My Aunt Casilda Taught Me Obedience in the Storehouse
I grew up in a lost village in the north, one of those places where time seems to have stopped among the mist and the fields. Life there was so quiet it was boring: some people lived off the crops, others off the cattle, and the luckier ones had a job at the factory on the outskirts. In my house we made our living from the land, though the truth is we owed everything to my aunt Casilda. Without her, my mother and I would not have survived the debt my father left behind the day he ran off.
They said my family was cursed when it came to men. First my uncle Anselmo died after a long illness, and all his land passed into the hands of his widow, my aunt Casilda. A year later, my father abandoned us for another woman and the promise of a bigger city. My mother then began working for my aunt, growing vegetables on those fertile lands that had customers in every neighboring village. The business did well. My aunt saved us, and she never let us forget it.
I, on the other hand, was the spitting image of my father. A layabout with no manners, a shameless bastard who spent all day with his friends and avoided the fields like the plague. I hated work, and I hated my aunt Casilda even more. I tried not to go near her farm, even though my mother worked there from dawn to dusk until her back nearly broke.
My aunt was around sixty at the time, and she was a huge woman. In the village they called her “the mountain,” because of her weight and her size. Eating was one of her greatest pleasures, which was why she weighed well over a hundred kilos. But there was nothing clumsy about her: she moved with a disconcerting agility, working tirelessly alongside my mother. What truly defined her was her character. She had the temper of a demon, always grumpy, barking orders and shouting. She detested the way she treated my mother, a meek, gullible woman whom my aunt reproached daily for her weakness.
There were seven women working the land, including her, which was why people in the village nicknamed them “the seven farm women.” My mother was second in command, a privilege she had because she was the owner’s younger sister. Completing the group were Nuria, the youngest and prettiest of them all; her mother, Doña Remedios, the most seasoned of the lot; and Brígida, around whom there was a story few dared tell out loud. It was said that years earlier she had stolen money from the till, and that my aunt had whipped her with a lash until her ass was marked. I never quite believed that tale, but my mother swore it was true, and that Brígida had kept working there, loyal and silent, ever since that day.
***
The spark that set everything off came during the village festival. That night I drank more than my body could handle, and between the alcohol and my friends’ stupidity, we made an absurd decision that ended badly. I’m not going to tell what we did; even now I’m ashamed. I’ll only say that, in the early hours of the morning, a police car dropped me off at home in a deplorable state and with a theft-and-vandalism report hanging over my head.
My mother collapsed. Instead of apologizing, I got into a row with her and blamed everything on her, like the miserable piece of shit I was. While she was crying, the phone rang. It was my aunt Casilda, who was waiting for her in the fields for some work. Her shouts could be heard through the receiver. My mother, between sobs, told her what had happened, and my aunt’s voice rose until it became thunder.
—Once again I’ll have to pay the consequences —she roared—. The fine, the damage, all of it… and you doing nothing. Over and over again.
There was a silence, and then she spoke with a calm that was more frightening than her shouting.
—This afternoon this nonsense ends. Tell your son to come see me. I’m going to fix this the way I should have years ago.
For the first time, my mother didn’t defend me.
***
I didn’t want to go, but I had no choice: my aunt owned the business that kept us afloat. I imagined the usual scene. Her yelling, me lowering my head, nodding, and leaving without another word. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I arrived at the farm at the worst possible moment. My aunt was at the entrance arguing with a man who owed her money, warning him she wouldn’t sell him another vegetable until he paid up. The poor bastard practically fled. Then she turned her head and saw me standing there waiting. She nailed me with a look full of hate.
—I’ll come back another day, Auntie —I said, turning to run like that man had.
—Hold it right there! —Her voice stopped me dead—. Today I’m solving this at the root. I assure you you’re never getting into trouble again.
I followed her across the muddy fields. I thought we were heading to her house, but no. I walked behind her bulky body, watching her work clothes: the short blue apron that left her thick arms and legs bare, and the rubber boots stained with mud up to the knee. The latest rains had left the fields waterlogged.
We stopped in front of the storehouse where the tools were kept. She told me to go inside. It was a large shed, with shelves packed with tools and junk stacked in corners, and a clear space in the center. My aunt came in behind me, shut the door, and locked it from the inside. She slipped the key ring into the pocket of her apron.
Why is she locking it?
Fear rose up my throat. I always thought I was king of the world until the moment of truth arrived; then my legs shook like a little kid’s.
***
My aunt grabbed a sack from one of the shelves and dragged a chair to the center. She sat down and began putting on a pair of long rubber gloves, the dirty kind used for work. Her arms were so fleshy the rubber barely went on, squeaking as she pulled them up to her elbows in one tug. I watched her without understanding what she was planning. Then she hiked her apron up to her waist, exposing those enormous thighs, and planted her gloved hands on her knees.
—Take your pants down and lie across my lap. I’m going to teach you how to behave.
I understood she meant to spank me like a child. I turned toward the door on reflex, even though I knew it was locked. My aunt rose like a bull. Her body lunged over me and I felt her hand slide into the waistband of my pants, reaching around behind me. She grabbed my balls from behind and squeezed with brutal force. The pain doubled me over. I would have done anything if she’d just let up.
She led me to the chair without letting go, and laid me face down across her knees. From the sack she took out a thick dog collar and fastened it around my neck. Then she tied my wrists behind my back with a rope, with the ease of someone who had done it many times, and hooked my bound hands to the collar’s ring. I was immobilized, my head hanging downward and my ass exposed. All I could see were her mud-caked boots.
She swung one leg over me like a pair of scissors and slid her gloved hand into the sack. She pulled out a wooden hairbrush.
The first blow sounded like a gunshot. The wood slammed into my skin and a lash of pain shot through me from end to end.
—Let me go! —I shouted, unable to move even a millimeter.
She paused for an instant. I thought she’d given up, but she only stood up to take off her panties from under the apron, sliding them down those legs until they came off over her boots. She set me back across her knees and brought them up to my face.
—If you can’t take your punishment in silence like a man, you’ll be a panty-eater.
She shoved them into my mouth by force. They were filthy from a whole day’s work, and the taste turned my stomach. With that disgusting gag jammed between my teeth, she resumed the spanking with the brush, again and again, until the pain lost all shape.
***
I tried to spit out the gag with my tongue. She noticed. She raised me a little over her knees and pushed the fabric deeper into my throat with her gloved fingers, sealing my lips with her hand so I couldn’t force it out. I could only make a muffled groan while the brush kept coming down.
Humiliation and helplessness, that was all I felt. When she had my ass raw, she dropped the brush and stood up. I thought it was finally over. She rummaged in the sack again and pulled out a short black whip, made of several braided leather strands. I remembered Brígida’s story and understood it was true.
She bent me over the chair seat, my belly pressed to the wood, and wedged my head between her thighs, standing beside me. She closed them hard, crushing my face until I could barely breathe. I tilted my head, searching for some gap through which to breathe.
—I can assure you you’ll never disobey again. I should have broken your ass with lashes long ago, but it’s never too late.
She lifted my bound hands with one hand and with the other brought the whip down on the already bruised skin. That afternoon I met hell. The leather bit into my flesh, and I cried like never before, unable to say a word, swallowing that foul taste. I cried until I had no tears left.
***
When she finally opened her thighs, I drew breath like a castaway. She grabbed my hair through the rubber glove and yanked upward, bringing her face close to mine.
—From now on, you obey me in everything. You follow my orders and you behave like a man. If you disobey me, you know what’s waiting for you.
She dragged me by the hair to a corner and made me kneel, my face against the wall.
—You stay here until I say otherwise. If you move, I’m coming back with the whip.
She left and locked the door. She left me there, tied up, with my pants down and my ass destroyed. Time crawled. My knees burned against the concrete floor, but the worst part was that filthy gag. With my tongue, pushing and pushing, I managed to spit it out. I shouldn’t have done that.
She came back an hour later. She checked that I was still obedient in the corner and set about untying me. As she bent down, she saw the panties on the floor.
—Why are these lying here? Didn’t I tell you that if you didn’t behave like a man, you’d be a panty-eater? Well, that’s going to be your name from now on.
—It’s just that… they tasted awful and I spat them out —I stammered, not knowing I was making things worse.
I had just told her her panties stank, and I offended her even more.
—Well, well, Mr. Panty-Eater is disgusted by dirty panties. Then you’re really not going to like these now.
She crouched behind me. Curiosity got the better of me and I turned my head: she was rubbing the fabric over her sex and ass, wiping herself with it.
—Don’t you even think about turning around!
Two brutal slaps sent my face back to the corner. Then she ordered me to open my mouth and shoved the gag back in, now much worse, soaked through. She sealed it with duct tape. This time there was no way to spit it out.
At that moment I understood something. My aunt wasn’t doing all that just to teach me a lesson: she was enjoying it. Exercising power, punishing, humiliating… it was a pleasure for her. She had gone too long without feeding that thirst, and I had awakened her darkest side.
***
What she failed to see was that, while I was becoming her victim, something else was being born in me that I didn’t understand either. Kneeling there, gagged, my ass on fire, I began to feel an odd mix of fear and desire for my aunt Casilda. I had fallen in love with her cruelty. I needed someone to rule my life with an iron hand, and that person was her.
She came back two hours later. My knees were bleeding against the concrete.
—Tomorrow you start working on the farm. No more loafing around. You’ll obey me without arguing. And if I see you aren’t working hard, I’ll come back with the whip. We’ll see which breaks first, the leather or your ass.
My days of delinquency were over. The next morning I showed up at my aunt’s fields to learn the trade. But that was only the beginning. I really got to know the seven farm women, and I stepped into much more serious and pleasurable trouble, which I’ll go on telling you about.
