The Button That Controlled My Submissive from Afar

I have her exactly where I wanted her: her back against the wall, my two arms blocking her escape. I don’t say anything yet. Silence is the first command, and she knows it, because her breathing turns short and uneven as she tries to hold my gaze and fails. I look her over slowly, from her feet to her mouth, and let her feel that inspection. I want her to feel small before I touch her.

I take another step until her chest brushes my shirt every time she draws breath. I place my hand on the back of her neck, sink my fingers into her hair, and pull back just enough for her to offer me her throat. It isn’t gentleness; it’s a mark of ownership. I feel her pulse pounding beneath her skin, fast and revealing, telling me what her mouth still doesn’t dare admit.

—I haven’t given you permission to look at the floor—I say very quietly against her temple.

She looks up sharply. Good girl.

I strip her with measured roughness, without hurry but without tenderness, my hands moving with the confidence of someone who already knows every button and fastening. Every time my fingers brush her skin, a muffled sound escapes her that she would like to swallow. I push her toward the bed and enjoy the way her body surrenders before her will does. I hold her wrists with one hand, pin them above her head, and stay like that for a moment, doing nothing, simply watching her tremble beneath my weight. Nothing has happened yet, and she is already surrendered.

—Tonight, you don’t decide—I warn her. —Not when, not how, not how much.

She nods, because her voice won’t come. It’s enough.

I take the case from the drawer. The click of the metal as I open it makes her flinch, and that little nervous jump draws a smile from me. There’s no urgency. Time belongs to me right now, and I intend to stretch every second. I lean over her, let the heat of my torso brush her thighs, and, with a slowness that drives her desperate, place the first clamp on her left nipple. The gasp that leaves her is sharp, half protest, half release. I don’t let her recover: I bite her neck while fastening the second one.

Now she’s decorated to my liking. Every time she takes a deep breath, every time she tries to move, the metal pulls at her flesh and reminds her who is in charge. I slide one hand down to her sex and find her soaked, far wetter than her pride would want to confess. I begin rubbing her clitoris with calculated pressure, leading her toward the edge without hurry. Her hips rise in search of more, her thighs tense, her back arches.

And just when her body gives the first warning of orgasm, when the cry is already rising in her throat, I snatch my hand away. She is left vibrating in the void, disoriented, her eyes pleading. I look down at her and savor that expression of pure frustration.

—Today, you don’t come when you want to—I whisper against her lips without quite kissing them. —You come when I say so.

I give her a sharp smack on the thigh, leave the red imprint of my palm, and force her to sit up. I position her with her back against my chest, wrapping my arms around her until she becomes something small and trapped. With one hand I return to her nipples, still held by the metal, and pinch them in a cruel rhythm while the other moves down between her legs again. I push two fingers inside her without warning and search for that exact spot that makes her lose her train of thought.

—Look at you trembling—I tell her in her ear. —Look how little you need to come undone.

The rhythm of my hand turns frantic. I feel her legs seize up, feel her try to close them around my fingers, and I don’t let her: I force her to keep them open. Her breathing is a whistle.

—Now—I order her, giving the clamps one last pull. —Come.

Her body arches backward and crashes against my torso. The spasm shakes her whole body, long, wet, wild, leaving her hanging from my arms like a marionette whose strings have been cut. I hold her while she empties herself, whispering how much I like seeing her this way, defenseless. Then I let her go and leave her to drop to her knees in the center of the bed.

I stand before her, dominating her with my height, and unbutton my trousers without hurry. I grab her by the hair to force her face up.

—Look what you caused with all that moaning.

I don’t wait for an answer. I bring her closer, brush her parted lips, and force her mouth open. I start slowly, then set a deep, methodical rhythm, holding her cheeks so she can’t pull away. Her hands clutch my thighs, searching for support that is no use to her. When I feel the pressure building at the base, I don’t withdraw. I want her to feel the exact moment I empty myself. I thrust one last time and come with a violence that tenses every muscle. I force her to swallow, my fingers digging into the nape of her neck, and she does it with a devotion I like more than anything else. When I pull away, a shining thread remains at the corner of her mouth. I wipe it away with my thumb and push it into her mouth.

—This was only the beginning—I tell her. —Tomorrow we’re leaving on a trip.

***

The airport is a seething mass of luggage and voices, and no one suspects that the woman walking a yard from me has had a vibrating silicone egg inserted inside her for the past hour, waiting for my commands. She walks with delicious stiffness, knowing exactly what she is carrying inside. I keep my phone in my jacket pocket, my thumb resting on the screen like someone caressing a trigger.

—You’re walking very slowly—I tell her in her ear, brushing her brown hair. —Is something bothering you down there?

I slide my finger and activate the vibration at half power. Her knees buckle instantly, her breath catches, and her hand clings to her bag strap to keep from losing her balance in the middle of the terminal. The buzz is imperceptible to the rest of the world. To her, it’s an earthquake. I stop in front of a shop window, force her to stand beside me, and raise the intensity. The flush climbs her neck as she struggles not to moan in front of a hundred strangers.

I love this division of roles. We’re surrounded by families and hurried executives, and no one knows that I’m the one deciding, button by button, when she receives the next surge. I order her to look at me.

—If you make a single sound, I’ll turn it off and you won’t feel anything for the entire flight—I threaten her with a calm smile. —So grit your teeth and endure it.

We stroll through the shopping area and I stop in front of some perfumes. While pretending to smell a fragrance, I play with the pattern: short, irregular pulses that keep her on the edge of an orgasm I refuse to grant her. Sweat begins to bead on her forehead despite the air conditioning. She leans toward me for support, and I take advantage of it to finish breaking her.

—Take off your panties. Now, under your coat. I don’t want anything between my toy and you. Hand them to me without anyone noticing, or I’ll leave you vibrating at maximum power in the boarding line.

Her panicked expression is the best fuel. I watch her hands move beneath the fabric of her long coat, performing the contortions necessary to obey without attracting attention. Seconds later, she hands me a piece of hot, damp fabric, which I put in my pocket. I restart the vibration, more aggressively this time. The north awaits us, but her punishment has just begun at the gate.

***

The air of Iceland cuts like glass. A dry cold contrasting with the fire she has been carrying between her legs since we landed. We are far from everything, in a clearing surrounded by black rock and snow, beneath a sky beginning to stain itself with electric greens and violets. The auroras move slowly above our heads, but I look only at her, wrapped in thermal clothing, trembling not because of the weather but because of the hours of electronic torture I have been administering.

I take out my phone. The screen shines in the darkness like a beacon of control.

—Look up—I order her, holding her chin so she watches the lights. —A beautiful place to come apart inside, don’t you think?

I slide the control to the strongest pattern the device has. She lets out a muffled cry that vanishes into the immensity of the frozen forest and drops to her knees in the snow. The vibration is so intense I can almost hear it against the silence of the place. I move behind her, shielding her from the wind, and sink my fingers into her neck to force her to keep her back straight while everything inside her collapses.

—The cold outside and my toy burning you from within—I whisper. —There isn’t anyone for miles. You could scream as loudly as you wanted, but I know you’re going to try to keep quiet, because you like obeying even here, at the end of the world.

I touch her as though she were an instrument. I lower the intensity until it is nearly off, let her recover a second of breath, then suddenly raise it to maximum. Her hips jerk on the snow, leaving behind a trail of moisture that freezes at once. She is at her peak, begging me with her eyes, her lips chapped by the cold and desire. I don’t let her reach it. I keep her in that limbo where pleasure is so sharp it hurts, and the auroras seem to pulse to the rhythm of every orgasm I deny her.

I lift her with one arm, press her back against my chest, and guide her toward the cabin, keeping the toy on a slow, deep pulse that draws strands of saliva from her. Here she is no longer a woman with a will of her own. She is an extension of mine, a body vibrating beneath my thumb.

***

The cabin is bathed in the glow of the auroras entering through the enormous wooden picture window. I push her against the glass and force her to place her hands on the icy pane while her knees give way over the rug. The contrast is brutal: the ice of the window before her, the heat of my body pressing against her from behind. Without a word, I pull the vibrator out in one hard motion—a moan of pure emptiness—and immediately replace it, burying myself inside her with a single thrust.

—Look at yourself in the reflection—I growl in her ear, grabbing her hair so she can’t look away. —Look how you open for me while the world freezes out there.

I set a hard rhythm that makes the window vibrate beneath her palms. Every blow of my hips sounds like an obscene applause in the silence of the valley. I sink so deep that I wrench cries from her that fog the glass with her breath. Her hands slip as she searches for support I refuse to give her. There is only me, the weight of my body, and the violence of claiming her.

She is on the brink, eyes rolled back, squeezing me inside with a desperation that says everything. Just when I feel the spasms begin, I force her to turn her face toward me and slam a kiss onto her that contains nothing tender: hungry, savage, my tongue invading her mouth with the same force with which the rest of me invades her. It is a kiss that steals her oxygen and her sanity, and between that suffocation and the climax I finally allow her, she comes undone against me. Her orgasm shakes her so violently that her legs fail completely. I hold her while thrusting a couple more times and empty myself inside her, filling her with warmth in the middle of the frozen night.

I withdraw slowly. She collapses onto the rug, unable to support her own weight, her glassy eyes lost in nothingness, still processing the storm. Her nipples, reddened by the clamps, rise and fall as she tries to catch her breath.

I remain standing, watching her with cold satisfaction. I dress without hurry, letting her watch me compose myself while she remains there, open and broken beneath the northern lights. Every one of her residual tremors is a tribute to my control. I approach her one last time, crouch beside her, and wipe away with my thumb a tear that isn’t one of sadness. I bury my hand in her brown hair and force her to look at me. Her dilated pupils recognize me as the sole axis of her world at this moment.

I give her a chaste kiss on the forehead, a gesture charged with a possessiveness more frightening than any slap, and stand up to leave. Before closing the door, I stop, look at her over my shoulder with that smile she now knows better than anyone, and let fall the only promise that truly matters to her:

—Rest. Tomorrow, we start again.