I Knelled Again Even Though It Wasn’t Punishment

The disciplinary correction from those two weeks was behind us now. We had gone back to the routine of the shared apartment, to the comfortable silence of the mornings, to the ritual of coffee before each of us headed off to our office. I had resumed my work as a lawyer and Sergio his as an IT specialist, but something had changed in the balance between us, something he valued and that I, without quite admitting it, also wanted to preserve.

The two weeks of forced remote work, the daily beatings, the relentless humiliation, all of it had marked me more on the inside than on the outside. The marks on my skin had faded. The obedience hadn’t. And neither had that wetness that settled between my thighs every time he looked at me a certain way, as if my cunt had gotten used to getting itself ready the moment it heard his commanding voice.

That Saturday morning the sun poured in through the windows of the living room. Sergio was reading the paper on the sofa while I was making breakfast. I had made him his favorite toast, the one with black bread, a drizzle of oil, and grated tomato, and his coffee strong, the way he liked it. When I came out with the tray, he looked up and smiled.

—Thanks, Naroa. Always so thoughtful.

I sat across from him and we had breakfast while talking about the day’s plans. Sergio set his empty cup on the table, wiped his lips with the napkin, and, without changing his tone, said to me:

—When you finish cleaning my motorcycle, you’re going to mop the kitchen floor and the bathroom floor without the mop. On your knees, again.

I looked at him in surprise. The last time I had done it had been during the punishment. I hadn’t stumbled into anything in weeks and I didn’t understand the order.

—Did I do something wrong? —I asked, the coffee going cold in my hands.

—No. This isn’t a punishment. I want you to do it to remind you that my instructions are always followed, even when you haven’t provoked them. It’s a way of strengthening your attitude.

I nodded slowly. I felt a mix of resignation and something else I preferred not to name, a tingle at the nape of my neck that slowly slid down my back until it ended in a hot throb between my legs.

—All right. I’ll do it.

—Without question. Understood?

—Understood.

I went to get the cloth and the bucket. I knelt on the kitchen floor and took a deep breath before I began. The tile was freezing under my knees and the water had that familiar lemon-cleaner smell. As I scrubbed, my mind started to drift.

I thought about how we had gotten here. About the first time I met him, when I still defended myself with a sharp tongue and he answered with that iron calm that disarmed me. I thought about how, layer by layer, he had stripped away everything I believed was untouchable in me, and about how little I protested now when he gave me an order.

Sometimes, while I was mopping, a small rage would rise in my chest. I knew he was taking advantage of me. I knew every order was a test and that I kept passing them. But the rage quickly dissolved into a strange, almost pleasurable feeling of not having to decide anything. Of just following what he expected. And beneath all that, an intimate fire I struggled to acknowledge: the knowledge of being used by someone who, in his own way, also cared for me.

My knees began to ache. The position was uncomfortable, the progress was slow, and that kitchen floor seemed to have multiplied in square meters overnight. Sergio passed by a couple of times without saying anything, only throwing me quick glances. I knew he was evaluating me. On one of those passes he stopped behind me and used the tip of his shoe to part my knees a little wider, forcing my ass up. He said nothing. I didn’t either. I just clenched my teeth and kept scrubbing, feeling the seam of my pants press against my swollen cunt.

When I finished the kitchen, I got to my feet with effort. My knees were red and my back was sore, but I picked up the bucket and went to the bathroom to continue. I knelt down again. I scrubbed until every tile shone like a mirror. When I finished, I sat on the edge of the bathtub with my hands red and waited.

Sergio came in a little later. He walked slowly, checking every corner, unhurried. I watched him in silence, waiting for the verdict, my heart beating a little faster than I wanted to admit.

—It’s well done —he said—, but there are a couple of spots I want you to go over again. They’re not serious mistakes. I want it perfect.

—Of course. I’ll do it right now.

I knelt again. Every time the cloth touched the floor it was like a silent promise, a repetition of the same phrase I didn’t even dare to think all the way through. When he inspected it again, he picked up the bucket and made as if he were going to throw it over me. I held my breath, but I didn’t protest. He set it back on the floor and gave me the faintest smile.

—Much better. Good job, sweetheart.

—Thanks —I said. And, almost without thinking, I added—: I’ll do it whenever you want, love.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

***

When I put the cleaning things away, instead of resting, I went over to the sofa where he was already working with his laptop on his lap. I knelt at his feet, without looking him in the eyes.

—May I massage your feet? —I asked in a whisper.

He lifted his gaze from the screen for a moment.

—Go ahead.

I took off his socks carefully and started pressing his soles, the tops of his feet, his toes, with my thumbs. I knew where he carried the tension, I knew every knot in that body by heart. While I did it, I softened too. It was a way of apologizing for something I hadn’t done, or perhaps of thanking him for having ordered me to apologize. I could feel my nipples hardening beneath my T-shirt and my panties getting soaked just from touching him.

—You do good work —he said after a while, without taking his eyes off the screen.

—Thanks.

When he felt his feet were completely relaxed, he closed the laptop. He held out his hand.

—Let’s go for a walk. It’s a beautiful day. You’ve earned it.

I changed quickly. I put on a short white jumpsuit, fitted, with tiny printed hearts, one I knew he liked me to wear when we went out. Under it, only a thin thong that was already wet before we even left the apartment. I smoothed my hair with my fingers in the mirror and we went downstairs together.

The afternoon air smelled of linden trees and freshly watered asphalt. We walked down the avenue talking about small things, about Sergio’s mother, who would call the next day, about a bike trip we wanted to do soon in the Picos de Europa. My knees hurt, but I also felt a calm happiness, almost silly.

—I’m proud of you, Naroa —he said suddenly.

I looked at him in surprise. I smiled without knowing what to say.

—To me, you’re like the sun —I blurted after a while, with that syrupy sentimentality that sometimes slipped out of me with him—. You’re so far above me, but I need you. I don’t understand anything without you.

He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand.

—And you’re like a little flower. I protect you, water you, pamper you, and at the same time I demand things from you so you grow the way I like.

—I notice it every day.

—You’re such a softie —he laughed, and kissed me.

***

It was right then that we ran into Mateo, a colleague from Sergio’s department, and Beatrice, his wife. Beatrice was Italian, dark-haired, young, with that kind of beauty that leaves you breathless the first time you see it. She had dark wavy hair falling below her shoulders, large eyes that were almost black-brown, bronzed skin, and a slender body she dressed with calculated simplicity. Small, firm breasts under a thin dress, no bra, and a round ass that moved with every step as if it were asking for trouble.

Mateo was broad-shouldered, with a build that in another era would have been imposing and that was now beginning to soften around the stomach. He wore shirts that were too tight, and his receding hairline had become a little bald spot he pretended not to notice. He was nice and a little clumsy, one of those people who instantly seem likeable and never quite get taken seriously.

We decided to stop at a bar terrace for vermouth. As always, Sergio settled into a chair and I went to the bar to order the beers and the snacks. While I was coming back with the tray, I heard Sergio say something to Mateo. Beatrice was idly playing with a lock of hair, carefree, self-assured.

—Beatrice should lend a hand too, don’t you think? —Sergio was saying casually.

Beatrice frowned.

—I don’t see why I should. We’re here to relax, aren’t we?

—Naroa does it gladly —Sergio replied—. Not because she has to, but because she knows taking care of the little details makes me happy. Maybe you should try it. You might be surprised by how good it feels.

Mateo, a little embarrassed, nodded.

—Sometimes the small gestures make all the difference, darling.

—I don’t know… —she murmured.

The conversation shifted for a while to the balance in relationships, to how looking after each other didn’t have to be a burden. I drank my beer and watched Beatrice. I saw her go from discomfort to curiosity, from curiosity to an ironic smile, and from that smile to something murkier she didn’t quite dare read in herself.

—Beatrice, did you know Sergio and I have started doing mountain bike routes? —I said, changing the subject to soften the mood—. Soon we’re going to the Picos.

—I had no idea. That sounds fantastic —she replied—. Mateo’s more into the sofa and football.

—Sergio too, but once I got him going, he got hooked. He pushes me pretty hard on the climbs, though. He never lets me slow down.

—I like the sound of that —said Beatrice, looking at him.

A little later I told them I was going home to make lunch. I asked Sergio what he felt like eating and he answered without much thought. Beatrice opened her eyes as if she had just heard something outrageous.

—I can’t believe you make him food every day and, on top of that, ask what he wants. I don’t do that for Mateo. Not even close.

I didn’t answer. Sergio, unbothered, answered for me.

—Naroa does it because she likes adapting to my tastes. She’s happy that way. You should try it, Beatrice. You might be surprised.

—Yes, we could give it a try —Mateo backed him up.

Beatrice, skeptical, gradually gave in. Between laughs, the two men managed to get her to serve them that same round. When she came back with the glasses full, Mateo gave her a playful smack on one butt cheek that cracked loudly on the terrace.

—Thanks, darling. And while you’re at it, today you’ll make me those cannelloni I love so much.

—Only this once —she replied, amused, but with a strange gleam in her eyes.

—That’s what they all say at first —Sergio laughed.

I said my goodbyes. Before leaving, I saw Beatrice lean a little farther over the table when she spoke to Sergio, saw her earrings swing while she laughed at something he’d said, and saw her hard nipples press against the fabric of her dress. I thought that woman, without realizing it yet, had just learned the same thing I had. And that it would not take her long to look for it again.

***

The three of us ate at home, because Mateo and Beatrice ended up coming with us. I served, hair mussed by the heat, still dressed in the white jumpsuit. Sergio had had two vermouths and, when he sat down at the table, opened a bottle of wine. He drank more than he should have. He wasn’t drunk, but he was looser, more physical, leaning back in his chair with that look I knew too well.

Beatrice and Mateo left in the middle of the afternoon. When I closed the door, I stood there for a moment with my back against it, listening to Sergio’s footsteps behind me. I knew, from the way he was breathing, what was going to happen. My panties were already soaked and my nipples were so hard they hurt against the fabric of the jumpsuit.

I slid down to his feet in the living room and sank onto my knees with the jumpsuit already lowered to my waist. I joked that dessert was banana with cream. He let out a breath through his nose and took hold of my nape with a firmness that brooked no argument. I unbuckled his belt with clumsy fingers, pulled down his zipper, and took out his cock, already half-hard and throbbing in my hand. I brought it close to my face and started licking the head slowly, circling with the tip of my tongue, feeling it grow against my lips until it became thick and hard all the way.

I spit on it generously to make it shine and took it all the way into my mouth, closing my lips around the shaft and lowering until the tip bumped against my throat. I pulled it out with a thread of saliva hanging from my chin and went back to sucking his balls one by one, carefully, while I gave him a slow hand job with my right hand.

—Sergio —I whispered, pulling back for a moment and rubbing his wet cock against my cheek—, do you want to play? Close your eyes and imagine I’m Beatrice.

—I prefer Naroa.

—I know. It’s just a game. In case it turns you on.

It took him a few seconds to answer. His fingers tightened in my hair, tugging me back so I’d look at him.

—I’m not sure it would work. Beatrice is too rebellious. She thinks she can get away with anything. She needs to be disciplined.

My heart gave a lurch. I swallowed.

—I’m Beatrice —I murmured, my voice a little broken—. I need you to discipline me. Teach me how to suck your cock like I deserve, Sergio.

He slapped me, turning my face to the side. It wasn’t hard, but it left my cheek burning. The sensation shot down into my belly like a current and I felt my cunt clench all at once, flooding inside my thong.

—I’m in charge here, Beatrice —he said, voice low—. And you’re going to start treating me with the respect I deserve. Open your mouth, Italian slut.

I nodded without looking away and opened my mouth wide, sticking out my tongue for him. He shoved my head back against him again, all the way to the back, until the tip of his cock hit my uvula and tears escaped from the corners of my eyes. I held on as long as I could before the nausea hit. I didn’t care. Every time I choked a little, he released me just enough to let me breathe and then shoved back in, fucking my mouth at the rhythm he wanted. I looked up at him from below, eyes watering, drool running down my chin and onto my breasts, pretending to be someone else and feeling more myself than ever.

—That’s it, whore —he growled, pushing deeper—. Look how the Italian girl doesn’t know how to suck cock even half as well as my Naroa. Learn.

Saliva dripped in strings between my breasts and the white jumpsuit got stained with spit and with the drops he sent flying with every thrust. I slipped a hand between my thighs and touched my clit over the soaked thong, rubbing myself while I swallowed him whole. I was about to come just from sucking him.

He yanked his cock out of my mouth, shining with saliva, and rubbed it all over my face, my lips, my burning cheeks from the slap, my closed eyes.

—Get up and turn around, Beatrice. Show me that Italian ass you’ve got.

I got to my feet with difficulty, my knees trembling, and finished taking off the jumpsuit. I turned my back to him, bent over the arm of the sofa, and arched my ass back. I felt him yank my thong down to my knees and pry my cheeks apart with both hands to see everything.

—Look how you’re dripping, slut —he said, running two fingers through the slit of my cunt from bottom to top, collecting my wetness—. Look how the Italian’s cunt gets when you talk plainly to her.

He shoved two fingers into me all at once and pulled them out, gleaming. He ran them across my lips so I’d suck them and I opened my mouth and licked my own wetness off without hesitation.

I felt the head of his cock pushing between my ass cheeks, looking for my entrance. When he found the place, he drove it into me with one clean thrust, all the way in. The air burst out of me in a rough moan. He didn’t stop. He started fucking me, left hand gripping my hip and right hand tugging my hair, forcing my back to arch until I was almost looking at him over my shoulder.

—Tell me you’re Beatrice —he growled—. Say it while I fuck you.

—I’m Beatrice —I panted, my cheek flattened against the cushion—. I’m Beatrice’s slut, fuck me, Sergio, fuck me harder.

He drove into me faster and faster, his balls hitting my clit with every stroke. The sofa creaked. I clutched the fabric with both hands and shoved back against him, impaling myself on his cock. It sounded wet, obscene, every time he slid out and back into my dripping cunt.

—This is what Mateo’s missing, huh? —he whispered in my ear without stopping—. A cock that fucks you properly, Italian girl.

—Yes —I moaned, voiceless—. Yes, yes, yes, come inside, please.

He yanked his cock out of me and turned me around in one rough pull. He laid me on my back on the sofa, spread my legs with his knees, and drove his cock back into me, finding my face with his. He looked into my eyes while he fucked me, and I couldn’t stop looking at him either, mouth open and moans spilling out of me uncontrollably.

He sucked one nipple into his mouth, bit it, traced my neck with his tongue. With his hand he found my clit and started rubbing it with his thumb while he kept giving me hard, deep thrusts. I could feel the orgasm rising from my thighs, my legs tightening around his hips.

—Come, Naroa —he ordered in my ear, using my real name again—. Come on my cock right now.

It was as if he’d given me permission to explode. I arched all at once, my body tensing, and I came in gushes, squeezing his cock inside me with the spasms of my cunt. I let out a long moan that broke at the end. He kept thrusting, taking advantage of every contraction, until he gave a hoarse grunt and buried himself to the hilt.

—Me too, my love, me too.

I felt his cock swell inside me and fill me with hot cum, stream after stream, while he held my hips against his so not a drop would fall. I stayed beneath him, trembling, my heart racing and his cock still inside me, feeling it pulse and feeling the semen start to seep from my ass crack down onto the sofa.

When he pulled out, he shifted back a little and looked at me, open and dripping. He ran two fingers through my cunt, gathered up his cum mixed with my juices, and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them slowly, looking at him, swallowing everything he had left behind.

—Good girl —he murmured.

We collapsed together on the sofa. He put an arm around my shoulders and, with the wine still softening his voice, looked at me in a way I didn’t see often.

—Naroa, I love you —he said—. And not just because you’re beautiful, which you are. I prefer you to any other woman because you understand me. You know what I need without me having to ask. You’re smart, you’re good, and you apply all that to everything you do.

I listened with my cheeks still hot, with his taste in my mouth, with cum sliding slowly down my thighs, with a knot in my throat that was both new and old at the same time.

—I trust you —he went on—. You make an effort to please me and that makes me feel unique. You’re my perfect partner.

—I love you too —I answered, my throat rough from so many things all at once—. Nothing matters more to me than seeing you happy.

We held each other. I rested my head on his chest and closed my eyes. I thought about Beatrice going home with Mateo, maybe making those cannelloni, maybe imagining other things. Maybe with her cunt wet like mine, not yet daring to tell anyone. I thought that sooner or later she would look for Sergio again, and that he would fuck her the way he had just fucked me, and that I would be there watching. And, to my own surprise, it didn’t hurt. It seemed almost like the natural order of things, as if the world, too, were beginning to learn the lesson.