Empowered by Day, Submissive When He Asks
I didn’t want to write this. Really, I didn’t. What I’m going to tell you I’ve only ever told three or four people in my entire life, people I trust absolutely, the kind of friends you can laugh with until you’re in tears remembering the dirtiest stories you’ve lived through. And the strangest ones are usually the best.
But this is different. It’s a request from my boyfriend. Diego is a hopeless pervert, and that is precisely what I like most about him. I could never be with someone conventional, someone I couldn’t talk to about anything without feeling judged. The truth is that he outdoes me by far in that department, even though I’ve never exactly been innocent myself.
From a very young age I felt curious about what I wasn’t supposed to want. I started exploring my body hidden under the sheets with the erotic magazines I stole from my father’s locked drawer, the one I had learned how to open. I remember looking at my cunt in the bathroom mirror, spreading my lips with two fingers and studying myself as if I were an unfamiliar map, biting my hand so I wouldn’t moan when I found the exact spot where everything began to tremble. Something in my head rearranged itself then, and there was no going back.
***
I’ve been with Diego for four years. Each of us in our own apartment, with our children from previous relationships, no unnecessary ties. He is a gentleman in the street and something completely different in bed, which is exactly how I like him. We met because I was looking for a photographer to update my portfolio; I do occasional modeling jobs and needed new photos. When we first spoke on the phone, he won me over with his voice, that low, unhurried timbre, with that hard-to-place accent he has from having lived abroad for several years.
In the end our schedules didn’t line up and we left it there. We followed each other on social media, and his profile picture left me far from indifferent: a black-and-white portrait, a good-boy face with a slightly furrowed brow and lips that completely contradicted that innocent look. The combination made me nervous, but in the way I like to be made nervous. Many nights I slipped my hand into my panties thinking about that mouth.
A few months later we ran into each other at a private party. I already had two glasses of wine in me and I was wearing a dress that left very little to the imagination. When I saw him appear among the crowd with that crooked smile, I knew something was going to happen that night. I saw his eyes drop for a moment, quickly, almost furtively, and then return to my face as if nothing had happened. That’s where it all began.
Although I still haven’t introduced myself. Thirty-eight years old, five foot seven, brunette, dark eyes, and a wavy mane to my shoulders. Full lips, teeth with that small gap between the incisors that so many people seem to find attractive. I’ve worked out consistently for years and it shows, especially in my legs and abdomen. But what draws the most comments, what people stare at without bothering to hide it when I walk down the street, is my ass. I’m very aware of it and I don’t mind at all. I’ve earned every inch.
***
The first night we slept together came without planning. Diego walked me home after I’d run some errands, and I decided it was time to find out what I was dealing with. I had a couple of beers to speed things up, pushed him onto the sofa, and moved in front of him until I felt the reaction I was looking for. I bit his mouth. I rocked my hips back and forth on his lap, feeling the fabric of his pants tightening under me, feeling his cock rise hard against my cunt with only two layers of cloth between us.
Then he pinched one nipple. Hard. Twisting it between his fingers until a whimper slipped out of me.
It hurt. And I got soaked. I felt the wetness soak through my panties and run down the inside of my thigh.
That instinct of his, that ability to sense exactly what I need without my saying anything, was what decided me. I have very sensitive skin; at the slightest touch I go red, and yet I start to lose my mind when I’m handled without too many scruples. He ripped my dress off from the top in one pull, left me in my panties on top of him and sucked my nipples with his mouth open, biting them, tugging them upward with his teeth until my back arched on its own. Then he moved his hand down, pushed my panties aside, and shoved two fingers deep inside me, with no transition, while he held my nape with the other hand.
“You’re drenched,” he murmured against my neck. “Fuck, you get so wet.”
I climbed on top and didn’t stop moving, riding his fingers, fucking myself with them. I was so turned on I came several times in a row with barely any time to recover, my legs shaking and my nipples still sore from his bites.
When I couldn’t take any more, I knelt between his knees. There was no shyness at that moment. I unbuckled his belt, tugged his pants and underwear down in one pull, and found it in front of my face: hard, thick, a clear drop beading at the tip. I licked it slowly, from base to head, looking him in the eyes. Then I opened my mouth as wide as I could and took him all the way to the back of my throat, stretched my tongue as far as I could, and pushed until my nose bumped against the hair at his groin.
I have that fixation, I admit it openly: what turns me on most is having my head gripped and my mouth used without mercy, as if I were just another cunt. That first day I didn’t dare ask him for it, but he sensed it anyway. He tangled his fingers in my hair, clenched his fist, and started setting the rhythm, fucking my mouth without letting me breathe between thrusts. I stayed there for quite a while, eyes watering, mascara running down my cheeks, my throat locked at that exact point where discomfort and pleasure blur together and you can no longer tell them apart. I was drooling down my chin and letting it fall onto my tits.
When he got tired of watching me, he suddenly turned me around, pulled me down onto my knees against the sofa with my ass in the air, grabbed my hips, and shoved it into me from behind. Without warning. I was already so open and so wet that he slid all the way in with a single thrust, and all I could do was moan with my face crushed into the cushion. He clamped my forearms hard, crossing them behind my back like a bridle, and started fucking me with long, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out to drive back in to the hilt. The sound of his hips slamming against my ass filled the living room. He gave me one open-handed slap, then another, until my cheek was burning. He pounded into me until I felt his cock swell inside me and the heat of his load running through me, shot after shot, and I stayed still, bent over, with his semen dripping down the inside of my thigh, unable to move a muscle.
***
The rest is history. We’re still here four years later, although keeping up the level isn’t always easy. Diego asks me to tell him my fantasies, to talk to him about my past, not to leave anything out. It took me a long time to confess that I’m submissive. In everyday life I’m a confident, independent person, with very clear ideas and a sharp tongue. I don’t let anyone walk all over me. But when I’m in intimacy with someone I trust completely, something switches off inside me. I’ve let men do anything to me: tie my wrists behind my back, gag me, humiliate me with words, spit in my face, fuck me in all three holes the same night, make me swallow another man’s load while someone watched from the other side of the bed. Especially with men I barely knew, from whom I expected nothing beyond that night.
I had a very intense youth. For years I worked in the world of entertainment and nightlife events. That environment had its own rules and its own rhythm, and I fit into it perfectly. I think I’ve filed away some scenes from that time in some unnamed folder. Not because I regret them, but because there are things the brain chooses to store without asking.
Diego loves it when I give him the details. The dirtiest ones, the ones with less love and more pure instinct. He asks me about them while we’re fucking, with his cock buried to the hilt inside me, he always wants more, more names, more circumstances, more shame on my side. “Tell me how he fucked you,” “tell me where you came,” “tell me if you swallowed it.” The problem is that I’m very cerebral, and the moment I start talking and narrating, I stop being present in my body. For me the most intense pleasure comes from switching off the light. From not thinking. From becoming something that exists only to receive cocks, fingers, tongues, loads, orders.
***
Just over a year ago they called me to work as a makeup artist on a shoot in Almería. Two days of work for a European production, accommodation included in a five-star hotel near the set. It was an unexpected gift. We were a large crew and the work went well, without major drama. On the last day, when everything had already been dismantled and the tension from the previous two days had dissolved, a group of us went out to dinner at the harbor.
Marc was there.
French, tall, almost white-blond, with those gray-green eyes you can’t quite tell if they’re blue or not. I knew him by sight: he was a coworker’s friend and had been hanging around the set for the two days without my paying much attention. He wasn’t my type. I have a family theory: my older sister is blond and maybe that’s why blond men have never attracted me; I’ve almost always been drawn to dark features. But Marc had a voice that made up for everything else. Deep, deliberately slow, as if every sentence were a secret he was confiding only to you.
During dinner, the conversation drifted toward the territory where I feel most comfortable: sex, desire, the limits each person draws differently. We ended up playing at seeing who could go longer without laughing while saying outrageous things in different languages. Marc won without breaking a sweat. That only complicated things.
I only wanted to flirt. To feel that specific energy of someone else’s interest, that sense of being desired without anything necessarily having to happen. But plans rarely survive the third bottle of wine. And I already had the wine in me and the certainty that my panties were losing the battle by the second course.
***
After dinner, the group migrated to a bar near the seafront promenade. It was a place with an exaggerated circus aesthetic: yellow-and-red striped canvas on the ceiling, warm spotlights, and, in the center, a pole dance bar nobody was using yet. I had another drink and tried not to look at Marc more than was reasonable.
Marc leaned against the bar beside me with the calculated indifference of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. He asked me if I knew how to dance on that bar. I told him I knew how to do many things he wouldn’t expect from me.
“Like what, for example?” he said in perfect Spanish, but with his voice a tone lower than necessary.
I didn’t answer with words.
I took off my shoes and climbed onto the bar.
I’m not going to pretend I hadn’t done it before. Years of dancing and hours of exercise are useful for something. The silence that settled over the group when I started moving was more eloquent than any comment. Marc didn’t look away for a second. When I came down, he was waiting exactly where I’d left him. He leaned toward my ear and said something in French that I understood perfectly, although I had the decency to pretend I didn’t. Something about what he wanted to do to me with that mouth and that ass.
“I understood,” I told him.
He smiled. And I already knew how that night was going to end.
***
The hotel corridor smelled of air conditioning and new carpet. Marc opened the door to his room and left it open for me to decide. I went in without hesitation.
There was no unnecessary conversation. He shoved me against the wall from behind, one hand on the back of my neck and his mouth on my throat, and I closed my eyes and gave myself over. That’s how it works with me. Not romance or endless preliminaries: the certainty that the person in front of me knows what he wants and isn’t going to ask permission to take it. He slid his hand under my dress, pulled my panties aside, and ran two fingers through the slit of my cunt from top to bottom.
“Mouillée,” he murmured against my ear, almost laughing. “Soaking.”
He ripped my panties off in one pull and tucked them into the pocket of his jacket. He spun me around sharply and slammed my face against the wall. I felt his fingers enter me again, this time three, curving inside to find my exact spot. He pulled them out, ran them over my lips, and made me suck them clean of my own wetness. When he thought I was docile enough, he dragged me toward the bed by my hair.
He bent me face down over the edge of the mattress, held my crossed wrists behind my back with one hand, and spent several minutes proving he was in no hurry. He spread my ass cheeks with the other hand and lowered his head. I felt his tongue sweep over me from bottom to top, stopping at my asshole, pressing it with the tip, then moving down to push all the way into my cunt. He ate me as if he’d been denied food for weeks, sucking my lips, nibbling my clit, fucking me with a stiff tongue until I screamed into the sheet.
He stood up, stripped without taking his eyes off me, and when I turned to look at him I lost my breath. It was enormous, thick, curved upward, and already dripping. He brought it up to my face and pressed it against my lips.
“Open,” he said.
I opened. He shoved it into me all the way to the uvula on the first thrust. I gagged and pulled it out, strings of saliva hanging from my mouth, and he pushed it back in, deeper, holding my head with both hands now, fucking my throat to his rhythm. My eyes filled with tears and my makeup ran in black smears down my cheeks. He didn’t stop. He pulled out, slapped my lips with it, gave me soft little blows across the face with the cock wet from my own spit, and then shoved it back in. After a while I asked him, voice broken:
“Fuck me already. Please.”
He bent me over the bed again. He alternated pressure and calm in a way that left me without any reference point. He pushed his cock all the way inside me and stayed still for a moment, letting me feel every millimeter of him, then pulled all the way out and started spanking my ass with his open hand. When I thought I couldn’t take any more, he stopped. He made me turn around. He looked at me fixedly.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
It was that sentence. That was the one that changed everything.
Because no one had ever asked me like that before. No beating around the bush, no fear, looking at me as if the answer truly mattered to him. And what came out of my mouth was the first time I had said aloud, with someone other than Diego, exactly what I needed, how I wanted him to use me, what part of me I wanted to switch off that night. I told him I wanted him to treat me like a cheap whore. To insult me. To fuck all three of my holes. To make me swallow everything he spilled.
Marc listened. He nodded once. And he fulfilled the last detail.
He put me on my back, spread my legs by pushing them against my chest, and drove it all the way in until I screamed. He fucked me looking me in the eyes, spitting into my open mouth, gripping my throat with just enough pressure to make me feel it without cutting off my air. He called me a whore in three languages. He made me repeat out loud that I was his whore, that I wanted him to fill me completely, that he wasn’t going to stop until I came three times.
And I came. I came around his cock with my legs shaking, clenching around him in spasms. Before I could recover, he turned me onto all fours, spat on my asshole, and dragged the tip over it slowly, pressing until he opened me. He went in little by little, giving me time to get used to the size, and once he was all the way in he started fucking my ass with long thrusts, pulling out until the head and driving back in again. He put his fingers in my cunt at the same time, and that double sensation made me lose my mind completely. I came again, biting the pillow, tears running down my face without me quite knowing why.
He finished by tossing me onto my back, straddling my chest, and jerking off over my face. I stuck out my tongue and opened my mouth in acceptance. He came in jets: on my tongue, on my lips, on my nose, on my closed eyelids. A thick, hot stream that seemed endless. He made me keep it all in my mouth before swallowing, watching it drip from the corner of my lips. Then he slid two fingers in, gathered what had run down my cheeks, and pushed that inside me too.
“Now swallow,” he said.
I swallowed.
When he finally let me go, after midnight, I lay staring at the ceiling for a long while without moving a muscle, naked, with his fingerprints on my thighs and my ass burning. The switch was still off and that was fine by me. For the first time in a long while there wasn’t a single thought circling, no mental checklist, no worry. Only silence, the smell of semen, and the heavy body on the bed.
***
This is what Diego asked me to write.
I don’t know if it was exactly this. Probably he wanted more detail, more rawness, more of the moments I’ve condensed into short sentences because my brain still resists putting them into words on paper. But it’s what I can give today.
Tomorrow I’ll ask him if it was enough. And if not, we’ll find a way to make up for it. Probably on my knees, with my mouth open, while he makes me repeat every detail out loud.