The Submission Test I Couldn't Control

He remained looking at me with a mixture of shame and relief, as if he had finally let go of a stone he had carried inside his chest for years. I was still sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, my legs still trembling from what we had just done and from what I had just heard.

He had confessed that being obedient turned him on, that he got hard from feeling used, ordered around, pushed up against a limit by someone else. He also told me that before meeting me, he had slept with men, that it wasn't a passing fantasy but a real part of him he had hidden for fear of losing me.

—And why tell me now? —I asked at last.

He swallowed before answering.

—Because tonight, when you spoke to me like that... when you made me hold out... I felt something I've wanted to feel with you for years. And I can't keep pretending it doesn't exist.

His words struck me deep inside. Part of me felt deceived. Another, much more dangerous part, felt a lash of heat between my legs. It wasn't just because of him. It was because of everything I had kept silent about, my own need to submit in other places, to look elsewhere for something I had never known how to name at home.

I looked at him in silence. His eyes were fixed on me, waiting for judgment. He didn't look like a broken man, but like one who was tired of hiding.

—Then tonight, I'm in charge —I said.

I saw his jaw tighten.

—Yes.

—Don't say yes as if you're doing me a favor. If you want this, you obey. No questions.

His breathing grew heavier. He nodded.

I got out of bed and picked up a silk scarf hanging from the chair. It wasn't a real rope or anything sophisticated. It was improvised, almost clumsy, but at that moment it was enough. I went over to the headboard and nodded toward it.

—Hands up.

He obeyed without hesitation. He raised his arms and placed his wrists together on the pillow. I tied one first and then the other to the wooden slats. The knot wasn't perfect, but it was firm enough to immobilize him. I tested it by pulling a little. He let out a short gasp.

—Is it too tight?

—A little.

—Good.

I said it in a hard voice, even though inside I was improvising everything. His cock was already hard again, standing up over his stomach, the tip glistening. Seeing him like that, tied up and turned on by something I barely understood, made me feel a strange vertigo.

I climbed onto the bed and knelt beside him. I ran my fingertips over his chest, slowly down his abdomen, and didn't touch his cock. I merely circled it, barely brushing it, and heard him hold his breath.

—Don't move.

—I'm not moving.

I gave his thigh a sharp slap, more to test myself than to punish him. He moaned, and the sound heated me instantly. There was something profoundly obscene about realizing that one order from me was enough to make him harder.

—Spread your legs wider.

He parted his thighs and I settled between them. I studied his body for a moment, as if it were the first time I had really looked at him whole. His cock throbbed. His balls were tight. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his wrists shifted slightly against the silk.

—I want to hear you say it —I murmured.

—Say what?

I grabbed his cock with my whole hand and squeezed just enough to draw a moan from him.

—Don't make me repeat myself. Tell me what you want.

He closed his eyes for a second, defeated and aroused at once.

—I want to obey you.

—Clearer.

—I want to be your submissive tonight.

Hearing him say it sent an electric current down my back. I leaned over and licked the tip of his cock in one slow stroke, just one, before pulling away. He instinctively tugged at the restraints.

—Still.

—Fuck...

—That's right, fuck. You stay there and take it.

I lowered my tongue again, this time from the base to the glans, gathering the salty taste of his arousal. Then I took him into my mouth only halfway, enough to feel his thickness and heat without letting the rhythm get out of control. I sucked slowly, looking up to watch his face.

His expression aroused me almost more than having his cock in my mouth. His lips were parted, his throat tense, with a brutal need to move and no freedom to do so. Whenever he tried to lift his hips, I pulled my mouth away and forced him to remain still.

—Who's in charge?

—You.

I let go of his cock with a wet pop and spat on the tip before masturbating him with slow, firm strokes, twisting my wrist on the way up. He moaned without stopping, more broken with every sound.

—I'm not going to let you come whenever you want —I told him—. If you come without permission, we stop.

His eyes flew open.

—No, please.

—Then behave.

I slipped two fingers between my legs to wet them and ran them over his glans, then along the entire shaft, squeezing on every upward stroke. The sound was filthy, wet, hypnotic. His cock nearly slipped from my hand from how hard it was throbbing.

—Look at me —I ordered.

He did. He didn't take his eyes off my face while I masturbated him. I felt a strange power, imperfect but real. And yet, at the same time, I noticed a crack. I was occupying a role that aroused me by reflex, not by nature. Ordering him around turned me on because I saw him surrendered, yes, but deep down I also recognized gestures I had once learned while obeying someone else.

That didn't stop me. On the contrary. It made me continue.

I straddled his chest, my pussy directly above his mouth. I stroked his cheek with the sole of my foot before lowering myself.

—Stick out your tongue.

He stuck it out immediately. The tip brushed my entrance and a moan escaped me. I braced one hand against the headboard and began rubbing myself against his mouth. Slowly at first, testing it, then with more pressure. He licked with feverish obedience, searching for my clitoris, keeping his tongue firm whenever my hips demanded it.

—There —I said, panting—. Don't change. Keep going.

I gripped the headboard tightly while he ate my pussy with the desperation of someone who knew his pleasure depended on doing it right. He ran his tongue from bottom to top, sucked my clitoris, and stopped only when I allowed him to. The silk brushed against the slats now and then when he tugged at his wrists, and seeing that beneath me turned me on even more.

—Harder.

He obeyed. His tongue opened me insistently, and when he felt me contracting, he began moving it faster, dirtier, pushing it in and pulling it out while sucking my clitoris between strokes. I was no longer maintaining any elegant or dominant pose. I fucked his face with my hips, direct and wet, using his mouth to bring myself closer to orgasm.

Then I pulled away suddenly.

He made such a sincere sound of frustration that I nearly came just from that.

—No —I told him, panting—. I'm not going to come yet. And neither are you.

—Please...

—That sounds so pretty coming from your mouth.

I climbed down from his chest and sat on his stomach. His cock was wedged between my wet pussy and his abdomen. I began rubbing myself up and down against it, letting the glans become soaked. He was trembling all over.

—Tell me what you are.

—Your submissive.

—I can't hear you.

—Your submissive —he repeated louder—. Your toy.

The word struck me deep inside. Toy. For a second I wanted to silence him with a kiss, and for another I wanted to keep squeezing that obedience out of him until the very end.

I rose slightly onto my knees, held him at the base, and lowered myself little by little until I sat down on him. He entered easily, hot and hard, stretching me with a slow thrust that made me close my eyes. I let out a deep moan when I felt him fully inside me.

—Fuck...

He arched his back.

—You don't know what it feels like.

—Yes, I do. And you're going to stay still.

I began moving on top of him, setting the depth and rhythm myself. At first it was slow, enjoying every inch, every rise when his cock nearly slipped out and every descent when I swallowed it whole again. Then I began using him with more hunger. I bounced on him with my hands braced on his chest, feeling my hips collide with his pelvis.

His breathing was pure panting now.

—Don't move —I repeated, even though I was beginning to lose control myself.

He tried to obey, but his body escaped him. Every time I sank all the way down, his hips rose slightly to seek me. I watched him struggle between the order and the impulse and, strange as it was, that excited me more than any perfect gesture could have.

—Do you like me fucking you like this? —I asked.

—Yes.

—Do you like being used?

—Yes, fuck.

I seized his chin and forced him to look at me.

—With words.

—Yes, I like you using me. I like you riding me. I like obeying you.

I kept fucking him while I listened to those phrases leave his mouth. The wet sound of penetration filled the room. My legs were tense now, my clitoris rubbing over and over with every sway. I was close. Too close.

I leaned over him, bit his lip, and then whispered in his ear:

—Don't come.

The cruelty of saying it just as he was squeezing me from within made me moan. I tightened the walls of my pussy around his cock and felt him tremble all over, on the verge of losing control.

I got off him before I came. I did it abruptly, leaving him soaked, and he let out a muffled curse.

—On your stomach —I ordered.

I untied him first. The knot came loose more easily than I would have liked. He sat up with reddened wrists and obeyed at once, lying facedown on the bed. He spread his legs even before I asked him to.

I knelt behind him and opened his buttocks with both hands. Seeing him like that, exposed and offered up, aroused me in a more animal way. I brought my mouth close and gave one buttock a wet kiss, then another. Then I ran my tongue slowly over his ass, from bottom to top.

His whole body shuddered.

—Relax.

I licked him again with more pressure, flattening my tongue, insisting on the center, playing around until I felt him begin to loosen. At the same time, I grabbed his cock from beneath his body and began masturbating him from behind, my hand sliding through saliva and natural lubrication.

—Fuck... —he moaned into the pillow—. Don't stop.

—I didn't give you permission to ask.

Then I licked deeper, pushing in the tip of my tongue and drawing it out in short movements that made him pant like an animal. His ass opened for me just slightly, tense but receptive, and I continued alternating tongue, saliva, and hand until he was nearly trembling apart.

—You like this, don't you?

—Yes.

—You like having your ass eaten?

—Yes, yes... I love it.

Hearing him admit it like that, without disguise or shame, sent another lash of heat between my legs. I spat between his buttocks and ran my tongue over him again, using the saliva to make him wetter. Then I pulled my mouth away and carefully pushed in one finger. It entered slowly. He tensed and then let out his breath all at once.

—Breathe.

I moved it around inside him, massaging while my other hand continued masturbating him. His cock was rock-hard and dripping. I inserted a second finger, and this time the deep moan he released made me rub my thighs together.

—That's it —I murmured—. Such an obedient boy.

I began fucking his ass with my fingers, opening him little by little, searching for the spot that made him jerk. When I found it, his arms buckled beneath his chest.

—There... fuck, there.

—Do you like having fingers inside you?

—Yes.

—Do you like being opened?

—Yes, please...

I slapped his buttock again and squeezed inside him.

—Don't beg. Take it.

I continued for several minutes, pushing my fingers in and out while milking him with my other hand. The room smelled of sex, sweat, and saliva. My legs were still wet from riding him. He was so aroused that his back trembled in small spasms.

When I felt he couldn't take any more, I withdrew my fingers and sat facing him on the bed.

—Turn over.

He turned and ended up on his knees, his cock raised, his chest rising and falling as if he had been running. I looked at him for a moment. His face was flushed, his hair stuck to his forehead, and the naked need in his expression made my stomach lurch.

I opened my legs in front of him and pushed two fingers deep into my pussy, then pulled them out glistening with wetness. I began touching myself without taking my eyes off him.

—Now you come when I tell you to. Touching yourself. I'll watch.

That was enough for him to grab his cock and begin masturbating. He did it hungrily, fast at first, until I raised an eyebrow.

—Slowly.

He obeyed. He eased his pace, moving his hand up and down with obvious torment. I kept fucking myself with my fingers and rubbing my clitoris, aroused by the sight of him coming on command and, at the same time, uncomfortable with the certainty that the role only partly fit me.

—Tell me what you see.

—I see you touching yourself.

—Keep going.

—I see you open for me. Wet. Looking at me as if you're going to make me come whenever you want.

I bit my lip. His words ignited me all at once. I began touching myself harder, plunging my fingers in violently, listening to the wet sound of my hand.

—What are you?

—Your submissive.

—And?

—Yours for as long as you want me.

That made me moan. He sped up his hand slightly.

—Not yet —I said.

—I can't hold out much longer.

—You can hold out.

I was already on the edge. I watched him masturbate on his knees for me, his cock shining with precum, and felt pleasure, strangeness, and a difficult-to-explain pang of emptiness all at once. It aroused me, yes. Tremendously. But I didn't feel at home inside that power. It was a mask I put on that nevertheless left me wet.

He began to tremble in earnest.

—Now —I ordered.

The word was enough. He gripped his cock tightly and came in violent spurts over the sheets and his stomach, moaning with his head thrown back. The sight dragged me along with him. I came almost at the same time, rubbing myself furiously, my fingers inside me and orgasm splitting through my legs.

We were left panting. His hand was still on his sensitive cock. I sat with my legs open, wet and trembling.

For several seconds there was nothing but our breathing and the distant sound of a car in the street.

—That was incredible —he murmured at last.

I nodded, though the word wasn't enough for everything I was carrying. Incredible, yes. Arousing. Raw. Strange. Insufficient in a way I was ashamed to admit.

I lay down beside him and he curled up against me, still docile, his body satisfied. I stared at the nightstand. The phone was still there. I had recorded part of it. I could send it. I could prove that I had carried out an order that had come from somewhere else, from another voice that truly dominated me without touching me.

I didn't.

I turned off the screen without opening the folder and closed my eyes. He put his arm around my waist and fell asleep before I did. It took me much longer, thinking about everything that had happened, what I had enjoyed, and the discomfort that remained beneath it all, like a small stone that wouldn't disappear.

***

Morning came through the blinds in bright lines across the rumpled sheets. I woke before he did and lay still for a few seconds, feeling the weight of his arm around my waist. The room still smelled of dried sex, skin, and recent night.

I slipped out of bed and put on a long T-shirt. I went barefoot to the kitchen looking for coffee and silence, but I found neither. My sister was already there, sitting on one of the stools, a steaming cup between her hands and a slow smile that put me on alert from the doorway.

She wore a loose gray T-shirt that barely covered half her thigh. Nothing else. Her hair was tousled, her legs crossed, her posture that of someone far too comfortable in another person's home.

—Good morning —she said, savoring the expression on my face—. Did you sleep well?

I poured myself coffee without answering right away.

—Yes. And you?

—Pretty well. Though I couldn't help hearing some things.

I looked at her over the rim of my cup.

—What things?

She shrugged with false innocence.

—Moans. Orders. Someone saying he was a submissive. Nothing serious.

I felt heat rise into my neck. Her smile widened.

—Relax. I'm not going to tell anyone. It just surprised me. I never imagined you giving orders.

Before I could answer, he appeared in the kitchen doorway, disheveled and still half-asleep. When he saw her dressed like that, or almost dressed, he hesitated for barely a second. I didn't miss that second.

—Good morning —he murmured.

—Good morning, brother-in-law —she replied with sweetness that was far too measured.

She stood to greet him, and as she did, her T-shirt rode up enough to reveal the lower curve of one buttock. It was a tiny, calculated gesture. He looked away at once and went awkwardly over to the coffee maker.

My sister turned toward me and lowered her voice.

—I heard everything last night.

—Speak more quietly.

—Why? —she whispered with a smile—. He already knows how well he obeys.

He was still facing away, preparing toast, unaware of the knife she was wielding with every word. Or perhaps all too aware and pretending not to be. When he turned around with his cup in hand, she stretched on the stool with her arms raised. Her T-shirt opened just enough to show him that she wasn't wearing underwear.

He froze for a second. Then he cleared his throat.

—Do you want some bread?

—Of course —she said—. With tomato and oil.

I watched the scene in silence, irritated and with a twisted stab of arousal. She was testing him. And after the night we had spent, he didn't know where to look.

He sat between us to eat breakfast, and she continued driving in soft-spoken barbs, talking about couples who experimented, how difficult it was to learn to take charge and let go, how sexy it was to discover secrets. He shifted in his chair. I could see his cheeks growing flushed.

Under the table, she extended her leg until it brushed his knee. It was barely a touch, but enough for me to see his jaw clench. My fingers tightened around my cup. The kitchen became far too small.

When he got up to clear the plates, she gave me a triumphant half-smile.

—I'm going to take a shower —she announced.

She passed me, brushing my shoulder, and went down the hallway without hurrying. I was left alone for a moment, my coffee already cold and with the feeling that control was slipping away from me in every direction.

I took my phone from the pocket of my T-shirt. There was a pending message. I opened it with my pulse racing.

It was a cold, direct order demanding the proof I hadn't sent. It said he had waited long enough. That he wanted to see what I had done. That I shouldn't force him to remind me who really decided.

I read the message twice. Then I looked up. He was still at the sink. My sister had just closed the bathroom door. And I still had the video saved, arousal clinging to my body, and a decision I could no longer postpone much longer.

I didn't reply.

But I didn't delete anything either.