."

I'm struck by how self-conscious I suddenly feel. I know he can't see me, but there's a thumping in my chest as I lift up my trembling hands and place them over my breasts.

They're nothing special. Not to me, anyway. On a good day, in the right bra, they're the best thing I've got going; the rest of the time they're just there, part of a body nobody's bothered to look at properly in months. I do like them though. There's a small mole near my left nipple but otherwise they're flawless. I squeeze them slowly and the soft flesh yields beneath my fingers, sending little sparks of pleasure coursing through my veins. Mlungisi never paid them much attention. For him they were just a starter to be rushed on the way to the main course.

"Are you doing it?" says Thorn.

"Yes," I breathe. The word comes out more like a plea than a reply. I'm moving my hands in smooth circular motions, slowly kneading my mounds.

"I want you to show me how well you follow instructions. Take hold of your nipples and squeeze them slowly."

My fingers move before I have a chance to overthink it. I do as he says, pinching them, then gradually adding pressure, tightening my grip. My nipples are highly sensitive, and a soft moan escapes my lips as my body responds, every little twist and tug lighting me up with flashes of pleasure.

"Are you doing it?" asks Thorn.

"Yes."

"Go harder."

I do as he says. It doesn't take long before my nipples succumb to a dull, burning sting.

"It's starting to hurt," I whisper.

"That's good. Squeeze them more."

I follow his instruction. The burn intensifies, but I can't take it. I'm feeling slightly ridiculous — playing with my tits because some guy on the internet tells me to isn't my ideal Friday night. But at the same time, I can't help myself. I'm enjoying this. The mixture of pain and pleasure is making my hips feel restless...

"Slowly pull them as far as you can," says Thorn.

Not for the first time, something in his voice makes me obey. There's only so far they'll go, but I feel compelled to please. The burning spreads and the stinging pain increases. I know I can stop at any moment, I know I can just let go. But at the same time, I'm committed to following the rule, to doing whatever this stranger tells me. It's an exhilarating feeling — surrendering to him, allowing him to make the decisions — and an indecent wetness is starting to grow between my legs.

"Now hold it," says Thorn. "Stay like that until I tell you to let go."

"Okay," I say.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes." I'm surprised to hear myself say it. But I have to admit, surrendering like this is giving me a rush like a dangerous drug.

Thorn waits. The seconds crawl by. "When was the last time you had sex?" he asks.

"Four nights ago," I reply without a pause.

"Who with?"

"My boyfriend. I mean, my ex-boyfriend."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"No. But that was fairly normal." I'm being honest again. Mlungisi's not an attentive lover. The first few times were fine, in a functional sort of way. Since then, it felt like he was servicing one of those cars he keeps in his garage. A quick tune-up while he waits for the match to start on TV.

"How long were you with him?"

I do a swift mental calculation. "About three-and-a-half months."

"Why did you stay if he couldn't please you?"

Now that, is an excellent question. Do I tell him the truth? I'm still in confessional mode, so fuck it — I might as well bare my soul along with my body. It's not as if this guy knows who I am.

"I don't know," I say. "I think I just want to be with someone?"

Does that sound lame? Now I'm worried he's going to think I'm sad and desperate, clinging to any scraps of attention that get thrown my way.

There's another pause from the speakers of the laptop. Every second stretches with anticipation. My nipples throb between my fingers and I can feel my pulse everywhere — in my throat, my wrists, between my legs... The wait is like torture, magnifying every tiny twitch and tremble. The sound of my rapidly quickening breath seems uncommonly loud.

"Let go," Thorn commands.

I release and my breasts spring back into position. There's an immediate relief as the burning fades, and a low-level smarting settles in. My nipples throb and tingle, feeling twice as sensitive as before. They're stiff and swollen, practically begging to be touched again.

"Take the rest of your pyjamas off," says Thorn.

I didn't see that one coming (eye roll). Yet again my inner control freak tells me that I've gone far enough, that now's the time to call it a day and go back to my safe, predictable world. But there's another side. A new side. One that's intrigued to see where all this is leading.

My hands are shaking as I slide my bottoms down my thighs, tossing them on the floor with my top.

Now I'm sitting here in just my lace front knickers. They're white because I'm pure, obviously.

"Done," I announce.

"How are you feeling now?" asks Thorn.

Am I excited? Nervous? I think I'm both. But as I'm composing my reply, I'm struck by a thought that sends me into a panic.

"Hang on!" I scramble off the bed towards the door. I leave it unlocked so Kea or Thuli can stick their head in when they're around. I know they're out tonight, but I'm not running the risk of them coming back unexpectedly. Can you imagine if they saw me like this? How would I ever begin to explain?

I turn the lock and check it, just to be sure. Then I hop back on the bed.

"I'm ready," I say. "I mean, yes."

I'm slightly drunk is what I am. I stare accusingly at the glass of wine next to the bed. "I'm fine," I tell him.

It's hardly a convincing reply.

Fortunately, Thorn doesn't seem to mind. "Take off your knickers," he says.

I knew it was coming but it's still a thrill to hear the words.

My fingers hesitate. We both know where this is heading, but I'm being held back by that last thread of resistance, the final barrier between being a "good girl" and whatever I'm about to become. I don't want to admit that this is what I want to do, so I give myself a couple of seconds before taking hold of my knickers. The fabric clings briefly to my legs as I slide them off, discarding them with the rest of my abandoned evening wear.

"Done," I say.

Thorn issues the next instruction. "Lay down on your bed. Put the laptop where you can hear me."

"Okay." My pulse kicks wildly as I clear a space on my drawers, being careful not to knock over the wine. Then I decide it's probably a good idea to finish it off. So I down the rest of the glass, get the laptop in position and settle back down on the bed.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. My heart feels as though it's going to come bursting right out of my chest.

"Are you comfortable?" says Thorn.

"Yes," I lie.

The wine is fuzzing me up but there's another rush of dark excitement when Thorn says, "close your eyes and open your legs."

I do it. My eyes close and my legs part. I draw my knees up slightly so I'm laying prone, as though I'm waiting to be taken. My room's not cold — September has finally turned — but suddenly I'm super aware of the air against my skin. My nipples are still tingling, the senses of my pussy are coming alive.

And another thought rushes into my head. It shocks me because I realise that I'm so fucking horny I wouldn't stop if Thorn was here. I would absolutely let him fuck me. I don't even care what he looks like. I would let him have me in any way he chose. I imagine it now, this mysterious stranger standing over me as I lay here with my legs apart, willing and waiting. My pussy's almost dripping now. He's moving in towards me, his strong arms holding me down as the tip of his rigid cock rubs up against my lips, teasing me, slowly working his way in through my glistening folds, and...

"Are you still there?"

"Shit!" "Yes," I hurriedly say. "Yes, sorry. I'm just, I'm... still here."

There's a silence in which I almost convince myself that Thorn can read my mind. Then he says, "Touch your breasts again."

"Okay."

My heart's pounding as I take them, the burning in my nipples is fading away but they're primed and as my hands move they respond with a twinkle of pleasure. I squeeze my breasts, harder than before, fondling myself but wishing that Thorn was here to do it instead.

"Take your right hand," he says, "and slowly move it between your legs."

There's a tremble in my arm as my hand sets off. I slide it from my breast towards my navel. My pussy's calling and there's the most delicious flutter in my stomach as I slide onto my pubic mound, feeling the soft fuzz of my hair. It's one-part nerves and three parts ripe anticipation. I don't shave down there. I don't have to. I'd hate to have one of those bushes that grow all out of control. Mine's a neat and tidy package, like me. It's prim and proper and... sigh, underused.

Every nerve ending seems to spark as I touch myself. My toes curl, gripping the sheets, and my pulse throbs hard between my legs. My left hand squeezes at my breast. I'm breathing faster now and there's another heavy heart-thump as Thorn says: "Stroke your pussy."

My fingers start to gently feel their way along my slit. I'm not probing, just touching my lips, sensing their willingness to part. I'm so moist now and I have to fight the urge to slide my fingers in. I don't, because I'm being good. I keep to the rule, doing as I'm told, slowly running my fingers up and down.

"Find your clit."

My fingers work their way back up. My pussy lips are tempting me to indulge, but I force the urge away, sliding along to my clitoris. I gasp when I touch it. The nub is firm beneath my fingertips. I don't go in hard because it's sooooo delicate down there, but my groin has developed a mind of its own, each teasing circle of my fingers making my hips lift, seeking more, as I massage that sweet spot.

"Do you have it?" asks Thorn.

"Yes," I say, although it comes out as more of a groan. I'm breathing louder now, and Thorn must have heard that too because he doesn't say anything for what feels like an eternity, letting me luxuriate in the blossoming warmth that radiates throughout my body.

Then he says, "How many fingers do you fuck yourself with?"

"One... two," I answer, and instantly regret it in case he thinks I'm some kind of slut. Obviously, the fact that I'm lying here masturbating while he issues commands wouldn't have given him that impression already.

"Are you wet?" he asks.

"Yes." And I am. For a pussy that doesn't get as much game-time as it would like, it has no trouble getting ready. So I'm all set to go when Thorn says, "Put your fingers inside you."

I leave my clit behind and slide my fingers down my slit. My lips yield with ease and my middle finger slips inside. My pussy's warm and inviting, calling me in, and a raw moan tears from my throat as a surge of pleasure floods through me. I groan again. My hips roll, seeking more. My back arches off the bed as each thrust reduces me to a world of pure sensation, my pussy gripping me like it's starved.

My left hand has almost forgotten that it's supposed to be on breast duty, and as I rub my finger along my ridge, I pinch my nipple again. My skin feels like it's on fire, every pore hungry to be touched.

Fuuuuck, this feels so good.

"Are they there?" asks Thorn.

I draw my hand back. My hips grind again as my ring finger joins the fun. My pussy pulses in response and the wet, slick sounds of my fingers moving inside me make me throb even harder. I wonder if Thorn can hear the slippery sound my pussy makes as I work my fingers.

"Yes," I say.

I run along my ridge again, seeking out that comfort zone. I'm not just wet anymore, I'm soaking. I can feel my arousal trickling down my thighs, and the thought that I'm performing for him, following his orders, makes me even wetter. I groan as my fingers curl to find the spot, rolling my fingers over it, pressing up and grinding against myself as though I was... God what I wouldn't do for a cock right now.

"Start to fuck yourself," says Thorn.

You're a bit late here, I think, sliding my fingers back and forth along my ridge. My pussy's pulsing with delight as I pull my fingers out and slide them back inside. Another low groan escapes my lips. It surprises me, because I'm normally quiet, keeping my pleasure sounds restrained. But now? Something's changed. I'm no longer held back by my usual need for control. I'm becoming something wild, something free.

I rub my breast, wishing that Thorn was here instead of listening to me pleasuring myself through that laptop.

Long ripples of bliss spread across my body and whatever nerves I may have felt before have given way to a glorious thrill. I'm still trembling, but now it's with excitement, the feel of my fingers, the certain knowledge that I'm going to cum and I won't be able to stop myself and Thorn is going to hear every fucking animal sound when I do.

I realise then what a smart move it was getting me to turn my webcam off. It made it easier for me to trust him, and now I'm lying here fingering myself and oh fuck does that feel good. Every thrust of my hand makes colours swirl behind my eyelids, my body drinking in the pleasure like it's an oasis. For once, I'm following my raw animal instincts, rather than my usual need for control.

"Stop moving," Thorn says. "But keep your fingers inside you."

What? Noooo. Don't do this to me! My body doesn't want to do anything other than grind and fuck itself into oblivion. But I said I would follow the rule so I reluctantly slow down and come to a halt. My fingers are still deep inside my pussy. I can feel its walls quivering with pleasure, calling them to start finger fucking again.

"Let yourself relax." Thorn sounds commanding yet composed, and I wonder what he's doing. Is he enjoying himself? Is he getting off on having complete control over my pleasure? Making me follow his orders, teasing me, bringing me to this edge of desperate need? It doesn't sound as though he's joining me in sexual escapades. I like that. It means I'm the centre of his attention.

I try to do as he says but it's not easy. I breathe, taking long, deep inhalations hoping to reach a state of calm. After several breaths I'm more relaxed. But it's not a restful peace and my hand wants to get moving.

"How are your fingers?" asks Thorn.

"Wet," I tell him, with a nervous laugh.

"Next time I'll buy you some toys."

Next time? That's presumptuous of him. But the thought of him choosing items for my pleasure, telling me how to use them, submitting to his demands... I have to admit it's kind of exciting.

"What kind of toys?" I ask. I don't want this to end. Not right now anyway. Not while I'm lying here craving that warm release.

"Patience," he says, and I swear I can hear him smiling. "First, you need to show me how creative you can be. Find something you can use."

I don't know where this comes from, but in the next moment the words seem to fall out by themselves. "I've got a hairbrush?" I say. My voice is barely a whisper and my heart's pounding so hard I wonder if Thorn can hear it through the laptop.

"Use it," he orders.

I'm shaking as I turn to face the screen. It's still showing nothing but darkness, with the folded payslip covering the camera. I reach around it, my fingers finding the hairbrush next to my e-reader.

"Got it," I say.

It's the black oval paddle with the flexible bristles, the one I saved up for. The smooth, curved handle is suddenly looking more interesting than it's ever done before.

I lay back down, adjust my head on the pillow and re-open my legs. I take the brush down to my pussy, sliding the smooth plastic handle over my skin, running the tip along my lips. They part gently when I push, and I moan as the handle slides inside.

I can't believe I'm doing this. It feels so dirty, but fuck if I'm not getting off on it. The sensible me is so far gone and this new version is taking over completely.

The brush slides back and forth. I go slowly at first because I'm still getting used to the shape, and I try a few different angles until I find the one that hits the spot. Soon I'm settling into a rhythm. It's not bad for someone who doesn't use toys. Maybe I'm a natural.

My breathing grows heavy, and I moan as I thrust the brush between my legs. My pussy's sopping wet. Arousal coats my inner thighs, and each push makes my body sing with need. The sounds of wet obscenity fill the room. My hips roll and grind against the makeshift toy like I'm possessed.

Thorn is quiet. He's listening to me moan and the thought of it only makes me louder.

I switch the brush to my other hand. My left breast's getting all the fun and my right one's feeling jealous. But the rhythm's not the same so after a few valiant thrusts I quickly change back over. The pleasure's building like a storm now. My pussy's greedily devouring every single part of it. My hips buck with desperate abandon, the fire between my legs making me want to fuck myself senseless.

"Are you close?" asks Thorn.

"Yes," I gasp, barely able to form the word.

"Stop."

WTF? No. Not now! Every single sexual point in my body screams at me to carry on, to drive the brush hard into my pussy, to feel that sweet moment of release. But I can't. I need to follow the rule. My hand freezes in mid-stroke, the handle still buried inside me.

"Please," I whisper.

"Count to ten," says Thorn. "Slowly."

I follow his command. Each number takes an age and feels like torture. My pussy's clenched around the makeshift dildo, desperate to feel it moving again, to feel that sweet friction that will push me into the welcoming arms of oblivion.

There's a pause when I finish. Then Thorn says, "Let me hear you cum."

I don't need an invitation. My whole body's trembling with a raw, instinctive need. The handle of the brush is stretching me, making my pussy grip and pulse with hunger. It presses up against my G-spot, forcing my throat to release a salivating moan. My world shrinks to a haze of sensation — the wet slide of the handle inside me, this burning, desperate craving for release...

It isn't going to be long. I can feel the walls of my pussy drawing in. My stomach tingles and that slow wave is building up from somewhere deep inside me, rising like an incoming, unstoppable tide. My body is nowhere and everywhere at once. My toes curl, my calves cramp, my stomach muscles ache. I'm vaguely aware of making whimpering sounds, and my whole body is spinning out of control.

It's so fucking good that I don't care who can hear me now. I've never cum this hard before. I moan, lifting my head off the pillow, pulling my legs together as that final, pulsating rush hits me with a shudder.

I gasp, gulping air as my head falls back against the pillow. My face is burning and I'm still grinding the brush but it's slower now, a softly receding tide of bliss that ebbs and slowly flows away, leaving me wrapped in a shimmering golden aura. I'm weightless and heavy all at once, my pussy still fluttering with delicious little spasms around the handle.

"Did you cum for me?" says Thorn.

"Yes," I tell him. I'm still breathless and quivering and there's a small, tingling ripple of bliss as I pull the brush away.

"Good. You did well."

He waits then. The laptop's silent. I feel as though I should say something, but I'm not sure what it should be. What's the protocol here? What exactly do you say to someone who's just given you the instructions for a full body orgasm?

"Thanks," I say. "That was really... nice."

Nice? For fuck's sake, Fundo, is that the best you can do?

"You're welcome."

There's another lengthy pause. It makes me wonder if he's gone, so I turn to face the laptop and... what the fuck?

With a flash of absolute panic, I see the payslip has fallen away. I must have knocked it off when I was trying to find the brush and now it's...

Shiiiit!

I glance at the folded paper on the floor, lying there like discarded innocence next to my knickers. The laptop screen's still empty, but above it there's the small green light that says the camera's watching.

"You're looking hot," says Thorn.

My body jolts from a flash of utter panic. My heart almost stops and suddenly I'm quite unable to breathe. I sit bolt upright, frozen, my limbs completely unable to move. My heart hammers in my chest and my face is aflame as I realise that Thorn has seen it all. Every moan, every thrust, every desperate grind of my hips.

I'm absolutely mortified. Yet, at the same time I'm filled with a strange, twisted excitement. I should be scrambling to cover myself, I should be diving under the sheets, I should be slamming the lid of the laptop and doing my best to pretend that none of this ever happened.

But I'm not.

I catch myself and sit there on the bed, shocked and panting, hovering between the dread and the glow of this perverse, unusual thrill. My body's still humming from the orgasm and there's something profoundly sensuous about knowing that he's watching me, having me exposed. It's like Thorn is touching me with his eyes.

And fuck if the thought of it isn't making me even wetter.

It's a dark pleasure that makes my pussy ache with longing.

I'm still absorbing this when Thorn says the words that spin my life around.

"Do you want to know a secret?" he says.

It catches me completely off my guard. I frown as my mind tries to work out how to respond. Sensible Fundo begins screaming at me to shut the laptop and run. But she's not in control anymore. Something's changed. I don't know what it is, but the thrill of submitting to this man's commands, letting him bring me to a climax, knowing he could see and hear it all — has awakened something primal and forbidden, a side of myself I never knew existed.

And it's left me wanting more.

I turn to the camera, looking directly at whoever is there.

"Yes."