My Mistress Decides When I’m a Man and When I’m Not

For months now, you’ve been repeating the same ritual every time the house is empty. You lock the bedroom door even though no one’s there, as if the secret needed a lock. You take off your pants and underwear, leaving that small thing you have between your legs exposed, and lie down on the bed with your heart already beating faster than you should admit.

You lift your hips and pull up the usual video on your phone. On the screen, a woman you could never touch adjusts a harness with a thick dildo strapped to her waist. She’s exactly the kind of woman who wouldn’t look at you twice, and that’s part of what turns you on: the distance between what she is and what you are.

She positions herself in front of the camera, ready to fuck an ass that, you tell yourself, at least serves to give someone pleasure. You start masturbating. Two fingers are enough for something so ridiculously small, and that realization, far from embarrassing you, only stokes you more. You close your eyes and imagine yourself being fucked by that indifferent goddess.

—Do you like me fucking you in the ass, little bitch? —the woman in the video says, without even looking at the camera.

—Yes… —you whisper into the pillow—, give me more, please.

You watch her thrust harder and harder, and in your head you’re no longer on the bed: you’re on your knees, bent over, taking it. Your breathing becomes short and broken in time with your hand. This is what I am, you think, and the thought doesn’t hurt; it only pulls you deeper into pleasure.

—You gonna cum already? —you hear her say—. Come on, give it all to me. Ten, nine, eight… hang on a little longer, bitch.

You try to hold on, but it gets harder every time. You’re not only small and submissive; you also always finish too soon, as if your body won’t even grant you that last shred of dignity.

—Three, two, one… now!

On the screen, she opens her mouth and a stream crosses her face. You cum almost at the same time, with a muffled moan, and you lie there staring at the ceiling, breathless, with a mixture of relief and shame you know by heart.

You wipe yourself with the same underwear you just took off and, for a few minutes, swear you’ll never do it again. That it’s sick, that it isn’t healthy to need to humiliate yourself to get all the way there. You swear it every time. And every time, two or three days later, you lock that door that doesn’t need locking.

***

Another thing you’ve learned to enjoy is bathing naked in the pool when you know no one’s going to show up. You strip on the edge, feeling the afternoon air on your skin, and slide in slowly. The cold water shrinks what little you have even more, and for some reason that physical humiliation — seeing just how small you can get — feels delicious.

While you float on your back, you imagine stepping out of the water and finding a group of women on the loungers. You picture them pointing at you, laughing quietly, commenting among themselves about what they’re seeing. In your fantasy there’s no mercy, and that’s exactly what you want.

You climb out dripping and sit on the wet edge. You grab yourself and start jerking off shamelessly, with the water still cool on your thighs and the air on your balls. You don’t stop for a second. You feel the wave rise from below, unstoppable, until finally you cum on the hot tiles of the edge.

—Fuck… —you say, as your strength leaves you and the last drops fall to the floor.

You let yourself slide back into the water and stay there for a while, letting the pool wash away the evidence, wondering why you need to humiliate yourself to feel something so intense.

***

But without a doubt, your favorite fantasy is always the same. You repeat it so many times in your head that it already has a fixed script, a scene you know down to its pauses.

You’re naked, tied hand and foot, in front of a woman dressed in leather from head to toe. She has made it very clear to you a thousand times that clothes are for people and nakedness is for animals, and that you belong to the second category. She always speaks to you with that calm that’s more frightening than any scream.

In the fantasy, she positions herself behind you. She bites your earlobe while her gloved hand slides down and holds that thing you have the indecency to call a cock. She whispers that it’s pathetic, that she doesn’t understand how you dare call it that, and each word runs down your spine like an electric current.

—One day I should cut them off —she murmurs against your neck, barely squeezing your scrotum between her latex fingers.

That is exactly the moment you like most. The instant you feel the cold glove encircle you, your manhood literally at her mercy, with nothing you can do because the ropes won’t let you. She toys with the idea slowly, enjoying your fear and your desire in equal measure.

Sometimes she stretches that moment out for whole minutes inside your head. She asks you whether you think you deserve to keep them, forces you to answer out loud, corrects you when you stammer. The fantasy is so detailed you can almost smell the leather of the outfit and feel the cold floor under your knees.

In the most extreme version, the one you only allow yourself on nights when you’re really hot, she brings cold scissors to your skin while she fucks you from behind. The double sensation — the anticipated pain and the penetration — takes you to the edge. It isn’t pain you’re after, but absolute surrender: the certainty that in that instant you decide nothing, that your body belongs to her completely.

—Do it —you beg, your voice breaking—. Cut them off.

And then you hear the click of the scissors closing in the air, beside your skin but without touching it, and it’s always at that exact point that you cum with your whole body, gasping, catching your breath on your own rumpled sheets while the fantasy dissolves and you’re alone again.

***

There is a new fantasy, however, that has gotten under your skin these past few weeks and to which you return every night.

In it, your partner —a beautiful woman, far above what you deserve, you remind yourself— is being fucked by three men at once. Three big men, with cocks that, by comparison with yours, seem to belong to another species. You’re in a chair in a corner of the room, watching.

Well —you think at first— at least I’ll be able to jerk off while I watch her.

Wrong. In the fantasy, they’ve given you something that keeps you from getting hard. The only thing you can do is watch, impotent, while she enjoys herself like never before with you. You hear her moan in a way you’ve never managed to make her moan, and that humiliates and excites you at the same time, the contradiction that now defines everything you desire.

When the three of them finish, you get the role you truly crave deep down: to come closer and clean up the mess they’ve left behind, on your knees, like the servant you always wanted to be in your head. You do it slowly, swallowing shame and filth at the same time.

And while you’re down there, one of them grabs your hips and lifts you with no effort at all. A “no” comes out of your mouth that you yourself don’t believe, because in your mind you’re only begging him to do it. And he does. You end up bent over, taking it, while she records everything on her phone and touches herself with her other hand, laughing at the scene, determined to keep that moment so she can remind you of it forever.

The worst —or the best— is that in the fantasy she happily swallows one of their cocks, the very same mouth that never gives you anything. She makes it clear: there are pleasures meant for real men, and you’re not invited.

In the end, in that imaginary scene, the two of you end up broken and marked, her in front and you in back, and in some twisted way that feels fair to you. Each in their place.

***

You turn off the phone and stay in the dark for a while, catching your breath, feeling reality come back into the room. Tomorrow you’ll go out dressed, talk to your boss, smile in the elevator, and no one will know a thing about what happens when the door closes and you finally are what you truly are.

Sometimes you wonder whether one day you’ll dare to look for someone who can turn the script into something real. A woman who will really tie you up, who will speak to you with that icy calm, who will decide for you when you’re a man and when you’re not. The mere idea makes your pulse race again.

But tonight, the fantasy is enough. You close your eyes, pull the covers over yourself, and let the final scene repeat on a loop until sleep catches up with you.

And you? What’s your favorite fantasy?