Audit

Per our agreement, she unlocks her phone and hands it to me, then gets on her knees. This has become an intermittent ritual between us: she is trying to use her phone less, to smoke less, to curb a range of behaviours over which she struggles to exercise control.

I exercise control for her.

Her phone tracks the minutes she spends on different apps, day by day. It compiles detailed profiles of her usage, which divulge cleanly and clearly exactly whether she has abided by our agreement this week, and the week before, and the week before that.

It would take only a few moments to determine whether she is to be punished or not. But, as I always do, I take some time to page through her phone first.

This is an intimacy that it took some time for her to adjust to. We approached it incrementally. At first she would close all her tabs before surrendering her phone. She would show me only certain histories. The first time I looked through her phone I did so with her at my shoulder, her breathing tight and shallow in my ear.

“Ignore that,” she would say. Or, “Don’t look there.”

Now, months later, she instead kneels between my legs, stripped to her underwear, and services my cock while I search, unrestricted, through her phone.

It is a strange intimacy. A kind of surrender. Her digital archive somehow more intimate than just nudity of the body. I read her messages. Monitor the apps she uses to track her cycle. Scrutinise her week in photographs: pictures with her friends, from her Instagram, of her meals, of herself in the mirror, wearing a new jacket, trying different facial expressions. Pictures intended only for her own consumption, but which she undoubtedly knew I might see.

Between my legs, she focuses entirely on pleasuring me. If she is distracted by what I’m doing above her head it does not show. She understands, I think, that she is open to me. Available to me. Body, mind, phone, words. I can access every part of her, and she knows this, and it is her role to serve me as instructed while I examine her as I please.

I open her bank accounts one by one. One of them requires authentication. I peel her hand from my cock and press her thumb into the reader. I put her hand back in place. She shuts her eyes and rams her face down onto my cock, pushing until I feel the constriction at the back of her throat opening. She gags. She doesn’t look up. Her place isn’t to look up. Her place is down there.

Down there, between my legs, she is a drooling and embodied animal. Above her head, I examine the minutae of her life. Her mute compliance as I handle something so private to her is as viscerally appealing as the sight of her spreading her legs for me. The abject submissiveness of it turns me on so acutely that it’s difficult to focus on numbers and figures.

I close her bank accounts. They’re not what I’m looking for, but it’s important to look. To establish and maintain the dissolution of that boundary. I page through menus until I find the record of her usage, and tick back through the days.

This week, she has abided by our agreements. There is no need to punish her. I am pleased, I think, even though I enjoy punishing her.

I take a fistful of her hair and pull her off my cock. A string of drool clings to her neck. She stands, clumsily, rising from that cozy animal cocksucking place. I pull her up onto the bed and push her face down into the covers and bull myself into her. She is, as she always is after this little ritual, obscenely wet.

We fuck. Her phone lies on the bedside table, unlocked, the screen bright at first, then dimmer. Eventually, it fades to black.