Are trapped by her

You knew touching yourself is not an option. You were trap by her. The threat is real, potent, and it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with sheer, naked terror. The thought of your parents seeing that shemale video you were so into last weekend, it's a social **** sentence. The idea of your buddy Jason seeing the degradation you consume, it's worse than ****. It's the end of you.

Your cock, which had been a pillar of demanding, urgent need, seems to wither slightly. The gooner's high is replaced by the addict's cold fear. You are completely, utterly at her mercy. She hasn't even asked for money. This is about something else. This is about ownership.

You're staring at your screen, at the immobile cursor she left like a signature, when it moves again. She opens your web browser. She types in a URL. It's an online shopping site. A high-end lingerie store. Your heart hammers against your ribs as she navigates to the women's section.

She fills the cart. Black lace bustiers. Sheer stockings with garter belts. A pair of towering, impossibly high stilettos in blood-red patent leather. A small, leather riding crop. The total is astronomical, a sum of money that would wipe out your savings account, the money you'd been hoarding for well, you didn't even know what anymore. A new graphics card? A down payment on a car? None of it matters now.

Another text. "You're going to buy this for me, John. You're going to use your debit card. And you are going to have it shipped to my address. Then, you will send me the tracking number. Do you understand?"

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