It all started off innocently enough, she tells me, when she finally tells me.
Her, sleepless at 3am, searching online for ways to turn off her brain, and happening across a forum geared toward enthusiasts of a particular skill. She’d been drawn in by a photograph – a handsome face in black and white, except for a pair of piercing blue eyes – and she was reading the profile below it when a chat window had appeared.
She stared at the blinking cursor for a moment, listening to me snoring from the next room, before replying to his greeting.
They struck up a dialogue, her asking frank questions about his craft and him answering with equal honestly, until the night had begin to fade into morning and, with great reluctance, she signed off.
The following night she curled up on the couch with her laptop instead of crawling into bed, saying something about doing a little work. She busied herself until my breathing became regular, then she opened a chat window, savoring the illicit thrill when he came online to greet her.
He never pushed me to do it, she tells me, as though this would reassure me. She was curious, she says. She wanted to try it. And so she did.
Just words on the screen, telling her that she was getting sleepy, telling her to relax. She did as she was told, replying when instructed, skeptical but open, willing it to be so but doubting. It was all innocent enough, she told herself, so there was no reason for her to tell me.
He was thorough and calm and patient and attentive. The words kept appearing and she kept replying, until she caught herself actually getting sleepy, until when he told her she was feeling warm she actually felt it.
The next night and the next night and the next the thrill was the same when his status dot turned from gray to green and his words began to appear. His words calmed her. His words helped her to relax.
She became an open book to him, his curiosity a narcotic. He asked and she answered eagerly and without hesitation: her name, her phone number, that she had a boyfriend, my name, my phone number.
He asked her what I liked in bed, my fetishes, what I’d always wanted her to do for me but she’d never done, and the answers flowed out of her as quickly as she could type them.
And when he had enough, when he has everything he needs, his questions became instructions, clear and precise and she followed them unwaveringly, forgetting everything, remembering nothing but a particularly deep and relaxing sleep.
She’s home when the package arrives. It’s addressed to her, from an online retailer she doesn’t recognize. What’s inside is a complete outfit – white mesh camisole, black leather bra, black vinyl pants, silver kitten heels, even a bottle of dark nail polish and slim glass sample of unfamiliar perfume – none of it anything she would ever in a million years consent to wear and yet all of it sized perfectly to fit her. All of it is a mystery until she finds the receipt and reads the trigger phrase entered there and then everything changes.
Her lids lower and her breathing slows and her hands loosen and unfasten the clothing from her body. She showers and daubs her skin with the scent he has chosen, painting her fingernail and toes, dressing in her uniform, arranging herself to wait for me to arrive home.
When I’ve closed the door behind me she’s on her knees, the vinyl stretching over her thighs, her hands freeing my cock from my pants and taking me into her mouth, sucking me hard.
And when she knows she has my attention she begins to speak his words, telling me how she first encountered him, how he enslaved her, and the terrible leverage and methods of coercion he has at his disposal to ensure my obedience.
My phone rings, with a number I don’t recognize.
I would answer it, she says, before opening her mouth to my cock and beginning to suck again.