Find a carved eye

The forest waited. Jessica, standing at the edge where the well-kept grass of the soccer field blurred into the wild undergrowth, felt the last echo of the school bell fade in the air. She was completely naked, save for the phone burning in her hand. She had waited, holding her breath, scanning the grove for movement, a shadow, any clue as to who was behind the messages. She received only silence, and then, the familiar vibration.

The new message lit up the screen:

"From where you are, go 50 steps into the trees. Find the stump with the carved symbol (an eye). Sit on it. Remain seated, motionless, counting 100 heartbeats. Take a photo with the phone, showing the symbol under your crotch."

The words, cold and impersonal, drew her a precise map of humiliation. A carved eye. Sit on it. Count heartbeats. And the photo... showing the symbol under your crotch. The forest air, previously just fresh, now seemed charged with a tangible surveillance. Every whisper of the leaves sounded like foreign breathing; every creak of a branch, a step getting closer.

What if I don't go in? she thought. But the other option—returning to the school completely naked, with the first classes about to start—was unimaginable. At least here, among the trees, there was a certain illusion of privacy. And also, in the deepest part of her shame, an undercurrent of something else: an electric and forbidden excitement that repelled and attracted her at the same time. Her body, against her will, responded to the danger, to the **** exposure. Her skin burned.

With a tremor running from her ankles to her jaw, she took the first step into the forest. The tall grass grazed her thighs, her calves, a contact she now felt with agonizing intensity. She counted her steps in a low voice, almost a whisper: “One, two, three…” Each number took her deeper into the green gloom. The light filtered through the leaves in dusty beams, illuminating motes of pollen floating like a magical and perverse veil.

Upon reaching step forty-seven, she saw it.

It was a wide, low stump, from a tree probably cut down years ago. Its surface was worn and smooth from time, except for a mark in the center: a rudimentary but clear eye, carved with precision. The pupil was a small, deep hole. The symbol watched her, expressionless and ancient, charged with the intention of whoever had written the message. It froze her blood.

The instructions resonated in her head: Sit on it.

Jessica stopped in front of the stump, breathing raggedly. The forest kept silence around her, an expectant silence. Slowly, almost ritually, she approached. The wood was cold and slightly damp against the skin of her buttocks when she sat down. The sensation was intensely vivid: the roughness of the old wood, the edge of the carved eye pressing right... there. A violent shiver ran through her, and she didn't know if it was from horror or a deep, unspeakable arousal.

Motionless. Count.

She closed her eyes, but that only intensified the other sensations. Her heartbeat was a wild drum in her ears. She began to count, synchronizing the numbers with each beat of life in her chest.

“One… two… three…”

Each beat was an eternity. Each number, a sentence. She felt the weight of her own body, the coolness of the air on her naked breasts, the intimate and cold contact of the carved symbol. Her mind wanted to wander, wanted to imagine who could be watching her, from where, with what eyes. Was there a hidden camera among the ferns? Or perhaps the surveillance was simpler, crueler, and someone was watching her from a distance with binoculars, enjoying her submission step by step?

“...forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty…”

Halfway through the count, a sound made her snap her eyes open: the creaking of a branch, not far away. She held her breath, paralyzed. An animal? Or him? She didn't dare turn her head. She limited herself to staying motionless, as ordered, exposed and **** on the stump, while her heart galloped out of control, ruining the count. She had to start over.

“One… two… three…”

The second time was worse. The wait became an exquisite ****. The dampness of the wood began to feel colder, more invasive. She noticed how her nipples, treacherous, hardened against the cool air, an obscene detail that only she—and perhaps the one watching her—could perceive. Shame burned her cheeks, but a very different heat was beginning to ignite in her lower belly, a slow, guilty fire that refused to go out.

“...ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.”

The last number left her lips in a trembling sigh. She had complied. Now, the final part of the order: the photo.

She opened her eyes and took the phone from the sports bag she had left on the ground next to the stump. Her hands shook so much she almost dropped it. She turned on the camera and switched it to the front one, the one that would show her. The screen reflected her image: a young naked woman, with messy blonde hair, eyes shining with a mixture of panic and something else, flushed skin. And behind her, between her thighs opened by the seated posture, the surface of the stump and the carved eye could be seen.

The instruction was clear: showing the symbol under your crotch.

She had to get up for a moment, place the phone in a low fork of a nearby tree, pointing downward. Then she sat back down, this time adjusting her posture. She leaned back slightly, resting her hands on the edge of the stump, opening her legs just enough for the camera to capture, without a doubt, the carved eye right beneath her naked sex. The angle was unmistakable, obscene, deliberate. Her crotch, semi-shaven and completely exposed, was centimeters from the symbol that seemed to watch it all.

The shame was so intense that for a moment she saw white spots. But also, with terrifying clarity, she felt a wet, warm spasm in her most intimate parts. Her own body was betraying her, becoming aroused by the humiliation.

She held her breath and stretched out an arm to touch the touchscreen from a distance. The click of the shutter sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the forest.

The photo was captured. In it, the pale curvature of her thighs could be seen, the intimate shadow between them, and right in the center, like a perverse target, the eye carved in the old wood. It was an image of total submission.

With fingers that still trembled, she retrieved the phone, opened the conversation, and attached the image. The cursor blinked over the send button. Her thumb hovered over the screen. In that final instant of hesitation, her whole being rebelled. Was she about to send this to a stranger? To give away such explicit proof of her degradation?

But the memory of her absolute nakedness, of the impossibility of being seen by anyone passing by, weighed more. And, in a poisoned corner of her mind, the curiosity to know how far this would go, to receive the promised reward, to feel that forbidden tingle again, pushed her forward.

She pressed send.

The application showed the brief loading indicator, and then the word “Delivered”. The photo was no longer hers. Now it belonged to “The Deal”. It had become someone else's property.

She remained seated, motionless, watching the screen. Seconds passed, each longer than the last. The forest emitted no sound. Her own heart, which before beat with ****, seemed to have calmed into a state of shock. She only felt the cold of the wood beneath her and the stinging heat of her blush.

Then, the phone vibrated softly in her hand.

A new message.

A shiver ran down her spine. She had been expecting it, and yet, the notification startled her. Slowly, as if the device might bite her, she slid her finger to unlock the screen.

The message was brief, and the words seemed to burn against the white background:

“Submission has its reward. Look up. In front of you, on the silver birch, is a package. It is yours.”

Jessica looked up, tearing her eyes away from the screen. Right in front, about three meters away, a slender birch with its bark white like paper stood out against the darker foliage. And there, tied to a low branch with a simple black ribbon, hung a small rectangular package, wrapped in smooth, cream-colored paper.

The chapter had ended with the sent photo and the promise, suspended from a branch, that her humiliation might—just might—get a respite. But the price of reaching that package, of unwrapping it right there, completely exposed, was the inevitable next step in the game.