The Day a Stranger Asked Me to Be Her Slave

It was December and, as every year on the coast, half the city had disappeared on vacation. Not me. Since October I’d been turning the same idea over and over, sifting through profiles on hookup sites and liberal forums, reading descriptions until the words blurred together. I was looking for something specific: a submissive woman who would truly belong to me, not for a weekend, but with rules, with schedules, with consequences. I wanted a trained little slut, shaved cunt and ass ready for my cock whenever I decided, not whenever she got itchy for it. I couldn’t find her. And then, as usually happens with what one wants too much, she arrived just when I had almost stopped looking.

I was at a family dinner, one of those long noisy ones, with my phone face down on the tablecloth. It vibrated. A number I didn’t have saved, a text message and an image file of the sort that disappears as soon as you look at it.

—“I’m looking for a dominant man to treat me like his slave. I saw your profile and liked you. Write me if you’re interested. I’ll send you a photo.”

I was on my third whiskey on the rocks and caution had evaporated long ago. I opened the image right there, with my family talking around me. What I saw made me clench my teeth and notice my cock hardening all at once inside my pants: her from behind, on her knees, the weight of her body loaded over her feet, two wide pale ass cheeks caught in half-light, parted just enough to reveal the pink pucker sunk between them and, lower down, the swollen shadow of her cunt peeking between her thighs. A picture with no filters, no studied pose. Raw, obscene, like a whore sick of waiting. I got up with my cock pressing against my fly, said something about a work call, and locked myself in the bathroom.

—Hi. I like your photo. What exactly are you looking for? —I wrote.

The answer came in less than a minute.

—Everything. I’m a blank slate. I want you to mold me to your taste, daddy. I want to be your bitch, your slut, your hole.

That “daddy” ran through my chest like a current, and “your hole” went straight to my crotch. Some words matter more for how they’re said by the person writing them than for what they mean, and those, on that screen, at that hour, meant absolute surrender. I put my hand over the bulge and squeezed my cock through my pants while rereading the message. I decided to test her before I believed it.

—If you really want this, you’re going to do two things. First, send me a photo right now, in real time, opening both your holes for me with both hands, cunt and ass, no cheating. And second, read carefully what comes next.

***

I wrote her the rules slowly, savoring each one. I wasn’t improvising: it was a list I’d been polishing in my head for months, waiting for someone who deserved it.

—One. You’ll be hairless at all times, your cunt smooth as a doll’s and your pucker without a single hair. Two. Any toy or sexual activity is approved by me, and with two days’ notice; anything not requested in advance is not granted, no exceptions. Not a single finger of yours goes into your cunt without my permission. Three. Your phone stays on and connected twenty-four hours a day, every day; if I ask for a photo of you spreading your ass cheeks in the middle of a supermarket, you send it. Four. You will work on your image, in and out of bed, because now you represent me; that ass is mine and I want it perfect. Five. When the time comes, you’ll wear the collar I give you, always, even when I fuck you doggy-style.

And underneath, a note:

—If you have doubts about any condition, before or during, you ask me. Asking is not negotiating. The rules are not discussed. Breaking one means punishment: spankings, no orgasms, whatever I decide. Break several and the contract ends. Clear?

I took a deep breath and sent the whole block. Let it be what it has to be, I thought, waiting for the silence to tell me I’d scared her off.

The phone rang almost immediately. The photo was exactly what I had ordered: standing, bent forward, both hands pulling her ass cheeks apart until they looked twisted out of place, showing me a depilated pucker of light brown, ringed by marked folds that betrayed experience, and right below it a pink cunt, swollen, with the inner lips peeking thick between the outer ones, shiny with the moisture that had pooled in her slit. I liked it, and at the same time it annoyed me. My mouth watered imagining my tongue there, and my cock throbbed inside my underwear.

—You’ve got a nice ass and a cunt like a soaking whore —I wrote her—, but something tells me you’re too used to big toys. That pucker doesn’t open like that without taking a lot of silicone. Am I wrong?

—Not entirely, hehe.

That little laugh got on my nerves. I sent her a voice note, low, dry, letting her hear the edge in every word.

—What do you mean, “not entirely”? Answer me like a decent slut, not like a little girl.

I thought that would be the end of it, that I’d pushed too hard and she’d close the conversation. Instead, she did the opposite. I got a photo of her collection: a monstrous dildo with a thick vein running from tip to base, the thickness of a woman’s wrist, a pair of anal beads the size of tennis balls, three black butt plugs that ranged from big to impossible, the last one with a wide base and a head that made your ass clench just looking at it. Beside the toys, folded underwear: red shorts, a pale pink bikini, a black thong so thin the weave showed through. And a caption that finished dismantling me.

—Expert with toys. I can open my cunt all the way with no help and my ass with the big plug. But I’ve never tried a real cock. None. I’m a virgin to cock, daddy. Only silicone.

***

That’s when I understood what I had in my hands. She wasn’t a woman worn out by a thousand men; she was someone who had spent years masturbating alone, jamming dildos into herself up to her guts, training her ass plug by plug, coming against pillows and mirrors, privately rehearsing the bitch life she had never dared live with a flesh-and-blood man, and who was now offering me that first time—the first real cunt, the first real ass, the first real mouth full of somebody else’s semen—as if handing over a key. The rawness of the photo stopped bothering me. What I felt was something else: the certainty that, if I was patient, I could mold that eager creature from zero, burn the taste of my cock into her as the only one she would ever know.

I didn’t answer right away. I learned a long time ago that measured silence is the sharpest tool a dominant has. Punishment isn’t always a blow; sometimes it’s just a carefully calculated absence, a void the other person fills with her own anxiety. I left the phone on the towel rack and stood staring at it, counting the seconds, imagining the scene on the other side: her with the phone in her hand, rereading my last message, thighs clenched, cunt leaking onto the chair, wondering if she had said too much, if she had scared me off with the honesty of that confession.

I let enough time pass for her to truly doubt, not a second more, and then I wrote her.

—Goodbye for now, girl. Don’t touch the toys, don’t put a single finger in that cunt, don’t cum. That cunt stopped being yours half an hour ago. Don’t turn off the phone. At eleven tonight I want a confirmation photo of you in a robe, legs open so I can see you’re still obeying. I’m not asking for it. I’m expecting it.

The phone buzzed twice more. I didn’t read the messages. I wanted her to understand, from the very first day, that her time belonged to me and mine did not belong to her. I was free; she was a prisoner of my whims, panties soaked and with no permission to relieve herself. I went back to dinner, sat down as if nothing had happened, and let the night run its course.

At eleven on the dot, like a clock, the phone vibrated three times in a row, testing my discipline. I held out. I didn’t open anything until the next morning, with coffee in front of me, and I saw that my indifference had worked perfectly. The hunger in those messages made it clear I already had her in the palm of my hand, with her cunt swollen and her head full of me.

***

There were five unread messages. The first two were almost innocent images: her kneeling in front of a wardrobe mirror, wearing a tight electric-blue crop top clinging to big, sagging tits with hard nipples showing through the fabric, tongue out licking her upper lip as if she had an imaginary cock pressed to her face, one hand rubbing over matching shorts, pressing the slit of her cunt until the fabric sank between her lips. Beginner’s teasing, still gauging how far she could go.

The other three were from another world. In them she appeared wrapped in a sheer black robe, with nothing underneath, wearing panda bear ears and pale pink stockings that climbed halfway up her thighs and made them stand out, thick and white, flesh spilling over the elastic. In the first two, standing in front of the mirror, robe wide open, she pinched one nipple viciously between two fingers, stretching it until it turned purple, while with her other hand she spread the lips of her cunt, a fat, smooth cunt, pink inside, with the clit peeking out hard as a pearl at the end of the soaked slit. A string of discharge hung from her lower lip. In the third, the crowning shot: lying on her side on the bed, legs together and bent, one small hand opening an ass cheek to show me the puckered ring, a brown, wrinkled circle contracting and opening on its own, as if asking for something, and caught between her thighs, everything else—the cunt swollen to the point of bursting, shining, with two of her fingers buried to the knuckles and a trail running down her perineum toward the anus.

My breath caught. I pulled my cock out right there in the kitchen and gripped it with my free hand, the tip already pearled, while I went over those three photos again and again. I decided not to answer with words; by then they were unnecessary. I opened the closet, took out a brown leather leash, wrapped it around my fist together with my own hardness—a thick, veined cock, the purple head pushing between my fingers—, took a photo that showed leash, hand, and cock in the same frame, and sent it without text.

The reply came in seconds and I knew, when I opened it, that my life had just changed tempo. It was a short video: her lying face down, her ass raised toward the camera, both hands parting her cheeks to the limit; first one finger sinking slowly into the hairless pucker, then two, going in and out with a wet smack, the mouth of her ass giving way with years of practice, a thread of saliva sliding down the slit to the cunt spread wide below. Her breathing was ragged, a low repeated moan—“daddy, daddy, daddy”—and a small, obscene splash every time the fingers went back in. No pretense whatsoever. And beneath the video, a live location pin.

I stared at it for a long time, cock in hand and mouth dry. The address was less than twenty minutes from my house. All night I had imagined a stranger on the other side of the country, a screen fantasy that would never land; and it turned out I had her right there, within reach, offering me her door along with every one of her holes.

—Good girl —I finally wrote—. Tonight you don’t need toys. Tonight you have me, my cock, my tongue, my hands, and my leash. At nine I want the door open, the robe on, on your knees, with your ass cheeks spread and your mouth open waiting. If I arrive and you’re not exactly like that, with both holes on display, we skip the introductions and go straight to punishment: leash to the ass until you can’t sit down, and you swallow the first load with no right to your own.

—Yes, daddy —she replied—. I’m waiting open. Come and break me in.

I put the phone face down on the table, just like the night before, and for the first time in months I felt silence working in my favor. I had nine hours ahead of me to decide which hole to start with, and a blank slate waiting on her knees on the other side of the city, cunt dripping and ass hungry.

I spent the day in a strange, almost surgical calm. I sorted out in my head what would happen that night the way someone prepares a script: the silent entrance, the first order in a low voice, the hand on the back of her neck pushing her face against my fly, the cock yanked out to the hilt in that cock-virgin throat, the collar I had kept in a drawer for months waiting for a neck worthy of it. There was no hurry. Hurry is for people who aren’t in control; I had all the time in the world and, for the first time, someone willing to give me every minute of hers, every centimeter of her three holes, and every drop of spit and semen that might be needed.

Like father, like son, I thought, and saved the address.