Chapter 1: Remote Control Slut: Obeying Orders from Afar
The engine of Alex’s black Audi purred to a stop outside the riding club’s festively lit entrance. Fairy lights twinkled in the bare winter trees, a stark contrast to the cold, controlled atmosphere inside the car. Anni smoothed her hands over the tight, glossy material of her wetlook leggings, the second skin catching the dim dashboard lights.
“Have fun, Baby,” Alex said, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the clubhouse door where shadows of other partygoers moved.
She leaned over the center console, the transparent white blouse she wore falling open to reveal the deep plunge of the wetlook push-up bra beneath. She kissed him, her tongue with its metallic piercing flicking against his lips. He tasted of coffee and authority.
“I will, Sir,” she whispered against his mouth.
He pulled back, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb pressing just hard enough against her cheekbone to make her pulse jump. His eyes, grey like winter steel, held hers. “You remember the rules,” he stated, a command, not a question.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Say them.”
She took a breath, the words a familiar liturgy. “I know whose property I am. Everything is allowed if I ask permission first. And I film everything for you.”
“Good girl.” He released her, his gaze dropping to the conspicuous swell of her breasts against the transparent fabric, the bold outline of the over-the-knee boots that hugged her calves. “Now go. Your public awaits.”
The winter air bit through the sheer blouse as she slid out of the car, the click of her boot heels on the pavement sharp and confident. She didn’t look back. She knew he would watch until she disappeared inside, and the thought sent a warm thrill through her core, a counterpoint to the chill on her skin.
Inside, the riding club’s common room was warm with bodies, the smell of mulled wine, and pine garlands. Music played under the hum of conversation. Anni made a beeline for the long bar, the eyes of acquaintances and friends tracking her progress. She felt the weight of their looks, the whispered comments about her outfit. She smiled, letting her hips swing a little more.
“Holy shit, Anni! You look… wow.” Markus, a fellow trainer, greeted her with a wide-eyed grin, his gaze doing a quick, appreciative slide down her body.
“Thanks, Markus. Glühwein, please,” she said, her voice light. She leaned an elbow on the bar, turning to survey the room. Her friends from the stables gathered around a high table, and she waved, holding up a finger—one drink first. This was the part she had to navigate, the normalcy before the scripted part of her evening began. She took the steaming mug from Markus, the spices fragrant, and sipped, the heat spreading through her. Her phone, tucked into her leggings’ pocket, remained silent. Alex was waiting. She was waiting. The party around her was just noise.
The party around her was just noise. She finished her Glühwein, the warmth a pleasant contrast to the cool detachment she wore like armor, and made her way to her friends. Laughter and familiar faces greeted her, and for the next hour, she let herself be pulled into the ordinary rhythm of the evening. She drank another round, then another, the sweet wine loosening her limbs and smoothing the sharp edges of her anticipation.
The attention was constant. A hand on her lower back as someone squeezed past. A lingering look from a visiting breeder. A too-loud compliment about her tattoos from a drunk board member. She navigated it with practiced ease, smiling, deflecting, turning her body just so to avoid sustained contact. It was part of the costume, part of the effect.
Then there was Thomas. A local farmer, kind-eyed and solidly built with the softness of a man who spent more time in a tractor cab than on a horse. He approached her near the buffet table, his broad face flushed from heat and perhaps a little courage.
“Anni. You look… very nice tonight,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble. He wasn’t smooth. It was sweet, almost bashful. He complimented her hair, asked after a horse she’d trained for him two seasons back, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. His attempt at flirting was painfully earnest, grounded in a reality that felt galaxies away from the wetlook clinging to her skin. It was charming in its simplicity.
She excused herself to use the ladies’ room. In the relative quiet of the tiled hallway, she leaned against the cool wall and pulled out her phone. Her fingers moved quickly over the screen.
At the party. Drank some wine. Got hit on a few times. Mostly the usual. But then by Thomas, you know, the heavy-set farmer with the Holsteiners? He’s here. He’s trying so hard to be charming. It’s actually really sweet. Called me pretty. Asked about old Schimmel. What do you want me to do?
She sent the message, the ping echoing in the tiled space. She studied her reflection in the mirror above the sink: her pupils were wide, her lips red from wine and biting. The piercings in her brow and lip glinted. She looked like a stranger to the woman Thomas had just spoken to. The phone vibrated in her hand.
Alex’s response was almost immediate.Be polite. Be the sweet girl next door for him. Let him talk. Then in ten minutes, go to the back corridor by the storage rooms. Hendrik is waiting. Turn on the camera. Show our farmer what a sweet girl really wants.
A shiver that had nothing to do with cold traced her spine. The duality of it, the crisp, surgical precision of Alex’s command, thrilled her. She typed back a simple Yes, Sir.
She returned to the party, finding Thomas still near the buffet, picking at a pretzel. She gave him a smile, softer now, playing the part. She asked him about his calves this season, listened as he spoke about feed prices and the early frost. She was the picture of attentive charm, all while a clock was ticking down in the core of her.
After eight minutes, she placed a hand lightly on his arm. “It was so nice talking to you, Thomas.Really. I need to find the hostess about the raffle tickets, excuse me.”
She slipped through the crowd, the noise fading into a dull roar behind her. She pushed through a fire door marked ‘Private’, into a stark, utilitarian corridor lit by fluorescent tubes. The smell of hay, disinfectant, and concrete replaced the scent of mulled wine and perfume. Her boots clicked sharply on the floor.
Hendrik was there, leaning against the wall next to a stack of feed bags. He was tall, with the lean build of a frequent rider, his usual friendly demeanor sharpened into something hungrier. His eyes darkened as they traveled over her.
“He said you’d come,” Hendrik said, his voice low.
Wordlessly, Anni pulled her phone from her pocket, opened the camera app, and tapped record. She set it down on a wooden crate, angling it towards the space before him. The red recording light was a tiny, glowing eye. A direct line to Alex.
Then she sank to her knees on the cold concrete floor.
The change in her was absolute. The sweet girl next door was gone, erased. Her spine straightened into a posture of offered submission, her hands coming to rest on her thighs. She looked up at Hendrik, all feigned innocence gone from her eyes, replaced by a naked, wanton expectation.
“He wants me to show you,” she said, her voice already thicker.
Hendrik unfastened his jeans, his breathing audible in the quiet corridor. He wasn’t gentle. He fisted his cock, already hard and flushed, and brought it to her lips. “Open.”
She obeyed, her mouth opening, her tongue with its metal ball flattening. He didn’t guide himself in. He pushed, the broad head past her lips, bumping over the piercing on her tongue, filling her mouth in one insistent, shallow thrust. She breathed hard through her nose, her eyes watering instantly.
“That’s it,” Hendrik growled, his hand tangling in her dark hair. “Look at the camera. Let him see you.”
She forced her eyes open, fixing them on the phone’s tiny lens. On Alex, watching. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking as he began to move, setting a rough, immediate rhythm. The taste of him, salt and skin, flooded her senses. The piercing clinked faintly against his shaft with each inward push. Drool gathered at the corners of her stretched lips, slicking her chin.
He pulled almost all the way out, the head resting on her tongue. He slapped her cheek with his wet cock, once, twice—a stinging, degrading pat. “You like being his little filming whore?” he grunted.
She couldn’t speak with her mouth full. A desperate, affirmative moan vibrated in her throat. Her own hands gripped her thighs, the nails biting through the latex.
“Beg for it,” Hendrik commanded, his voice tight. “Beg for this cock. Use the words he gave you.”
He pulled out completely. A string of saliva connected her lips to him for a second before it snapped. She gasped for air, her chest heaving. She looked directly into the camera, her face a mess of desire and obedience, and whimpered the phrase Alex had texted her earlier, the one she’d been repeating in her mind all night.
“Please,” she panted, her voice a broken thing. “Please fuck your little pony.”
Hendrik’s grin was fierce. He shoved back into her mouth, deeper this time, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, her body convulsing, but he held her head firmly, fucking her face in earnest now. The sounds were obscene: wet, choking gulps, his ragged breathing, the soft thud of his hips against her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting through the makeup. She surrendered to it completely, the burn in her jaw, the scrape of him on her palate, the absolute fullness. Her own arousal was a dull, throbbing ache between her legs, a secondary pulse to the primary rhythm he was setting.
From the phone, tinny but unmistakable, Alex’s voice played from the speaker. He was watching live. “Good girl. Take it all. Show him how well you listen.”
The sound of her husband’s approval, cool and commanding amidst the raw physicality, was the final key. It unlocked something deep within her, a shattering wave of submissive bliss that had nothing to do with Hendrik and everything to do with the man on the screen. She gagged, she took him, she existed only as a vessel for their will. The concrete was hard beneath her knees, the corridor dark and smelling of grain, and she had never felt more perfectly, terribly owned.