My First Submission Session Ended Up Not as I Expected

The day had been brutal. Twelve hours on my feet, an unbearable boss, and a subway ride that left my legs like cotton. Any other night I would have collapsed into bed without dinner, but that night I had a commitment that mattered more than all the exhaustion in the world. I had promised to show up, and you don’t make promises to Damián lightly.

I climbed the three flights slowly, rehearsing what I was going to say. It was useless. The moment he opened the door and looked me up and down, the words dried up in my throat. He had that calm of someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed, and I, who had spent the whole day giving orders to nobody, felt a strange relief at not having to decide anything anymore.

—Come in —he said, and nothing more.

I took refuge in the only thing I knew: protocol. I left my bag where he had told me to in our messages, went into the kitchen, and poured two glasses of wine. His first. Then I stood beside his armchair with the glass in my hand, waiting for permission to sit. He made me wait just long enough for me to notice.

—Sit.

We talked for a while. About normal things, almost, though nothing in that room was normal for me. He wanted to know me before beginning: what scared me, what I liked, where the line was that he mustn’t cross. I gave him our safeword like someone handing over a key. As long as I have this, I’m safe, I thought. And I clung to that idea with both hands.

Then the conversation died away and the air changed density.

—Go get ready —he said—. You have five minutes. Naked. Everything off. And I want to see your tits hard when you come back, so think about what you’re going to do here with me.

***

In the bathroom I washed my face with cold water and held on to the sink for a moment. My heart was racing, split in two halves that could not agree: one wanted to run, the other was more awake and alive than it had been in months. I took three deep breaths, let my hair down, and looked at myself in the mirror. The woman looking back seemed ready for anything.

I took off my clothes piece by piece, folding them on the toilet lid. When I got to my panties, I noticed they were already wet, sticky against my cunt, a thread tugging at my lips when I pulled them down my thighs. I touched myself for a second, just to check: my fingers came away shiny. I was soaked through without him having touched me at all. I pinched my nipples slowly, one and then the other, until they felt hard as stones under my fingertips, just as he had ordered. I walked naked into the hallway with my pulse pounding between my legs.

I went back, asked permission to enter, and crossed the threshold into the room. The session had begun.

The first thing was the position he called “the wall”: my back to the wall, without touching it, legs bent as if I were sitting on an invisible chair, knees apart. It looks easy until the second minute makes your thighs shake. I held it. Seven minutes that stretched like hours, with my arms rigid at my sides and my teeth clenched, my exposed tits rising and falling with each breath, and the only order that mattered echoing in my head: don’t move, don’t close your legs.

He came over and looked at my open cunt like that, without touching it yet. Just looking. I felt shame rise up my neck like a slap. He bent down just enough to have it at eye level and blew, a long warm breath against my swollen lips. A moan slipped out of me and my knees trembled harder.

—You’re dripping —he said with that calm of his—. I haven’t even touched you, slut.

—I know, sir.

—Open wider.

I opened. My thighs burned, my back scraped against the textured wall, and he stayed there, looking at my soaking cunt like someone studying a map. He ran one finger, just one, all along my slit, from bottom to top, never reaching my clit, and put it in his mouth. He sucked it slowly. I watched him do it and came close to getting off right there against the wall, with nothing more than the sight of his tongue.

While I held the position, his other hand came down on my skin. The first smack tore a sound from me that I didn’t know whether it was pain or something else. The second I understood better. There is an exact point where stinging turns to heat and heat turns into something that climbs up your back and settles at the nape of your neck. I live for that point. I discovered it that night, and I haven’t stopped looking for it since. His hands moved from one to the other: thigh, ass, inner thigh, thigh again, each sharp blow making me clench my cunt in the air, searching for a contact that never came.

—Are you still here? —he asked.

—Yes, sir.

—Good. On the floor. On all fours. Ass up.

I obeyed. I’m small, slim, the kind of body that looks like it could break from a breath. I dropped onto the parquet and arched my back as he asked, face against the wood, ass lifted, tits hanging. He sat in front of me and, without hurry, rested his bare feet on my back. Not all his weight at once, but little by little, measuring me, checking how far he could go. I dug my knees into the floor and kept my elbows firm, and bore every gram. Not because he ordered me to, but because I needed to prove to myself that I could be that: a support, a useful surface, something he could use and that wouldn’t break.

—You weigh nothing —I murmured, half joking, my face pressed to the parquet.

—Shut up and hold.

And I held. There was something in the feel of his soles against my shoulder blades that undid me inside. It wasn’t the weight. It was what it meant. Being beneath him, literally, and discovering that down there it was easier to breathe than I had ever imagined. One of his feet slid down my side, circled my hip, and found my soaked cunt. He rubbed it slowly with the instep, and I, without permission, pushed my hips against his foot, looking for more.

—Stay still —he said, and slapped my ass so hard it made me jump—. Nobody told you to rub yourself against my foot, bitch.

—Sorry, sir.

—Hold the position. And if you come without permission, I’m not letting myself suck you off tonight.

A muffled moan slipped out of me. Just the threat of not having it in my mouth closed my throat with desire. I shut my eyes and let the floor and his feet define the outline of the world, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t come at the mere memory of the word suck you off.

—That’s it —he said, and those two words filled me more than a whole day of empty praise at work.

After a while he made me turn over, lying on my back, and stood beside me. He unzipped himself and took out his hard cock, thick, the tip already shining. He laid it across my face without putting it in yet, resting it against my cheek, and I turned my mouth toward it like a hungry bitch. He let me lick just the tip, a brush of tongue, before pulling away.

—Open.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could. He pushed it in slowly until it hit the back of my throat and made me tear up, and there he held it, his hand on my forehead, while I choked and drooled from the corners of my mouth. He pulled out, let me breathe, and shoved it back in. Fucking my mouth to his rhythm, unhurried, feeling my throat tighten around him. I reached a hand toward my cunt without thinking and he knocked it away.

—Hands where I can see them. The only one getting off here is me.

I nodded with my mouth full. When he pulled out completely, a thread of saliva linked my lip to the head of his cock. I broke it with my tongue.

***

Not everything was revelation. When he took out the leash and fastened it around my neck, something in me resisted. Crawling across the room, led gently by that strip of leather, my ass still red and my cunt leaking down my thighs, filled me with a thick shame I still don’t fully understand. My knees burned against the floor, my head told me that was humiliating, and yet the exact pressure of the leather around my throat gave me a dizziness that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Two sensations fighting in the same body. That night I learned that discomfort and desire don’t always live in separate rooms.

—How are you doing? —His voice had softened a degree, barely.

—Weird —I admitted—. But good. And my cunt’s a mess.

—I can see that. You’re leaving a trail on the parquet, slut. Keep going.

—“Weird” is allowed —he added—. Tell me if it goes beyond that.

I nodded. And we continued. He led me to the bed by the leash and laid me on my back at the edge, my head hanging off the mattress. He stood in front of me and shoved himself into my mouth again, this time upside down, all the way to the back of my throat. From that angle he went in differently, deeper, and I could barely breathe between thrusts. He squeezed my tits with both hands while he fucked my face, pinching my nipples until I moaned around his cock. I felt his release gathering at the tip and thought he was going to come in my throat, but he pulled out before that happened.

—Not yet —he murmured, and ran his thumb over my swollen lips—. I want to come in your cunt first.

What really tested me was the flogger. Before he touched me with it, the sound alone already terrified me: that dry whistle of the tails cutting through the air. I heard it once, as a test, against the mattress, and my whole body went rigid. The second time he raised it, fear got the better of me and I said the word. I said it without thinking, like a reflex.

He stopped immediately. He dropped the flogger on the bed, bent down to my level, and brushed my hair away from my face.

—You’re safe —he said—. Nothing happens here that you don’t allow. Breathe.

I breathed. It took me a couple of minutes to gather my courage, but I did. I told him I wanted to try, that fear couldn’t win that night, and he waited until I asked him in so many words before starting again.

The first strike was an explosion. Pure burn, spreading across the skin of my ass and back like boiling water, and behind the burn, on its heels, a pleasure that left me defenseless. Each impact emptied me a little more, peeling layers away until I was so exposed I felt like crying and laughing at the same time. Not from sadness. From relief. From surrendering something I had been carrying alone for too long. My cunt kept clenching in the void, tightening around air, looking for something to fill it.

When there was nothing left to hold on to, he set the flogger aside and turned me face-down on the bed, ass in the air, face buried in the sheets. His fingers went wherever they wanted. Two went into my cunt at once, all the way in, drawing a long moan from me that the pillow muffled. He pulled them out shiny, soaked, ran them over my lips so I could taste what my own heat tasted like, and shoved them back in. A third finger went in and stretched me in a way that made me clench my teeth. He fucked me with his hand at a slow pace, torturing me, stopping every time he felt I was about to come.

—Ask me —he said, his mouth at my ear—. Ask me to fuck you.

—Please —I panted—. Please, sir, fuck me.

—Where?

—In my cunt. Put it in my cunt, please.

I felt him line up against my parted lips, test for a second, and with one hard thrust he was all the way in. I screamed into the pillow. He was wide, wider than he had felt in my mouth, and he filled me so much that pain mixed with pleasure in sharp little stabs. He stayed there for a second, breathing into the back of my neck, giving me time, and then he began to move. Slow thrusts at first, each one all the way in, drawing sounds from me I didn’t recognize as mine. Then faster. The sound of his hips against my abused ass filled the room, mixed with the wet slap of my soaked cunt taking him over and over.

He grabbed my hair and pulled back, arching my spine, forcing my face up off the pillow so he could hear every moan unfiltered.

—Tell me what you are.

—Your slut, sir.

—Again.

—Your slut, your bitch, whatever you want.

When he tested that other, more intimate, tighter place, everything got complicated all at once. The intrusion —just his thumb, wet with my own juices, pressing at the hole while his cock kept moving in my cunt— was painful and filled me with burning shame, my cheeks on fire, my breathing ragged. And even so, between pain and embarrassment, there were sparks of something new, flashes that made me push back instead of pulling away. The thumb barely went in an inch, testing, and that double pressure —my cunt full, my ass beginning to give— made me tremble in a different way.

—Slowly —he asked, reading me—. We’re not in a hurry. That hole is for another day.

We weren’t. It’s a territory I’ve only just begun to know, one I want to learn to inhabit so I can give it to him fully when he asks. That night we only crossed the threshold. It was enough to know I’ll cross it again.

He withdrew his thumb and focused on my cunt. He increased the pace, brutal, merciless, each thrust punching the air out of me. He slipped his hand underneath and found my clit, swollen, slick. Two circles and I couldn’t take it anymore.

—Sir, please, I’m going to come, please.

—Come. On my cock. Now.

I came like I had never come before. A long spasm that rose from my feet, ripped through my belly, and burst out of my throat as a muffled scream into the pillow. My cunt clenched around his cock in waves, milking it, and he held on for a couple more thrusts before pulling out and coming in spurts over my reddened ass and across my back still marked by the flogger. I felt the hot lashes of semen landing on my aching skin and that tore another small orgasm from me, softer, almost an extra treat.

He stayed there on his knees behind me, breathing hard, his cock emptying over my body, and I with my face wet with saliva and tears, trembling all over on the rumpled sheets.

***

Then came the good silence. He cleaned my back and ass with a warm towel, wrapped me in a blanket, gave me water, let me tremble against his chest until my body understood it was over. And while he stroked my sore back, I started taking stock of what that night had taught me.

I learned that the mind can go further than the body. I arrived shattered, certain I wouldn’t last even the first exercise, and the exhaustion evaporated the moment something stronger than it appeared: the desire to serve, to rise to the occasion, not to disappoint him or myself.

I learned that I’m more resilient than my head lets me believe. My body endured the weight, the smacks, the burn of the flogger, the cock going all the way in, things I would have sworn that very morning were impossible. Being small and slim stopped being an excuse. The strength wasn’t in the muscles.

And I learned the most important thing: surrender is not losing control, but trusting the one who holds it for you. The safeword was not a surrender. It was proof that in that room, no matter that I was on my knees with a cock in my mouth and my ass in the air, there was someone making sure nothing happened to me that I didn’t want. That certainty is what makes me want to go back.

I left there bruised, with red knees, skin burning, and my cunt sore and satisfied, and more whole than I had entered in a very long time. Damián walked me to the door, held my face in his hands for a second, and told me I had done well. Three words. I went down the three flights floating, with his semen still drying beneath my clothes.

I’m writing this still sore in my body and with my head full of new questions. I know I’m only just beginning, that this was only the first page of something long. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed —and suffered— living it. Thank you for making it this far, and for accompanying me on this path I’m only just opening.