The Button That Controlled My Submissive Remotely

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

I step in closer until her chest brushes my shirt every time she draws breath. I put my hand on the back of her neck, sink my fingers into her hair, and pull just enough to make her offer me her throat. It isn’t tenderness; it’s a mark of ownership. I can feel the pulse hammering beneath her skin, fast, betraying, telling me what her mouth still doesn’t dare admit.

—I didn’t give you permission to look at the floor —I say very softly against her temple.

She snaps her eyes up at once. Good girl.

I strip her with measured roughness, without haste but without tenderness, my hands moving with the certainty of someone who already knows every button and every fastening. Every time my fingers brush her skin, a muffled sound escapes her that she would like to swallow back. I push her onto the bed and enjoy the way her body gives in before her will does. I pin her wrists with one hand, hold them above her head, and stay there for a moment doing nothing, just watching her tremble beneath my weight. Nothing has even happened yet and she’s already surrendering.

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

She nods, because no voice comes out. It’s enough.

I take the case from the drawer. The metallic click as it opens makes her start, and that little jolt of nerves draws a smile from me. There’s no urgency. Time, right now, is mine, 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 mad, I clip the first clamp onto her left nipple. The gasp she lets out is sharp, half protest, half shock. I don’t let her recover: I bite her neck while I fasten the second one.

Now she’s decorated to my taste. Every time she breathes deeply, every time she tries to move, the metal tugs at her flesh and reminds her who’s in charge. I slide one hand down to her sex and find her drenched, far more than her pride would ever admit. I begin to rub her clit with calculated pressure, bringing her to the edge without hurry. Her hips lift, searching for 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 yank my hand away. She stays there vibrating in the void, disoriented, her eyes begging. I look down at her and savor that face of pure frustration.

—Tonight you don’t come when you want to —I whisper against her lips, never quite kissing them—. You come when I say so.

I deliver a sharp slap to her thigh, leaving the red imprint of my palm, and force her to sit up. I put her with her back against my chest, wrap my arms around her until she becomes something small and trapped. With one hand I go back to her nipples, still captive in the metal, and pinch them in a cruel rhythm while the other hand drops again between her legs. I slide two fingers into her without warning and find that exact spot that makes her lose the thread.

—Look at you shaking —I tell her in her ear—. Look at how little it takes to undo you.

The rhythm of my hand turns frantic. I can feel her legs locking up, how she tries to close them around my fingers, and I don’t let her: I force her to stay open. Her breathing is a whistle.

—Now —I command, and give the clamps one last tug—. Come.

Her body arches back and slams against my torso. The spasm rocks her whole body, long, wet, wild, and leaves her hanging from my arms like a marionette with its strings cut. I hold her while she empties, whispering how much I like seeing her like this, defenseless. Then I let her go and she falls to her knees in the middle of the bed.

I stand in front of her, dominating her with my height, and unfasten my pants without hurry. I grab her by the hair and force her to lift her face.

—Look what all that moaning did to you.

I don’t wait for a reply. I pull her closer, brush her parted lips, and force her mouth open. I start slowly and then set a deep, methodical rhythm, holding her cheeks so she can’t pull away. Her hands grip my thighs, searching for support that won’t help her at all. When I feel the pressure building at the base, I don’t pull back. I want her to feel the exact moment I empty myself. I drive in one last time and come with a violence that tenses every muscle in me. I make her swallow, my fingers dug into the back of her neck, and she does it with a devotion I like more than anything else. When I pull away, there’s a shining thread left at the corner of her mouth. I wipe it away with my thumb and put it in her mouth.

—That was only the beginning —I tell her—. Tomorrow we leave on a trip.

***

The airport is a hive of suitcases and voices, and no one suspects that the woman walking a meter away from me has, for the past hour, been wearing a silicone vibrating egg inserted and waiting for my orders. She walks with a delicious stiffness, knowing exactly what she has inside her. I’ve got the phone in my jacket pocket, and my thumb rests on the screen like someone stroking 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 halfway. Her knees go weak instantly, her breath catches, and her hand clamps onto her bag strap so she won’t lose 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, make her stop beside me, and turn up the intensity. Color rushes up 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 rushed executives, and nobody knows it’s me deciding, button by button, when she gets the next jolt. I order her to look at me.

—If you make a single sound, I’ll switch it off and you won’t feel anything for the rest of the flight —I threaten her with a calm smile—. So clench your teeth and take it.

We stroll through the shopping area and I stop in front of some perfumes. While I pretend to smell a fragrance, I play with the pattern: short, irregular pulses that keep her on the edge of an orgasm I won’t grant her. Sweat starts beading on her forehead despite the air conditioning. She leans toward me, looking for support, and I take the opportunity to finish breaking her.

—Take off your panties. Now, under the 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 full power in the boarding line.

The panic on her face is the best fuel. I watch her hands move beneath the fabric of the long coat, the contortion it takes to obey without drawing attention. Seconds later she gives me a warm, damp piece of fabric that I tuck into my pocket. I restart the vibration, more aggressive this time. The north is waiting for us, but her punishment has just begun at the boarding gate.

***

Ice-cold air in Iceland cuts like glass. A dry cold that contrasts with the fire she’s been carrying between her legs since we landed. We’re far from everything, in a clearing surrounded by black rock and snow, under a sky beginning to turn green and electric violet. The auroras move slowly above our heads, but I only look at her, wrapped in thermal clothing, trembling not because of the weather but because of the hours of electronic torture I’ve been administering.

I take out my phone. The screen glows in the dark like a beacon of control.

—Look up —I order, gripping her chin so she’ll watch the lights—. Nice place to fall apart inside, don’t you think?

I slide the control to the strongest pattern the device has. She lets out a muffled cry that disappears 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 position myself behind her, shielding her from the wind, and sink my fingers into the back of her neck to force her to keep her spine straight while everything inside her comes apart.

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

I touch her like she’s an instrument. I lower the intensity until it’s almost off, let her catch a second of breath, and then crank it up to maximum in one shot. Her hips jerk against the snow and leave a trace of moisture that freezes at once. She’s at her peak, begging me with her eyes, her lips chapped by the cold and by desire. I won’t let her get there. I keep her in that limbo where pleasure is so sharp it hurts, and the auroras seem to beat to the rhythm of every orgasm I deny her.

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

***

The cabin is bathed in the glow of the auroras pouring in through the huge wooden window. I shove her against the glass and force her to brace her hands on the icy pane while her knees give way on the rug. The contrast is brutal: the ice of the window in front of her, the heat of my body pressing into her from behind. Without a word, I pull the vibrator out in one hard yank —a gasp of pure emptiness— and replace it immediately, burying myself inside her in a single thrust.

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

I set a hard rhythm that makes the windowpane vibrate under her palms. Every удар of my hips sounds like an obscene applause in the valley’s silence. I drive in so deep I wrench cries from her, her breath fogging the glass. Her hands slip, searching for support I don’t give her. Only I exist, the weight of my body and the violence of claiming her.

She’s on the edge, eyes rolling back, clamping around me with a desperation that says it all. Just as I feel the spasms beginning, I force her face toward mine and crash my mouth against hers in a kiss that has nothing tender about it: hungry, wild, my tongue invading her mouth with the same force as everything else invading her. It’s a kiss that steals her oxygen and her sanity, and between that suffocation and the climax I finally allow her, she falls apart against me. Her orgasm shakes her so violently her legs fail completely. I hold her while I drive into her a couple more times and come inside her, filling her with heat in the middle of the frozen night.

I withdraw slowly. She collapses onto the rug, unable to hold up her own weight, glassy eyes lost in nothing, 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 get dressed without hurry, letting her see me put myself back together while she stays there, open and broken beneath the northern lights. Every one of her lingering tremors is a tribute to my control. I approach one last time, squat beside her, and wipe away with my thumb a tear that isn’t from sadness. I sink my hand into her brown hair and force her to look at me. Her dilated pupils recognize me as the only axis of her world in this instant.

I give her a chaste kiss on the forehead, a gesture loaded with a possessiveness more frightening than any slap, and stand to leave. Before closing the door I pause, glance back 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.