I couldn’t stop myself. All week I’d been sending him pictures—close-ups of my tits squeezed together in the mirror, my fingers spreading my pussy lips so he could see how wet I was just thinking about him, one shot of me on my knees in the bathroom at home with my tongue out like I was waiting for his cock. Each time I hit send my heart raced, knowing he was probably sitting in his living room or his truck looking at them, getting hard, maybe even stroking himself while he stared at my body. I wanted him obsessed. I wanted him angry. I wanted him to punish me so...