No Contact

You finally managed to fall asleep, after rethinking your Madden strategy for two hours.

Carrie still hadn't gotten in touch with you. You wanted to call, text, anything; but this was her game now. She was setting the pace, probably designed to **** you.

The morning was uneventful. David seemed a bit on edge, likely worried you would ask for a rematch.

She finally texted around 10: Look at this house! It's huge!

It included a picture of a small mansion; three stories, a four-car garage, and a pool that was almost up to Olympic standards.

But then, nothing. No update on her progress. No graphic details. Nothing. Had Troy changed? If he wasn't a POS jerk anymore, did that lessen the humiliation and the connected sexual arousal? Nothing really made sense anymore. You didn't think through all the possibilities, the anxieties, the arousal/fear that haunted you moment by moment, waiting for some news.