I ask you to punish me and I’m surprised when you say no because I don’t realize that the punishment has already begun. My typewriter keys are the only noise besides the refrigerator humming behind my head while I sit on the floor, waiting for your text message to light up the dark kitchen. I squirm for a half hour, waiting, and writing these words before you text me back. I want an accurate ledger of my desire. I want this to mean something. Everything.
Your next message says, “strip down. Take off your shirt. Leave on your underwear and socks. Wait.”
“It’s cold,” I send back, but I’m already shrugging out of my sweater and slipping off my shoes by the time you reply with: “Tough shit.”
Your tone makes me hard: Nine letters, one space, a period—and I’m hard.
“I did it,” I send.
“I know you did. If you didn’t you’d bore me. And that terrifies you, doesn’t it? That the next text message might not come.”
“Is the floor cold under your ass? Too cold?”
“Then that’s a start. I’ll text you in an hour.”
Ego is the enemy of stillness. I consider, I fret. I touch myself idly, rubbing the bulge in my briefs and rereading your text messages. A little stain spreads at the tip of my excited prick and turns the white fabric clear. I go soft for a while when I think you’ve forgotten, but something in the threat of negligence makes me hard again. I feel ridiculous. The kitchen floor is hard under my ass, but I don’t dare move.
It takes you over two hours to text me back and in the meantime I write these words.
“You’re still there,” you text. It is not a question.
“Why do you want me to be cruel to you? What about it makes you hard?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying. I don’t have patience for that. Open up your windows.”
“It’s winter. It’s five degrees outside.”
“Does arguing make you harder? If so, feel free to protest in your head. I’m not your therapist. Open the fucking window.”
I open both windows in the kitchen and the change in temperature is immediate. I’m shivering after a minute or two.
“Cold?” you text.
“I’ll text you in an hour.”
I shudder through sixty minutes. My mind runs scenarios of you showing up at my front door, pushing me down on the kitchen floor and tearing at my briefs with rough hands. I clench my jaw and imagine you pounding me from behind while I breathe curlicues of frost into the air. After sixty minutes my phone flashes. The cold air almost feels natural by now.
“I want you to cum in your underwear. Every night at 4 a.m. for the next week. Set your alarm now. Text me once it’s done.”
“You’ll be wearing them for the next week.”
“Good. Start now. Goodnight.”
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