I Fell to My Knees for My Master Seven Times Last Night

It’s almost three in the afternoon and I’m writing these lines with traces of his semen drying on my cheeks, still warm, slowly sliding down as if they were tears of pleasure. I haven’t wiped it off on purpose. I want to finish telling you this with his mark still on me, because otherwise I’d feel like I was lying.

This morning I already wrote another story that will be published alongside this one. In that piece I talked about something Tomás and I nicknamed my liquid fascination, that need of mine he understood before I did. But when I wrote it, at nine in the morning, I had no idea that every word would become reality just a few hours later.

Let me start at the beginning, because otherwise it won’t make sense how I got here.

Last night we had two sessions that are still burning in my memory. The first was at his apartment. When I opened the door I found him waiting for me with a surprise prepared for me, or rather prepared by me for him. I had put on a tight black latex outfit and tall leather boots that drive him wild. It’s one of his fetishes, I know, so I chose it for that reason. I walked in slowly, letting him look me up and down, knowing exactly the effect I was having.

—Turn around —he ordered from the sofa, without even greeting me.

And I turned around. That’s what I love most about us: how easily I obey, how much I want to. It’s not that he forces me. It’s that I need him to ask me.

He had me pace back and forth across the living room while he watched me, like someone studying something he already considers his own. Then he beckoned me with one finger, just a tiny movement, and I crossed the room with my boots echoing against the floor. Every step turned me on more, because with every step I decided to give in a little further.

—Kneel —he said, and the word went through me from head to toe.

That first time was long, with bites and whispers in my ear I’d rather keep to myself. He grabbed my hair without hurting me, setting the pace, reminding me who was in charge that night. He left my knees marked against the floor and my nipples so sensitive that the friction of the latex made me breathe deeply. When we finished, neither of us was completely satisfied. That’s the trap we have: the more we give, the more we lack.

***

The second session was already in my bed, in the middle of the night. I don’t live alone, and that’s something I always have to keep in mind when he stays over. Every moan has to be measured, every movement calculated. That night, however, I only wanted one thing, and you already know what it was.

I nestled against his back and started rubbing my body against his, slowly, searching for him. I felt him harden little by little until he was as hard as stone. I turned around and slipped down between the sheets. I knew how to put him at exactly the right point, that point where he no longer thinks, where he gives in as much as I do.

He took his cock out of my mouth, shining wet, and uncovered my breasts to slide it between them. Before that he spat a couple of times, shamelessly, and I pressed my tits against him as he started thrusting. I imagined him driving into me somewhere else, and that image turned me on more than the real friction. I let my saliva drip over him, watching him go up and down like a piston in an engine, and the more aroused I got, the less subtle I became: I went from letting the saliva drip to spitting directly to lubricate him.

—Like that, keep going like that —he murmured, and I did.

After a while that I wanted to stretch out as much as possible, he pulled it from between my breasts and put it back in my mouth, as if he were taking me another way. I know I’m repeating myself as I tell you these scenes, but this man has me so lost that I can’t help reliving every detail twice, once while it happens and again while I write it down.

That night he rewarded me the way you can already imagine, and we both collapsed into a deep, happy sleep.

***

This morning I woke up with his tongue between my breasts. Without fully opening my eyes I was already arching my back. He didn’t give me time to wake up: he slid down over my stomach, parted my legs calmly, and made me come before I could even say his name. Only then, when I was wrecked and smiling, did he come back up to find my mouth again.

We had another generous session, long, despite the fact that the night before he had emptied himself more than once. There’s something in him that never runs out, and I’ve become addicted precisely to that abundance. I like to think I’m the one who provokes it, the one who keeps him that way, even though I know very well that he’s the one pulling the invisible leash I’ve worn since I met him.

After that breakfast I went to the desk and wrote the story I told you about. But when I read it to him aloud before sending it, I discovered he was hard again already, offering himself to me without saying a word. More for me, I thought, and my mouth started watering.

I knelt on the bed and started sucking him like I don’t remember ever doing with anyone. And I’m not exaggerating. There were times in my life when I made up headaches so I wouldn’t have to go to bed with whoever happened to be around, when sex was just another chore. With Tomás it’s exactly the opposite: I’m the one who seeks, the one who begs, the one who never gets tired. And you can already imagine how that third session ended: with my mouth full to overflowing.

That’s why, affectionately, he calls me Lady Cream. And I like the nickname more than I should admit.

***

But I still haven’t told you the best part. Because after that third time came four more. Yes, you read that right. Four more, one after another, throughout the morning, between laughter, short breaks, and looks that said everything already.

In each of them I understood a little more the extent to which I need him. It’s not just his semen I crave, though it drives me crazy. It’s the whole act: holding him in my mouth, coating him with saliva, hearing him moan softly while he tries not to make a sound, feeling him surrender the same way I surrender. That mutual surrender is the real drug.

The fourth time was slow, almost cruel. He made me wait, pulled away when I already had him close, forced me to ask him for it softly over and over until the words made me feel ashamed and turned on at the same time. The fifth, on the other hand, was pure urgency: he grabbed my hips, bent me over the edge of the mattress, and there was no game and no preamble, just need.

—You still want more? —he asked in my ear, knowing the answer.

—More —I answered, and I didn’t recognize my own voice, so hoarse it sounded.

The sixth and seventh were almost one single thing by then, chained together, with breaks so short I barely had time to catch my breath. At some point I lost count of how many orgasms I muffled against the pillow, of how many times I begged him not to stop. I only know that when we finally did, the sun was streaming strongly through the window and I was still trembling.

At some point in one of those times, of course, he didn’t settle for just my mouth. He turned me over, held my wrists against the mattress, and took me until he dragged a couple of orgasms out of me that I had to smother against the pillow so no one in the house would hear me. That mix of pleasure and forced silence has something in it that completely undoes me.

In short: in a little more than twelve hours I enjoyed him seven times in the way I like best. I don’t know whether that’s an accomplishment or whether for other couples it’s normal. I only know that I had never known such generosity, such abundance, and that I’ve discovered myself different, hungrier, more surrendered, more his.

There are people who will read this and think I’m exaggerating, that no woman can want that much. I myself would have thought the same a year ago, when I believed I knew my own body and my own limits. Tomás showed me those limits were imaginary, that behind the proper, measured woman everyone sees there was another one willing to kneel, to ask, to feel no shame about her hunger. And the truth is I don’t miss the woman I was before.

He’s beside me while I write this, lying on his back, eyes half-closed and that smile of someone who knows he won. I run my hand over his body without pretending otherwise, because who knows, maybe with a little patience he can feed me once more before evening falls.

Him, delighted. Me, dizzy with pleasure and completely happy.