I Still Miss the Collar My Master Put on Me

This morning, while the coffee maker dripped into the pot, I found myself thinking again about the soles of his shoes. Not about him exactly, but the soles: the leather worn smooth on the inside, the smell of pavement and old leather, the way my tongue had grown accustomed to traveling over them, millimeter by millimeter, savoring the street grime mixed with shoe polish. I saw myself once again on my knees in front of Damián, on the floor I had left immaculate after hours of housework, my legs numb after he inspected me like someone checking merchandise, spreading my cunt with two dry fingers, pushing them all the way inside without lube, pulling them out gleaming and smelling them in front of my face before wiping them on my cheek.

Back then, I was still his. His like the car, like the wrappers he tossed into the bin every night without looking. I was one of his possessions, and he decided when and how to use me, in which hole, with how much violence, how long I had to keep my mouth open waiting for him to come.

It’s been a year since it ended, and I can still feel the echo in my knees, and deeper too, between my legs, where his cock left a shape no other man has known how to fill. No one has taken me as far as he did. No one has subdued me in the same way, with that methodical coldness that sought not my pleasure but my obedience, holding me by the hair while he fucked my throat until tears and spit streamed down onto my chest.

***

In a way, I’ve become an ordinary woman again. I don’t kneel as often anymore. Work has taken the place discipline once occupied, and my days begin with the same coffee and end on the same sofa, in front of the same blank screen. An orderly life, without upheaval—the kind of life anyone would envy.

And yet, even though I deny it to myself and will probably regret writing it, every day I want more and more to return to the routine he imposed on me. I wish I could wake with his cock throbbing against my palate, already hard from sleep, pushing me toward the back of my throat before I even opened my eyes. To suck him slowly, my flat tongue beneath the glans, my lips tight around the shaft, swallowing the saliva that gathered in my mouth while he didn’t even look at me, giving him pleasure while he checked his phone, opened an app, read messages from other women, and held my head with one loose hand on my skull, setting the pace with his wrist like someone moving a glass. I miss that indifference. The way my mouth worked for someone who barely registered my existence, yet ended up coming hot and thick against my palate, forcing me to swallow every drop before saying “thank you” in my hoarse voice.

I long, if only one more time, to bring him breakfast naked in bed and receive his caresses and his contempt in the same gesture. His hand could stroke the nape of my neck with a tenderness that made me close my eyes, and a second later he could spit in my face without changing expression, a warm gob of spit sliding from my cheekbone to my lip, followed by his curt order: “Don’t wipe it off.” Both things were him. I wanted both.

I think about his fingers opening me, separating me with an almost clinical precision, without compassion, as if he were studying a piece before deciding whether it was useful. I think about how he would lay me face down on the rug, raise my hips with a sharp slap on the ass, and sink two fingers into my cunt to the knuckles, moving them quickly, obscenely, until my thighs trembled and the wet patch beneath my belly grew. Then he would pull out his gleaming fingers and use them to lubricate my ass, one finger first, then two, opening me slowly with the surgeon’s patience he brought to everything, while I bit the rug to keep from moaning too loudly. And I shudder. It’s the same body; it still works, still sweats and trembles when I remember. But it no longer trembles for you.

There was a ritual, and rituals are what I miss most. Every morning I would kneel beside the door before he got dressed and wait with my head bowed until he decided to look at me, my ass resting on my heels and my knees spread shoulder-width apart, just as he had taught me, my cunt open and visible for him to pass by. Sometimes it took a minute. Sometimes he left me there for half an hour, feeling the cold floor creep up my shins and my own wetness trickle down the inside of my thigh, while he drank his coffee and read the newspaper aloud under his breath, without saying a word to me. I learned to love that waiting. The silence was a form of his hand on the back of my neck.

When he finally said my name, or the name he had given me—“bitch,” almost always, spoken as calmly as other people say “darling”—my whole body would come loose at once, as if only then I were being allowed to exist. He would make me crawl over to him, pull his cock out of his pants with my teeth, and suck it slowly, without using my hands, while he continued reading. That is the sensation I chase and cannot find. The sensation of appearing in the world only because someone else commands it, of having another man’s cock filling my mouth while the world keeps turning indifferently beside me.

***

I’ve never told you about these stories. What I write is mine alone, even if hundreds of strangers read it on a screen. There’s something about exposing myself to strangers that brings back, from a distance, the feeling of not belonging to myself.

I wonder whether you’ll ever find this story and understand that I’m talking about you. Maybe you’ll look at your shoes and notice they no longer shine the way they did when my tongue polished them every morning, before you allowed me to speak. Maybe you’ll touch yourself while reading me, pull down your pants, and grab your cock in the armchair where you made me kneel so many times. Please, do it. Come thinking about my face, aim at me in your mind, shoot your hot cum onto my eyelids the way you used to shoot it at me. And if you’re feeling generous, write me a line. You have no idea how badly I want to read you again.

All it would take would be one “to the floor” from you, and I’d grab my things and cross the city to your apartment. Without underwear, the leather collar tight around my neck again, the one that left a pink mark that took hours to fade, my nipples already hard against my blouse before I rang the bell. I would go proudly, ready to belong to you again, to be at your mercy once more, to spread my legs in the entryway and let you push two fingers into me right there, against the wall, to make sure I was still wet for you after a year. I want you to play with me again. I want to feel as insignificant as I felt beneath your shadow, that tightness in my chest I mistook for fear, when it was really relief. I want to feel your cock forcing its way into my dry ass again, one hand on the back of my neck against the mattress, and thank you aloud for every thrust as you made me.

It was easier when someone else decided for me.

***

I imagine you would wonder about the infidelity if you ever read this. It’s all right. I would say I forgive you, but it makes no sense for a submissive to forgive her master. Now I understand it differently: I should never have refused to let you have other women. That night when I reproached you for it, when I raised my voice as if I had the right, was the beginning of the end.

I hope you know how to forgive me for being jealous, for hoarding the only wealth that mattered—which was your control. You deserve more than one. You deserve rows of women on their knees, begging to suck you in shifts; you deserve five mouths fighting over your cum; you deserve open cunts waiting in line for your cock. I would be content to lick the milk from the others when you finished with them, to clean your cock with my tongue after you’d fucked them, to sleep at the foot of your bed while you fucked another woman on top of it. You deserve the entire peak of the pyramid. I would be content with one look. Two, if you were having a good day.

I know how it sounds. I write it and hear myself sounding pathetic, and still I don’t delete a single word. There is a truth in humiliation that I find nowhere else in my life, and I prefer that truth to the comfortable dignity of my afternoons.

***

This afternoon I’m seeing an old client again. This is what I do now: dominate. They pay me to do to others what I would give anything to receive. He’s an older married man who arrives in an immaculate suit and kneels the moment I close the door, trembling before I even touch him, his cock already hard and outlining his trousers.

I’ll give him my best, as always. I’ll destroy his ego with my voice, crush his masculinity beneath my heel as he begs me to, step on his balls until he moans and apologizes for existing, leave him crying and grateful, with the tip of my heel pressed into his tongue and drool running down his chin. I’ll put my thumb in his mouth so he can suck it as if it were a cock, then push it into his ass while he masturbates, staring at my feet. I’ll know exactly where to press, how much to humiliate him, when to withdraw my contempt so he’ll miss it. I’m good at this. Too good, perhaps, because I know hunger from the other side.

I’ll see the same blind devotion I felt for you in his eyes as he comes by himself, without permission to touch me, shooting his semen onto his own thighs, and for a moment I’ll envy him. He has what I lost: someone standing firmly before him, someone who decides. I’ll watch him kiss the floor, lick his own drops from it because I ordered him to, and I’ll think that floor is me, a year ago, in another city, before another man, swallowing whatever Damián forced me to swallow without complaint.

I’ll order him to count every blow aloud, to thank me for each one, to ask permission even to breathe heavily. And as I do, my voice will come out firm, without a tremor—that commanding voice I learned by imitating you. No one would suspect that the woman holding the crop spends her nights wishing she were exactly where he is now: on the floor, nameless, without a will of her own, mouth open and tongue out, waiting for someone to decide whether she deserves to get up or whether it’s her turn to swallow someone else’s cum.

And at night, when he has gone and I hang up the whip and put away the straps, I’ll climb into bed naked and touch myself thinking about being the insect beneath someone’s feet. I’ll think about your feet. I’ll lick two fingers, push them into my wet cunt, then pull them out and suck them clean, as you used to make me do to you. Then I’ll fuck myself with three fingers, hard and carelessly, while I squeeze my neck with the other hand, imagining it’s yours, and pinch my nipples until they burn. I’ll put my thumb in my ass just before I come, because I know that made me come harder with you. When I reach orgasm, I’ll scream your name into the pillow, my cunt throbbing against my palm and your imaginary semen dripping inside me, like an idiot, like a bitch who never learns, and I’ll fall asleep with my fingers still inside me, smelling of myself, smelling of no one.

***

Will I be ashamed? A little. I’m not writing all this shamelessly; quite the opposite, I can feel the shame rising up my neck as I type. But my sex speaks louder than my mind and forces me, every so often, to humiliate myself in public. For the pleasure of some readers, I suppose. And for mine, that’s certain, right now, with one hand on the keyboard and the other inside my pajama pants, two fingers slowly rubbing my clit as I write this, my cunt already soaked from remembering so much.

I finish my coffee, which has gone cold, and return to work. To the ordinary life of an average adult woman in the capital. Meetings, emails, a bill to pay. There’s so little magic in all of it. So little weight, so little consequence.

Submission is the only thing that truly makes me happy, and it feels so far removed from the life I lead now that sometimes I doubt I ever lived it. The people I see on public transportation, at the office, in the news, would never understand the pleasure of being an object, of having three usable holes and no words of my own. The precise peace of not having to decide anything—not when to swallow, not when to spread my legs, not when to close my mouth.

I’ll never be able to tell my coworkers how radiant I felt when they stripped me of my will and judgment. When I drank from a man’s hand whatever he decided to give me—water, semen, saliva—when my face filled with cum and I saw myself reflected, tiny, in the dirtiest objects in the room, white strands hanging from my eyelashes and chin. Those women talk about promotions and vacations, and I nod and smile and keep my truth beneath my ironed blouse, my panties still damp from touching myself before I left.

But I move forward. I carry on. I pour the second coffee, open the laptop, answer the first email of the day. Another normal day, I tell myself. And as I write it, I’m already counting the hours until nightfall, until I can put my hand between my legs again and scream your name into a pillow that does not answer.