A week has passed since I last saw Aaron at the restaurant, yet our office flirtation continues. During another lengthy meeting about the Donovan project, which was delayed due to a significant error I discovered just in time before it was set to be shown to the client, my phone buzzed. Glancing down at it under the table, I notice a message from an unfamiliar number. As I open and begin to read it, my cheeks flush with color at the content.

“Good morning, beautiful. Let’s play a game. Tonight, after work, you are to go home, go to bed, and bring a clock with you. Set the clock where you can see it while performing this task, then take all of your clothes off and lie on your back... you might want a towel under you. Spread your legs as wide as you comfortably can. Look at the clock, and when the minute changes, start playing with your pussy. Imagine I'm playing with you as you use one or both hands, but NO toys. You may rub your slit, insert your fingers, or play with your breasts, but you MUST rub your clit. You'll keep playing with yourself until the minute on the clock changes again, so you'll have played with yourself for one full minute. Then, you'll immediately stop playing and take your hands away. You'll rest until the minute on the clock changes again, so you'll have rested for one full minute. This is one play-and-rest cycle. You are to repeat the play and rest cycle, playing with yourself for a minute, then resting for a minute until you've completed ten cycles or until you cum, whichever comes first. Your goal is to do all you can to complete ten cycles without cumming, but if you cannot deny your orgasm during any playtime, or if you last all ten cycles, then go ahead and cum as you've never cum before! You are to set up your cellphone and take a video of the whole event. Afterward, you will send the video to me at this number.”

I reread his message one more time, my pulse thundering in my ears. When I look up, Aaron’s eyes lock onto mine, that predatory smirk curving his lips. My phone snaps shut under my fingers, knuckles white. The slide of neon light across the conference room screen blurs the Donovan figures into nothing but background noise as my mind replays every scorching word. Heat pools between my thighs; I clamp my legs together, praying no one sees my trembling.

When the meeting finally ends, Aaron brushes past me, his arm grazing mine like a deliberate caress. Leaning in, his breath ghosting over my ear, he murmurs, “I’ll be waiting for that video,” then melts away into the throng. My blood ignites when I realize it was him who had sent the text.

Back at my desk, I can’t concentrate. The report sits untouched as I replay his command in my head. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but instead, I unlock his message for the hundredth time. The sheer audacity of it sends a fresh rush of arousal pulsing through me.

By 5:30, I’ve decided. I scoop up my things, offer a stiff‐lipped good night to my coworkers, and stride to my car on trembling legs. The drive home is a blur of red lights and pulsing anticipation. At one stop, I check my phone again: “Thinking about you. Don’t disappoint me.” The words hit me like a whip across my skin.

My apartment feels charged the moment I step inside. I fling my purse onto the counter and move on instinct to the bedroom. My phone perches on the dresser, lens trained on the bed; a glowing clock stands sentinel beside it. I spread a dark towel across the mattress, arranging every detail as if it were a lover’s bed.

I peel off my clothes with deliberate slowness—first blouse, then skirt, bra, and panties last—each discarded layer heightening my skin’s sensitivity to the cool air. Nipples harden into sharp beads, and my breath catches.

6:17 PM. Heart hammering, I settle onto the bed, back against the pillows, legs parting exactly as instructed. A tiny red light on the phone winks at me, daring me to begin.

Cycle One: I trace a finger in lazy circles over my swollen clit. A gasp escapes me. When I press one finger inside, slow and deep, I arch up, toes curling. My other hand clamps down on a nipple, squeezing until pain and pleasure merge into a single, white-hot spark.

6:18. I jerk my hands away, panting. My pussy clenches, aching for more. Those sixty seconds of rest stretch out, each tick of the second hand a tiny torture.

6:20 begins Cycle Two. Now I’m diving in—three fingers hunting that spot that makes my thighs quiver. I imagine Aaron’s hands—strong, precise—guiding me. A moan rips from my throat as I ride the edge, pulling back only when the clock demands it.

6:21. My body shudders in denial, every nerve ending alive to the memory of touch.

Cycle Three: Desperate and unrestrained, I splay my legs wider. Fluid beads on the towel beneath me, a silent confession of my need. My fingers blur as I chase release.

Cycle Four: I alternate between teasing circles and punishing strokes, pinching nipples until the ache amplifies every pulse of pleasure. I’m a woman possessed.

Cycle Five: Calculated restraint—light circles on my clit, sliding two fingers inside but skirting the precipice. My hips buck, pleading, but I force myself to stop.

Cycle Six: Control crumbles. I plunge in with abandon, flexing my fingers as my thumb riffs rapid-fire on my clit. His name escapes my lips—“Aaron”—a desperate prayer to the camera’s unblinking eye.

Cycle Seven: Frantic, fevered. I’m beyond performance now, lost in sensation. My back arches, and my voice crescendos with every stroke.

Cycle Eight: Two fingers pump in controlled strokes while my thumb teases my clit into screaming insistence. I hover on the brink, panting, then rip away at the last second.

Cycle Nine: Brutal, unrelenting. I torture each spot until my body shatters in release—an explosion so fierce I cry out his name like a confession.

Rest: I lie broken, sweat‐slicked, my body a live wire. My breath comes in ragged bursts.

Cycle Ten: Slow and sensual—I savor each glide of my fingers, each squeeze of my flesh. I whisper to the lens, “This could be you,” before my second wave of orgasm washes over me like a storm.

When it’s over, I lie spent beneath the watchful red glow. Trembling, I stop the recording and watch the first few seconds of playback—every gasp, every arch of my back seared into digital permanence. My finger hovers over delete, but a stubborn thrill wins out. I tap “share,” type his number, and press send. The progress bar fills. My submission is winging its way to him now.

I collapse back onto the bed. My phone buzzes instantly: “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. You’ve exceeded my expectations, Nikki.” Moments later: “Sleep well tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll pretend nothing happened. But know this—I’ve saved every second of that video, and I’ll watch it again before I fall asleep.”

Relief and longing war inside me. I shower, scrubbing away sweat, but never the burn on my skin. Under fresh sheets, my phone lights up one last time: “Next time, I won’t just be watching.” His promise hums through me as I sink into dreams of his eyes on me.

The next morning, I arrive at the office early. The Donovan figures flicker on my screen, but all I can think of is Aaron’s knowing smirk across the room—and the charged silence we’ll both pretend never crackled between us.