What are you doing right now?

As soon as I saw the name -- DenverDom347 -- come up on my notifications, the phone was in my hand. I read the message and then glanced at my watch. 2.18pm.

Nothing right now, but...

My fingers tapped against the glass screen as I composed my answer.

I have to go get my kids from day care, but for the next ten minutes, I'm yours.

Good girl.

I preened, pleased to have pleased him.

What are you wearing? Leave nothing out.

The least sexy outfit imaginable. I wouldn't lie, though.

Jeans, a navy blue t-shirt. Socks, undies and a bra.

Go upstairs. Tell me when you're there.

Ok. I glanced at my watch. Eight minutes. Shit, it was cutting it a bit tight. I'd already told him how long I had, though, so instead of pointing it out -- again -- I scuttled up to my bedroom.

Show me your top. Just your chin to your mid-riff. Quickly.

A bit bemused, I obeyed.

Now remove your top. Show me your bra, same angle, pls.

All right. I was a little less than comfortable because my breasts were my least favourite feature, but by this point I'd sent him much worse.

Good girl. You have a favourite bra? One that makes the girls look their best?


Put it on. Then show me.

I looked at my watch. I had three minutes.


I hated being late. It created a well of panic in my chest, like that feeling in Sonic the Hedgehog when he was underwater and the countdown started and you knew he was about to die. It was a character on an old video game, but I still felt the tightness grip my chest. Every time.

I darted into my cupboard and grabbed my prettiest bra. The black one with the flowers that hoisted up my ample cleavage. The everyday, comfy bra I had on hit the floor and I fastened the new one and adjusted my cleavage as quickly as I could. I took the snap and sent it.

Good. Now, one more thing. Do you have a tight little vest top? One that's a thin material, that clings to you in all the best ways?


Show me.

Oh, for the love of God! I grabbed the navy camisole out of the drawer and yanked it over my head. I sent a picture of me in it without even looking to see if the angle was flattering on my chin or my waist. Urgency was beating at me. As soon as I saw it'd sent, I whipped the shirt off over my head, tore off the bra and got into my old clothes. I snatched up my phone and was in the car thirty second later, reversing out of the garage at top speed.

It wasn't until I hit the traffic lights at the top of my neighbourhood that I saw I had another text.

Lovely. That's what you're wearing to pick up your kids.


I let loose a blue streak in the car, then grimaced as I sent a quick text back just as the light changed.

I'm sorry, I missed this. I already changed.

The text was waiting for me at the next traffic light I stopped at.

Wait, what? What are you wearing right now?


My old clothes.


I didn't see the last instruction.

And is that good behaviour?

I winced at the same time as I rolled my eyes. No, of course it fucking wasn't. I knew it, he knew it. He was just making a point.

Not that I was going to point that out.


You had time to change your clothes. That means you had time to check your phone.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

I know.

I waited uncomfortably for him to reply as I accelerated away from the junction, my phone balanced on my lap. It didn't take long.

Pull over.

A sinking feeling in my chest, I swerved into a layby.

You should have waited to see if I had any further instructions for you. You know that. Do you think that deserves a punishment?

I had a feeling it was a rhetorical question, but there seemed no harm in trying.


Try again.

I glanced at the car clock. I was going to be late if I didn't get going again now. I wriggled on the seat, torn, but I knew I would only be storing trouble up for myself if I chucked the phone onto the passenger seat and hit the gas.


Good girl. Here is your punishment. You're going to take your shirt off and drive the rest of the way in your bra. Take a picture to show me that you've done it.

Then, a heartbeat later...

Tick, tock, Charli. The clock's moving.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Mindful of the traffic whizzing past my car, I wriggled out of my t-shirt and revealed my unattractive underwear to the world. Too worried about not getting to the day care for 3pm on the dot, I took the picture, sent it, and pulled out into the traffic.

There were six sets of traffic lights between me and the day care, and I hit red on everyone. I sat, hunched in the driver's seat, imagining that the occupants of every vehicle idling close by were looking in, seeing me. Judging me. I knew for a fact several of them actually did. One bearded old man in a truck honked his horn at me.

I finally made it to the day care with two minutes to spare. There was no way I was getting dressed in the car park -- what if another parent saw me?! -- so I stopped the car just shy, swinging into a little offshoot road to nowhere, a site earmarked for future development.

I didn't have the time to spare, but I checked my phone automatically. There was another instruction, sent six minutes ago.

Bra off now. And stay like that till you arrive. You can put your shirt on to go and collect your kids, but no bra. Not until you're back home.

Like I said, I have an ample cleavage, I don't go braless anywhere. He knew exactly how to make me cringe. He was also going to be pissed that I'd failed to follow instructions again.


I'm already here. I'll take off my bra to go in, but it's too late to drive with it on. Sorry.

He replied instantly.


That was it, that was all I got, though I checked my phone after I put my t-shirt on and after I got the kids put into the car. And at every traffic light on the way home.

The text finally came in as I was closing the garage door, the kids already bustled into the house.

What else do you have to do today? Do you have any errands to run?

No, I typed as I walked back inside. Just the dog to walk.

That will do.

Well that... sounded ominous.

What time?

I checked my watch. It was just after half three, but it was scorching outside. Way too hot to walk an old dog with a heavy coat of fur.

Five, maybe?

It would have cooled off by then.

Do NOT walk your dog without receiving instructions. Understand?


Yes what?

I blinked down at my phone. It didn't a genius to work out what he was implying, but we weren't really there yet. It'd come out once or twice during more... intimate online play, but not like this. He must be pissed.

Yes, Sir? I tried.

Good girl. Don't forget.


The rest of the afternoon crawled by as I checked my phone every two minutes. Eventually, at ten to five, he messaged me.

The black plug.

The black plug. I'd only bought it the other day and it was intimidatingly wide. I hadn't even tried to insert it yet. Guess I was about to.

My steps dragging, I made my way upstairs and put it in. Yeah, intimidatingly wide was right. It stung, and I hopped and yowled when I finally pushed past the bulbous centre and felt the ring of muscle contract around the base.

Done, I messaged.

Show me.

I'd been expecting that, but it didn't mean I liked it. I was still new to sending revealing pictures, was still feeling my way towards trusting they'd be received with privacy, care. Respect.

I took the picture and sent it without looking. There was no rush this time, I just couldn't bear to look. If I looked, I wouldn't send it.

Good girl. Did you put your bra back on?


Take it off. Put on the tight tank top again.

I did it without complaint. There was an enormous mirror in my bedroom, and I turned and looked at my reflection. God, I hated my breasts. They were too big, and without the support of my bra, I was hyper aware of their heavy weight. He knew just how to get to me. I mean, this would be nothing for most people. I'd rather have pulled off my jeans and walked the dog with my lacy black undies hanging out.

I went downstairs and checked both kids were still happily playing at the neighbour's house, then called the dog and fastened her lead on her collar. It was a weird thing, but I got a little jolt every time I did this now. I'd had the dog for eight years, and I'd spent the first seven and a half years going through this motion without a second thought. Now, every time I did it, I wondered when I might have a collar round my neck, and who'd be the one to attach a leash to it.

I checked my phone before I left, just in case. It proved a smart idea.

Grab your nipples. Pinch them, pull at them. I want them standing to attention for your walk.

And then, underneath that...

I'll expect pictures. I want to see your pretty breasts basking in the sunshine.

I swallowed back my immediate response -- they were not pretty -- and focused on the final few words. He did not mean...

You want me to flash?!

It only took a heartbeat for him to respond.


But this is my neighbourhood! I LIVE here.

No answer. Which was answer enough.

"I can't," I told the phone. "I absolutely fucking cannot."

But I was already planning in my head the best places to take a sneaky picture, little spots on the road or the trail where there was a chance to lift my top and not be seen. Gah! A curl of anxiety twisted in my chest at the same time as my whole pelvis clenched, reminding me of the plug seated deep inside me. I was wet, too. I could feel the dampness in my panties.

Hopelessly turned on and utterly appalled, I did as he instructed, turning my nipples into headlights before I left the house and started walking. I made it as far as the corner before I realised that my usual no-nonsense stride was far too jaunty, was making my breasts sway and bounce in a way that just seemed obscene to me. I clamped my arm over my chest and glared at a truck driving slowly past, though it was a woman behind the wheel who didn't so much as glance in my direction.

I started walking again, much more hesitantly this time, my arms clenched to my side to try and reduce the movement. I walked past three other people on the way to the trail, and every single one of them looked. I hated it, shame thick and heavy all around me, but my clit was pulsing and the damn plug was wiggling in me with every cautious, deliberate step.

When I hit the trail, I came to the first spot -- because pictures, he'd said -- where there was a sharp corner and a convenient large bush to duck behind. I looked behind me three times then dug my phone out of my back pocket and went down onto one knee, like I was tying the shoelace on my slip on shoes. Glancing around one more time to make sure the coast was clear, I whipped my top up and exposed my breasts to the thick green foliage of the bush. I felt it judging me as I took a picture and yanked my top down. A cough was all the warning I got before a middle-aged woman walking a terrier rounded the corner just in front of me.

"Hi," I squeaked, jumping to my feet and doing an extremely bad job of not looking guilty. My heart was thumping in my chest.

She gave me the barest of smiles before walking on. My fingers shook as I headed down the trail, phone in hand, forwarding on my proof.

Well done. How long did you keep your top up for?

Two seconds! I replied, too discombobulated to watch my smart mouth. Idiot.

Well, that isn't very long, is it? Could to ten next time, please.

I stared at the words, extremely glad he wasn't here in front of me to hear the curses I wanted to hurl at him.

I'd already used the most discreet spot for my first picture. The only other spot where I could hope to remain under the radar was just before the trail crossed over the road. It was usually quiet there, little traffic turning off the road to take the back way into the neighbourhood. If I could just avoid the dog walkers...

My hopes were crushed when I got there, though. There was a white van, parked on the road. I could see the driver from a hundred feet away. Just sitting there, looking about. Didn't he have places to be?

"Fuck off!" I said aloud. "Go on, shoo."

He didn't. I paused and perused him, thinking hard. There was nowhere else to fulfil my task. It was do it or not do it.


The dog was sniffing around in the grass in the dappled shade of a tree, getting a moment's relief from what was still a punishing sun. Struck by inspiration, I pulled a dog bag out of my pocked and crouched low in the same shade, pretending to pick up imaginary mess. This time, there was no faffing about, no double checking. I stuck the bag back in my pocket and hiked my top up, taking a picture with the deep blue sky peeking through the leaves above me. It looked decent, I realised. Artistic. I fisted my hands so I wouldn't give in to temptation and started counting to ten.

I also looked over at the man in the truck.

Who was looking back at me.

We held gazes and numbers fell right out of my head. It might have been ten seconds, it might have been the rest of eternity. We stared at each other as he digested what I was doing. Wondered why. The spell broke when his mouth curled up into a wide grin. I pulled my clothes back into position and started walking as fast as I could, bouncing bosom be damned.

Of course, I had to walk right past the front of his fucking truck. I kept my head down, hiding my face from his gaze.

It took me a few minutes before I'd composed myself enough to send on the second picture, along with a short message: I counted to ten.

Well, I tried to. And I was utterly certain than longer that ten seconds had passed while I crouched there, under his watchful eyes. I hardly dared look at his reply when it came through.

Congratulations, baby, you're an exhibitionist.

I don't fucking think so, I thought, mind on heading home and getting back into my bra as quickly as possible.

As soon I was in the door, though, the very first thing I did, was stick my hand down my pants and rub myself to a knee-trembling orgasm.

Okay, maybe I was an exhibitionist a little bit.