P05E10

There were two and a half months between our return from the ranch and the exams. We only met twice more in the quarry before I understood it for what it was: a poor substitute that was starting to get in the way. The rock was bare, the air too cold for naked skin, and we never stopped listening for footsteps.

It was no place to test the limits of her submission; it almost seemed like a sacrilege of it. Here we were, looking to marry as soon as we had a chance and return to my uncle’s ranch, where I would really make her mine. These shallow encounters would stain the jubilance there. If we waited in abstinence, the magic could be fully unleashed when we returned.

So we stopped meeting at all. We shared classrooms but not hallways, leaving school in opposite directions, as if we had never sat pressed together in the shadow of the pit. Two of my friends asked if I had broken up with her.

Nothing like that. Even though we almost ignored each other in the public space, we were constantly on chat. And yes, it was there that I took her to be mine. I expressed the type of control I wanted to have over her, initiating a barrage of commands and instructions. We continued the sessions when we were both in our bedrooms, and I told her if, when, how to masturbate and convert that into orgasms, or not. I incorporated new elements, like telling her to watch very specific porn while she was playing herself, or use certain household items which could play a role in hornification: bananas, clothespins, an electric toothbrush. My instructions were detailed and specific, and she reported back on the events on her end in similar fashion.

I created a wide variety of sessions. One day, she might have to play herself for a few hours and get denied in the end; the next day, I would talk her up to have five orgasms in the same time span. On the days I denied her, she flooded my phone with breathless messages, asking, ”Please, when?”

I took the debauchery outside the privacy of her own room; she was to submit to my sexual demands in public as well. No underwear anymore. No pants or trousers as well —skirts only. I ordered her a harness vibrator first, a butt plug shortly after; she wore them through classes, thighs clenched, then biked home to porn blaring in her earphones, moans syncing with each pedal stroke. Halftime of her school volleyball match, I ordered a quick climax in the locker room toilet—her hands shook, but she managed. I glowed with pride, and ordered a second right after the final whistle.

She reported being perpetually slick. No matter what sleazy place I sent her to, what I told her to do there, or the outcome I wanted from her, her pussy interpreted it all as an invitation to be wet all the time. She would go there as ordered, always eager for the new adventures I had designed for her. She knew that I was the one steering her there. She knew that I wanted her hornified. And she wanted to be horny for me.

I never laid a finger on her in those weeks. I only sent her commands. My control over her expanded every single day. I felt her adoration in every text she sent me. She obeyed my wishes as best she could, as if I was playing her like a puppet with invisible strings.

She improvised brilliantly. No bananas in the supermarket? Cucumber. I wanted an ass video? She fetched a tripod from the attic, sending three takes, apologising for the light. Hourly juice reports missed only a few. I never touched her. Commands only. And she bloomed under them, wet and willing, steering herself into my designs.

She delivered the entirety of her pleasure into my hands. When she wavered, she quickly overcame her hesitation. Her messages bristled with longing, each word a vow of devotion: how much she wanted me to control her, and how she craved for the day that I could take her for real again. How she would never fail me there anymore. How being trained into an obedient wife was the best thing that would happen to her.

I was teaching her to belong to me, but the only thing she still asked about was whether the world would make room for us at all. When she expressed fears and doubts, they were no longer private things about our relationship. She worried about different things now. Could it really happen, would she really be allowed to serve me? What about houses and money and jobs, if she didn’t want me to leave her alone for even an hour? Would Howard really provide for everything, what if he would abandon us? The questions hung between us like a whisper — more dangerous than any command I’d ever given.