An Unexpected Master

I never thought what I had done to my husband would come back to haunt me. Yes, I had a boyfriend for 2 years, fucking him every possible way, cutting my husband out, but still, when it finally was over, when I finally got caught, and we reconciled a few weeks later, I thought it was over. Yes, I had agreed to do several things I was not very interested in doing myself, but I had gotten used to them. I really didn't expect my infidelity to ever come back to light again, other than in the occasional fight with Charles. I was wrong.

Years later, I was minding my own business one day on a Sunday afternoon when an email came in from an unfamiliar name. Looking at in on my iPhone, it had a pornographic picture of a nude woman laying on a bed with a vibrator sticking out of her. I deleted it, not really looking at it.

The next day, another one arrived. Similar picture. Something was written there, but I ignored it again, just hitting delete. I get a lot of spam email, and it seems the more I report it as spam, the more I get.

The next day, Tuesday, everything changed. Another email came in, but the picture caught my eye. This time the woman wasn't nude. She was wearing a bright red corset with black lace. The picture was obviously a selfie done with a bathroom mirror. Her face was out of frame, but her blonde hair and large breasts were prominent, and so was a certain necklace she was wearing. It all looked familiar. The picture focused immediately in my mind. It was me.

I had taken that picture myself for my boyfriend, several years before. I hadn't seen it in years. Reading the email for the first time, I saw the words: "Dawn - I know what you are. Answer me."

To say I was freaked out is meaningless. I collapsed onto a the floor, terrified. Who was this? How did he get that picture? What was happening here? The fear overwhelmed me for several minutes, until I realized I had to know more about what was happening to me.

I went back into my deleted emails, looking for the first two. When I found them, I realized what I had missed. The first photo had been taken by my boyfriend one day when we met at a hotel for a day of fun. I had let him take pictures, with the agreement he didn't show my face. I had thought that, even had they gotten out in public, I could easily deny that a faceless girl was me.

The second one was also me. He had taken it the same day. In this one, I was lying on my back, totally nude, my shaved pussy center frame, again showing my (then) 34D breasts and blonde hair. Someone who didn't already know it was me would never have known, but I knew.

Both emails had the same message, the same as the first: "I know what you are. Answer me." Someone else knew it was me in the pictures too. I was paralyzed by fear.

What did this person want? How did they get these pictures? How did they find out it was me? How did they find me? I had no answers. I sat on the floor most of the day while I was supposed to be working, terrified beyond all measure. Nothing made sense here. It took me hours, but finally, I decided there was nothing to be done but to answer.

I really didn't want to answer, but I couldn't see any way out. Surely, if I didn't send a reply, sooner or later, these pictures, and others I realized this mysterious person also probably had, would be publicly posted on the internet, probably with my name attached. I couldn't risk that. The only option was to answer and hope for the best.

I sat down at the computer and tried out lots of answers. After an hour, I finally settled on the simple one. One sentence: "What do you want?" I sat for fifteen minutes before I finally tapped "Send".

It took an hour before my phone pinged. It might have been the longest hour of my life until that moment. I really didn't know what to do with myself. I just sat there, staring into space, not focused on anything. Just frightened beyond anything I had ever felt. Something terrible was happening, and I had no control over it.

The sound startled me from my reverie. Snatching my phone up, I saw the response. I didn't focus on the words at first. All I saw was the picture attached.

It had been taken at the same time as the first two. I was lying on my back, nude, pleasuring myself with a vibrator. You could see how big my breasts really were. But unfortunately, there was something else: I could see my face, or at least part of it. There was enough there that someone who knew me casually, if my name was attached, would have been able to identify me. That would tie all the other pics to me as well, as they were obviously the same woman. I knew my goose was cooked.

The message with the picture was even more frightening. "I want you. Your boyfriend carelessly left these pics and all your emails where I could get them. I took the time to track you down and like what I see. Just do what you are told."

There was a break, followed by these words: "Now, go to the bathroom and take a selfie exactly as you are now. Send it to me."

The fear ramped up to a whole new level. You see, as part of my deal with Charles, I had agreed to change myself. If he had divorced me, I would have had to pay him a ton of money. He had supported me all through school, paying my whole cost - tuition, books, my apartment, the car - everything. So I had stayed. He could have ruined me, especially if word of my affair had gotten out and destroyed my career. But there was a price I paid.

I had agreed to do two things. First, I had my breasts enlarged. 600cc into Ds makes for 34Gs. They were now huge. Second, I took care of my appearance all the time. I worked out at least once a day. I had dropped every excess pound, had even a flatter stomach than when I was in school, and looked awesome. 5 foot flat, 105 pounds, 34G-20-28. I knew what I looked like. I also knew what it would do to my stalker.

Worse yet, I had just gotten back from the gym when this all started. I was wearing a black sports bra from Victoria Secret, trimmed in gold, with matching yoga pants, and that was it. I had pulled my hair down when I got home, so I couldn't have shown myself off much better without working at it. Why couldn't I have been in yardwork clothes?

I didn't know what else to do other than give the bastard what he wanted. A delay to change could be a real problem. Somehow he would know. There was no way out. I got up and headed for the bathroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw a beautiful blonde, enormously top heavy, whose body would excite any man. I thought a moment about trying to look bad, but I finally decided to do it right, turning to the side, emphasizing the size of my breasts and flat tummy, and showing my face fully. He had me, so I didn't want to aggravate him.

A quick snap in the mirror and it was done. I sent it back to whoever this was who had me in a bind, hoping against hope that this would satisfy him. There was nothing but silence for a day. Maybe it was over.

No such luck. Midmorning the next day, I heard my email ping as I blew out my hair after showering when I came home from the gym. In my robe, I picked up the phone, only to see these words: "I like what you have done to yourself. How big are they, really? I know they are bigger than before. Send me a pic in the smallest bikini you have."

I collapsed on the floor. This was getting harder each time. But I didn't have a choice. Saying no would just make things worse. The problem is that I have some very small bikinis. I got them for some trips we made to the Caribbean, and they looked awesome on me. Again, I decided to do this right.

It took me a few minutes to dig through my swimwear drawer (it was late summer), but there was my metallic blue bikini. The cups were barely big enough to hold me, and the bottom was hardly bigger, but I was committed. At the last second, I decided to go the whole hog. I slipped on my 8 inch clear platform heels to stack me up right, then snapped the pic in the mirror again.

This time, as I sent it back, along with the admission that I had 34G breasts, I included a question. "Please tell me what you want." I sat down to wait, hoping for a quick response. Of course, nothing came in that day.

By the time Charles got home, I was completely an emotional wreck. He could see something was wrong, but I told him a BS story about breaking a plate. I actually had broken a plate when I dropped it at the sound of my email (more spam), so he bought it and left me alone. I resolved to steel myself better and not let on what was happening inside of me.

It was not until about the same time Thursday that I received a response. I had come to start to dread this time of day. Sure enough, my email pinged, with this response: "To have you, of course. I understand from what you used to tell your boyfriend in your emails that you have a lot of very small, very tight, club dresses. Put one on and send me a pic. Don't forget the heels. I really liked them in the last pic."

I realized that doing this right had made it worse. I also realized I had no choice now. If I resisted at this point, I would pay for it. But I had to do something, no matter how small. I had an idea.

In my clubwear drawer I found my white, lycra, spaghetti strap, bodycon dress. Out of the closet came my brown suede over-the-knee boots with the 8 inch platform heels. Pulling them on, I stepped up to the mirror and took the latest pic. Deal with that, asshole.

I put the situation out of my mind for the rest of the day. One good part about having this happen at about the same time each morning was that I could try to get on with my life. Or at least I hoped. But there was always the nagging feeling that this couldn't go on forever.

The next morning came the email I had been dreading since this week began. "Great dress. Shows you off well. I know what you did with the boots, but I like them, so that's ok. But you convinced me to take this to the next level by your defiance. Nude. Now. With the clear heels."

Trapped by my own cleverness. I had no choice. I did as I was told. Expecting to have to change, I was already wearing just my robe, so it only took a few moments to put the heels on and position myself in front of the mirror. Wearing only my shoes and a smile, I took a picture of myself in all my glory, with my 34Gs front and center, along with my smoothly shaved pussy. A moment later it was away. Then I collapsed on the floor again, crying for over an hour.

That night, being Friday, Charles wanted to fuck. I really wasn't interested, as twisted up inside as I was. I just lay there and let him rut. Sometimes there isn't anything else to do. I slept poorly, hoping that maybe I would get a break from my tormentor on Saturday. No such luck.

Around midmorning my phone signaled an email. Looking down at it, I had to run to the bathroom because I became instantly nauseous. Controlling myself, I looked in horror at what was I was to do next.

You see, Charles had discovered something a couple years ago. There is an open field behind our house that goes on for over a mile. There are a few trees, a lot of grass, and not much else. Hardly anyone ever goes back there. We have a sliding glass door that opens on to the deck and patio, with the room inside it being a plush carpeted formal living room. We don't use it often, so the carpet is very white and the furniture the best in the house. The glass had curtains, which we left open most days and evenings to see out the back into the field. We usually would turn the floodlights on at night, but they only lit our backyard.

What Charles discovered was two important things. First, that if you turned the lights on inside the room and turned off the floodlights, the glass acted as a mirror. From inside, it was impossible to see anything outside. But from the outside, anyone out there could see in perfectly clearly.

The second was when we discussed one evening having seen a couple engaged in sex through a window, many years before. We laughed about it then, but now, it got me very hot and bothered. Charles noticed that later in the evening when we had sex ourselves.

What happened was that he decided to put these two discoveries together. One Saturday night he pulled me into the living room and got me undressed. He proceeded to turn the lights in the room on and the outside lights off. Laying there on the floor, he fucked me while I tilted my head backwards to see the glass. I realized that, if anyone was in the field behind the house, they could see us fucking. There wasn't anyone there, but what if there had been? It had the effect Charles expected it would. I had a massive orgasm that night.

Somehow, my stalker had either found out about this or had figured it out on his own. The email, the longest one from him yet, said, "Tonight after 11, take your husband into the room with the sliding glass door, leave the curtains open, and turn the lights on. Get down on your hands and knees facing the glass and have him fuck you from behind. Make sure you keep your body and face up off the floor, so I can see your tits bounce and the look on your face, and you had better be enthusiastic about being fucked. As you are being fucked, think about this: I'm out there in the dark watching, and soon I will be doing exactly the same thing to you."

I sat there, terrified once more. What could I do? I was about to expose myself, live and in full color, to this person - I assumed it was a man - that knew me, but I did not know him. He had gotten me further and further into his web, and it was only worse now after a week. Not wanting to have to come up with another lie, I controlled myself, came out of the bathroom, and started thinking about tonight.

First, we were going out to dinner anyway, so I decided to wear something a bit more sexy than normal. I put on my black lycra halter jumpsuit, that has a completely open back. The sides of the halter come all the way down to my waist on the outside, with the V in the middle dropping to below my nipples. It shows quite a lot of the sides of my boobs, especially if I move around. A chain belt adds just the right touch. Add a silver necklace that hung down between my tits, 5 inch hoop earrings, and my silver sequin 8 inch platform heel boots, and I was ready to go.

I don't remember much about dinner. I decided to get a little tight, as I figured the booze would loosen me up. I was terrified that I would lose my nerve, or be so scared I couldn't perform. I barely remember the ride home, being in a bit of an alcohol fog.

As it turned out, I didn't need to worry. When we got inside, it was after 11. I took Charles by the hand and practically dragged him into the living room. It didn't take much to get him warmed up, but I think I really surprised him when I asked him to switch the lights from outside to inside. But he did it.

He had that look on his face, the one that says he likes this. He pulled the halter of my jumpsuit over my head, letting it fall and exposing my breasts. I pushed it down over my hips, then moved quickly to get down on my hands and knees, facing the glass door. That was unusual for us, and necessary, as I couldn't have Charles to push me on my back again.

I could tell Charles was a little shocked by my behavior. He looked at me for a moment, down on all fours, with my hair laying on my straight back. If he gets behind me, I usually put my face on the floor or mattress, so this was new. I rarely initiate anything with him, so he was a little behind this time.

I heard Charles starting to get undressed. As he did, I looked at the window. It was a complete mirror to me. I could see nothing other than our reflections. I could see myself, down on all fours, completely nude except for my silver boots and jewelry. My 34G breasts were hanging below my body, making them look even bigger than normal. My arms were fully extended, so my breasts hung free, fully visible from the front. My long blonde hair was laying on my back and on both sides of my face, and I was looking straight ahead. Somewhere out there, where I couldn't see him in the dark, was my unnamed tormentor, watching me.

Charles got down behind me, put his hands on my back, and slid himself inside me. Only a woman can really understand what it feels like to have someone else inside you, especially someone you really don't care for. I closed my eyes for a moment, adjusting to the feeling of being fucked. I couldn't believe how hot and wet I was. I hadn't been this way in months, at least. I guess I really do get off some on being exposed for someone else to see.

As Charles started stroking into me, I began fucking back against his cock, gently at first, but within a few moments as hard as I could handle. I hoped to get this over with as quickly as possible.

All that force also made my breasts swing hard beneath me. In moments they were slapping into each other, being forced forward and backward as I moved against Charles. The force of the impact pressed the air out of my lungs each time his cock stroked into me, making a deep moaning noise. Within a minute or two, the impacts were snapping my clit into life, making this feeling so good, even as I knew what was really happening. I could feel the intensity rising as I quickly closed in on an orgasm. I could tell Charles was almost ready to come too.

As luck would have it, when someone was quietly watching us in the dark was also the first time in months I screamed as I came. Worse yet, Charles orgasmed at the same moment also, making for quite a show. I'm sure it showed on my face how hard I came.

Charles collapsed on my back, giving me an excuse finally to let myself down off my arms. They really hurt from the pressure they had held for the last few minutes. I wasn't sure how long I could have stayed up there. Also fortunately, Charles got up after just a moment and turned off the lights, ending my tormentor's show. A few seconds later, with the curtains closed, I got up off the floor and headed to bed to sleep this off.

I didn't make it there before my phone pinged with an email. "Great show. Looked like you enjoyed it." I hoped that would be the end of this. Not that I thought it would, but I hoped.

The next morning, about the same time as always, my phone pinged again. I looked at the email and was appalled, but not really surprised. There was a series of photos of me there. One was of me just after I got down on the floor. You could see that I was nude, and that Charles, whose face was not visible, was still completely dressed. I looked for all the world as if I was completely submitting myself to an unknown man to be impersonally fucked, which I guess I was, in a sense.

The next one was taken just as Charles entered me. Again, his face was not visible, but mine showed the look of pain and shock every woman's face does at that moment. Then there was one showing intense pleasure on my face, with my breasts obviously swinging in time with our movements. The last displayed me screaming as I came. In all, it was both an incredibly hot, and very humiliating, set of photos.

I couldn't take it. I just put the phone down and tried to ignore it. These photos did prove one thing - this wasn;t some sick joke of Charles'. I just had to figure out what to do to make this hurt as little as possible.

Monday morning when I returned from the gym, I noticed something odd. There was a package sitting on my front porch. Just a small, nondescript brown cardboard box. It had my name and address on it, with a stick on label that looked like it was professionally shipped, but I realized there were none of the usual markings of such a shipment, and UPS and such never arrive before early afternoon. Odd.

Taking the box inside and opening it, I was really confused. Inside was a small black plastic box, about three inches long, an inch wide, and an inch deep. It had a short USB cable with a power plug on the end with it. No note, invoice, or anything else. I had no idea what this was or what to do with it.