Aisha spent the week between workshops in a state of fevered obsession. She could not stop thinking about him. His voice. His hands. The way his eyes had held hers like a promise. Every night she lay in her bed, her fingers working between her thighs, imagining his cock splitting her open, imagining his voice commanding her to come. She came with his name on her lips, silent and desperate, and still it was not enough. She needed more. She needed him.

Her body had become a torture device. Her breasts were heavy and sensitive, the nipples so erect they scraped against her blouse with every movement. Her pussy was a constant throb, a wet ache that no amount of self-touch could fully quell. She had never been fucked, and now the knowledge of that emptiness was unbearable. She had saved herself for a master, and now that master had appeared, and he was not here. She was consumed by a hunger that bordered on madness.