55—Out of Control
I don’t have any choice in some parts of my life. My boyfriend makes those choices for me, and I don’t mind admitting—to people I think might understand, anyway—that’s the way I like it. I used to fantasise about waking up with my hands chained to the headboard and legs spread wide, unable to stop some stud with a satisfied grin doing whatever he wanted. I knew it was just fantasy, and the reality wouldn’t be nearly so much fun, but that didn’t stop me dreaming. Then at college I met Mick. He was cute, charming, reliable, and he’d do whatever it takes to help out the people he cares about. He was fit, but slim, and didn’t have the muscles to hold me down, but I wouldn’t have said no to him.
I mean, I’m not some kind of perverted freak. I like the idea of being helplessly controlled, all choice taken away, but those fantasies aren’t everything. There’s a part of me that just wants a nice guy I can rely on; and maybe I could cajole him into taking away some of my choice. I could tell him I like surprises, maybe ask him to pick out my clothes, or never ask what I want when we go out for dinner. That could give me a little echo of the thrill I sought.
But it never quite happened. We stayed as good friends, until the first time he hypnotised me. He was training to be a therapist, you see, but starting to doubt whether he’d ever be good enough to perform in the real world. He shouldn’t have worried. It was amazing; suddenly I could just imagine that blissful relaxation, and drop off to sleep as soon as I went to bed. And when my alarm sounded I was jumping up, brain firing on all cylinders and ready to face the world. But I kept on asking for one more session, because I couldn’t believe how much I loved the intoxicating moment when there was no difference between what he told me to feel, and what I was feeling. It was the closest I’d ever come to being truly helpless, and I loved it. Still, it was nearly a year before I confessed that I’d been fantasising about him taking advantage of me, and actually asked him to see how much control he could take.
Now he owns me, and I’m delighted with that. When the vacation ended, and we had commitments of study and work drawing us apart, we started thinking of ways he could remind me I was under his control even when we weren’t together. Cell phones were a great accomplice in this game. For a week, I had a compulsion to text him every time I had a dirty thought. Every fantasy, every speculation, it was like having him inside my head. In the evenings, he’d ask for more detail on any that caught his interest. Any time I spent an hour telling him what had turned me on so much, humiliatingly and erotically unable to hide anything, and then couldn’t remember all the things I’d said; I knew then that I had a treat in store some time soon.
For one week, he had me wear exactly the outfit he’d picked out for me. If he put ribbons in my hair, I had to keep them all day. If they came loose I replaced them exactly as he’d commanded as soon as possible, and it honestly never occurred to me to change my appearance. When he told me I had to be barefoot around the office his word was law, and every time I felt the cold hallway tiles against my feet, or the caress of stiff carpet bristles between my toes, I was reminded that his presence was always there in my mind. I think I’d never imagined that a day of dutiful work could contain such peaks of arousal. Then once, on the day of my part-time course of study, he had me attend a university lecture wearing the shortest skirt I own. I was sure everyone in the room could see my underwear every time I had any reason to bend over, or if there was the slightest breeze in the hallway. Not half as surprised—and, of course, blushing with guilty delight at my helplessness—when a phone call between my first and second lectures of the day instructed me to change into a crimson thong.
“You utter bastard!” were my first words when I got home that day, as I leapt onto him on the couch and demanded a chance to discharge four hours of pent up embarrassment and lust.
Our latest game, taking the intimacy of control one step further (and I wonder how much further it could still go) he decreed that I would need his permission to go to the bathroom. I’d never thought that a call of nature could be something to share with my boyfriend, but now I had to text him and wait for permission every time. Sometimes he liked to tease; he might say “ask me again in twenty minutes”, and I knew I would have to wait. Or he might tell me that I’d have to go to a stall in the gents’, when nobody was looking. I knew I could talk my way out of any trouble that ensued, but the terror I felt was oh so real.
Then this morning I texted him at lunch time; “need to p master”. And no response. After I’d eaten, I went to the ladies’ room anyway, and sat there waiting for a response. Would he put some kind of condition on my relief? I knew he could if he wanted to, and that there was no way I could resist him. I texted him again, saying “please”, and offering to do anything he wanted if he’d just let me go. A silly form of begging, really, because if there was anything he wanted from me he knew he could just take it, and I’d the experience of him demonstrating his control.
That afternoon was a time of growing discomfort. I turned down cups of coffee, and tried to ignore the steadily growing need. I looked away from my computer to text him twice more, increasingly desperate. The second time I asked if he was okay, because the lack of contact was starting to worry me.
A reply! “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I can control you just as much by not responding as by giving commands. You should tell me every hour how much you need to go, and I can decide just how long to tease.”
So I did. I took that as a condition of my release, so I knew I had to be honest with him. For the last message, just as I packed up at the end of the day, I could finally tell him that the messages of protest from my straining bladder were starting to become painful. I went to the staff toilets again, and tried to relieve myself without waiting for his order. But despite how I felt, I just couldn’t do it. It was like I’d forgotten which muscles to contract or relax, and I didn’t know how to let go. I only had a few minutes to try, because then the janitor came round, checking that everyone was out of the building so he could lock up. I texted my master one more time, as I left the building, begging him to give me the permission he’d denied as soon as I got home. For the first time, I think, this had really gone too far—though for all my protest, I still found my arousal growing in proportion to the feelings of helpless vulnerability. I’d never imagined that just his words could drive me this far.
I took the shortest route home, desperate for his response. A minute after I left the office, I almost squealed in delight as I felt my phone vibrate. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you keep on waiting once you get home. Are you really desperate now? Does making you wait so long remind you of how strongly my words control you? Is your need leading your arousal?”
“YES” I responded, not wanting to stop walking for even a second now that he’d said this blissful, terrible ordeal would end when I got home.
“You need it so much, that knowing you still can’t break my programming shows just how helpless you are. That simple knowledge arouses you so much, you will orgasm the instant I allow you to pee.”
It wasn’t phrased as a question, but I nodded reflexively. It had always been our agreement that if he gave me an order so terrible that I would rather leave him, I could choose to reject it. A single nod was the acknowledgement that I would accept and obey an instruction without being able to question it; it was the emotive anchor that set his words indelibly in my mind.
I cut through a little patch of woodlands by the back of the house just to shave two minutes off the time I’d need to get in. As the moonlit trees scratched against my bare shoulders, I felt a vibration from my pocket, and grabbed my phone so fast that I nearly dropped it.
“Enough teasing, I don’t want to cause you too much discomfort.” the message said. And then a second later, another “You may pee. Don’t forget to orgasm.”
“Oh god, thankyou!” I gasped to the darkness as I could finally control my own bladder again. Knowing just how deeply he controlled me was the most arousing thing I could imagine, and the sudden release from that pain—though I’m sure people who are into S&M deal with a lot more pain than that every day—was an ecstatic experience. It felt so good to finally have my release that I came again and again, without a pause to think, moaning my incomprehensible thanks to master until I was completely empty.
I didn’t realise where I was until I grasped a tree branch to pull myself upright again. I’d been craving his permission so much that the instant I got it, I had emptied my bladder right where I was standing, and collapsed in ecstasy right on the dirt path as the commanded multiple orgasms knocked me out. I’d been wearing a long skirt today, the exercise in clothing control being over, and now it was marred by a giant wet patch. I could feel the pee soaking my stockings, too, and seeping into my shoes. I knew I’d look a state, and I just had to hope nobody would see me in the streetlamps’ pools of golden light along the hundred yards of street between the woodland gateway and the door of my house. I almost ran, cringing, bending over as if that could help to conceal my shameful secret.
I’d never been so embarrassed in my life. And you know, I told you already, that to me shame can only mean one thing. Helplessness. Vulnerability. Arousal.