The First Day of My Submission Calendar

I met him on a sleepless dawn, when he wrote to me for the umpteenth time, begging for my attention. I barely answered him with monosyllables, and even so he came back every night, docile, hungry for an order that would give shape to his emptiness. That dawn I decided he would stop being one of my whims and become a project.

I told him he had thirty days to prove to me that he was good for something, and that I would dictate every one of them. I called it my calendar. He accepted it as one accepts a sentence one has desired all one’s life.

He called himself Renato, though to me he was nothing more than a worm with a phone and a room too quiet. He lived alone in an apartment on the outskirts of Valdega, and from what little he had confessed to me, he had never been with anyone. His cock had never felt another mouth but his own, another cunt but the emptiness of his nighttime hand. That virginity of his was useful to me: there was nothing to unlearn in him, only a blank body I could write all over, an untouched dick I was going to teach to obey before it learned to come.

I had studied him for weeks before making up my mind. I knew his schedule, the time he logged on, the way he typed faster when I ignored him for a couple of days. I knew that behind every pleading message was a man who went home from a gray job, closed the door, and turned into something else: into something that only made sense when someone told him what to do. I was going to be that someone. Not out of kindness, but because I like power, and he was offering it to me for almost nothing in return.

***

At nine thirty at night I lit up his screen with my first command. I imagined the ping echoing off the bare walls of his room, startling him, reminding him that he no longer belonged to himself.

—Your calendar has begun —I wrote—. Today is a day of total chastity. You are not going to touch your cock, and you are not even going to rub your balls against the fabric of your pants. Your body is sealed under my will until I decide otherwise.

I made him prepare what I called his altar. A smooth plate, cold to the touch, of white ceramic, placed in the center of a cleared table. A virgin wax candle exactly twenty centimeters away, with a little saucer underneath to catch whatever dripped. And, to one side, a rough linen cloth folded into a perfect square, as a symbol of his surrender.

—You’re going to sit on a hard chair, back straight —I ordered—. Pull your pants and underwear down to your ankles. I want your cock out in the open, exposed, looking at me and unable to hide. Spread your legs, plant your feet on the floor, and leave your hands still on your thighs. Don’t move them even a centimeter toward the center. Close your eyes, take three deep breaths, and think of me. Of my black corset, my boots, the laugh with which I’ll laugh at you if your dick gets hard and stays there, hanging like a flag of your weakness. When you have the altar ready, send me a photo. If you don’t, I’ll add a day to your confinement.

The answer came almost immediately, breathless, as always when he got nervous.

—I obey with all my heart, Mistress —he wrote—. I admire your power. My inexperience makes me feel small. I already have the altar, the candle smells clean, I’m shaking and I’m already getting hard just from reading you. May I ask for something more to honor you?

I smiled at my own screen. That anxiety of his to please was the most pathetic and the most delicious thing about him.

—You don’t ask, you obey —I replied—. Light the candle now. Hold the flame close to your fingers for three seconds before you let it go, so you feel the heat as if it were my breath on the back of your neck. After that, hands on your thighs, fingers spread, motionless. And I want to see your cock in the photo. Hard, soft, leaking, dry, I don’t care: I want to see it, so I know what state I’ve got it in. Any disorder and you spend another night without relief.

***

I liked imagining him doing as he was told. The click of the lighter breaking the silence of his room. The smell of wax filling the air like cheap incense. The heat of the flame brushing his fingertips as he counted three seconds through clenched teeth, not daring to move away too soon.

It’s a small detail, that of the three seconds, and precisely for that reason it interested me. Anyone can obey a big, spectacular order, one that justifies the effort by its own scale. What’s difficult is obeying a trivial thing, something so insignificant that no one would know if you failed to do it. That’s where you see who is really submissive. Renato had no way to prove to me that he had counted the three seconds. He could have skipped the flame’s heat and lied to me. But he wouldn’t, and both of us knew it.

I saw him sit in the hard chair, the backrest digging into his spine, legs spread, feet cold against the floor. His cock out in the open, getting hard on its own from shame and fear, throbbing against his stomach without him being able to do anything to lower it. His sweaty hands resting on his thighs, fingers stretched because I had ordered it so, just a few centimeters from a dick that was screaming to be grabbed. Closing his eyes so tightly the lashes stuck together, breathing deeply until he was dizzy, fighting the urge to bring one hand down and close it around his swollen cock.

And all the while, thinking of me. Of black fabric hugging my chest, of my crimson-painted nails drawing a line down his sternum he had never felt and might never feel. Of my tongue moving down his belly, stopping just before brushing the glans, laughing softly as I saw his whole body tighten. Of my voice ordering him one word only: endure.

The empty plate shining under the flickering light of the flame. The cloth folded like a trophy of his obedience. Wax dripping drop by drop into the saucer with a dull sound, marking the time of his punishment. And at the center of it all, his cock, stiff, alone, obeying for him what he did not dare to decide.

The photo arrived a few minutes later. The altar was impeccable: the plate clean, the candle burning, the wax dripping exactly where it was supposed to, the cloth in its place. And there was his cock, hard against his stomach, the glossy tip of a drop of pre-cum he had not been able to hold back. You could see the thick veins running along it, the balls tight, contracted, hanging heavy between his spread thighs. In one corner of the frame you could see his hand, betraying him with a tremor he had not been able to hide. And on the wood, a drop of sweat.

—Here is my altar, Mistress —he wrote—. I followed every order to the letter. I feel so inferior. Thank you for guiding me even though I’m useless. Forgive me for my hard cock, I can’t control it.

—Acceptable, worm —I answered—. Your trembling hand amuses me. And the sweat on the table makes me laugh. Your cock leaking on its own, without anyone touching it, confirms that you’re where I want you: on the edge, with no permission to fall.

I gave him no respite. That was the part I enjoyed most: the moment when a little approval turned, without transition, into a greater demand.

—You remain chaste until tomorrow at nine thirty —I ordered—. You do not touch yourself. Not your cock, not a thigh, not your balls, nothing. Not even if it bucks against your stomach on its own. You stay hungry all night, with that swollen dick begging for a hand that isn’t going to come. And so you don’t forget who’s in charge, you’re going to record an audio of at least ten seconds for me. I want to hear your voice trembling while you thank me for keeping you locked up. If it doesn’t sound good, I add another day.

***

The audio took longer to arrive. I imagined him clearing his throat, repeating it under his breath so it would come out decently, and failing in the attempt. With his cock still hard between his legs, throbbing every time he opened his mouth. When I finally listened to it, his voice was broken, almost breathless.

—Thank you, Mistress, for my chastity —he murmured—. I admire your power. Your experience makes me tremble. I feel honored, even if I’m nothing but a useless beginner. I’m hard because of you and I’m not going to touch it.

Twelve seconds of recorded submission, saved on my phone like a small new possession. His voice rose and fell, broke on the vowels, and in the background you could hear the hum of his old lamp. I listened to it twice, not because I cared what he said, but for the pleasure of knowing he had said it because I had ordered him to.

And there was something else in that recording, something he probably didn’t even notice. At the end, just before it cut off, he let out a deep sigh, almost a whimper, the sound of a body that has been tense for hours and finds no release. The sound of a cock throbbing, begging, and of a mouth that cannot beg for it. That sigh was worth more than all the words of gratitude he had recited to me. It was proof that the confinement was working, that chastity weighed on him in every muscle, that his cock was working for me without any hand helping it. I kept that too, that night, the way one keeps a password.

—Your voice pleases me —I wrote—. I delight in your trembling for me. Now I want one last detail before you sleep. Take the linen cloth and lay it over your cock, without pressing, without rubbing, just resting there like a shroud. I want you to feel the roughness every time your dick gets hard, every time a drop escapes. I want it to rub you raw from brushing without ever getting anywhere. If you catch yourself touching yourself over the cloth, you’ll confess it tomorrow and I’ll add three days. Tonight you deserve nothing more than waiting. Rest, worm, and dream of me, dream that I suck you to the hilt and pull off just before you come, again and again, all night. Tomorrow you’ll know what awaits you on day two.

I turned off the screen and left him there, seated on his hard chair, the candle still burning, his cock wrapped in rough linen and his body lit up without permission to discharge.

***

I kept imagining him for a while longer, already lying in my bed, my hand slipping under my nightgown, satisfied with how easily I had broken him. The candle burning down, the wax pooling in the saucer with that hypnotic drip he wouldn’t dare interrupt. The cloth brushing his swollen glans with every throb. The air in his room saturated with the smell of wax and contained desire, of semen that wanted out and couldn’t.

I, on the other hand, could. I spread my legs over the cool sheets and sank two fingers into my cunt, already soaked from thinking of him trembling. I imagined his face if he saw me like that, if he knew I was coming while he held back, that his chastity was the fuel for my orgasm. I rubbed my clit with my thumb, slowly, prolonging it, savoring the unfairness. When I came, I clenched my thighs around my own hand and let out a short, dry moan, almost one of anger. One of my orgasms for every one he wasn’t going to have. It seemed to me a fair exchange.

I knew he wasn’t going to sleep. That he would lie there staring at the ceiling with his hands far from his body, burning inside, his cock throbbing against the cloth, going over each of my words as if they were a prayer. That he would be dying to lower his hand, pull the fabric aside and grab his cock at last, jerk it fast, come in spurts against his own stomach. And that, precisely because of that, he wouldn’t do it: because the idea of disappointing me scared him more than desire itself.

That’s the only virtue I ask of a submissive. Not strength, not resistance, not endurance. Only this: that he fear disappointing me more than he desires to come.

There are people who think dominating someone is a matter of shouting, leather, and chains. They’re wrong. Real power is quieter and much crueler. It’s getting a person to sit alone in their room, in front of a candle, with their cock out, and stay motionless for hours because you asked them to. It’s being a presence in their head stronger than their own body, more urgent than their own swollen dick. I didn’t need to be there to rule Renato. The idea of me, installed in him like a nail, was enough.

That first night I didn’t touch him, didn’t see him, wasn’t even in the same city as him. I didn’t suck his cock, didn’t fuck him, didn’t let him come even once. And yet I possessed him completely, more than any lover had ever possessed him, because I had taken away the only thing he had left: the freedom to decide over his own desire, his own semen, his own dick.

Renato had plenty of it. That’s why I knew, that first night, that the thirty days would be entirely mine. That each dawn he would rise a little more mine and a little less his own, with his cock trained each day more to obey me than him, until nothing of him remained but a body willing to obey the next order, an ass willing to open, a cock willing to hold out or unload whatever I commanded.

Before sleeping, I opened my calendar and marked the first box with a single word: completed. Twenty-nine were left. And I was already savoring each one of them.