She wants to control your desktop

Another text comes through. "Turn on your desktop. I want you to download a program called 'AnyDesk'. Now, John."

You knew the program as a remote access tool, used by IT people to fix computers from miles away. A jolt of pure, unadulterated fear shoots through your arousal. The idea of her seeing your messy room, the crusty socks, the multiple screens of degrading porn, it's humiliating. But it's also intoxicating. The ultimate submission.

Your hands, slick with a nervous sweat, move to the keyboard. You navigate to the AnyDesk website, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The download feels like a pact with the devil. You install it. A nine-digit address appears on the screen, your digital soul laid bare.

"Send me your address, John. Don't keep me waiting."

You copy the numbers. Your thumb hovers over the paste button. This is it. The point of no return. Once she's in, she's in. She'll see everything. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the ghost of your old self, the self that played basketball with Jason, screaming at you to stop. But that self is gone. All that's left is the gooner, and the gooner craves her control.

You paste the numbers and hit send. On your main screen, a small notification box pops up. 'GoonetteGoddess is requesting to connect to your device.' A Accept/Decline button.

Your finger stabs the 'Accept' button. For a second, nothing happens. Then, your cursor moves. It's not you. It drifts slowly, deliberately, across the screen. It's a phantom limb controlled by a distant mind, a distant goddess. You watch, mesmerized, as she navigates your folders with an unnerving familiarity.

She finding your cove of porn hidden in your folders. She's not judging. She's cataloging. She clicks on a video, a hardcore gangbang scene you've saved. The audio blasts through your speakers, the sounds of slapping flesh and distorted moans filling your small room.

You flinch, your cheeks burning with shame. She lets it play for a minute, then clicks it off, moving on to the next file. She's a predator surveying her territory, understanding your diet. She knows your taste. She knows your weakness.

The cursor stops moving. A new text message arrives on your phone. "I see you have an eye for quality, John. So much porn for a loser gooner. I know you are **** right now. I know you want to touch yourself. But you can't unless you want me to blocked you. And if you touch yourself now. I'll send all of your porn to your closes contact. Will mommy and daddy like to see their son is into disgusting gangbangs or that he goes a little bi with shemale porn on the weekend?"

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