My master returned from Paris with a new demand

My name is Lucía. I’ve been divorced for four years, I work in the operations department of a logistics company in Valencia, and if there’s one thing I learned from my marriage, it’s that I’d rather have one complicated night than a predictable life. That, more or less, explains everything I’m about to tell.

I met César in 2022, when he was appointed regional manager. He arrived with that kind of confidence that doesn’t need to be proven: deep voice, precise gestures, the habit of saying little and meaning exactly what he said. It took me about three weeks to realize he was going to be a problem.

We started seeing each other outside the office in May that year. He was the one who laid down the rules from the first serious conversation we had: he decided, I accepted. He didn’t say it in a threatening or aggressive way. He said it like someone describing a geography he already knew by heart. And I, who had spent years looking for exactly that kind of clarity, accepted without him having to ask twice.

The first time I got fucked by César was at his place, on a Saturday night, after a dinner where we barely talked about work. He made me go upstairs in silence, took me to the bedroom, and pushed me against the wall without kissing me. He pulled my stockings down to my ankles with one hand while with the other he held me by the neck, not hard, just enough to let me know I wasn’t moving from there until he decided. He slid two fingers into my cunt without warning. I was already soaked before he touched me and he noticed right away. “Look at you,” he whispered in my ear, “you’ve been thinking about this all night.” I didn’t answer. There was no need.

He made me kneel in front of him and pulled his cock out of his pants himself. It was thick, straight, exactly the way I had imagined it in the weeks before while watching him in meetings. He shoved it into my mouth without asking, gripping my hair, setting the pace. “All of it,” he ordered. “Down to the base.” I tried to take him all the way and tears sprang to my eyes the first time he rammed into my throat. He didn’t stop. He didn’t ease up either. He kept thrusting into my mouth until my mascara was running and saliva was dripping in strings down my chin. Only then did he let me breathe. “Good girl,” he said. And I, who hadn’t heard anything affect me in years, felt those two words like a punch to the gut.

He fucked me three times that night. The first time against the wall, without taking me fully off, with my dress hiked up to my waist and my panties tied in a knot at one side. He drove his cock into me all the way and stayed inside for a few seconds, looking me in the eyes, waiting for me to say something, to ask for something, to lose my composure. The second time, face down on the bed, with one arm twisted behind my back, fucking my cunt with such calm that the orgasm caught me off guard and I came screaming into the pillow. The third time was in the middle of the night, half-asleep already, when he got on top of me without warning, spread my legs and came inside me in short, almost silent gasps, as if even when he was coming he needed to keep control.

The months that lasted were the most intense I remember. César never improvised. Every encounter had an internal logic that I never fully saw until I was already in the middle of it. I liked that loss of control. I liked his orders, his silences, the way a look from him could make me obey before I myself understood why I was obeying. In bed he was someone else: cold, completely focused, certain of what he wanted. And what he wanted always left me speechless for days.

The dominance games escalated slowly. First came the verbal orders: he made me describe out loud how I masturbated thinking about him, which fingers I used on my clit, how fast, how many times I shoved my fingers into my cunt before coming, leaving out no detail, while he fucked me slowly and wouldn’t let me finish. Then came the physical restraints: he started by tying my wrists with his tie, moved on to handcuffs, then to a long rope with which he tied my hands and feet to the four bedposts and left me there, open, for full minutes before touching me. He licked my cunt until I was on the edge and then stopped. Once, twice, three times. The fourth time he’d let me come and I’d scream so loudly that more than once the neighbors knocked on the wall. He thought it was funny.

Then came the controlled humiliation that we both knew was a game even though it felt completely real. He made me walk naked through his apartment while he answered emails without looking up. He made me wait on my knees beside his chair with my mouth open, doing nothing, just waiting, until he decided to put his cock in me. One night he came on my face, on my tits, and in my hair, forbade me from showering, and made me sleep like that, with dried cum stuck to my skin. Another time he fucked my ass for the first time, slowly, patiently, one lubricated finger first, then two, then his whole cock all the way in, not letting me come until I begged him three times in a row. I asked. I asked many times, and each time I was less surprised to be asking.

César had a particular talent for finding the exact point where discomfort becomes something else, something you want not to stop even though in theory you shouldn’t like it.

Then the company offer came: an important position in Paris, two years with the option to extend. He found out on a Thursday. He told me the following Friday, casually, in the hallway, like someone mentioning he’d changed coffee suppliers. That was César too: precise even in the way he made you feel unimportant.

For the first few months I tried to maintain some kind of contact. The messages got shorter, colder, until they simply stopped getting answered. César had closed that chapter with the same efficiency with which he handled everything else. It took me a lot longer to accept it. More than I’d have liked to admit back then.

I went on with my life. Tinder, some nights that were worth it, others that left nothing. There were a couple of guys who passed through my bed and I made them work, looking for something none of them found: that moment when César made me feel like my cunt wasn’t mine, that my ass wasn’t mine, that not even the air entering my lungs was my decision. None of them came close. Some tried in their own way, got me on all fours and fucked me however they felt like, and I came because my body is what it is and reacts to what it reacts to, but none of them left my head empty for three days. And then, in the autumn of last year, César came back.

He didn’t come back as a coworker. He came back as regional director. My direct superior. I saw him that first Monday with that renewed confidence Paris had added on top of the one he already had, meeting with international delegates, taking over glass-walled conference rooms. And I, apparently, had stopped being part of his map.

I spent weeks saying nothing. Watching from afar, telling myself that was all in the past, that there was no point reopening something he had closed without consulting me. Until one afternoon I got tired of waiting for him to make the first move and wrote to him. Just one line:

—I know I’m now an insignificant detail in your schedule. But if you ever want a private conversation, without work involved, I’ll be here.

I sent it and put the phone down before I could read it ten more times. Four days passed. Five. Six. Nothing. On the seventh, while I was washing the dishes after dinner, my phone buzzed with a message from him.

—Hi, Lucía. I hope you’re well. I’ll call you tonight.

That was all. No exclamation marks, no context, not the slightest sign of urgency. And yet it made me happy for the rest of the day in a way I wasn’t entirely proud of.

I stayed on the sofa with the TV on in the background, phone in hand, checking the screen every few minutes. Without realizing it, I’d slipped my hand under my skirt and was rubbing myself through my panties, slowly, almost without thinking, as if my body had gotten there before my head. When I snapped out of it, my panties were soaked and my nipples were so hard they showed through my T-shirt. I took all my clothes off, lay down on the sofa, and shoved two fingers into my cunt thinking about him, about his voice, about the way he’d grab my hair. I came in less than five minutes, biting the back of my hand so I wouldn’t make a sound. Then I stayed there, naked, staring at the ceiling, ashamed of how fast my body had gone back to obeying him. He didn’t call until after midnight.

—Hello, slut.

Just like that. No real greeting, no asking how I was. Just that.

—Hello, César —I replied—. Thanks for the “slut.” Very sophisticated coming from Paris.

He didn’t answer right away. That deliberate silence of his had always worked on me like a lure I knew was a lure and bit into anyway.

—I’m fine —he said at last—. Paris went well. But I missed this.

—This, yes? Not me?

—Exactly.

I felt a rage I couldn’t tell if it was wounded pride, genuine frustration, or something harder to name. In any other context it would have been an unacceptable answer from someone who wanted to keep talking to me. But with César language worked differently: coldness was part of the system, distance was the way he kept you tense. I knew it, and it was still effective.

The conversation continued along that same line for a while. He talked about Paris with the smugness of someone who had confirmed what he already suspected about himself. He didn’t ask about me. He didn’t ask about anything having to do with me. Until, just before hanging up, he let the question drop:

—What time do you usually go to the bathroom in the morning?

I went silent. The kind of silence that needs a moment to understand that yes, you heard what you think you heard.

—What? —I said.

—You heard me perfectly.

He was right. I had heard perfectly.

—Are you serious? —I asked.

—When I’m not, you’d notice. If you want to see me, answer.

—Usually around eight, before I go to the office —I replied. And I don’t really know why I answered.

—Good. Listen carefully: tomorrow at 7:55 you’ll open the door to your apartment and leave it ajar. You’ll undress and go into the bathroom. You’ll leave the door open and crouch down, with your back to the entrance. When you feel me there, you can begin.

There was a long silence. Mine.

I’m not going to do this. This has nothing to do with what came before. This isn’t a dominance game anymore, this is something completely different.

But I didn’t hang up.

—You’re a pig, César.

—Until tomorrow.

And he hung up.

I spent hours pacing. Replaying the conversation, searching for the internal logic of the request. From an objective point of view, it was indefensible: César was asking me to let him into my home so he could watch me at the most private and intimate moment there is. No sex, no contact, no promise of anything in return. Just that. The most radical display of vulnerability you can offer another person.

And yet.

There was something about that request that, however disturbing it was, had an internal coherence with everything César had been to me. He had always sought the exact point where control dissolves. He had always wanted to see me without any kind of filter. This was the logical conclusion of that search, pushed to an extreme I had never considered possible.

At one in the morning I got into bed and masturbated again, this time thinking not about the sex from before but about what he was going to ask me tomorrow. I came twice: once with three fingers buried in my cunt and my palm rubbing my clit, once with two fingers in my ass and my cunt leaking on its own, with nobody touching me. I hated myself a little for both.

I’m not going to do it.

I fell asleep convinced of that.

***

The alarm went off at seven. I’d been awake for a while. I got up, made breakfast like every morning: fruit, yogurt, a long coffee. I drank it slowly, looking out the window, telling myself I was completely calm.

At 7:40 I cleared the dishes and left them in the sink.

At 7:45 I was sitting on the sofa with my feet on the floor and my phone face down on the cushion.

At 7:50 I got undressed.

I took the key, opened the apartment door, and left it ajar, resting against the frame. I went into the bathroom barefoot, without turning on the ceiling light, only the mirror light. And I positioned myself exactly as he’d instructed: crouching, back to the door, feet flat on the floor, my spine as straight as I could keep it.

The position was uncomfortable. My knees hurt a little. My body was tense, my stomach muscles contracted, and a mixture of shame and something that wasn’t exactly shame was churning inside me. I could feel my cunt open between my thighs, my ass cheeks spread, my hole pointed toward the hallway, exposed to the bathroom’s cold air. Breakfast, nerves, and the three times I’d been to the bathroom before he arrived had done part of the work. The rest depended on the moment.

I heard the sound of the door closing.

His footsteps in the hallway. Unhurried, no rush. Like everything he did.

And then silence.

I felt his presence behind me before I heard anything else. It wasn’t intuition or imagination: it was the heat of another person in a small space, the slightest shift in the air of a closed bathroom. César was there.

I closed my eyes. My body made the decision for me, as if it had been waiting all morning for that specific permission. It wasn’t an elegant or quiet process. It was completely real, completely exposed, and there was nothing at that moment I could hide or control. My anus opened naturally while nerves and coffee did their work. Two long, heavy dumps that hit the tiled floor with a hollow sound. César breathed behind me without saying a word.

When I was done I stayed motionless, in that position that was already weighing on my legs, waiting. The shame was still there, but it had turned into something else: not exactly humiliation, but the sense of having crossed a line whose place I no longer knew. My cunt was wet. So wet I could feel liquid running down the inside of my right thigh. I didn’t understand which part of me had decided to react like that to something that had nothing to do with desire. But there it was, betraying me, making it clear that my body belonged to him even if my head had spent months repeating that it didn’t.

—You’re still just as precise —César said from behind me—. And you still have the same back as always.

It wasn’t a conventional compliment. It was César being exactly what he had always been: someone who observes and catalogs without losing distance.

I turned slowly. He was leaning in the doorway, fully dressed, arms crossed. He looked at me without looking away. Not with desire, exactly. With something closer to the satisfaction of someone confirming a hypothesis he’d wanted to test for a long time. His eyes dropped for a second to my tits, to the bush of my cunt hair, to the dampness shining on my thighs, and returned to my face without his expression changing. Not a movement toward his fly. Not a hand reaching out. Nothing.

—Will you want to meet up sometime now? —I asked. The question sounded smaller than I wanted it to.

César waited a moment before speaking.

—I’d like to —he said—. But this week I’m handing in my resignation. I’m going to the competition. I’m leaving the country again.

I looked at him without fully understanding.

—What do you mean, you’re leaving?

—You heard me.

He left just like that. He closed the bathroom door with the same calm he’d come in with. I heard his footsteps moving away down the hallway. The apartment door shut with a dry, final click.

I stayed there, on the bathroom floor, my back against the tub, legs still open and my cunt wetting my thighs, processing what had just happened. I had given in to the most absurd and extreme request anyone had ever made of me. Not just for him: also for that part of me that doesn’t know how to back down when a game gets uncomfortable, that turns any limit into a challenge, that needs to know how far it goes before deciding it goes no farther. César had known that from the beginning. He had always known. I had given him exactly what he was looking for and gotten nothing in return, not even a conversation between two people who had once truly known each other. Not even a cock in my mouth, not a hand driving fingers deep into my cunt, not a look that lasted longer than he allowed. Nothing.

Before showering I took my hand to my cunt and came right there, sitting on the floor, with three fingers inside me and biting my lip, furious and aroused at the same time, not quite knowing which of the two things the orgasm was for. It took less than a minute. He had done that to me too, without touching me.

I showered. I got dressed. I arrived at the office at quarter to nine like any other day. No one noticed anything.

Two weeks later César’s office was empty. A new nameplate, a new name, someone who probably had no history with me or with anything that had happened in that bathroom.

The only thing I really took away from all that, besides the rage and the bitter laugh that escaped me days later when I told the story out loud for the first time, is that that position has real physiological advantages the conventional toilet doesn’t offer. The spine and bowel emptying confirm it.

And that César can go wherever the hell he likes.