I knelt before my master every night in secret

The doorknob gave way with a dry click, and Mariana held her breath. She sat with her back straight, shoulders drawn back, hands resting still on her thighs. That posture did not come naturally to her: it was the result of months of patience, of learning to wait without moving, without complaining, without asking. At thirty-eight, mistress of her career and every decision she made in the outside world, she had discovered that nothing soothed her so much as surrendering that control in that room.

No one could have imagined it. In court she was the magistrate everyone feared, the woman with the exact word and the icy gaze who let no lawyer intimidate her. There, however, kneeling on the cold wooden floor, she was something else. She was a body waiting. Her pale skin seemed to beg for the marks of hands that had not yet arrived, and each silent minute warmed her blood more than any caress.

She did not know how long she had been there. Nor did she care. The only reality she recognized was the wait and that anticipation burning under her skin.

Víctor came in unhurriedly. He was fifty-one and worked as a janitor in the building where she lived; he moved with the heavy calm of a man who no longer needed to hurry for anything. His footsteps rang out firm yet light, and his scent—tobacco, clean sweat, something warm and forceful—reached her before he did. He stopped a few feet away, stretching the silence until it became unbearable. Mariana felt his gaze travel over her naked body, lingering on every curve, every detail, with an intensity that made her tremble.

—I see you’ve learned how to wait —he said.

His tone was sharp, with a spark of mockery that was enough to make her blush. She lifted her eyes just a little and found a smile that mixed dominance and amusement. Víctor leaned down, took a lock of her dark hair between his fingers, and tugged just enough for her to arch her neck and offer him her throat.

—Tell me something —he murmured, drawing close to her ear, letting his warm breath trail over the back of her neck—. How long are you going to take today before asking me to let you serve me?

The entire room seemed charged, thick with anticipation. She kept her posture immaculate, but he noticed at once the almost invisible tension in her muscles, the tremor she was trying to control. Her chest rose and fell hard, betraying her.

—You’re beautiful today —Víctor said, almost in a whisper, circling her slowly like an animal sizing up its prey—. With your hair falling over your shoulders like that.

When he came to stand behind her, he brushed her shoulder with his fingertips, just enough contact to make her arch her back without meaning to. He slid down her arm, paused at her hands resting still in her lap, then climbed back up to her collarbone, tracing an invisible line that set her on fire.

—You always wait too long —he said, letting each word fall with a weight that mixed his desire with her own arousal.

He took her chin, lifted her face, and made her look at him. There was something disconcerting in his expression: obvious tenderness, and at the same time a dark promise in his eyes. Mariana could not look away, trapped by that duality that left her completely undone. Víctor did not need to raise his voice; his power lived in calm, in silence. He enjoyed dismantling her piece by piece until nothing remained of the judge, only an open mouth and a wet desire waiting for an order.

—Kneel all the way down —he said, without raising his voice, leaving no room for doubt.

She obeyed slowly, blood burning beneath her skin. When her knees touched the floor, he raised one eyebrow, satisfied with her docility.

—Take off my shoes. And show me how much you like serving me.

Her fingers, still trembling, worked at the laces while she felt the weight of his gaze on her. Every movement was a challenge not to fail, to do it perfectly. When she finally took his shoes off, she leaned in without waiting for another order and her lips found the bare skin. The first touch of her tongue was light, and he smiled.

—Keep going —he ordered, deeper this time, watching every detail.

She ran her tongue over each toe, one by one, carefully, feeling her own arousal grow at the same time as his pleasure.

***

Mariana’s head was a delicious chaos, a whirlpool of emotions crashing endlessly into one another. Every word he spoke was a direct stab to her belly, a jolt that climbed her spine and spread through her skin like slow fire. Kneel. That order, spoken with that irresistible calm, had opened something inside her she had not known she wanted so badly. Her body gave in, her legs folding without resistance, as if obeying were more natural than breathing.

The contradiction overwhelmed her. On one hand, something in her wondered why she felt so alive surrendering without restraint, why a woman of her position found the greatest ecstasy in such a simple task as taking a man’s shoes off. But that rational part barely murmured, drowned out by desire. When her knees had touched the floor, the weight of his gaze had landed on her like a blow, and the heat had gathered in her chest before sinking, slowly, between her legs. The pleasure did not come only from what he did to her. It came from the simple act of obeying.

Obedience was a drug. She untied the laces carefully, feeling the fabric under her fingers as though it were an extension of his skin. Every movement was a ritual, a silent confession of the pleasure she found in pleasing him. And when he ordered her to lick his feet, the heat exploded inside her, an intense throb that made her bite her lip before leaning down. Why does this give me so much pleasure? She could not help it. Every lick, every touch, was a confirmation that she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Her arousal grew with his. She noticed it in the way his breathing changed, in the look of approval he gave her while she obeyed each order. It was as if her pleasure were tied to his, as if she existed for nothing else. And instead of being ashamed, she embraced it, let herself be consumed.

—That’s it, very good —Víctor murmured, his voice full of satisfaction—. Don’t stop until I tell you to.

A tremor ran through her entire body. The idea of not deciding, of letting him guide every movement, every breath, was the height of pleasure. She was sunk in a blend of vulnerability and power that made her lose herself completely. And as she continued, desire burned through her, as if every order brought her closer to a climax that did not depend only on her body, but on something deeper: the absolute pleasure of belonging.

Her tongue traced the lines of his ankle, sliding slowly, while her heart raced in time with her own movements. Reason tried to scream, but each time weaker, drowned by the excitement of not having to think. Only serve.

—Keep going. All the way up —he murmured, his voice hoarse, and those few words made her swallow.

She continued with trembling legs, licking every inch of his calf, as if every centimeter of skin were territory to be conquered through her surrender. The higher she went, the hotter she felt. The pressure between her legs was unbearable, but the pleasure of knowing that every movement of her tongue pleased him outweighed any need of her own. It was a paradox: she was serving him and yet had never felt more powerful.

When she reached his thigh, he brushed her head with a soft but firm gesture, a silent confirmation that she was doing it well. That simple contact melted her. She licked with more intensity, leaving tiny kisses between each step, tasting his skin as if it were the most delicious delicacy in the world.

At last she felt the proximity of his sex, that point where her servitude reached its climax. She licked the inner edge of his thigh and took him with a hand that felt tiny before the power he gave off. She moved up slowly, deliberately, letting her breathing become audible, a confession without words. He sighed, barely, the faintest sound he had made all night, but it was enough to shake her with a wave of pleasure. It was not just obedience. It was something greater. Giving over every part of herself was the closest she had ever come to feeling free.

Mariana felt his hand close in her hair, tugging with a firmness that made her shiver. The sensation was unmistakable: the physical reminder that she was his. He gathered her hair as though into an improvised ponytail, a symbol of the control he exercised and that she did not merely accept, but craved with every fiber of her body.

—Now open it. All the way —he said, low, with a sensuality that made her tremble.

She obeyed before he finished the sentence, leaning in slowly, letting her lips brush the tip before taking him fully into her mouth. The heat and texture filled her mouth, stealing her breath for an instant and, at the same time, giving her an absolute purpose. Every centimeter that entered was a triumph, a way of proving her surrender. Her chest rose and fell out of control while he set the rhythm, holding the ponytail firmly, guiding her as if in a dance meant for only the two of them.

The motion was constant, deep, rhythmic. She tried to adapt, letting each thrust draw a guttural sound from her that excited him more. That ability to give herself without restraint, without dodging the moment, became her greatest expression of devotion. She felt tears slip free, but instead of stopping her, they made her more intense.

—That’s it. Good girl —he said, and the approval in his voice was a balm, a reward that made her work harder.

Her tongue circled each entrance, trying to give him pleasure in every millimeter. She wanted more, wanted to be perfect for him. Her own arousal became unbearable, the wetness between her legs a response to what she was doing. She did not need to be touched; it was enough to know she was bringing him to the edge. Every rough groan from him was a pulse that filled her with pride and an irrational desire to keep going.

—Touch yourself —he ordered suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the air—. Now. I want you to come while you serve me.

Her heart jumped, a mix of surprise and pure arousal. Touch myself, while I give him my mouth? It seemed like a contradiction and yet it was the perfect extension of her surrender. Obedience was not an act: it was her essence, and that order was yet another test of how much desire she could bear before the orgasm she could already feel being born in the deepest part of her.

Her fingers descended, clumsy at first, while her lips stayed firm around him. When she found the way between her thighs, a wave of pleasure coursed through her entire body. It was too much, and it was perfect. He did not slow his rhythm, his hand firm in her hair, marking the cadence with his own desire. Each time she sank deeper, he let out a deep groan that resonated inside her, urging her to move with greater intensity. She no longer knew where his pleasure ended and hers began. Everything was connected.

—Don’t stop —he murmured, full of power and approval—. I want to see you lose control while you bring me to the limit.

She was getting closer and closer, her body answering her own touch with the same intensity with which her mouth obeyed. Her thighs began to arch, seeking more friction, never stopping the work of her mouth. The muffled sounds escaping her throat mingled with her own broken moans. She was losing herself, sinking into the pleasure of being his, of obeying every last order. Barely a thread of thought remained: please, submit, come.

When his body began to tense, she knew he was on the edge. She felt him pull her hair hard, but not roughly, a signal that it was time to take her lips away. She looked at him steadily, eyes shining with desire and devotion, as she let him slip from her mouth, throbbing and burning. Her own body trembled with exhaustion, but that only made her feel more alive.

—Don’t move away —he murmured, low—. I want to see you.

Mariana stayed on her knees, fully offered, face lifted, lips parted. She knew what was coming, and the anticipation was so arousing that she could not stop herself from playing with her fingers in the wetness between her legs while she watched him. Víctor let out a deep, primal groan that made her shiver. The first impact was warm and plentiful, drawing a wet path across her cheek to her lips. She remained still, taking him in with a mixture of devotion and pleasure, feeling every drop as confirmation of her surrender.

The warmth slid down her shoulders, slowly, while he kept climaxing. Each fresh spurt was a declaration of his control, a mark she wore with pride. Without stopping touching herself, her fingers growing faster and more desperate, she took advantage of the moment when he watched her. When she finally reached her own climax, it came with a muffled cry that filled the space between them.

She arched her back, shaken by a tremor that seemed to come from the very bottom of her body. The combination of her orgasm and his heat covering her left her breathless, utterly consumed. When she caught her breath, she lifted her eyes: her face held pride, vulnerability, and devotion in equal measure. Víctor was smiling, satisfied.

—Perfect —he said, stroking her cheek as though granting her a reward.

And Mariana, without saying a word, let herself be carried by that sensation, knowing she had been everything he expected. And something more.