Tell Me

I want you to tell me.

I don’t know who you are, or if you’re even real. If you exist, somewhere, in the world, in my world. I don’t care. I want you to tell me.

Tell me it’s time. After hours of waiting and surges of wanting, its time. I can touch myself, but just with my hands. You know it will get me nowhere; that’s why you say it.

Tell me. Tell me how many fingers and how hard. Tell me what I’m thinking. What I want.

What I often want, quietly, secretly, in the back of my mind, in the red-hue darkness of my room. To be worthless, to be used, to have no purpose but to fuck you, when and where and how you say. Do I like it? Does it matter? I like the disliking.

Tell me. You want me full tonight? Yes. My ass knows the shape of this plug the way my lips know the shape of your name. I wrap myself around both, breathing in like oxygen will make it easier. It doesn’t.

“Show me,” you say. The longer it takes for you to see, the longer I wait to cum. I’m torn between making this picture perfect and needing permission to get off. I send it, mediocre and unpolished.

“Again,” you tell me. “It’s blurry.” I want to cry as my muscles contract. I try again, make it better this time.

The pause before your response ties me in knots. I check my phone. Check it again. Maybe I missed it. No. Where did you go? I need you to tell me.

Finally. “Better,” you say. “But your cunt needs something. That one,” you tell me, sending a picture of the cock you want me to shove inside myself.

It’s too big. I can’t. I tell you this.

“Do it.”

Fuck. I will. But only because you tell me to.

Because I need you to tell me. I need you to own this part of me, if only for this one moment, this brief extension of time. Tell me. Tell me what to do, how to fuck myself so that this, this touch, this orgasm is yours. It belongs to you, it is for you, it is like you are here, fucking me.

Fuck. This hurts. I bite into my own skin and push this cock as far into me as I can take. Photograph it for you to see. It’s as much as I can do.

“Up,” you say. “On your knees; balance. I want you to ride it like it’s my cock under you. 15 seconds. Send video.”

I hate the way I look fucking. Why are you making me do this?

Because I asked you to. Because I need you to. Because this is for you- this humiliation, this shame, this throbbing ache and sharp pain, this is for you. This is what you would give me if you were here, and you are not, so you give me this instead. You own this, and for this moment, you own me, and I will do what you say because this belongs to you and I have no more choice to obey or not than if you were here, grasping my hips and pressing into me with the ferocity of your desire.

“You can have your hitachi so long as you don’t cum until I tell you.”

This is unbearable; please don’t stop. My cunt opens as I rock against this cock, taking more in each time and whimpering as it hits my that tender bundle of nerves deep inside me. Fuck.

“Please?” I say, my words a whisper even in writing.

“Please, what?”

You know damn well what. “Please, can I cum?”

No.

I need you to tell me. I will listen, and obey, for this moment, this brief second stretched out like hours and miles, I will listen. Please. Just tell me.

“Please? I need to, please?”

“Hurt yourself. Hurt yourself first, and show me how.”

I claw at my thighs until they are red and show you.

More.

Again, until the welts from my nails raise up on the tender flesh.

More.

Again, until little spots of blood appear just below the surface.

I can hear your smile. “Say my name when you cum. Prove to me that you did.

Fuck. Yes. Finally.

Tell me. Tonight, tomorrow, over and over, when I cannot contain or control or restrain, give me direction. Take this, what is yours, for this moment. Claim it, and claim yourself over me. Tell me, and I will listen.

Do you hear your name echoing through space? You told me. I obeyed.