Chapter Six
TESS
The folks are away, it’s time to play, angel. What do you say we kick tonight off with a BANG the sinners will hear in Hell?!
Atext message arrives on my phone. It’s from an unregistered number, but by deduction and from what it says I know it has to be Novak.
Obviously he’s so excited about the week we’re going to spend alone that he’s resorted to texting me.
I understand the need for secrecy in his personal line of work.
What if someone happened to see the filth he was sending?
I chew my lip instinctively at the implications. I am annoyed that Novak has implied that we are sinners. I know he thinks my mom and my faith is ridiculous and he never misses an opportunity to mock it, but that is a step too far. I don’t feel like a sinner, but maybe that’s what all sinners say.
Are you going to be a bad girl for me?
His follow-up message comes through before I’ve completely finished digesting the first.
I reply with a winking emoji to gain time. I’m not used to this and I haven’t got a clue what the best course of action is. Novak’s not the kind of guy who texts or chats for fun. He takes what he wants, uses it and leaves.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d be lying if I said this extra attention didn’t make me feel special.
Novak’s bullshit millionaire mindset has him locked in a constant search for money.
Relationships are an afterthought. He’s a closed book on emotions and fends them off like the plague.
But given the way he screws, you’d think his situation was different.
It’s as if he’s trying to fuck himself free of the demons that burden him.
As if there’s salvation hidden inside the confines of a tight pussy. My tight pussy.
What are you doing, now, my smutty angel?
Lazing on the sofa watching bad daytime TV shows? Not exactly sexy.
Thinking about doing bad things to a big strong man. XXX.
A little white lie to kick things off. I’ve done worse.
Are you touching yourself?
Are we really doing this? Delving into the new and exciting world of sexting? What better way to kick off our week-long bender?
No, I want to, but I need permission from you to do something that sinful.
My cheeks burn uncomfortably hot at my reply, and the way I confirm his accusations about my moral depths.
Another buzz on my phone says:
Do it.
I don’t give myself time to think before placing one hand down my pants, and stroking the clean-shaven skin of my pubic area. He wouldn’t know if I did or didn’t, but where’s the fun in declining his order?
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m nervous about going against Novak’s orders.
Disobedience is met with punishment, and that’s usually a thwacking to my bottom that leaves my ass burning and bruised for days.
The uncomfortable tenderness from Novak’s lashing before church is my solemn reminder of listening to my… master.
Another buzz:
Think of me while you stretch that tight little pussy until you come.
I slide a finger to my pussy at his order. Surprisingly, I’m soaked after mere moments of texting. Shit. How have I fallen so deep into this bullshit? How have I allowed Novak Christiansen a direct line to every pleasure receptor in my body?
He doesn’t even have to be here to drive me wild. He could be across the world, barking his orders, and like his good little slut, I’d follow them through.
I kick my feet onto the coffee table and spread my legs to block any obstruction. My fingers trace upward through my wetness. I stop at my clit. It’s sensitive, eager to receive Novak’s pleasure, indirect as it may be.
A yelp breaks my silence as I begin moving in slow, rhythmic circles. I keep my eyes on my phone while I follow my instructions, awaiting another message. Another demand.
My mind runs wild with images of Novak’s stubbled face buried between my legs. His hungry tongue lapping at my pussy, and drinking in every part of me. His icy blue eyes peering up at me, while I squirm under his expert touch.
I increase my pace on every other beat. Try as I might to go slow and enjoy the moment, my wild daydream of Novak bursting through the front door and taking me in some wild embrace is driving me closer to my eventual destination.
My moans start softly and hushed, as if someone might hear me, but then I remember I’m alone and I let loose.
My body rattles and shakes, my hips thrust forward against my hand, and I’m reaching the point of absolute bliss. I slide my second hand into my pants and find my soaked entrance.
I slide a finger inside and match the rhythm of my fingers dancing against my clit. My breathing comes in ragged bursts. My heart is pumping in my chest. This feels filthy, but somehow incredibly intoxicating.
A sharp cry escapes me as one finger becomes two, and I approach my climax. My jaw clenches tight as I shut my eyes, and as I do, pleasure crashes through me in violent waves.
And there, amidst it all, I see Novak’s smug grin. As though he’s standing right beside me, I hear the words. “Good slut.”
Another buzz at my side distracts me from my state of euphoria. I chuckle at the timing. It’s as if he was able to see me, and he timed his message to coincide perfectly with my orgasm. Somehow, I wouldn’t be surprised if Novak had the time it takes for me to come, tucked somewhere in his mind.
It reads:
Do I feel good, angel?
Still reeling from the pleasure of release, it takes me a moment to catch my footing and respond.
Heavenly!
It wasn’t that difficult, but now I don’t think I’ll be able to picture anyone else while I come.
Good. Show me.
This takes me by surprise. Show him? Like get naked and take a picture of myself?
It’s as common as sin in today’s society, but I’ve never thought about doing it myself.
Not that I’ve ever needed to. Novak’s only a door away, usually.
But like before, I fear the consequences of disobedience more than the fear of snapping a picture of my naked body.
I hoist myself off the sofa and rush to my room.
After a brief inspection of my full-length mirror, I’m not exactly ready for a photo shoot.
I’m in an oversized, ill-fitting top, and a pair of track pants a few years past their prime.
My hair is in a mess of unbrushed tangles, and I don’t have any makeup on.
No face. Easy as that.
I tie my hair into a ponytail and strip down. I’m still soaked between the legs, and it comes through in the picture. So do my erect, aroused nipples. It’s not the most flattering photo. Just a headless body standing in front of a mirror, but it’ll have to do.
My heart pounds in my chest as I attach the photo to the message line. I hit send, and there’s an instant line at the bottom of the screen saying the number is typing…
The things I’m going to do to you.
The message comes through. Another is quickly added to it. It’s a list of instructions for things I need to get for tonight: a maid’s outfit from that place in the mall, a feather duster from the same store, and any other toys I might think could be fun.
What do you have in store for me, Novak Christiansen? And why is it filling my belly with butterflies?
Without delay, I get ready to brave the storm and head into the world to fulfill my orders. Will couldn’t have said it any better. We’re in for a week of sun, fun, and a whole lot of buns…
Well, maybe without the sun.