I Obeyed Every Order from a Master Whose Face I Never Saw

For months I had been lurking around the forums and chats where people talk about these things without shame. Several acquaintances kept insisting on the same idea: that I should stop training alone and find someone experienced who would truly guide me. I’d had a few casual encounters, nothing serious, nothing worth telling. A couple of guys who came in five minutes and fell asleep, a girl who ate me out one night and never answered again—hardly anything. Until this story happened, and that’s why I decided to write it down.

The contact came through a domination room I frequented under a nickname that wasn’t mine. The proposal was clear from the start. We lived far apart, so any dynamic between us would be long-distance: camera, photos, voice messages, video calls. We talked about limits before anything else. He made me fill out long questionnaires, the kind that force you to put into words what you’d only ever half-felt. There, for the first time without a filter, I wrote that I liked being called a slut, being ordered to spread my ass cheeks, being made to come until my pussy hurt. After that, we agreed on schedules, frequency, and how we would work.

—When we start, we start for real —he wrote—. I don’t want doubts halfway through.

—There won’t be any —I replied.

And I said it convinced, even though my hands were trembling over the keyboard and my panties were already soaked.

***

The first session began around seven in the evening. The initial task was simple and revealing at the same time: to describe, one by one, the things I owned. I listed everything in the precise detail he demanded, like someone taking an intimate inventory. Nipple clamps with a chain, a clitoral sucker, a medium anal plug, a fairly thick realistic dildo, a pink bullet-shaped vibrator, and a black dildo that barely fit inside me. Something strange came over me as I typed it, as though putting each object on a list suddenly made them real, part of a plan that was no longer mine.

—Good —he replied when I finished—. Now I want a video.

The instructions arrived in a long paragraph, without a single hesitation. I had to lift my T-shirt and bite it to hold it up, leave my torso bare, turn slowly, show him my back, bend over, and pull my ass cheeks apart with both hands so the camera could clearly see my pussy and ass. Then I had to face forward again, legs spread, fingers opening my lips. Every movement was thought out, ordered, timed. One condition was repeated like a seal at the end: never show my face.

I followed it to the letter. I asked nothing and didn’t hesitate for a moment. My body responded before my mind did, and when I saw myself on the screen setting up the shot, I was already wet—so wet that a thread of fluid ran down the inside of my thigh. I made the video exactly as he’d asked: bit the fabric, turned, bent over, spread my ass with my fingers, and felt the cool air touch my asshole and swollen pussy at the same time. I checked it for barely a second and sent it to him. Then I sat there, silently watching the chat and waiting. Those minutes of waiting were almost worse than the order itself. My heart hammered in my chest and my clit throbbed as if it had a life of its own.

—Again —he wrote at once—. But slower this time. And this time I want to see you touch your pussy.

The second request was a variation on the first, slower and crueler in its meticulousness. I had to run my fingertips over myself, take my time, play with myself without hurrying. I had to pinch my nipples until they were hard and erect, spit on my hand and move it down slowly, slide two fingers all the way inside me, then pull them out gleaming and suck them in front of the camera. I could moan if I wanted, but I wasn’t allowed to let go of my shirt. There were set times for everything: two minutes kneading my tits, a full minute rubbing my clit in slow circles, thirty seconds with my fingers inside, exact pauses I had to respect.

—And you’re not going to come —he added—. If you feel it getting close, pull your fingers out and tell me. You’re mine; you don’t come without permission.

Fondling myself under such precise orders was different from doing it on my own. There was something about knowing that every gesture had been decided by someone else that drove me wild. I caressed myself without hurrying, right at the edge of my clit, without touching it directly, feeling it harden and jut out between my wet lips. I slid my fingers in and pulled them out dripping, brought them to my mouth, and sucked them while looking at the camera as he’d ordered. Twice I had to stop and whisper through clenched teeth what he’d told me to say—“I’m close, sir, I’m about to come”—slowing down so I wouldn’t finish. I watched the recording timer like someone watching a countdown. They were a few endless minutes, all lived on the edge, with no permission to cross it.

When I finally sent the video, he ordered me to record a voice message. I had to describe what I was feeling in my own voice, put my desire into words, say what my pussy was like, how much I needed it, what I wanted it for. I did it in a voice I barely recognized as mine, a lower, more surrendered voice. “My pussy is swollen, dripping, drops are running down my thigh, I need someone to fill it, to fuck me hard, to treat me like a slut and open me all the way.” By then it was almost ten at night, and I was no longer entirely my own mistress.

***

—Now I want you to go all the way —he wrote—. But with your toys. And always in front of the camera. You’re going to come as many times as I tell you to, not one less.

The new request was the longest of them all. I had to start with the clamps, play with them for a couple of minutes and nothing else: hang them from my already-hard nipples, pull the chain, squeeze, release, bite it and shake my head so the chain tugged at me and tore a cry from my throat. Stimulate myself with that alone, without anything else, until my pussy begged for it. Then I had to lie down and position the shot so the camera stayed fixed in one place, aimed between my spread legs. Three minutes with the clitoral sucker, not one second less. Three minutes with the vibrator. I could come, but I wasn’t allowed to stop: I only had to announce it out loud and keep going until the time was up, even if my clit became so sensitive it hurt.

I had to send it in sections because the entire file was too large. I started with the clamps. I’m not going to lie: at first it hurt, a sharp pain in the tips of my nipples that later turned into heat and ran straight down to my pussy, as if a cable connected one thing to the other. With the same chain I brushed my skin, crossed it over my chest as though tying myself up, then yanked it suddenly and felt the pull all the way to the pit of my stomach. Every time I pulled, my pussy clenched in a spasm, and that useless reflex turned me on more than any caress. I took them off—the moment when the clamp comes loose and the blood returns to the nipple is almost worse than putting it on—and moved on to the sucker. I pressed it firmly against my clit, felt the suction pull it outward, felt it swell and burn in that delicate spot, and still I wanted more. I released it, pressed it down again, and the sound of the wet suction cup peeling away made me moan alone in the room. At a minute and a half I was already coming with my clit trapped in the device, and I announced it out loud—“I’m coming, sir, I’m coming”—without letting go, enduring the rest of the three minutes with my pussy convulsing and my clit so sensitive that every new pulse of the pump made me twist my hips against the mattress.

Time flew. By the time I got to the vibrator, I was already gone, lost in my own body, obeying a man who watched me from some undefined point on the other side of the screen. I pressed it against my swollen, still-pulsing clit, and with my other hand I slid two fingers into my pussy to masturbate myself inside at the same time. In those few minutes I came twice more, one after the other, almost overlapping, soaking the sheet beneath me, and each time I said it out loud just as he had ordered, without stopping my movements. “I’m coming, sir, I’m coming again, I can’t stop.” It wasn’t an ordinary orgasm. It was one administered, monitored, offered to someone else like an account being rendered.

It was exhausting. After that video he allowed me to get up, drink some water, and eat something if I was hungry. I didn’t eat anything. I was too worked up to think about that, but I drank a lot of water, almost trembling, my legs still weak and my pussy open and dripping between my thighs. It was around eleven-thirty at night, and the part I’d been looking forward to most was still to come.

***

—Do you want to keep going? —he wrote, and it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

I had to answer him with my voice, tell him in a voice message what I wanted and how I wanted it. I did. It was hard to recognize myself in that recording, in how clear and direct the request sounded. “I want both holes filled, I want one toy in my ass and another in my pussy, I want you to treat me like a bitch on all fours and make me come until I can’t take any more.” There wasn’t a trace left in me of the modesty I’d begun the night with.

—Get on all fours —he ordered—. Ass high, face against the mattress. Start slowly, with your fingers. Pussy first, then you open your asshole for me. If you have something to lubricate with, use it properly.

The last part of the session was the most intense. I had to prepare myself by hand first, patiently, and only when I was ready move on to the first toy. Put it in and pull it out several times, twist it, get used to it. Then the second, more demanding one, and finally both at once, one in each hole, to finish however he decided.

I exposed myself in close-up, in that position, with my legs as far apart as I could manage, resting on my chest, both hands pulling my ass cheeks open toward the camera. I knew the image I was giving him: my pussy open and shining, my puckered asshole in plain view, everything offered up on a platter. I used coconut oil for lubrication and began massaging myself gently, in circles, feeling my body slowly give way. First one finger in my pussy, then two, then three, sliding in and out with a wet, obscene sound that filled the room. With my free hand I spread oil over my asshole and began massaging it, squeezing and releasing the muscle until one finger sank in all the way. I like to go slowly, opening myself little by little, enjoying each stage instead of rushing toward the end.

When I was ready, I moved on to the dildo. At first there was resistance; my pussy tightened around the tip as if defending itself, but the body learns quickly, and soon it stopped resisting. I began sliding it in all the way to the base, pulling it almost completely out before sinking it back in, and by then it didn’t take any effort at all; it squelched along with nothing but my wetness and the oil. I fucked myself with it, looking at the camera over my shoulder, moving my hips backward to drive it all the way in, moaning like a slut.

The anal plug was another matter. Thicker in the middle, with that base that looks frightening when you stare at it, it gave me a sensation of fullness that cut off my breathing when the widest part began to pass. I had to use plenty of lubricant and move carefully, pushing patiently until suddenly the muscle surrendered and the plug settled inside, leaving my asshole stretched around the base. I moaned to myself, feeling full, exposed, and submissive, watched by a stranger whose face I had never seen. With the plug firmly in place, I put the dildo back into my pussy, and the sensation of having both holes occupied at once tore a hoarse cry from me. I could feel the wall of flesh between the two toys, tight, thin, throbbing, and every thrust of the dildo also made me feel the plug moving inside.

I held my hips apart with one hand, spreading myself as wide as possible, and with the other I worked the dildo faster and faster, deeper and deeper, enduring the sensation right up to the edge of what I could bear. I added the vibrator against my clit to complete the scene: three points of pleasure at once, and me in the middle, trembling, face against the mattress and ass raised toward the camera.

I finished as he had ordered, with both toys inside me and the vibrator pressed to my clit, in a long, filthy orgasm that soaked the sheet and expelled the dildo in a spasm. I screamed, said filthy things I hadn’t even known were in my head—“I’m coming, I’m coming all over, I’m your slut, I’m yours”—lost in a frenzy I no longer controlled. My body responded to a choreography someone else had written, and that—that total surrender, that renunciation of the right to decide—was what made me explode.

When it was over, I lay sprawled across the bed, panting, my breath ragged, the plug still in place and my body still vibrating with aftershocks of the orgasm. The session ended with one final request: a photo. Something close-up, a detail that proved how far I’d gone that night. I sent him a close-up of my ass, the plug still inside, its black base gleaming between my cheeks, and my pussy open and dripping beneath it.

***

I still keep that image in a folder only I open. I look at it from time to time, on nights when my pussy asks for it again, and I’m surprised to recognize myself in it. It isn’t only what can be seen—my open ass, my soaked pussy, the marks of fingers on my buttocks. It’s what I remember from inside: the voice giving me orders from far away, the waiting between each message, that strange mixture of fear and desire that kept me awake and dripping until dawn.

I never saw his face. I don’t know where he lives, I don’t know his real name, I know almost nothing about him. And yet that night he fucked me better without touching me than anyone who has ever been in my bed. Sometimes I think about how far I’ll go if we keep following this path, about how much more I can surrender before I have nothing left to hide.

For now, it’s enough to know that I’m willing to find out, with my legs spread and my mouth shut.