There was a jar on a shelf in her room, plain and solid with a wide mouth, topped with a lid adorned with a delicate glass knob. Inside the jar was an eye. Not an old dead eyeball floating in formaldehyde, this eye was vibrant and alive. It watched her.
The sharp black pupil was surrounded by a cloud of clear blue iris, transected with white and grey and surrounded by a dark outer ring. The pupil would dilate when the lights dimmed, and it would twitch about following her as she moved around the room. She was utterly beholden to the eye, it owned her every thought, her every moment because it gave her the strength and the power she needed. She was alone whenever she left the room and went out into the world, but she would carry her thoughts of it with her. She would hurry back as soon as she could to curl up back into the power it had over her, envelope herself in its warmth.
She’d rush into her apartment, needing it, undressing as she got closer to her room, her fingers fumbling with whatever garment she was wearing. She always entered the room naked, so that it could see her properly, as she was supposed to be seen. Then the eye would tell her what it wanted. For her to kneel before it, spread her legs and show herself to it. For her to bend over the end of the bed and present her ass, inserting a lubed dildo and fucking herself until she screamed and her knees buckled in a torrential orgasm. For her to lay on her back and open herself up, using her fingers to explore her folds of skin, rubbing her arousal all over her open lips until she shuddered and sighed. Sometimes she was not to touch herself at all, she was just to lie there and be tormented.
The eye watched, and it saw everything she had to give.