My Virgin Slave Obeyed Every Order at Midnight

I write so they will obey me. That is the truth almost no one understands when they read my stories on Dark Desires, the forum where I’ve been posting for years under the name Selene. People think you write because you want to tell something; I write to lay a trap and wait, patiently, for someone to fall into it. And one night at the end of September, someone did.

He called himself Worm, though I gave him that name later. He came to my profile crawling through my texts and devoured one in particular: Chronicles of a Dog at My Feet, where I described a man on his knees, his cock hard and dripping spit onto the floor, licking the wood behind my leather boots while I spat on the nape of his neck and promised that if he came without permission I’d leave him sucking his own semen off the floor. The wet sound of his tongue, the smell of sweat and an uncum­med cock, the way his ass trembled every time I drove my heel between his shoulder blades. I felt his attention before he said a word. There’s a kind of silence only men who have already decided to surrender and still don’t dare are able to make.

The message came after midnight.

—Respected Selene, I hope I’m not bothering you —he wrote—. I’ve read everything you post and it left me trembling, with my cock hard against my pants, not even daring to touch it. I’m a virgin, I’ve never been with anyone, and I admire your freedom in a way I can’t explain. I feel beneath you. I beg you to let me be something more than trash in your eyes.

I smiled at the screen. There it is, the first step. I slid a hand under my panties by pure instinct, found my cunt already wet, and rubbed my clit with two fingers while I answered him.

—Your respect flatters me —I wrote, pressing myself slowly—. But you’re still trash until you prove otherwise. Your virginity amuses me. The fact that you feel inferior makes me wet. Get ready to serve under my orders, loser, and pray I don’t get bored. Don’t you dare touch that virgin cock without my permission.

I didn’t ask for a photo. I didn’t ask for his real name or his face. The only thing I wanted was his obedience, and obedience, when it’s real, doesn’t need bodies in the same room. That was always my advantage: I never touched him, and even so I had him completely, cock in hand and eyes lowered.

***

Our first sessions were just text, a game of words that chained him to my will. The first night he came back at nine thirty, unable to wait.

—I beg you for another chance to please you —he wrote—. My virginity weighs on me like a burden. I’ve been hard for hours, thinking about you, and I don’t even dare brush against it. I feel so small before you. Give me an order, any order.

—Your pleading turns me on —I replied—. Listen carefully, because I don’t repeat myself. You’re going to build me an altar.

I gave him the instructions with the coldness of someone handing down a sentence. A smooth, cold plate on a clean table. A white candle twenty centimeters away, lit, letting its wax melt slowly into a separate saucer. A linen napkin folded into a perfect square beside the plate. I described every detail as if I were standing behind him, watching.

—Now you’re going to jerk off with precision —I went on—. Sit in a hard chair, back straight, feet flat on the floor, legs spread wide so it’s clear how little hangs between them. Only your right hand. Spit into your palm, grab your cock at the base, and start slowly, exactly sixty seconds, moving your fist up to the glans and back down to your balls, feeling every vein. The first two minutes only the head, with your thumb wet with your own precum. Then gradually increase the pace imagining my voice ordering you, “faster, loser, jerk that useless cock for me.” When you feel your balls tightening and you’re about to come, let go of your cock and count to ten with your hands open in the air. You don’t finish until I allow it. If a single drop of semen falls into that plate without my permission, you’ll eat it. Understood?

—Yes, Selene. I’ll do it. But my hands are shaking —he wrote—. I’ve got it so hard my balls hurt. I’m nervous about pleasing you. I admire your control so much. Will I be able to hold out without coming?

—Your trembling amuses me —I answered—. Pleasure isn’t for you tonight. The pleasure is mine, watching you suffer with that congested cock in your hand.

I imagined the scene on the other side of the screen. An adult man, a virgin, sitting very still in an uncomfortable chair, the candle throwing his shadow against the wall, the stiff cock pointing at the ceiling and his fist rising and falling to the rhythm I dictated from another city. Without ever seeing him, I knew how his belly would tense, how his scrotum would tighten, how his foreskin would pull back leaving the glans shiny with precum. In my bed, I drew my knees up, pushed my panties aside, and slid two fingers into my cunt up to the knuckle, searching for the exact spot that made me clench my teeth. With the other hand I kept typing. A man I had never even heard breathed himself with my orders while I fucked myself with my left hand and dictated with my right, and there was nothing in the world that got me hotter than that asymmetry. That’s the difference between common desire and power: the first needs a body; the second only needs the other person to believe, and to come when I let them.

***

He sent me proof half an hour later: a photo of the plate, the candle dripping, his sweaty hand gripping the edge and, in the background of the frame, barely visible, the reddened tip of a throbbing cock with no release. He admitted that the wax had burned one finger, that he had almost come three times, and that each time he had bitten his tongue until it bled so as not to disobey.

—I tried, Selene —he wrote—. I stopped when you ordered me to, even though my balls almost burst. My cock is purple, pounding, and I haven’t come. I feel honored, even if I’m useless. Your superiority overwhelms me.

—Pathetic, but obedient —I replied—. You’re starting to grow on me. Stay chaste until tomorrow. You’re going to burn for me without relief, with those swollen balls and that cock crying precum all night, and you’re going to thank me for letting you burn.

—Thank you, Selene —he wrote, and I felt the submission dripping between each letter, like the retained semen dripping from the tip of his cock.

There was something intoxicating in that. Not in his desire, which was clumsy and desperate, but in my own power exercised effortlessly, miles away, through a screen. A man I had never seen lit candles for me, denied himself pleasure for me, burned his skin for me, and went to sleep with a hard cock for me. I only had to write, and come whenever I felt like it, alone, owing no one anything.

***

The second night was more intense. I made him kneel naked on the floor, his knees spread wide, his heels under his balls pressing them against the floor every time he moved, his hands on his thighs. I ordered him to use just two fingers—index and thumb—on his cock, forming a tight ring just below the glans, and trace slow circles, five seconds per turn, increasing the pace every two minutes, imagining my nails digging into his flesh and my voice whispering in his ear, “that’s it, worm, jerk off the way I teach you, with two fingers because you don’t deserve more.” I forbade him to touch the rest of his body. No stroking his chest, no sticking a finger up his ass, no pinching his nipples. Only the head of his cock and the stingy ring of two fingers, until it hurt.

—I feel a fire I can’t control —he wrote to me, and I could almost see the sweat running from his forehead to his chest, across his belly and disappearing into the hair of his groin—. The candle is almost going out. My precum is sliding down my wrist. My virginity makes me feel so weak before you.

—Don’t control it —I answered—. Suffer for me. Spit on your hand and keep going with the two fingers, nothing else. When you can’t take it anymore, when you’re about to come against my will, grab your balls with your left hand and squeeze them until it passes. And tell me everything, word for word. Keep the precum-soaked napkin in a corner of your altar, like a relic. Pain is my gift, and you’re going to learn to thank me for it.

—I squeezed my balls until I saw lights —he replied minutes later—. The urge passed and I was left trembling on the floor, my cock pounding like a third heart. I’ll keep it. Thank you for your cruelty. It makes me tremble with admiration.

I ordered him, before sleeping, to leave the napkin soaked in his precum under his pillow so his own smell would remind him who he belonged to, and to lie on his stomach, with his cock flattened against the mattress, forbidden any hip movement. He did. The next morning he wrote to me that he had barely slept, that he had woken with his cock leaking onto the sheets and his balls as heavy as stones, that the weight of chastity had hurt like a physical punishment, and that even so he had woken thinking about how to thank me. That devotion without reward was exactly what I was after: a man who gave without expecting to receive, who found his pleasure in my indifference and in the semen trapped inside his own balls.

That was the word he kept using all the time: admiration. As if I were a goddess and not a woman writing in a T-shirt from her bed, with a glass of red wine cooling on the bedside table and my cunt still sticky from coming three times while I read his reports. But I never corrected him. Power thrives on those misunderstandings. If he needed to believe I was divine in order to kneel with his cock in his hand, I wasn’t going to deny him his faith.

***

The third night he failed, and I discovered that punishment is even more pleasurable than ordering.

I reviewed the video he’d sent me and saw that he had been lazy, that his fist had gripped the base too hard without permission, that at second forty-seven a little spurt of semen had escaped him and he had tried to wipe it away with his thumb, thinking I wouldn’t notice. I notice everything. It’s my trade.

—You failed —I wrote, and let the silence between sentences weigh—. I saw the residue. I saw how that little squirt of virgin milk got away from you. Your obedience was weak. Total chastity for three days. And you’re going to write to me, in your own words: “I’m useless before Selene, my cock belongs to her and I didn’t know how to take care of it.”

—I’m useless before Selene, my cock belongs to her and I didn’t know how to take care of it —he obeyed immediately—. Forgive me. I was shaking, the wax distracted me, it slipped out without meaning to, I didn’t want to disappoint you. Imagining you makes me feel alive, even if I’m a failure with a dirty cock.

—Forgiveness isn’t begged for, it’s earned —I answered—. And you still haven’t earned it. But I love that you understand. Follow my rules or I erase you from my existence. Today you don’t touch yourself, not even to piss more than necessary. You stay awake, with your cock throbbing under the sheet, burning, thinking about how little you’re worth to me and about the semen building up inside you with nowhere to go.

I closed the chat without waiting for a reply. That’s another form of punishment: silence. I left him hanging all night in uncertainty, not knowing whether he was still mine or whether I’d discarded him. The next morning I had seven messages from him, one with a photo of his bruised cock and his belly stained with dried precum. I didn’t read any of them until nightfall.

***

Over the weeks that followed, we communicated only through ritual messages. Always at nine thirty. I sent him coded orders—days of chastity, counted permissions to jerk off for exactly ninety seconds without coming, absurd tasks like writing my name with the tip of his cock on the fogged bathroom mirror after a shower, or finally coming into a glass and drinking it while looking at the camera—and he responded with proof of his obedience, trembling photos of a cock going from pink to purple to raw flesh-red, whispers of submission only I knew how to decode.

I grew used to him the way one grows used to a faithful dog: with a mixture of affection and contempt I didn’t bother to separate. I liked knowing that, at nine thirty, no matter what was going on in his life, he would drop everything to kneel naked before a screen, cock hard and balls heavy, and wait for my word. That loyalty was beautiful, and precisely because of that I decided to test it.

***

One night, sick of his repeated clumsiness and his insistence, I wrote to him with the calculated coldness of someone who knows exactly what they’re provoking.

—Worm, I’m sick of this. Don’t bother me again. You’ve used up my patience. This ends here. You’re not worthy of continuing. Keep your useless cock for someone else who can put up with you.

The reply came within seconds, and I could almost hear his fingers hammering the keyboard.

—Selene, please, don’t abandon me —he wrote—. I beg you for one more month. Let me prove my devotion. I admire you, my virginity weighs on me, this cock doesn’t know where to point if it isn’t toward you, I need your guidance to be anything more than trash. I can’t lose you. I’ll do a full month of chastity if you ask me to, I won’t come even once, I’ll walk around all day with my cock swollen.

—One more month? —I answered—. Do you think you deserve my time? You’re a burden. A useless virgin who can’t keep up with me. Your admiration bores me. Why would I waste my energy on your cock?

—Because I’ll do anything —he replied—. Anything. Your rejection destroys me, but your voice saves me. Give me a chance and I’ll prove I can be perfect. I beg you, Selene. Order me to eat my own semen every day if you want, order me to put candles in my ass, order me anything.

I let him suffer a little longer. I wrote short phrases, calculated sarcasm, and watched him humiliate himself with each message, reduce himself to nothing just so he wouldn’t lose me. There was no gratuitous cruelty in it: I needed to see him hit bottom to know what foundation he had. And his, I discovered, was made of rock.

He’s really mine, I thought, with my cunt burning again under my hand. Not for one night. Mine.

—All right —I wrote at last—. I’ll give you one month. But it will be your final test. If you fail even once, if a single drop escapes without permission, you disappear from my world and you never write to me again. Prepare your altar. Follow my orders to the letter. And pray you don’t disappoint me. We start tomorrow, and tomorrow the first order is hot wax dripping onto the tip of that cock while you recite the entire alphabet without coming.

—Thank you, Selene —he replied, and I swear I felt the physical relief in his words—. I will obey with my life and my cock. Your power guides me. I admire you infinitely.

I closed the laptop and stayed a while in the dark, finishing the wine, with two fingers still inside my cunt and my thumb drawing slow circles on my swollen clit. Thirty days ahead. Thirty nights in which a man I would never touch was going to light candles, count the seconds, milk his cock to the rhythm I dictated, swallow his own semen, deny himself pleasure, and thank me for it, convinced I was a goddess when in reality I was only someone who had learned to write what others don’t even dare to desire in a whisper. I came in silence, biting my lip, while I imagined Worm in his room, his cock stiff pointing at the ceiling, waiting for nine thirty in the morning.

I turned off the light smiling. The test had only just begun, and I already knew how it would end. I always know. That’s why I write.