Confession of My Public Submission Game

It all started with a conversation I shouldn’t have taken so seriously. One afternoon, drinking wine with my aunt Ángela, she started telling me about old escapades from when she was already an adult and used to chat with strangers, letting them give her silly orders in public places. She didn’t give me all the details, but she gave me enough to put the kink under my skin.

She told me about cafés, stolen glances, men who didn’t dare touch her but couldn’t stop staring. She told me about that strange mixture of shame, power, and arousal. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

That same night, alone in my apartment, I opened my phone and searched for several guys I had flirted with over messages at one point or another. Most of them didn’t understand what I was proposing or replied with nothing but nonsense. Until one of them did.

His first message was curt, direct, and to the point.

—I’ll do it on one condition. You’ll obey everything I order you to do, like a well-trained whore.

I read it twice. I felt a hot jolt between my legs. I didn’t even know his real name; on his profile he used the name “Nadir.” I didn’t give him my real name either. Maybe that was why it was so easy to say yes.

We arranged to meet the following morning. He asked me to choose my own clothes, but to think of something that could pass for elegant and respectable at first glance, and fucking filthy at second glance. I showered slowly, shaved more carefully than usual, and put on a short black skirt, a fitted white blouse, and heels that forced me to move my ass even when I wanted to walk normally.

Under the skirt, a tiny thong. My hair tied back. Subtle lipstick. The image of a serious woman. Underneath, arousal throbbing.

Before leaving, I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. I looked like an executive. I knew perfectly well that I was dressed up as an obedient bitch.

His first message arrived while I was parking in front of a café.

—Ready, whore?

I bit my lip before answering.

—Yes.

—I don’t want “yes.” I want obedience.

—Yes, master.

I shivered as soon as I typed that. No one had ever spoken to me like that before. I had never obeyed a man without seeing him, without knowing his face, without having any contact beyond the vibration of my phone in my hand. And yet I was getting wet just from reading it.

I entered the café with my legs tense. There was a couple by the window, a man alone with a laptop, and another with a half-finished coffee. I chose a low armchair, ordered an Americano, and took out my phone as if I were busy with something important.

—Describe who’s looking at you.

I told him quickly. He replied within seconds.

—Cross your legs. Slide one hand along your thigh as if you were adjusting yourself. Slowly hike up your skirt, but pretend you don’t notice.

I did it. The feel of my own hand against my stocking made me hotter than I expected. The skirt rose a little. Then a little more. My pulse quickened when I noticed that the man with the laptop was no longer looking at the screen, but at my legs.

—The guy with the laptop is looking at me now.

—Good girl. Now uncross and cross them again, slowly. Let him see more. I want him to think you’re some boss’s slutty secretary and that you’re dying for cock.

I had to clench my teeth. That filthy language turned me on more than it should have. I slowly uncrossed my legs. The skirt opened enough to show more thigh, and when I crossed them again, it rode up even higher. The man sitting alone was staring openly now. The guy with the laptop lowered his gaze, then looked away as if he were embarrassed to be caught.

—Two of them are looking at me now.

—Get wet for me. I want to know you’re obeying with your cunt burning.

I had to shift in the chair because my thong was already riding up, and my pussy was genuinely beginning to get wet. I pretended to keep reading messages. In reality, I was aware of every breath, every stare fixed on my legs.

—Unbutton two buttons. As if you’re hot.

I loosened one. Then another. My cleavage opened just enough to reveal the beginning of my tits. I fanned my blouse with one hand, and saw the man sitting alone smile over the rim of his cup.

—Now suck on the coffee stirrer.

I took it between my lips. I slid it in and out slowly, watching myself in the black screen of my phone to make sure I didn’t make the gesture too obvious. It was humiliating. Ridiculous. And yet I felt a brutal jolt of pleasure imagining how it looked from the outside: a well-dressed woman with a silly expression, sucking on a plastic stick as if she were practicing.

—You look like such a whore like that, don’t you?

—Yes —I typed with a trembling hand—. I feel like a real whore.

—Drop your keys in front of whoever looks the hottest. Bend over without properly bending your knees. Pick them up slowly. Then smile and leave.

I froze for a moment. That was another level. I looked up. The man sitting alone was the most obvious one. I stood without adjusting my skirt. My legs were trembling. I took two steps and dropped my keys.

The metallic sound seemed scandalously loud to me. I bent forward with my legs almost straight, immediately feeling my skirt ride all the way up over my ass. I took my time on purpose. I felt the heavy silence behind me, that pause when you know you’re being watched. I picked up the keys very slowly, rose calmly, and, still burning with embarrassment, smiled at all three of them.

—Good morning —I said before leaving.

As soon as I reached my car, I closed the door and sat there breathing as if I had been running. My chest was heaving, my pussy was wet, and my thighs kept squeezing together on their own.

—I’m out —I wrote to him—. They saw everything.

—That’s what I wanted. You’re an obedient whore. Ready to keep going?

I should have stopped there. Instead, I started the car and asked him for more.

***

He sent me to a supermarket in an upscale neighborhood. As I drove, my arousal didn’t diminish in the slightest. On the contrary. I was getting hotter, looser, more surrendered to the game. I surprised myself by obeying without arguing, waiting for the next message as if I really belonged to him.

I entered the supermarket with an empty cart. The air-conditioning raised goosebumps on my arms, but between my legs I was still burning.

—Lean over the cart and walk slowly.

I did it. The cold metal beneath my hands, my ass pushed back, the weight of my tits moving beneath my blouse. I wasn’t pretending just for him anymore; every time someone passed nearby, I liked imagining that they saw something in me, a promise, a barely concealed indecency.

—Find a crowded area. Stand there looking at your phone. Let your hair down and stretch, arching your back.

I let the hair tie loose and arranged my hair with both hands. Then I stretched as if my back hurt. I felt my blouse tighten over my chest. A man pushing a cart with his wife turned around far too obviously. His wife tugged him by the arm. I had to lower my face so they wouldn’t see my smile.

—You’ve provoked one.

—I want more —I replied, and didn’t recognize myself when I read the words.

He sent me to the hardware section. I waited there, pretending to check prices, until two men lingered in the aisle with the carefully disguised awkwardness of people who want to stare without admitting it. Then the order came.

—Put one foot on the edge of the cart. Adjust your shoe. Let your leg show properly.

I propped up my foot and leaned over, making my skirt ride up again. I felt the air brush the tops of my thighs. The two men stood motionless, staring at screws they didn’t give a damn about. My breathing became shorter.

—Now walk away, swinging your ass. No hurry.

It was obscene how much it aroused me to follow such simple instructions. Walking while knowing I was being watched. Turning a corner and noticing that one of them was still following at a distance. I gripped the phone as if I were gripping an invisible leash.

In the wine section, Nadir ordered me to reach bottles on the high shelves, then crouch in front of the low ones. As I squatted, with my skirt gathered over my thighs and my tits outlined beneath my blouse, I saw in the reflection of a bottle that a young man had stopped on the other side of the aisle. He was staring. Staring far too intently.

I felt an uncomfortable pang. I wrote to him immediately.

—There’s a guy who’s been following me for a while.

—An adult?

I looked up again. Definitely. Several days’ worth of beard, an office shirt, somewhere in his late thirties.

—Yes.

—Good. Let him look, then get the hell out of there.

I kept obeying for a few more minutes, my head hot now and my cunt soaked. When I finally left, I had the sensation that I had spent hours exposing myself. In reality, it hadn’t been that long. Time distorts when you’re excited and frightened at the same time.

In the car, before starting the engine, I slipped my hand under my skirt. I touched my thong. It was genuinely wet. I ran a finger over the damp fabric and my legs trembled.

—Get your fingers good and wet and smell them —he wrote, as if he had seen me.

I did it. My scent hit me hot, sour, brutally intimate. I almost whimpered alone in the car.

—Now you’re ready for the finale —he said.

***

The finale took place in a cheap-food bar, one of those places where nearly all the men turn around when a woman who is far too dressed up for the setting walks in. I chose a table off to the side but still visible. One where my legs would be exposed if I pulled the chair out a little.

I ordered a beer and something to eat, although I already knew I would barely be able to taste it. My hands were trembling as I replied to his messages.

—Cross your legs. Slowly hike up your skirt. Caress your thighs as if you were adjusting yourself.

I obeyed. In the reflection of the window, I saw several heads turn toward me. The waiter set my beer on the table and lingered half a second too long looking at my cleavage. That was what finally set me ablaze.

—Go to the bathroom and take off your stockings.

I entered the bathroom almost dizzy. I locked myself in a stall and lifted my skirt. My thighs were marked with a faint sheen of sweat. I slowly pulled down my stockings, one and then the other, feeling the air touch my skin differently. When I came out, the voices from the establishment mingled with a couple of discreet whistles, and I knew the difference was noticeable.

I returned to the table breathing hard.

—I’m back.

—Spread your legs a little and drink the beer with your tongue. Slowly.

I licked the foam from the rim. Then I took a sip too quickly, leaving foam on my upper lip. I cleaned it off with my tongue. I heard a muffled laugh from a nearby table. One of the men there didn’t take his eyes off me.

—What a delicious whore. Now spill a little beer on your blouse.

I tipped just a few drops onto my chest. The white fabric clung to my skin and outlined my nipples more than it should have. I unbuttoned one more button to dry myself better, pretending to be clumsy. The waiter passed by again, and this time he didn’t pretend not to look.

By then I was completely soaked. I knew because my thong was rubbing against my clit in an unbearable, wet, sticky way. Every time I moved my legs, I felt the fabric slide along my slit.

—Are you wearing a thong?

—Yes.

—Wet?

—Very.

—I want you to put your hand under the table and touch it.

I went still. I looked around. There were men drinking, a couple in the back, and an older man eating alone near the television. No one was paying attention to my phone, but they were paying attention to my body. I slid my hand under the table, lifted my skirt a little, and pushed two fingers between my legs, over my thong.

I immediately felt the thick heat of my cunt. The fabric was drenched. I applied the slightest pressure and had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

—Tell me about it.

—I’m dripping.

—Put your fingers inside your thong. Just a little.

I did it. I pulled the fabric aside and touched my wet lips directly. The sensation shot through me. I almost let out a gasp. I moved my fingers slowly, barely opening myself, feeling the abundant wetness. I was so hot that it was difficult to remain seated without squirming.

—Touch your clit. I want you to bring yourself to the edge right there.

I began rubbing myself in small, quick circles, barely concealed by the table. Every stroke traveled up my belly like an electric current. I kept my eyes on my phone, as if I were simply typing. In reality, I was masturbating in a bar full of strangers.

One of the men at the table opposite leaned over enough to try to look between my legs. That gave me such a powerful thrill of voyeuristic arousal that I had to spread my knees wider.

—There’s one trying to see me.

—Let him. Open wider. Let him see your hand moving.

I spread my legs a little farther. My skirt pulled tight over my thighs. My hand continued rubbing my clit, faster and faster, while with two fingers of my other hand I discreetly moved my thong aside so I wouldn’t be smothered by my own wetness. I could feel the lubrication truly running, warm. My fingertips slid easily, dirty, delicious.

—Put one finger inside.

It went in without resistance. I was soaking wet. I pulled it out and put it back in slowly, feeling my cunt suck it in. Then I added a second. I opened myself a little more, and this time a clear moan escaped me. I had to disguise it with a sip of beer.

—That’s it. Fuck yourself with your fingers. Slowly at first.

I began sliding them in and out at a short rhythm, my palm barely bumping against my clit each time. My breathing was already a mess. I parted my lips to take in air. The man opposite was still staring at me as if hypnotized. I didn’t know whether he could actually see anything or was only guessing, but that uncertainty was pure gasoline.

—Now faster. I want you to come thinking about me ordering you around.

I squeezed my thighs together, then opened them again. My fingers went in and out, wet and obscene, while with my other hand I rubbed my clit with less and less care. The beer, the noise of the place, the stares, the fear that someone might realize what was happening… everything blended together until it became one single wave of heat.

—Master…

—Yes, bitch. Come for me.

Hearing that made me lose the little composure I had left. I shoved my fingers all the way in and started rubbing my clit with brutal pressure, without gentleness. I felt the orgasm rise through my belly and break over me all at once. I arched in the chair, clenched my jaw, and came trembling, my legs spread beneath the table, soaking my fingers more, my thong more, everything more.

It wasn’t a silent orgasm. A hoarse moan escaped me, which I muffled by leaning over my glass. My cunt kept contracting around my fingers while I tried not to fall apart right there. It took several seconds before I could pull them out.

I brought them to my mouth purely by instinct. I sucked them desperately, tasting myself. Salty, wet, hot. I felt another stab of pleasure just from that.

—Tell me how you came —he wrote immediately.

—With my fingers inside. With everyone watching me. I came so hard.

—Good whore.

I was still trembling. But it wasn’t over.

—Go to the bathroom. Take off your thong. Don’t clean yourself completely.

I stood with my legs weak and crossed the place, feeling a thread of moisture between my thighs. In the bathroom, I lifted my skirt and slowly pulled the thong down my legs. The fabric was heavy, wet, sticky. I clenched it in my fist and brought it to my face. It smelled like me, like arousal, like shamelessness. I almost came again just from that.

I returned to the table without underwear. Every step made the lips of my cunt rub against each other, still swollen and sensitive. The air slipped under my skirt and drove me crazy.

—It’s off.

—Now listen carefully. You’re going to pay. Before you leave, drop the thong where one of those bastards can see it. And when you get out, get in the car and touch yourself again for me.

I paid while trying to look normal. Walking was difficult. My cunt was still throbbing, and the wetness was spreading along the insides of my thighs. When one of the men at the nearby table passed beside me on his way to the bar, I opened my hand and let the thong fall beside the leg of his chair.

I didn’t stop to check whether he had seen it. I walked straight out.

As soon as I closed the car door, I hiked up my skirt and spread my legs. There was no thong in the way anymore. I slipped my hand inside and touched my swollen, slippery lips, still throbbing from the previous orgasm. I let out a long moan.

—Describe your cunt to me —he ordered.

—Wet. Open. Sensitive. Throbbing.

—Put two fingers inside and fuck yourself again. I want your second orgasm in the car.

I didn’t need to convince myself. My fingers slid in easily. My body was ready, too sensitive, too obedient. I began moving my hand quickly, penetrating myself with two fingers and rubbing my clit with the base of my palm. The seat creaked beneath my hips. My breathing fogged the windshield.

—Harder —he wrote.

I obeyed. With my other hand, I opened myself, pulling my lips apart to touch my clit better. It was so hard and sensitive that every stroke made my legs jerk. I pumped my fingers deeper, listening to the wet sound of my own hand moving in and out. That turned me on even more.

—Like that, master… like that…

—Tell me what you are.

—Your whore.

—What did you need today?

—For you to order me around… for them to watch me… to come…

—Then do it.

I came again with a violence that left me breathless. This time I moaned out loud, alone in the car, my hips thrusting against my own hand, my cunt contracting over and over around my fingers. I kept rubbing through the final spasms until it became too much and I had to pull my hand away, panting.

I stayed like that for a while, my skirt hiked up, my thighs spread, my hand shining with my juices. Only once I was breathing normally again did I pick up my phone.

—Done. I came again.

The reply took a few seconds.

—Me too. I came imagining you from the moment you dropped that thong.

I read that and my body trembled again. I felt a strange mixture of power, dirtiness, and satisfaction. I had obeyed everything. I had done things I never would have believed myself capable of doing. And the worst part, or the best, was that I didn’t regret it.

I drove home slowly, still with my pulse racing. I showered, but while the water ran between my legs, I could still feel every stare, every order, every moment when I spread my legs because someone asked me to and I wanted to do it.

I never told Ángela what I had done with her story. I didn’t tell anyone else either. This remained a private confession, one of those memories that feel deliciously heavy when you recall them alone.

That night, before going to sleep, I looked at Nadir’s last message.

—Rest. Next time you won’t touch yourself alone. Next time I’ll make you come with my cock inside you.

I turned off the screen with a shiver. And I fell asleep with my cunt throbbing again.