Everything I’ll Do to Her When I Have Her in Front of Me

The folder doesn’t have a striking name. It sits among others containing receipts, work screenshots, and travel photos in no particular order. Whoever found it wouldn’t understand a thing. But I know what’s inside, and tonight, like so many other nights, I open it before going to bed.

There are more than two hundred images. Twelve videos. Everything she has sent me over these months, every photo and every recording I ordered her to make. The oldest file is dated October. Today is March.

She has a name, of course. But when I think of her, I don’t use it. In my head she has others: my object, my tool, my slut. Words that, curiously enough, were her idea the first night she wrote to me, almost six months ago now. Her message came straight in, no beating around the bush: she said she had been looking for someone capable of taking total control, someone who wouldn’t negotiate, who wouldn’t give in. That if I was that someone, she would do what I said.

I didn’t reply right away. I took two days to write back. Partly because I wanted to see if she’d try again. Partly because I needed to decide whether it was real or whether she was just another person fantasizing about submission and then putting twenty-one conditions on it. She wrote to me again the next day. Just one line: “I’m still here.”

That was enough.

We started that same night.

***

The first order was simple: a photo in front of the bathroom mirror, naked, eyes lowered, arms at her sides. No posing. No filters. Nothing that was a performance. Just what was there. Her tits out, her shaved cunt, her nipples hard despite the neutral expression on her face.

She sent it in less than ten minutes.

I looked at that photo for a long time before answering. Not because it left me speechless, but because I wanted to understand what kind of person was capable of doing that: obeying an instruction from someone she didn’t know at all, without knowing where it would lead, with no guarantees of any kind. The conclusion I came to is that she is exactly the kind of person this works with. She doesn’t act on impulse. She acts because she has made a decision and sticks to it.

I asked about her limits before continuing. She told me she didn’t have any. I asked if she wanted a safeword. She said no. I asked her again weeks later, when we’d been at it for a month and the nature of the orders had changed quite a bit—photos with two fingers shoved in to the knuckles, videos of herself coming with the handle of a hairbrush inside her ass, voice notes asking permission to finish. The answer was the same: none, no. I believed her because her actions were consistent with her words, and in this kind of dynamic, that’s the only thing that really matters.

***

I move through the photos without hurry. I know them by heart, but I look at them anyway. There’s something in that ritual that isn’t just about physical arousal. It has to do with reviewing, with remembering the path. Each image marks a different moment, an order fulfilled, one more step beyond what came before.

I stop at the hallway video.

It lasts two minutes and forty seconds. She’s in the corridor of her house, in her underwear, with the bedroom door behind her. On the other side of that door is her boyfriend. The television can be heard on, background voices from some late-night show. He knows nothing about this. He’s known nothing since the beginning.

In the video, she obeys the instruction I gave her that afternoon: kneel in the hallway and record for three minutes, without speaking, without touching herself, just being there on her knees waiting. She managed two minutes and forty seconds before he came out of the room.

There’s nothing explicit in that video. And yet it’s the one that excites me most of all.

There’s something in that image that concentrates everything I’m drawn to in this dynamic: she chose to kneel in that corridor, with her boyfriend three meters away, because I told her to. Not because she was afraid of what would happen if she didn’t. Not because she couldn’t refuse. Because she wanted to do it, and she wanted to do it exactly like that, with that risk and at that moment.

I play the video twice. The second time, I pull out my cock and start stroking slowly. It’s been hard since before I opened the folder, with a thick drop at the tip that I use to lube the first pass of my fist. I close my fingers around the base and stroke myself up and down calmly, squeezing hard at the head every time I reach the top, fighting the urge to speed up. I don’t want to come yet. I want to go through the entire file. I want that when I finally do come, I know exactly which photo and which phrase I’m thinking of.

***

For months I’ve been building in detail the day I have her in front of me.

I’m clear about the first few minutes: she arrives without underwear, in clothes she can take off quickly, without perfume, hair loose. She doesn’t speak unless I ask her something. She looks at me when she comes in, but lowers her eyes as soon as I point to the floor.

What comes after that is less fixed, because I know that when it actually happens, the plan will go to pieces. There’s something about the physical presence of a person that changes everything: the temperature, the sound of breathing, the real weight of someone on their knees in front of you. Months of screen time and remote commands are going to collapse into something I still can’t quite imagine, even though I try every night.

I imagine her nervous as she walks in. With that specific mix of fear and determination she describes when she writes to me right before carrying out some difficult order: that moment when she’s already decided but her body still doesn’t fully know it yet. That moment interests me more than any other. I want to see it on her face from the very beginning.

I make her wait a moment. I point to the floor with a gesture. She understands.

She kneels.

And something in me changes gears at that instant.

***

The scenes I fantasize about don’t follow a linear order. They overlap, interrupt each other, come back with different details. I see her with her hands tied behind her back, trying to keep her balance on her knees without being able to lean on anything, her tits thrust forward, nipples stiff, her belly rising and falling with every breath. I see her with her head thrown back and her eyes full of tears I don’t ask her to hold back. I hear the sound of her ragged breathing, that sound I still don’t know what it will be like in reality but which already exists in my head with enough precision that I can almost remember it.

I pull her hair to make her look at me.

I like that detail: the moment someone’s eyes have to find yours with no other option. There’s an honesty in it that’s hard to get any other way. The reddened skin, the tight jaw, the instinct pushing to look away and the decision not to.

I force her to open her mouth.

I shove my cock all the way in in one thrust. I’m not easing it in little by little, I’m not giving her time to get used to it. I drive it all the way to the hilt, until the head slams against the soft back of her throat and I feel her close around it. She gags, coughs, her eyes flood with tears all at once, and even so she doesn’t turn her face away. She stays there, mouth open, looking at me, waiting for the next one.

—Like that, slut —I tell her—. Just like that.

I grab her hair with both hands and start fucking her mouth at whatever pace I want. Saliva starts dripping from her chin in thick strands, staining her tits, running down to her navel. Every time I shove all the way in I hear her make a wet, guttural sound, a sound nothing like what she makes when she talks. I hold her there, with her nose pressed against my pubes, counting to five before pulling out. When I pull out, she draws in a single breath and opens her mouth again without me asking.

I imagine pushing beyond where her throat wants to go, feeling the resistance, hearing the wet sound of her body adapting. Tears are inevitable at that point. Saliva runs uncontrolled. And she isn’t going to ask me to stop, because she told me from the start:

—Don’t worry about me. Do whatever you want.

That was the first thing she answered when I asked if there was anything about this that worried her. I didn’t forget it.

I lift her by the hair and throw her face-down on the bed. I open her legs with my knee, without asking, and run two fingers through her cunt. She’s soaking. Soaking in a way that leaves no room for debate: my fingers come out shining up to the second knuckle and a drop slides down the inside of her thigh. I tell her so. I tell her with that exact word and she nods against the sheet, voiceless, not turning around.

I shove my cock in at once. She screams into the pillow. I grab her hips and start fucking her hard from the very first second, without any polite rhythm, without preliminaries. Each thrust drives her up on the mattress and I yank her back by the hips to bury it in her all the way again. Her cunt makes that sticky, obscene sound every time my cock goes in and out, and that sound turns me on more than any moan.

—Tell me what you are —I order.

—Your slut —she answers into the pillow, voice broken—. I’m your slut.

—Louder.

—I’m your slut. Your slut. Fuck me, please, fuck me, don’t stop.

I slap her with my open palm, hard, the mark instantly red on her skin. I grab her hair, wind it around my fist, and lift her head so she arches her back. I fuck her like that for a long time, feeling how her cunt tightens around my cock every time I drive all the way in. She comes almost immediately, with a long shudder that runs from her hips to her shoulders, and I don’t stop. I keep going while she’s coming, while a high moan escapes her that she tries to smother in the sheet.

I pull out. I turn her over. I put her face-up, open her legs with my hands, lift them against her own chest so she’s completely open. Her cunt reddened, swollen, shining. I spit on it before shoving it back in. She says nothing. She just looks at me, mouth slightly open and eyes wet, waiting.

I fill her. I make her swallow it. And I want her looking at me the whole time.

I pull out before I come inside. I grab her face with one hand, squeeze her cheeks so she opens her mouth, and I finish between her tongue and lips in three thick spurts that reach her palate. I tell her not to swallow. I tell her to show me first. She opens her mouth as wide as she can, tongue out, my load pooled on top of it, looking at me without blinking. Then I nod with my chin and she swallows. She swallows it all in one go, and then opens her mouth again so I can see there’s nothing left.

***

I’ve wondered more than once what it is she’s really seeking in this.

I don’t mean the physical part. I mean what lies underneath. With people who have this kind of desire, total surrender almost always comes from a place that has little to do with sex itself. Something is released when you stop making decisions, when someone else carries that weight for a while. A kind of relief they can’t find any other way.

She described it to me once, in a message that took her nearly an hour to send. She said it was the only situation in which her head went quiet. That outside of this there was always noise, lists, obligations, things pending. That when she carried out one of my orders, all of that disappeared.

I don’t know if that makes her more or less vulnerable. I don’t know if I should care more than I do. What I do know is that for months she’s been making that decision consistently, without anyone pressuring her, and that when I ask her, she tells me the same thing: that it’s exactly what she wants.

***

I’m close. I keep a steady pace and my eyes are half-closed. My cock throbs in my hand, the foreskin sliding up and down over the swollen, purple head, and I feel the tingling rising from my balls, tightening my thighs.

I look for the most recent video. She recorded it ten days ago, at night, with only the light from the phone screen illuminating her face. I asked her to kneel in front of the camera and look at me for five minutes without moving, without speaking, without doing anything else. Just look at me.

For the first two minutes you can tell it costs her to stay still. There’s something in her posture that betrays the effort of not moving. By the third, she starts to give in, not in the sense of surrendering, but in the sense that the body stops fighting and accepts the position. The tension in her shoulders disappears. Her breathing becomes more regular.

And around the four-minute mark, something changes in her face.

A small change, almost imperceptible if you don’t know what you’re looking at. Her eyes relax but don’t close. Her mouth opens slightly. It’s as if at that moment she had stopped being anywhere other than right there, on her knees in that room, looking at me through a screen.

That moment.

I grip tighter, speed up, and the orgasm surges up all at once. I come thinking about that exact moment, about her on her knees in the dark hallway with the TV on on the other side of the door, mouth open waiting, cunt soaking wet beneath her clothes as she obeys. The semen comes out in thick spurts over my belly and chest, hot, heavy, three, four shots in a row before my cock is left throbbing in my hand on its own, the last of it running over my knuckles.

After that I stay still. The phone screen turns itself off. I clean up slowly, without haste, and I sit there looking at the ceiling for a moment. I think that the next time I write to her I’m going to tell her that the day she has in her head, the one she’s been waiting for for months, is already closer than she thinks.