Submission from Onlyfans
I don't usually reread my stories. Once they're published, I let them go. But there's one in particular that holds a side story I never wrote... until now.
It was with "My Husband Plants the Idea of Sleeping with Someone Else." A text born of doubt, excitement, and provocation. I just wanted to explore that disturbing fantasy: that the desire for another doesn't come from us, but from the one we love.
Some time after posting it, I received a different message. Carefully worded, signed by someone who called himself Elias.
"That moment in the story… when you say you didn't want to, but your body gave in, left me trembling. Not because of the sexual aspect. Because of the power in your words. Without realizing it, you were in charge. And I… could only obey."
At first, I didn't understand. Until he wrote to me again, this time on OnlyFans, where I only share stories. Nothing visual, just words.
"I found you on Todorelatos. I subscribed. I thought you were looking to impress with images, but your stories made me feel something deeper: submission."
Submission. I didn't see it coming. I, who wrote about husbands wanting to see their wives taken by others, now had a man kneeling before my words.
And I won't deny it: I liked it.
"I see power in your words… you could subdue me just by writing."
"What if you were the protagonist of one of my stories?" I asked, curious.
"Only if you say so, Owner."
That was the moment I understood: it wasn't just him who wanted to obey, but I who was beginning to discover the pleasure of commanding.
At first, I didn't know what to do. Should I play along? Could I really enter this world of domination and submission? The more I read his messages, the more the idea captivated me.
"I want you to dominate me," he wrote.
That excited me more than I expected. So I dared:
"Would you like me to order you now?"
A few minutes later, he replied:
"Yes, Mistress. I will follow you in everything you tell me."
I decided to try a simple command:
"Get comfortable and describe what you feel."
His reply came:
"I feel vulnerable, Mistress. But very excited. Every word you say brings me closer to you."
Something inside me began to change. The feeling of power was intoxicating.
"Next time you talk to me, I want you to be explicit. Don't keep me waiting," I ordered, feeling a spark run through me.
How had I gotten here? It was too late to regret it.
After that first exchange, everything changed. Elías was no longer a simple reader. And I was no longer just a writer playing with words. I liked it when he called me "Mistress." It sounded natural, almost addictive.
One night, after reading another message from him confessing he couldn't stop thinking about me, I made a decision. I settled into bed, turned on a dim light, and took a picture of myself: legs crossed, high black leather boots. I didn't say anything. I just sent it.
His response was immediate:
"My God..."
"You'd kneel for these boots, wouldn't you?" I wrote.
"Yes, Mistress… if you wish."
So I gave the first royal order:
"Strip. Don't touch anything but your keyboard. Get on your knees. Facing the bed. Just watch. And obey."
I could imagine him, trembling, naked, at my feet.
"Don't do anything without permission. Understood?"
"Yes, Mistress."
I asked her to close her eyes, to imagine the smell of leather, the sound of my heels. She was completely at my mercy.
"What are you feeling now?" I asked.
"Trembling, desire, belonging," he replied.
I read his words with a knot in my stomach. It wasn't a game. It was real.
"Maybe one day you can kiss my boots. Today, you just have to wish for it."
I was excited, but firm. Because in this game, pleasure was power. And the power, for the first time, was mine.
"I want you to show me your obedience," I wrote to him.
I ordered it to be recorded: "Don't touch yourself. Just talk. Describe how you feel."
While he prepared the video, I settled into bed, boots still on, legs crossed. The perfect image of a mistress directing desire.
It took a while, but his message got through: his deep, trembling voice confessing his submission.
I didn't respond immediately. I just sent a photo taken from above: my closed thighs, my skirt barely lifted, my shiny boots. A picture that said everything without saying anything.
A few days of silence passed. A silence that sustained desire like an echo vibrating between us. Elías knew how to read it. And that excited me more than any orgasm.
Because true power isn't in what you command... but in what you bring about without saying a word.
One night, a little drunk on wine, I decided to go further.
"Today is not about you," I wrote. "It's about my desire."
"Whatever you say, ma'am. I'm ready."
I ordered:
"You're going to record yourself. Start clothed. Face up on the bed. Undress slowly, only when I say so. And then masturbate while you talk to me."
While waiting for her video, I took a sip of wine, feeling my body warm up.
Without thinking, I turned on the camera, put on red lingerie, and heels. In front of the mirror, I slowly caressed my legs, my breasts, my abdomen, all the way to my vulva. My panties were already soaked. I imagined Elías watching me, wanting me, even though he couldn't see me.
I masturbated slowly, moaning softly, letting the imagination of his gaze take me to the edge.
When I finished, I checked my phone. His text had come in: his body was shaking, his breathing was erratic, his penis wet with desire.
I didn't answer. There was no need to.
I didn't write to him the next day. Or the next.
It wasn't for lack of desire. Quite the opposite. I wanted to sustain that moment suspended between us. That powerful feeling of knowing it was still there, beating.
Elias didn't insist. He respected the silence as he respected my words.
And in that silence, I discovered something even more intense than any order: true power lies in what you provoke... when you say nothing.
Maybe Elijah was just a flash in my life. Or maybe... a door I can no longer close.
