We sat and chatted again, and once more it was as stilted and difficult as it had been on her previous visit. Finally, I realised that full bodily exposure and idle chitchat don't go together, at least where Mary was concerned, and broached the subject face-on again.

"Is this what you wanted to see?"

"Yes."

"Is it how you remembered it?"

"Yes."

"Do you like it? Do you like me like this?"

"Yes."

Hmm, I never was much good at interviewing people: too many closed questions, inviting yes or no answers. I persevered.

"You said you can't get it out of your head. In what way?"

She looked even more uncomfortable. "I've been thinking about it non-stop ever since. How you could do that. How you could bring yourself to strip off like that in front of someone you hardly know."

"Does the thought of that excite you?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but it also appals me. I couldn't do it. I don't know how you can do it."

"I did it the first time because my Master told me to, and I did it this time because you asked. It's quite simple. And very easy to do." She shook her head.

"It's so dirty," she said. Well, I wondered tartly, which is dirtier: doing it or asking for it to be done, but I said nothing. I looked at her closely. She had probably been an attractive woman in her youth, or could have been if she had tried. Her anxious eyes, blue and restrained, were fairly deep set, and her nose was large and angular. Her mouth, without lipstick, was nondescript, as though her lips were in monochrome while her face was in colour. She was edgy and fidgety on the settee, turning her cup repeatedly, almost autistically, on its saucer: the woman was a mass of neuroses. She was stereotypically middle-class, terrified of being distinctive, frightened to be different, conforming all her life and relaxing in the safety of anonymity. And yet, clearly, I had awoken something within her.

"And what do you think about?"

She looked uncomprehendingly at me.

"When you've been thinking about it. You've been doing it non-stop, you say. You must think more than just how dirty it is." She blushed again.

"I think about you sitting there naked." Yes, I thought impatiently, I knew that bit.

"And?"

"And?" she echoed.

"And? Anything else?" She said nothing, but a startled, guilty look stole across her face. Yes, there was something else, I realised. I waited. The silence grew to an embarrassing length of time, but I wouldn't let her off the hook and sat facing her, my legs parted slightly and my pussy pointed straight at her. She stared at me, her mouth dry, panic folded into the corners of her eyes.

"Yes," she said finally. "I think about you 3; touching yourself."

"Touching myself? My breasts?" She nodded. I raised my right hand and cupped it around my left breast, running my index finger over my nipple, feeling it harden. Staring at her, I gripped it between my finger and thumb and squeezed, rolling it back and forward, forcing it to grow. I may be small-breasted, but I have large nipples, and it swelled to its quarter of an inch length. I slid my hand sideways to my right breast, and raised my left hand to replace it, so that I held both breasts in my hands. I squeezed them together and cupped my hands underneath them, forcing them up and out, my nipples pointing directly at the rapt Mary.

"And my body?" I whispered. Again, she nodded. I dragged my hand across my stomach, nails grazing against my skin, raising a track of parallel, pink lines diagonally across my body from my left breast to my right hip. I ran my hand down my thigh to my knee, and did the same thing with my other hand. Bending forward, I rested my hands on my knees, my breasts falling down and dangling in front of Mary. With my fingertips, I traced crazy, meandering paths up my inner thighs, backtracking, circling, exploring the entire expanses of flesh, gradually sliding upwards, towards my pussy. I skirted around it and rested my hands above my bush.

"And my cunt?" I asked. I deliberately used the word, which I seldom do, to elicit a response from her. It worked, and she looked visibly stunned, the full impact of what was unfolding before her eyes becoming clear. This time she didn't nod, but her eyes told me. Yes, they said.

I stood up and grabbed my chair. I slid it forward until it was directly in front of her, only a foot or so from her legs, and leaped over the arm into the seat again. I settled back and stretched my left leg out, resting it on the arm of Mary's settee. I did the same with my right leg, positioning it to her left. I lay back and parted my legs, opening my pussy to Mary's view as she sat less than a yard away from it, within touching distance.

"Like this?" I asked, but she couldn't speak. I rested my hand on my trimmed bush and slipped a finger downwards. I traced it along the length of my slit, feeling the first flush of moisture, then dragged it back up again, ensuring that my hand was well to the side, not obscuring her view. I quickly parted my folds and slipped my middle finger inside, then my index finger, and stroked them in and out languidly. Never taking my eyes from her, I began to wank myself in front of her, and her eyes wandered from my pussy to my eyes, and back and back, as she surrendered her inhibitions to her fantasies.

"Do you want to watch me come?" I asked.

"Yes," she whispered.