I Confess That I Want a Master Who Gives Me Orders
I'm going to confess something I've never said out loud, not even to the friends with whom I think I have no secrets. For months now, I've been carrying a fantasy that no longer sits still in a corner of my mind. It has become a place I return to every time I need to escape myself a little, to escape the proper, busy woman everyone thinks they know.
It always begins the same way. I'm surrounded by noise, pretending I'm focusing on a meeting or on a to-do list I don't care about, and suddenly I imagine a message arriving. Just one, brief, impossible to ignore. I don't need to actually read it to know how it would feel: firm, calm, written by someone who knows exactly what effect it's going to have on me.
And then something inside me loosens, as if a knot I didn't even know I was holding had finally been untied. I feel my cunt wetting at once, my panties sticking to my swollen lips, my nipples hardening under my blouse until they show against the fabric.
I like to imagine that this man doesn't ask. That he doesn't negotiate. That he simply orders. That he decides little details that would mean nothing to anyone else, but that become a burning secret I carry around for hours. An instruction as simple as leaving the house without panties, with my cunt bare under my skirt, knowing that he knows, that he decided it, and that I obeyed simply because he asked me to.
No one notices. No one even imagines it.
I walk among people with a different awareness of my own body. I feel the fabric of my dress brushing my clit with every step, the wetness sliding down the insides of my thighs, the lips of my cunt opening and closing with each movement. I notice every breath that turns deeper for no apparent reason. It's a dangerous feeling and, above all, addictive. Because the world keeps turning around me while I keep hidden, under my clothes and beneath my smile, an invisible order I carry out only for him, with my cunt soaked and my tits burning beneath my bra.
***
The strangest part is that this didn't begin with a specific night or a real man. It grew slowly, almost without my noticing, while reading other people's conversations, imagining voices, trying in my head what it would feel like to surrender, to spread my legs for a stranger who told me exactly how to fuck myself.
During the day, in ordinary life, I'm the one who organizes, the one who solves, the one who never loses control. At work, my decisions are taken as final. At home, everything depends on me. And maybe that's why, precisely because of that, what I desire most in my fantasy is the opposite: for someone to take the burden of choosing away from me. To decide for me. To tell me what to do and when, and for me to have nothing to do but obey, kneel, and open my mouth when he tells me to.
It's not weakness. I've thought about it a lot and I know it's not. It's another kind of strength, the strength of trusting someone enough to hand over control of my cunt, my ass, my mouth, and let myself be guided without a net.
I imagine that first order of the day coming early, still in bed, with my hair mussed and my eyes half open. “Today you'll do exactly what I say. Put two fingers in your cunt right now, spread yourself open and tell me how wet you are.” And I would answer yes, while parting my legs under the sheets and sinking my fingers in to the knuckles, feeling my cunt gush, feeling my clit pounding hard against my thumb. Not because I have to, but because I want it with an intensity that scares me a little.
All morning long I imagine instructions no one else would understand. How to sit, with my legs slightly apart so I can feel the air on my bare cunt. When to think about his cock. Which garment to choose and which to leave aside. Tiny details that turn a vulgar day into a secret game that keeps me hot, with my panties soaked or none at all, without anything visible happening whatsoever.
And anticipation settles in slowly. Every minute becomes a silent wait. I catch myself wondering what he would say next, what new order would appear, how I would react when I read it, whether my hands would tremble as I obeyed, whether I'd come just from hearing him call me “my little slut” in my ear.
***
I always arrive at the same thought, clear and stubborn: I want to obey.
Not out of blind submission, not out of humiliation. I want to feel that invisible connection, that sweet tension between control and surrender. I want someone to truly see me, to recognize that bolder, more intense part of me, the whore hidden behind the impeccable woman I pretend to be every day.
That part exists. It's there, awake, with my cunt open and hungry, and it has been silent for far too long.
Sometimes, in the middle of a boring call, I imagine receiving an order and having to clamp my legs shut so nothing shows. I imagine his low voice telling me to slide my hand under the table and pinch my clit with two fingers, without moving them, just holding there, feeling my cunt clench in search of something that isn't there. That I'm not allowed to come, that I have to wait, that my orgasm belongs to him and I won't let it go until he decides. And I obey. In my head I always obey, and the waiting becomes a caress and a punishment at the same time, with my panties turned into a sticky mess.
The most addictive part isn't the pleasure. It's the tension of knowing that I depend on his permission. That something as much mine as my own desire, as the trembling in my legs when I'm about to come, in this game belongs to him.
There's one specific day I imagine again and again. An ordinary afternoon, in the middle of work, slipping away to the bathroom just to reread an order that doesn't exist. I see myself leaning against the locked door, my skirt hiked up to my waist, my heart pounding in my chest and three fingers buried deep in my cunt, fucking myself slowly so I won't moan. His imagined voice tells me to stop, to pull out my soaked fingers, to put them in my mouth and suck them one by one as if they were his cock. And I obey, tasting my own juices, with my tits still squeezed by my bra and my nipples about to tear through the fabric. He tells me to go back to my desk, to hold out, not to come until he decides. And I return to my workstation shaking on the inside, my cunt throbbing under my skirt, my face calm and my body on fire, smiling at my coworkers as if I weren't obeying a man who exists only in my imagination.
That contradiction is what sustains me for weeks. Outwardly, absolute control. Inwardly, a slut's surrender no one suspects and that only grows stronger the more I keep it quiet.
***
Where the fantasy becomes most vivid is at the end of the day. I imagine coming home after hours carrying that secret in my wet cunt, closing the door, turning off the world's phone, and finally being left in silence.
Then there are no meetings, no people, no noise. Just me and his imagined voice filling the empty spaces. I lie down on the bed and let my mind complete every gap with precise instructions. “Take off your clothes slowly, starting with the blouse. Unhook your bra and pinch your nipples until they hurt.” I obey, and I feel my tits falling heavy, my nipples so hard it's embarrassing. “Now the skirt. Open your legs. Show me that whore cunt.” And I open myself on my empty bed, with two fingers parting my lips as if he were watching from the other side.
“Don't touch yourself yet.” Every imagined phrase makes me feel more present, more awake, hotter, even though I'm really completely alone with my hand trembling a centimeter from my clit. “Tell me what you're thinking about.” I think about his hard cock pushing toward my mouth, about how I would suck him slowly, closing my lips around the head, letting spit run down my chin while I take him to the back of my throat. I think about how he would fuck me afterward, on my knees on the bed, grabbing me by the hair, slamming into my ass with each thrust until my flesh burned.
I close my eyes and obey orders that don't exist. And I'm surprised by how real it feels. How much my body responds to words no one has spoken. I start rubbing my clit with one finger, slow circles, while with my other hand I slide two fingers into my cunt, searching for that spot inside that makes me tremble. How easy it would be, if he were real, to put me on my back, lift my ass, and let him shove it all the way in without asking permission.
I imagine that he makes me wait. That he orders me to stay still with my fingers inside my cunt when all I want is to come. That he stretches the tension until my breathing cuts off, until I moan out loud without meaning to, until sweat sticks my hair to my forehead. That he says: “Hold it, slut, not yet.” And I hold it, my cunt contracting around my own fingers, on the edge, almost crying. Only then, with one word from him, “Come for me,” does he give me permission. And I come so hard that I arch completely on the bed, screaming in an empty house, my thighs clamped around my hand and my cunt soaking the sheets. In that imagined permission there is more intimacy than in any real cock I've ever known.
***
That's when I finally understand what attracts me most about all this.
It's not just the idea of having a virtual master, someone on the other side of a screen writing me orders. It's the feeling of waiting for a person who understands this silent language. Someone who knows everything begins with words, with trust, with that mental game in which imagination is enough to set everything alight before any cock enters any cunt.
Because what I'm really looking for isn't just some random stranger who wants to fuck me and that's that. I'm looking for someone who understands that the surrender I'm talking about is delicate. That I don't want to lose myself: I want to explore that version of me that wants to give in a little, spread her legs on command, swallow a load on command, trust, let herself be guided within a space created between the two of us. A domination that is, in the end, a strange and honest form of care.
I've read about these things in secret, in the middle of the night, with my phone's light illuminating my face in the dark and my other hand between my legs. I've learned that this has a name, that I'm not the only one, that there are people who live it with respect and clear rules. And that, instead of calming me, only turned me on more. Knowing that somewhere there is someone capable of taking on that role seriously, carefully, and also with enough rawness to fuck me the way I need to be fucked.
***
There are nights when the fantasy becomes almost a plea. I imagine writing exactly what I feel and sending it into the void, like a bottle thrown out to sea. A confession disguised as a story, with the secret hope that someone will read it, get a hard-on reading me, and smile in recognition.
That he would understand, between the lines, that I'm not looking for a vulgar one-night fuck. I'm looking for that sustained tension, that back-and-forth of orders and obedience that turns gray days into something intense, into a cunt constantly wet under office clothes. I'm looking for someone with the patience to build a world out of words alone before touching anything, and with the rawness to tell me exactly what he's going to do to me when he finally has me naked and open in front of him.
And, while I write this with one hand and the other squeezing my clit over my pants, the same thought always returns, soft but impossible to silence.
Maybe, somewhere, someone is reading these lines right now with a hard cock in his hand. Maybe he's wondering whether he could be the one to occupy that place in my imagination. Whether he could be the one to write the next order, the one that will stay with me tomorrow under my clothes, with my bare cunt throbbing beneath my smile.
Whether he would want to become, even if only at first within this game of words and desire, my master.
Because I've already decided one thing, the only thing in this story I reserve for myself: I'm ready to obey. All that's missing is the right voice.