My Master Exhibited Me and Sealed My Submission

The first three days in Mauro’s apartment had been neither a game nor a lighthearted fantasy. They had been a harsh, precise test, designed to wear me down and, at the same time, empty me of my old need to argue about everything. I slept on a blanket thrown across the floor, the cold creeping up my legs and the fresh marks burning on my ass every time I shifted position.

Every morning began the same way. The sound of his footsteps. The brief whistle of the cane slicing through the air. Ten exact strokes, not one more or one less. Then, while he ate breakfast with a calm that sometimes drove me more desperate than the punishment, I cleaned the apartment naked, my body sensitive, my thighs tense, and a constant wetness between my legs that embarrassed me to admit even to myself.

The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was discovering how much obeying turned me on.

That afternoon, on the third day, however, something changed. Mauro came out of the study with a black bag in his hand and tossed it at my feet without even looking at me.

“Put it on.”

I opened the bag slowly. Until then, my skin had been my only uniform. What I found inside made me swallow hard. A tight black bodysuit with a glossy finish, openings at the sides of the waist, and a reinforced fastening at the front. There were also fishnet stockings, a pair of padded cuffs, and a wide collar with a metal ring at the front.

“Can I get dressed now?” I asked, and my voice sounded shakier than I wanted.

He looked up from his phone and gave me the faintest smile.

“Don’t get dressed. Get ready for me. It’s different.”

I put it on in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror as if I were seeing another woman. The bodysuit clung to my skin like a second layer and squeezed my tits, lifting them. The fishnets framed my thighs with obscene delicacy, and the collar immediately made me feel more exposed than when I was naked. When I fastened the cuffs, even though they weren’t attached to anything yet, I shuddered.

I returned to the bedroom with my heart pounding against my chest. Mauro was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me with that cold calm that always undid me more thoroughly than a shout.

“Come here.”

I did. He ran his thumb over the collar’s ring, made the metal ring, and then spread his legs wider.

“Kneel on the bed.”

I stood still for a second. The bed had been forbidden territory ever since I crossed the apartment’s threshold. Seeing it so close, now finally permitted, stirred a strange mixture of relief, pride, and an almost childish excitement in me. I climbed onto the mattress and knelt in front of him, my back straight and my hands behind me.

“That’s it,” he said.

He stood, positioned himself behind me, and began combing my hair with his fingers. He divided it into two side ponytails, pulling each one until it made me arch my back. The gesture was humiliating and provocative. Not because it made me look younger, but because it made me feel manufactured by him, arranged to his liking, turned into a living doll with my pussy throbbing between my legs.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered.

He led me in front of the wardrobe mirror. I saw the collar, the stockings, the marked skin, the ponytails, the brightness in my eyes. I looked ridiculous and, at the same time, incredibly turned on. My mouth was slightly open and my chest was rising quickly. I looked like a woman desperate to be used.

“You’re beautiful when you accept what you are,” he murmured behind me.

I felt the phone against my face before I understood what he was about to do. He began taking pictures of me. Kneeling. In profile. With my chin raised by his hand. With my back arched. With my wrists crossed in front of my body so the cuffs and the collar’s ring could be seen.

“Smile.”

I smiled.

“Now lower your eyes.”

I obeyed.

“Now spread your legs a little wider.”

I did, and the bodysuit stretched tight over my sex. I wasn’t completely covered; the cut of the garment made it clear enough for the photograph to say exactly what kind of possession it was portraying. I felt a stab of embarrassment, followed by a brutal wave of desire.

He showed me one of the images on the screen. The woman I saw there looked defeated and yet glowed with pride. I recognized myself in that expression, and it turned me on even more.

“Perfect,” I whispered without thinking.

Mauro held my gaze in the reflection.

“Of course you are.”

He uploaded one of the photos to his social media. Then he logged into my account, because I had given him the passwords myself on the first day, thinking this would be a short fantasy. He posted the same image from my profile with a brief, brutal sentence that could not be misinterpreted.

I didn’t take my eyes off the screen. I felt the blow in my stomach. I imagined messages, calls, judgment, scandal. And instead of asking him to stop, I felt my thighs grow wetter.

“Everyone will know,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

He left the phone on the nightstand, grabbed me by the collar ring, and made me return to the bed on all fours. The mattress sank beneath my knees. I was breathing far too fast. My whole body was alert, as if my skin had turned into a listening organ.

“Tell me why you don’t care.”

I swallowed.

“Because I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

“No. Again.”

I felt a sharp tug on the collar.

“Because I don’t care what other people think if you’re satisfied, sir.”

“Better.”

His hand caressed my back slowly, from the nape of my neck to the base of my spine. It wasn’t tenderness. It was inspection. When he reached my ass, he squeezed hard over the fresh marks, and I let out a moan.

“It still hurts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re still dripping.”

I bit my lip. He parted my thighs with his knee and slid two fingers beneath the bodysuit, straight between my swollen lips. He went in only a little, just enough to gather my wetness and then hold it up in front of my face.

“Look at what a slut you are.”

He sucked his fingers without taking his eyes off me. The gesture shook me more than any order. I wanted to rub myself against the bed, but I stayed still.

“Don’t move,” he said, as if he had read my thoughts.

He slipped his hand beneath my belly, pulled the bodysuit’s fastening, and ripped it open. Then he tore the fabric at the crotch with a sharp tug. The sound went through me. I felt the cold air on my wet pussy, and an embarrassed gasp escaped me.

“Look at how wet I am, sir... please.”

He slapped one of my ass cheeks hard.

“Don’t ask. Wait.”

Obeying was torture. I heard him open his pants behind me. I heard the buckle, the zipper, the rustle of fabric. My body reacted on its own; my shoulders tensed and I pushed my ass backward.

“Desperate,” he murmured.

One hand held the back of my neck. The other settled between my legs, guiding the hard tip of his cock through my folds. He ran it over me once, twice, rubbing my clitoris without entering. I was already trembling.

“Say who’s going to fuck you.”

“You, sir.”

“Who’s going to open you?”

“You.”

“Whose pussy is this?”

I closed my eyes for a moment, completely defeated.

“Yours.”

Then he penetrated me with a single thrust.

I screamed. The impact opened me from within and shoved my body forward. Mauro stayed buried all the way inside me for one full second, letting me feel everything: the thickness, the pressure, the pain mixed with the animal relief of finally having what I had wanted for three days.

“That’s it,” he growled against my ear. “That’s how I wanted you.”

He began moving without gentleness. He pulled almost all the way out and thrust back in with a brutal rhythm that made the bed creak and the headboard bang against the wall. I could barely hold myself up on my forearms. The collar tightened around my throat each time he pulled me back to meet another thrust.

“Wider,” he ordered.

I spread my knees farther apart. The new position made him go even deeper. I let out a hoarse moan, and my elbows buckled.

“That’s it, slut. Take it.”

He fucked me like that for several minutes, hard and steady, pounding my ass with his hips while one hand squeezed my waist and the other tangled in my ponytails to keep me upright. Pleasure arrived as something dirty and hot, growing at once in my belly and the pit of my stomach. I panted his title every few seconds.

“Sir... sir... fuck...”

“Speak clearly.”

Another thrust. And another.

“You’re fucking me like a slut.”

He gave a low, dry laugh.

“Because that’s what you are here.”

He slipped one hand between my legs and found my swollen clitoris. He began rubbing it with two fingers while continuing to penetrate me at the same pace, and the combination nearly shattered me. My body no longer knew whether to pull away or press harder against him. All I could do was tremble and take it.

“Don’t come until I tell you.”

The order pulled a louder moan from me. I clutched the sheet with my fingers, squeezing so hard that my cuffed hands hurt. Mauro kept giving me cock and fingers at the same time, bringing me right to the edge and leaving me there, my pussy contracting around him.

“Look at me,” he said.

I turned my head as best I could. He forced me to watch us in the wardrobe mirror: my body bent over, the bodysuit torn, the stockings, the collar, his hand in my hair, his cock sliding in and out of me without mercy. Seeing it was worse. Or better. My body answered with a spasm so strong that a sob escaped me.

“Is that what you wanted? To see yourself being used?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For everyone to know how much it turns you on to belong to me?”

“Yes.”

“Then earn it.”

He released me abruptly and turned me over. I fell onto my back on the mattress, still open, still wet, my chest rising and falling. He grabbed my thighs and dragged me toward the edge of the bed. My legs were raised over his shoulders.

The next penetration, face-to-face, was even deeper. I watched him clench his jaw as he drilled into me at a hard, steady pace, entering exactly where he stole my breath. My tits bounced with every thrust. He squeezed them carelessly, pinched my nipples through the bodysuit, and then lowered his mouth to bite one through the fabric.

“Say you like it.”

“I like it.”

“Louder.”

“I like you fucking me like this!”

He gave me a light slap on the cheek, more humiliating than painful.

“Like what?”

I was so open, so aroused, that the words came out on their own.

“Like your slut. Like your submissive.”

The answer ignited him. He thrust even harder, lifting me almost off the bed with every blow. I felt my pussy opening around him again and again, pleasure ceasing to be delicate and turning into a blind, crude, purely physical need.

Then he released my thighs, seized one wrist, and brought it to his mouth. He kissed the skin reddened by the cuff and then spat onto my fingers.

“Suck your hand.”

I did it without thinking. He watched me for a second, then looked away in satisfaction, as if that gesture of obedience aroused him almost as much as fucking me.

Then he pulled out of me. The emptiness made me protest with a pathetic sound.

“On all fours again.”

I climbed off the bed clumsily, my legs trembling. He positioned me on my knees at the edge, my chest pressed into the mattress and my ass raised. He opened me with his fingers, spat between my buttocks, and brought one finger to my asshole, pressing slowly.

I tensed.

“Breathe.”

I obeyed. The finger entered slowly, burning a little. Then it moved inside me, preparing me, while his other hand returned to stroking my clitoris. The combination made me moan into the sheet.

“That will learn to obey too.”

It wasn’t a punishment or a surprise; it was a warning delivered with complete naturalness. He withdrew his finger, slapped me hard, and penetrated my pussy again before I could think any further. The thrust tore a cry from me and left me dripping down my own thighs.

“Not yet,” he said, surely noticing the way I contracted. “Hold on.”

He leaned over me, pressing his chest to my back, and spoke into my ear while he kept fucking me.

“Your family is going to look at that picture and understand nothing.”

Another thrust.

“Your friends are going to write to you as if they have any right to an opinion.”

Another.

“But this body responds to my cock better than it ever has to any advice they’ve given you in your life.”

“Yes, sir,” I gasped, almost crying with arousal.

“And you know it.”

I knew it. Fuck, did I know it. On the nightstand, the phone vibrated several times in quick succession. Mauro reached out, picked it up, and showed it to me for a few seconds without stopping his movements inside me. Missed calls. Messages arriving one after another. Familiar names.

Shame shot through me like an electric charge. And immediately that shame became fuel. I came a little without permission, barely a wet spasm, and he noticed.

“Did you come?”

“No... a little... I’m sorry...”

He seized me by the neck and pulled me upright until he forced me to arch against his chest.

“I didn’t give you permission.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

His hand dropped between my legs and began rubbing me violently, punishing me exactly where I was already far too sensitive. Pleasure became almost unbearable.

“Now you’re going to come when I want you to, and you’re going to do it saying who’s in charge.”

I could barely breathe. He increased his pace, driving into me deeply again and again while his fingers worked me mercilessly. The wet sound between my legs filled the bedroom. The bed pounded against the wall. All I could do was moan, bite the sheet, and tremble.

“Say it.”

“You’re in charge.”

“Louder.”

“You’re in charge!”

“Who decides when you come?”

“You do, sir!”

“Then come.”

The orgasm exploded inside me. It wasn’t a gentle wave; it was a brutal discharge that robbed my legs of their strength. I felt my pussy clamp down on him in rapid spasms while I screamed into the mattress. Mauro didn’t slow down. He kept fucking me throughout the orgasm, prolonging it until it stopped being clean pleasure and became a raw, almost painful sensitivity.

“That’s it,” he growled. “I like seeing you this way.”

I was still trembling when he pulled out abruptly and turned me over again. He sat on the edge of the bed, his cock hard, wet, and gleaming, and tugged gently on the collar ring.

“Open your mouth.”

I opened it immediately. Mauro put the tip inside, tapping my tongue once, twice, before going deeper. Instinctively, I placed my hands on his thighs. He held my hair with one hand and guided the rhythm with the other.

“I want to see you swallow.”

I sucked him as he had taught me over those days: flat tongue, wet lips, breathing through my nose, relaxing my throat when he pushed me all the way down. My head was spinning, but I also felt absurdly proud of doing it well. Each time the tip brushed the back of my throat, my eyes filled with tears.

“Good girl,” he said, and the praise went through me completely.

That made me redouble my effort. I took him deeper, moving my head with genuine hunger, with that mixture of submission and desire I could no longer pretend wasn’t mine. He began thrusting his hips, using my mouth more forcefully. Saliva ran down my chin and stained the torn bodysuit over my chest.

“That’s it, fuck... that’s it...”

I could tell when he was close from the tension in his thighs and the way he held my hair more firmly. He pushed me all the way down and stayed there for a second before coming. The first release struck the back of my throat, hot and thick. I swallowed reflexively. Then came another, and another. Mauro didn’t let me go until he had emptied himself completely into my mouth.

When he finally let me pull away, my lips were swollen and my breathing was wrecked. He ran his thumb along the corner of my mouth, gathered a trace of cum, and put it back between my lips.

“All of it.”

I swallowed while looking him in the eyes.

“Very good.”

That “very good” left me more naked than all the pictures put together.

I collapsed onto my side on the bed, panting, my pussy still throbbing and some of his cum sliding from my chin down to my neck. Mauro didn’t embrace me. He never confused possession with comfort. But he let me remain there, my head near his thigh, as if that place already belonged to me.

The phone vibrated on the nightstand again. This time I didn’t want to look. I already knew what was waiting outside: questions, scandal, other people’s fear. Inside that room, only my spent body and the man who had just used it exactly as he wanted mattered.

“Look at me,” he said after a while.

I lifted my face.

“There’s no going back.”

I wet my lips.

“I know, sir.”

“And?”

I felt the weight of the collar, the burning in my ass, my used throat, my sensitive, open pussy. I also felt a filthy, intense, completely new peace.

“And I don’t want to go back.”

Mauro nodded, satisfied. He gestured with two fingers for me to kneel between his legs again. I did so without hesitation. I rested my cheek on his thigh while he stroked my disheveled hair, now without the earlier theatrical care. Outside, the world would continue making its noise. In there, however, everything had become clear.

For the first time since I had crossed that door, I didn’t feel as though I were being tested. I felt accepted in my exact place: exhausted, marked, exhibited, and, precisely because of that, more surrendered than ever.

That was when I knew that what had begun as a fantasy was already something else. Not clean love. Not romance. Something rawer, more uncomfortable, and more honest. The certainty that my body had found someone to obey.

And that certainty made me spread my legs again even before he ordered me to.