I Agreed to Be Her Slave So I Wouldn't Go to Prison

When my life collapsed, it did so all at once, completely. I lost my job, burned through almost all my savings wallowing in self-pity, and utterly destroyed a marriage that was already hanging by a thread. What came after was almost a relief: a sentence, a signature, and an agreement that left me under the custody of my wife, who had stopped caring about me long ago.

Carla laid it out for me with a calm that was more frightening than any shout.

—You have two paths —she said, without lifting her eyes from her coffee—. Three years in prison, minimum. Or you fulfill that fantasy we talked about years ago. You become my slave. My dog.

I chose the second. I thought I knew her. I thought I knew how far she would go.

I was wrong about everything.

Carla changed the moment she tasted absolute power over me. It was as if a part of her had been waiting years to come out. But I didn’t fully understand the gravity of my situation until her new lover, Marcos, moved into our house with a suitcase and the smile of a man who already knows he’s staying.

***

Marcos was having breakfast when Carla brought me into the dining room, tugging on the leash. I was on all fours, naked, wearing a leather collar secured with a padlock.

—To your place —she ordered.

Marcos gave me a sideways glance, indifferent, and kept reading the newspaper on his phone screen. That indifference was what humiliated me most: it wasn’t hatred, it was disinterest. I was a piece of furniture that provided services.

I crawled under the table and placed my head between his legs. I wasn’t allowed to use my hands. So I opened my mouth and took him as I had been taught, still, letting the weight do the work, drawing back just enough to breathe.

Above me drifted the smell of freshly brewed coffee and eggs in the pan. Hunger made me dizzy. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten like a human being.

—How’s breakfast? —Carla asked.

—Perfect. Just how I like it —Marcos replied, one hand absently on the back of my neck.

They chatted about anything and everything while I performed. That was the most unbearable part: the normality. The way my degradation had become part of the domestic landscape, like the curtains or the sound of the coffee maker.

It was a daily ritual, and not just at breakfast. I repeated it at every meal, whether there were guests or not. And there were almost always guests.

When Marcos was done, without a word, they left me on the floor with a plate of scraps beside the table legs. I ate on my knees, my hands behind my back, while they discussed the plans for the night.

—I was thinking of taking him out tonight —Marcos said.

—Take him out? Where? —Carla narrowed her eyes—. The last time, the police warned us: if they found him tied up and naked in the park again, they’d lock him up for real.

—No, not the park. —Marcos gave a low laugh—. I was thinking of The Reserved.

The Reserved was one of Marcos’s businesses. He owned half a dozen adult venues scattered across the worst part of the city: movie rooms, booths, dark rooms. They made him enough money that he never had to get up early, which left him all the time in the world to devote to Carla and my torment.

The Reserved was the dirtiest of them all. The police no longer even bothered to show up. In the back gallery, each booth had a hole cut into the wall at waist height.

I didn’t hear the rest. I only heard Carla laughing and, in the end, one sentence that lodged in my chest.

—You’re a complete sick bastard. That’s why I love you.

It was the first time I’d heard her say “I love you” to Marcos. Something inside me, the last thing still standing, crumbled.

***

I spent the day as always: gagged, naked, scrubbing floors, washing dishes, tidying my own corner until it was immaculate. The rule was simple and brutal: my right hand had to keep me hard for hours, but climaxing was strictly forbidden. Every time they caught me not obeying, I got a blow to the head, a clip on the nipple, a sharp slap on the ass.

There were breaks, of course. The only ones I didn’t hate. I would spend half an hour with my tongue between Carla’s thighs, bringing her to orgasm over and over. Licking her feet after she had deliberately dirtied them in the garden was humiliating, but it was still better than servicing Marcos.

Because Marcos had to be serviced at all hours. He could come several times a day and always kept a fresh load for me. He would often order me to hold it in my mouth for hours before allowing me to swallow. It wasn’t just the taste or the gagging I had to hide: it was Carla watching me, laughing, commenting on my disgusted face like someone commenting on the weather.

***

Near nine at night, we entered The Reserved through a back door that opened directly onto the gallery. Twelve tiny cubicles, each with a screen that charged by the minute. There were already half a dozen men moving through the gloom. I couldn’t have said whether the moans came from the videos or the booths.

—Get in there and strip —Marcos said, shoving me into one of the cubicles.

I obeyed slowly. The space wasn’t even a square meter. The air was thick, smelling of sweat and something sweet and stale I preferred not to identify. What froze me was the wall to my left: from floor to ceiling there were dozens of screwed-in rings. In the center, at crotch height, was the hole. Barely the width of a hand.

First they gagged me with a rubber ball that stretched my jaw instantly. Then the collar again, padlocked to the wall, so I had to keep my head turned toward the screen. Marcos spread my legs with a separation bar and cuffed my wrists behind my back.

Then came the worst part. He tightened the base with a thick rubber ring, pushed me forward, and forced my sex through the hole into the adjacent booth. With a long rope he literally tied me to the wall, from ankles to neck, so tight I couldn’t move even a finger.

—This’ll keep you turned on —he said, pushing a pill down my throat before gagging me again—. And with the ring and what’s in your ass, you’re not going to come easily. That’s my job.

He lubricated whatever it was in my ass, and enjoyed every one of my moans. Then he put the video machine on a loop for the whole night. Before leaving, he stepped into the neighboring booth, where my sex was exposed, and stroked me until I was painfully erect. The lubricant he used, I later learned, contained anesthetic: just enough to make the relief I so desperately wanted almost impossible.

He locked my booth from the outside and hung a sign: “Out of service. Use the next one.” On the other door, where my body jutted out, he hung another I hadn’t yet seen:

“Slave in training. Denial exercise. At your discretion. His orgasm is strictly prohibited.”

***

I didn’t know about the sign until the first stranger’s hand wrapped around me.

I moaned with every touch, slow and delicious, and at the same time I was consumed by the frustration of not being able to get there. I tried to thrust, to drive into that hand, but the rope had me pinned. I couldn’t move a single muscle. The images on the screen, right in front of my eyes, had me so close to the edge I thought I’d go mad.

After fifteen minutes, the hand disappeared. I heard the neighboring cubicle door open and, seconds later, a different one. A warm mouth enveloped me whole. It was impossible to know who it was, and that blindness made everything more intense and more terrifying at once. I was helpless, exposed, offered to anyone who walked in.

One came, then another, then another. Mouths taking turns, hands pulling, fingers squeezing. Every few minutes a new stranger took the booth next door. I came close so many times I lost count, and each time the ring and the anesthetic left me suspended on that unbearable edge, never falling.

One of them only took the tip, the most sensitive part, until I was sobbing into the gag. Another, after an agonizingly long while, stood up, prepared himself, and sat on top of me, using me from the other side of the wall while he masturbated. I felt him come and pull away, leaving me throbbing and denied like all the rest.

***

Almost four hours later, Marcos came back. I was still hard, impossibly hard. He gave me another pill. In the neighboring booth, a new mouth was already working on me.

—Have you come? —he asked, loosening my gag for a moment.

I shook my head, exhausted.

—Good. You’ll do it now.

He swapped the sign for another: “Punishment in progress. Multiple orgasms, please.” The next man took me to the hilt and, after weeks of holding back, I exploded with such force it nearly knocked me unconscious. Barely had one finished when another mouth replaced it. I learned later that Marcos handed out bills in the hallway so the line wouldn’t stop.

The second orgasm took more out of me. The third was half an hour of torture, every nerve already raw. By the fourth attempt I was dry, and that didn’t stop anyone. The mouths kept going, indifferent, tugging and squeezing as if they could wring something more out of me.

When I could no longer even hold myself upright, Marcos opened my booth door and let the men enter from behind. With my head turned toward the wall, I couldn’t see any of them; I only felt them. I lost count of how many there were.

***

—Dawn’s almost here —Marcos said at last.

The gallery was nearly empty. They untied me and let me collapse to the floor, a rag. He hurried me to the car, still naked and handcuffed, and stuffed me into the trunk. He left me there, in the garage at home, until mid-afternoon.

It was Carla who opened it, wrinkling her nose at my smell and smiling at my state.

—Clean yourself up —she ordered, pointing to a bucket of cold soapy water—. Marcos says you couldn’t hold out. That you came last night. I didn’t authorize it, and I don’t approve.

She watched me scrub myself with the icy water, shivering, aching from head to toe.

—You know my rules. You came without my permission, and that has a price. For every time, you owe me one hundred services. Dry off. You have visitors waiting in the living room. And some friends of mine who want to watch.

Before pushing me toward the living room, she locked my sex, sore and swollen, inside a steel cage far too small.

—This comes off when you finish your punishment —she said, with a smile that promised nothing good—. And at the first complaint, at the first time you ask me to take it off, the punishment doubles. Understood?

—Yes, Mistress —I answered.

She led me by the leash, on all fours, toward the voices and laughter waiting on the other side of the door. One of the women was holding a camera. And I, who had thought I knew the bottom, discovered I was only just beginning to fall.