No, not yet at least

You manage to stay your hand. You clench your jaw, your knuckles white where you grip your arms behind your back. Your body is screaming at you, every nerve ending alight with a ****, needy fire. Your cock throbs, a painful, insistent reminder of what you're denying it. The pre-cum is already dripping. It's agony. It's ecstasy. This is the real edging, not the mindless self-pleasure you usually indulge in. This has a purpose. This has her.

Your phone buzzes. A text message this time. "What's your name, gooner?"

Your fingers fumble over the keyboard. You type your real name, John, then delete it. That feels too... normal. Too ****. You type 'GoonerJohn'. Delete. You think about the pathetic cum stains on your floor, about the endless hours you've wasted. You want to be honest with her. She deserves your honesty.

You type out. "John. My name is John."

The three dots appear immediately, indicating she's typing. You hold your breath.

"A plain name for a plain boy. Tell me, John, how badly do you want to touch yourself right now?"

You type back, "More than anything, Goddess."

"I know," she replies. "Now. Listen to your next task." You're on the verge of a whole new level of gooning.

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