My First Day of Class Turned Me into His Slave

My name is Noelia, I’m twenty-one years old, and I’m writing this on the strict orders of my master, Don Teodoro. He is sixty-six, and almost two years ago he was the man who decided that my life and my body belonged to him completely. He wants me to detail my thoughts and, above all, what he does to me each time he uses me, so that you can read me and correct me. He says my process of submission is still incomplete and that he needs your scrutiny to polish me.

I’m ashamed, because I’m timid by nature. I shrink at the thought of you learning exactly what my master demands of me and how I’m supposed to accept it without protest. He sums it up in one sentence: I must be grateful for whatever he decides for me. He has demanded total honesty, without softening anything. It’s hard for me to write without beating around the bush, but I’ll try, even though I feel exposed doing it.

Yesterday I failed him again.

During the Protocol exam, Don Teodoro assigned me my usual task. I can’t keep up with the others, so my job is to serve: hand out the exams and collect the completed papers. I moved between the desks with my head bowed. Some classmates raised their hands just to make me come over; others whispered a pitying, superior “thank you, servant.” According to protocol, I’m supposed to answer in a thread of a voice: “You’re welcome, sir.”

Then Bruno, the class bully, dropped his pencil and arrogantly ordered me with a gesture to pick it up. I felt the weight of every stare as I slowly bent down. He gave a low laugh and murmured, “Good girl.” My hand was trembling so badly that, when I tried to hand it to him, the pencil slipped and fell onto his crotch. As I bent down again, I saw his trousers tighten, saw the bulge of his adolescent cock clearly outlined beneath the fabric.

I froze. Instinctively, I looked to my master. He held my gaze with a cold smile and declared, “What are you waiting for? Hand it over and stop bothering him.” With my fingertips, barely brushing Bruno’s thigh, I handed it to him without looking up, while the classroom filled with muffled laughter.

When it was over, Don Teodoro called me aside. “You don’t even know how to accept your role without fucking it up,” he told me. He punished me all afternoon: locked in my room, without my phone, with the computer disconnected from the internet solely so I could write this. He said he hadn’t been harsher because at least I hadn’t caused a scene that interrupted the exam.

I know I’m being trained to understand that my body no longer belongs to me. My only permitted response, no matter what he does to me, is lowered eyes and a “thank you, master.” For you to get to know me, I need to explain how I got here.

***

I was born in a village near Valencia, marked by my father’s death and the endless procession of my mother’s partners. That instability forced me to grow up constantly on guard. I was terrified of becoming her reflection, especially because, from a very young age, I had to endure the dirty looks men fixed on me.

I finished secondary school with a disastrous academic record, and my future offered no way out. Luckily, my mother learned about grants for people who had failed at school: a place at a prestigious institution to study a vocational qualification in Ceremonial and Protocol. It was an extremely expensive place she could never have afforded on her receptionist’s salary.

The year before the entrance exam, my body transformed. The men in the neighborhood began looking at me differently. My mother saw it as a gift: “Being desirable is power, darling; learn to use it.” I grew to five foot seven, slender. My hips rounded into a curve that seemed foreign to me, my breasts grew firm, with nipples pointing upward as if begging for attention. It was a body that still felt strange to me.

Even so, as a person I’m a little slow. Reading gives me headaches, and I freeze if I have to think too hard. Don Teodoro always repeats it to me: “Your only use is to spread your legs and take cock.” When I hear him, I lower my eyes and nod, and although I don’t like it, I know he’s right.

A month before the exam, I accepted that I wasn’t prepared. My mother suggested recording a presentation video in which I barely said my name and posed under her direction. My master says that in that video he saw my soul: the soul of someone who lets herself be molded, of a bitch-in-training waiting for an owner.

The day came. I did terribly on the exam; I didn’t understand the questions. When they gave us the aptitude test, I was relieved, because all we had to do was mark crosses. But strange questions soon appeared: whether I was a virgin, whether I liked only men, whether I was indecisive. With my pulse trembling, I confessed my virginity and my inability to make decisions. I thought honesty would earn me points, never suspecting that mine wasn’t the standard aptitude test.

That same afternoon, they called my mother: I was accepted. I was left stunned, unable to understand how they had decided so quickly if I had done so badly.

***

Everything began on the first day of class. My mother prepared a black synthetic-silk dress with impossibly thin straps and a plunging neckline. My back was bare, and a strip of transparent mesh revealed my stomach. The skirt was so short that I could feel the air brushing against my pussy. She forbade me from wearing a bra: “Let those nipples show properly.” She applied red lipstick and put me in four-inch heels that made me look like a little glass figurine.

On the street, the filthy catcalls from some construction workers awakened a strange vanity in me. When I arrived at the institution, surrounded by perfect families, I felt my presence shatter the harmony. I felt out of place and, at the same time, flattered.

I quickly sat at a desk, carefully crossing my legs so the skirt wouldn’t ride up. Then I realized my mistake: I was wearing white cotton panties with a cartoon bunny and a pink bow. The other girls were dressed modestly. I stood out far too much, and I consoled myself with the thought that if nobody saw those childish panties, everything would be all right.

Suddenly, the murmur stopped dead. A pair of shoes made the parquet tremble; the vibration traveled up the desk legs until it settled in my chest. I looked up, and there he was. Our eyes met for the first time. Instinctively, I squeezed my thighs together and leaned over the desk, wanting to make myself invisible. His eyes, mature and serene, fixed on me with an authority that left me breathless.

He was sixty-four then, extremely tall, with a belly that strained the buttons of his military-green shirt and a white beard. He moved with absolute calm, as if the entire room belonged to him. In front of him I felt tiny, my dress suddenly too short and my heels suddenly ridiculous.

He stopped directly in front of my desk. “Not everyone starts from the same place at this institution,” he said in an almost mocking tone. “There are special cases that have needed an extra push. I hope you’ll take care of her… although I doubt the boys have failed to notice her.”

A few giggles passed through the classroom. The message was clear: he was publicly pointing me out as an attraction. I felt insulted and terrified, branded as an outcast from the very first minute.

When the bell rang, I waited until I was the last one to leave. I didn’t want to run into anyone. I pressed my jacket against my chest and walked toward the door with my head bowed. I thought the day would end there. I was wrong.

“Wait, girl”—his deep voice struck my back—“close the door and come here.”

I obeyed without hesitation. I closed the door and approached. He stood up and positioned himself in front of me. Even in heels, my head barely reached below his chin. He slowly ran his eyes over me, making me feel naked. Then, with that cold half-smile, he lowered his voice until it became intimate.

“Listen carefully, Noelia, because I’m going to change the way you look at yourself in the mirror.”

He paused, enjoying my confusion. Then he revealed the truth: my own mother had gone to see him and offered herself at any price so he would accept me. He had rejected her because she didn’t possess “the essence” he was looking for, but she had persisted, begging him for an opportunity for me. She had told him I needed someone to get “those feminist ideas” out of my head, that she trusted his judgment, and that at nineteen I would know how to compensate him in my own way.

“She sold you, Noelia,” he summarized with a cruel smile. “I didn’t want her to pay for the place with her body, so she offered me yours.”

He locked the door and drew the curtains, leaving us in darkness broken only by the desk lamp. He came close enough to corner me against the table through the sheer force of his presence. Without touching me, he began to dissect me.

“Look at you, all empowered in that little dress and those heels. You don’t fool me. We both know what’s underneath: a girl who squeezes her thighs every time a real man looks at her. I can see it in the way you lower your eyes, as if waiting for someone to decide for you. You scored zero on the exam, and on the aptitude test I designed just for you, what I suspected was confirmed.”

Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. His words struck me like punches: the certainty with which he described every gesture of mine, the truth that beneath the dress I felt small and insecure.

He tore away the jacket I was clutching to my chest and threw it onto the floor in front of his shoes. He leaned toward my ear.

“Don’t get your hopes up. You’re still nothing and belong to no one. Before I fuck you, you’ll have to earn the right to feel my cock inside you. Your beauty isn’t enough for me.”

Suddenly, his enormous hand clamped around my head and forced my knees down onto the floor, onto my own jacket. My skirt rode up, exposing the edge of my panties. He hooked the fabric with the tip of his shoe and slowly moved it aside.

“Well, well,” he barked out a dry laugh. “On the outside, you’re dressed like a woman, but underneath you have cartoons. Really?”

Reflexively, I brought my trembling hands to the hem of my skirt, trying to cover myself. He wouldn’t let me. He grabbed me by the hair and forced my head up, making me look at him. He spat between my breasts, and because of my neckline the moisture slid freely over my skin, across my stomach, and disappeared beneath the edge of the dress.

“Now you have something of mine. Thank me.”

With my voice broken and tears falling, I told him what he wanted to hear: “Thank you, master.”

“Good. It’s time for you to work. Unbutton my fly.”

I saw the fabric of his trousers straining over an enormous bulge. I froze. I wanted to beg or retreat, but my body refused to obey my mind.

“Oh, Noelia, what a disappointment. You have a beautiful wrapper, but you’re worthless if you can’t understand a simple order. Since I can see it isn’t deliberate, I’ll be patient: even a creature as basic as you can learn if it has a good teacher.”

He didn’t seem desperate to possess me. He took his time, and that calm unsettled me more than any outburst of violence. He took me by the chin.

“Listen carefully and look down here.”

The snap of his button broke the silence. Before I could look away, he clamped my wrist and forced my hand behind the waistband of his underwear, making me close my fist around his member. A heavy, thick, throbbing, warm cock with taut skin filled my hand until it spilled beyond it. I felt it pulsing against my palm like a muscle with a life of its own, his testicles hanging heavily below, full and weighted. My fingers could barely close around that enormous shaft, and without taking his eyes off me, he forced me to move my hand up and down twice so I would understand the size of what I was about to take into my mouth.

“This is your first lesson, and you’ll have to memorize it. Eyes closed. Open your mouth as wide as your jaw will allow and stick out your tongue as a symbol of offering. Don’t close it without my permission. Understood, bitch? Don’t speak.”

I obeyed mechanically, my muscles trembling. I stretched out my tongue, forced my jaw open, and offered him my mouth. I expected his sex to strike me, but it didn’t come. After a few seconds, I felt a hot stream entering my mouth under constant pressure. The heat burned my tongue. He covered my nose, cutting off my breathing, and I had no choice but to swallow. The metallic, salty taste remained as he let out a sigh of relief. I understood then, and screamed inside: “He’s pissed in my mouth.” I didn’t say it. I stayed silent, consenting, petrified with terror.

“The truth is, you don’t deserve the honor of having my cock in your mouth,” he said contemptuously. “But I considered you fit enough to piss on. Where better than the chamber pot I had closest at hand? This is my second gift. Thank me.”

At that moment I thought about my future, about the life I had always dreamed of: a degree, supporting myself. I felt that if I said “thank you” because an old man had pissed in my mouth, that Noelia would disappear forever. In a tiny thread of a voice, I managed to say:

“I don’t want to… That’s disgusting!”

My comment was childish in the face of such humiliation. I expected a slap, but he looked at me with a dry laugh and gave three deliberate claps.

“You’re a special case. Most of them resist a little; they need to be broken slowly. Not you. You give yourself up completely from the first minute. But if you think it’s ‘disgusting,’ you should have said so before. We’ll stop here. You can study and pass on your own. Although we both know that will be difficult.”

“I still laugh about your exam. You defined ‘public opinion’ as ‘when a company becomes famous and everyone sends it likes.’ You’re beautiful, yes, but you have no brains. Without me, you’ll sink on your own. You’re free; you can leave whenever you want.”

I was paralyzed. Would there really be no consequences? My brain told me leaving was the sensible thing, but my thoughts crashed into one another. Suddenly, my own voice betrayed me.

“I’m sorry, Don Teodoro. I won’t disobey again. Thank you for your gift,” I replied with my head bowed, begging forgiveness.

He came close again and—smack!—gave me a dry slap across the breasts. The impact made my silk top unable to withstand the pressure, and one strap came loose, leaving one breast exposed. He ran his cold eyes over my naked chest, slowly licked his lips, and, without stopping his stare, pulled his entire cock out of his trousers. Now I saw it for the first time: thick, arched upward, with veins standing out along the shaft and a shiny purple glans protruding as if threatening to burst. He brought his balls to my face and forced me to smell them.

“Inhale, bitch. Fix this smell in your head. It’s the smell of the man to whom every hole you have belongs.”

I inhaled, trembling. He smelled of old male sweat, of dense musk. I felt my crotch grow wet against my will, my bunny panties beginning to turn sticky against my pussy. He slapped his cock against my cheek twice, leaving a shiny trail of pre-cum on my skin, and only then put it away again without even letting me lick it.

“The slap is for your earlier disobedience. I only punish someone who submits willingly. Do you understand?”

I said yes without really understanding. A few seconds later, I felt movement in my belly: the awareness of having his urine inside me, reminding me that my body no longer belonged to me.

“This is a school, and you’ve come here to learn. Your evaluations will depend solely on your servitude to me. Now, without covering your breast, stand up and go to the blackboard.”

I stood up trembling, my naked breast swaying and my nipple hard as a stone, exposing me without remedy. He pressed my cheek against the cold blackboard, and my exposed breast came to rest against the edge, crushed against the wood, my nipple scraping against the molding.

“Face against it. Hands behind your back. Not a word.”

I felt his thick fingers move my panties aside. He tapped my ankles twice with his shoe; I understood that I had to spread my legs. I ended up bent over, my ass raised for him and my pussy exposed to the air, dripping with moisture that betrayed me. His fingers brushed my lower lips shamelessly, slowly opening them, and I felt his thumb pass between them, gathering my juices. Then he brought that wet thumb to my asshole and barely pressed the tip against the ring, only to watch me squeeze my thighs in shame.

“Look at you dripping, pig. Your mouth says ‘I don’t want to,’ but your pussy is dripping onto the floor. Down here, you don’t know how to lie.”

I thought he was preparing to sodomize me, but I was wrong. The cold tip of something enormous pressed against the entrance of my virgin pussy and began forcing its way in with a slowness that was pure torture. I felt the plastic glans push between my lower lips, felt my flesh give way millimeter by millimeter, felt my hymen stretch and protest. My tight pussy clenched in a useless attempt to defend itself; the toy forced it open, lubricated only by my own juices. A final, dry, deep thrust tore a sharp cry of pain from me when something inside me broke. I felt a hot prick, then the brutal filling, the sensation of being stuffed to the very bottom, the false testicles striking against my buttocks.

I managed not to scream and kept my hands still against the wall, where he had ordered them, despite the fire tearing through my pussy. A warm trickle of blood ran down my thigh. He collected it with two fingers and slowly painted it over my upper lip as if it were lipstick.

“There’s your prize: you’ve just lost your virginity to a piece of plastic because you don’t deserve mine. And yet look at you, squeezing that toy. Your pussy is hugging it, Noelia. You were born to have things inside you.”

“Hang on, Noelia. It’ll pass soon, once you take this,” he said, offering me a painkiller. “Now look at yourself. You have something belonging to me inside you. Remember that you’re nothing but an object, just like that toy. You’re both my property.”

Only when he gave me permission did I dare look back: it was a thick, veined black plastic phallus, with highly realistic testicles pressed against me. The base was shiny, soaked with my juices and streaked with red. He pulled my panties back over it, trapping the toy against my ravaged pussy, and finished with a hard slap to my ass that made the plastic cock tremble inside me and drew an involuntary moan from my lips.

“Listen to that little noise, bitch. That’s the sound of a freshly broken-in slut.”

“Take the mop from the closet and clean up the traces of urine you couldn’t swallow. I want to see how you manage. Not a word until I authorize it.”

I swallowed the pill without knowing what it was. I went silently to the closet, the toy shifting inside me with every step, brushing a deep spot I hadn’t known existed. As I mopped with my breast exposed, my free breast danced with the motion, the nipple brushing against the edge of the fallen silk, and with every push of the mop the plastic cock sank another inch inside me, pressing me against a place that was beginning to burn with a heat different from pain. I felt the painkiller lessen the pressure of the phallus inside me, but not the moisture: that only increased. A warm thread ran down the inside of my thigh, and I felt it sliding without being able to do anything. He watched me with a self-satisfied smile, one hand inside his trouser pocket, touching himself over the fabric without the slightest attempt at concealment.

“You’re completely incompetent with a simple mop. You’re not even fit to clean. Fortunately, that pussy of yours does seem to be useful. Look at it, dripping over my toy like a bitch in heat.”

When he decided I had done enough, he came up behind my ear and grabbed my naked breast with his whole hand, squeezing it until I flinched. With his thumb and forefinger he pinched my nipple, slowly twisted it, and let go while watching it grow even harder.

“You will not remove the toy under any circumstances. You’ll sleep with it inside you, piss with it inside you. When you touch yourself, I want you to do it with the plastic cock buried all the way inside you, thinking of me. Tomorrow you’ll receive me the same way. Don’t eat anything today or tomorrow; that way you’ll be clean inside, with your holes empty and ready for whatever I decide to put in them. Understood, bitch?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered automatically. I felt he would detect any lie. He smiled and finally allowed me to cover my breast and pull down my dress, though not before asking one final question.

“Are you really so pathetic that you haven’t noticed how much you’re dripping? Touch yourself and see what a slut you are.”

I obeyed, trembling. I slid my hand beneath the dress, moved the fabric of my soaked panties aside, and brushed my swollen pussy lips around the toy. Everything was smeared: my fingers sank into a thick layer of juices mixed with reddish threads and the hot moisture that kept coming out of me. When I barely pressed my swollen, throbbing clitoris, a spasm shook my legs. I withdrew my fingers, and they were glistening, a thick, transparent strand hanging between them. He came over, took my hand, and brought my fingers to his own mouth. He sucked them one by one, slowly, staring straight at me.

“You taste like a female in heat. Soaked by humiliation. Remember this, bitch: the next time you wonder whether you’re enjoying yourself, remember what you taste like right now.”

He withdrew his lips with a smack and gave a low laugh without taking his eyes off me, while I had no idea where to hide.

I left there dazed, recovering my sensual way of walking despite the invasion inside me. The toy shifted with every step, brushing that inner spot again and again, sending little jolts up through my belly. Every two blocks I had to stop to breathe; I could feel my juices dripping down the inside of my thigh, wetting me all the way to the back of my knee. I pretended to be outraged by his degrading treatment, and I was. But it was also true that it had been the first time I had ever come; I had never managed it by touching myself alone. That night, in my bed, with the phallus still buried in my swollen pussy, I touched my clitoris while thinking about his thick, veined cock, the smell of his balls stuck to my cheek, the taste of hot urine in my throat. I came three times in a row, biting the pillow, squeezing the toy with violent spasms, feeling my own juices soak the sheets beneath my ass. Even on that first day I began to understand it: being Don Teodoro’s submissive might be my new purpose. I still hadn’t lost my virginity to him, but I was beginning to understand that when it happened, when his cock finally opened me for real, it would be the greatest honor someone like me could hope for.

To be continued…