In Dreams, Dominance Pt. 03

She didn't show up in class the next day. I sent her a handful of texts asking if she was alright; she sent a response back saying that everything was fine. That night I got another text from her, with a picture accompaniment.

It was shot in her bedroom. She was topless, those cute little tits bared for display. She stared at the camera with her eyes half-lidded and her lip slightly parted. One of her hands held the camera; the other had slid down to her lower stomach, the tips of her fingers vanishing into the waistband of her pyjamas.

Her text message said, Do you like this?

My message back was short and simple. Beautiful. I'm going to jerk off to this tonight.

Promise?

Yes. But I want another live show.

Maybe... ;)

I decided to go for broke. Send me a picture of you touching yourself like you did yesterday.

There was no response from her.

That night I had her kneel naked on a podium in front of the entire university, masturbating furiously while I whispered filthy things into her ear.

I had a video of her lying on her bed, both hands shamelessly rubbing between her legs, by the next morning.

***

For a few weeks things were good.

Isha kept on sending me pictures. She gave up any pretence of expecting me to delete them. I received images of her naked, of her hands between her legs, of her sprawled out on her bed, sitting atop her desk, her couch, gleaming wet and naked in her shower. She posed with her stuffed bear, her notebooks, a suggestively held ruler. Always smiling, always with eyes hazy with lust.

She got comfortable. Bold. Her texts stopped being hesitant and half apologetic, moving first into the flirty and then right into the lewd and smutty. She wanted me to describe what I thought of her body. What I liked from her pictures. What I wanted to do to her. Whether I was jerking off to her right that moment. I sent her a half-minute video of my dick spurting cum and told her it was because of her. She sent me a picture of her licking what she eventually admitted was salad dressing off her face as a response.

Her pictures and videos became bolder. Isha moaning and writhing like a wanton slut on her parent's bed. Isha lifted up her skirt to show her naked pussy in the middle of a lecture, expression caught between lust and fear. Isha in an alley, her headscarf on but her shirt unbuttoned, both hands holding up her little breasts as an offering. Isha in a supermarket, fellating a cucumber with a wicked look on her face.

Every few days she would steal into my room and we'd sit across from each other. Sometimes she'd dance for me, with moves plucked from dance videos and porn sites alike. Sometimes she'd strip with slow, sensual movements, running her hands all over her body as I watched. When she was done we'd sit across from each other, sharing secret whispered fantasies and dark suggestions while we pleasured ourselves to completion.

In the end I didn't need to use the dreams to convince her to take the next few steps. One night our whispered conversations led to my breaching the invisible barrier we'd erected between us, cupping her brown breasts as she gasped in shock and lust. She barely put up any resistance as I kissed her hot skin and ten minutes later she came with my head between her legs; her first orgasm at the hand of another. The next time she eagerly returned the favour, her lips locked around my cock with only a hint of shyness.

I didn't fuck her, for all that I became very familiar with her body. Not because I cared about her religion or her family or her family- no, those qualms had long since faded from my mind. No, the last shred of her innocence was something that I intended to saviour; the sweet cherry on top of the cake I was slowly devouring. There was no rush. I had plenty of time.

Of course in the end it turns out I didn't.

***

I don't know how her parents found out. Maybe they caught her filming. Maybe they saw something on her phone. I don't know.

She vanished from university with barely a word. I was confused, then upset, then finally fearful. I heard about what happened through a mutual friend; she'd been caught doing something intensely inappropriate. No, she didn't know precisely what happened. Yes, she was alive. No, she didn't want anyone to contact her.

I thought I might never see her again. I was, for the first time in a long time, chastened. Isha had been my friend before she was my plaything, and I still harboured pretences of caring about her. I moped for a while and tried to chase her on social media. Nothing. I thought I might never see her again.

I was wrong. Months later I was scouring a porn site's live chat feed and I saw her. Her hair had been cut short but I knew that body, knew that look. She lay naked on a bed, that thin body of hers now exposed to anyone who might care to watch. She was staring at the camera and talking about how she was a little slut. About how she would do any sort of lewd acts for the camera. About how she had no shame.

I stared at her and I saw the way her wicked smile didn't meet her eyes; saw the ugliness of the dingy apartment, despite her best efforts to hide it. Saw it all and clicked away.

I felt guilty about what I'd done to Isha.

Just not guilty enough to stop.

Rule Eleven: You aren't as good a person as you think you are.