My Mistress Set the Rules and I Obeyed Them

Fame works like water: it always finds its way to the lowest point. At the university, that point was the grove of trees at the back of campus, between the abandoned court and the materials shed nobody ever used. What had begun as a whispered arrangement in hallways and voice notes had, over time, become something with a shape of its own. It was no longer a secret passed hand to hand. It was almost an institution.

My Mistress, Rebeca, had that ability some people have to turn chaos into system. The two free hours in the afternoon — between the last mandatory class and the library closing — had become my workday. Her closest friends, Luciana and Marcos, acted as a filter: they received the interested ones, explained the conditions, kept order. The fee was symbolic, the equivalent of a coffee and a croissant at the bar on the corner. It wasn’t about money. It was about something else: how far my obedience went, and how many people were willing to pay to find out.

That Tuesday the sun fell slantwise and cold, with no strength to warm anything. I wore the short skirt, with no underwear, exactly as Rebeca had instructed the night before by message. The vibrator wasn’t there; she had told me it was an unnecessary distraction for the job. I walked toward the back of campus with my heart beating in a calm that would have frightened me months earlier. It was no longer the panic of the first times. It was something more like the anticipation of a performer before going onstage.

My first two clients that afternoon were older students, familiar faces. The routine was simple and direct: I knelt on the ground among the damp leaves, they stood in front of me, unzipped, and pulled out their cocks. The first already had a half-hard dick before lowering his fly; he started stroking it ten centimeters from my face, his hand clenched firmly at the base, and I kept my hands on my thighs and my gaze lowered, exactly as Rebeca had taught me. I heard the wet sound of skin sliding over the head, the panting getting rougher each time, and I didn’t move. When he came, he aimed at my open mouth and my cheek; I felt hot streams landing on my tongue one after another, thick, and another sliding down my chin to my neck. I swallowed without making a sound. The semen had that salty, slightly bitter taste I’d grown used to over the past few weeks.

The second was quicker. He took out his cock already hard, thick, with a prominent vein along the top, and wordlessly asked me to suck just the tip. I opened my mouth and he slid the head in until it crossed the line of my lips, nothing more. I didn’t suck: I let him use my mouth like it was a warm, still hollow. He held the base and worked the rest against my lips, while the swollen head brushed my tongue. In two minutes he grunted and spilled into my mouth. He filled my palate, stream after stream, until it overflowed at the corners of my lips. He closed his eyes, shuddered, shook the last drops onto my lower lip, and tucked himself away with ragged breathing. No thanks or anything. He zipped up and left.

I stayed kneeling for a moment, feeling how the semen from both of them mixed on my tongue and slid down my throat. We didn’t talk. It was a transaction without adornment, efficient as paperwork.

When they left, Marcos came over with that expression of his, the one he wore when he was about to complicate things.

—There’s a new one —he said—. A girl. She wants the same as the others, but she says she wants to participate. Says she’s Daniela’s friend, the one from last month’s party. Valentina says it’s fine. She pays double.

I nodded. Something shifted in my chest, a mix of nerves and curiosity. A client. And one who wanted to participate for real.

I waited a few minutes. I heard her steps before I saw her.

She was short, with dyed blue-black hair down to her shoulders, a piercing in her nose and another in her lower lip. She wore the university sweatshirt unzipped over a tank top, hands in her pockets. She looked me up and down with an expression that wasn’t lust yet, but something before that: assessment.

—So you’re the one —she said. Her voice was soft, more than I’d expected—. The obedient one.

I stood there, not knowing what to do with my hands. With the boys there had been a clear protocol. With her, I was in unmapped territory.

—Kneel —she said, and her tone left no room for doubt.

I obeyed at once.

She came closer slowly, crouched in front of me, and lifted my chin with her fingers. Her nails were short, painted black.

—They told me you’re really obedient —she whispered. Her breath smelled like mint—. Not half-assed. Let’s see it. I want you to lick my feet. If you do it well, there’s a tip.

It wasn’t a question or a suggestion. It was a test in the form of an order.

She sat on the fallen log that served as a bench in that corner, undid the laces of her canvas sneakers with slow, deliberate movements, and took them off. Her feet were small, the toenails painted black too. She held them out to me without saying anything else.

I looked toward Marcos, and he gave a brief nod. I turned my eyes back to her. She held my gaze without blinking.

I bent down and began to lick the top of her foot.

Her skin was cold, tasting of fabric and open air. I ran my tongue over the arch, slowly, unhurried. Then over the toes, one by one, feeling the small metal ring in the pinkie toe. I took them into my mouth one at a time, sucking as if they were something else, and she barely parted her lips, the first reaction I saw from her. She made no other sound. She just watched, elbows on her knees, her expression almost scientific in its concentration.

—Good —she said after a moment—. Now the sneakers.

She held them out to me. They were canvas, worn, the inside darkened by months of use. The smell reached me before I brought them close: strong, dense, a mix of sweat and her and days of walking.

I hesitated. A fraction of a second, no more.

—Is there a problem? —she asked. Her voice had gained a new edge, without raising in volume.

—No, ma’am —I answered. The word came out on its own, without me deciding it.

I brought the sneaker to my mouth. The rough fabric scraped my tongue. The taste was intense, overwhelming, impossible to ignore. I felt heat rising to my cheeks. Humiliation was physical; it had weight and texture. And at the same time, without seeking it, I felt wetness growing between my legs, a thick thread starting to run down the inner side of my thigh. Shame was becoming something else. My cunt was throbbing, soaked, with that stupid, lonely clenching that wanted something to fill it.

—The other one —she said.

I repeated the act with the second sneaker. When I finished, she remained silent for a long moment. She just looked at me. At me, kneeling on the ground with her sneakers in my hands, with my skirt hiked up over my hips and my knees smeared with dirt.

—Stand up —she said at last.

I stood. My legs trembled slightly, just enough for her to notice.

She came closer, slipped her hand under my skirt without warning, and her fingers found the wetness immediately. She ran them over the lips of my cunt from top to bottom, parting them, and I felt them sink into me without resistance, two fingers to the knuckles, with a wet splatter that sounded clearly in the silence of the grove. She smiled. It was a genuine smile, without calculated malice, almost satisfied to have been right.

—Interesting —she murmured, curling her fingers inside me and pressing that front spot that made me open my mouth without a sound—. You’re not lying. You’re dripping, whore.

She moved them slowly, pulling them out and pushing them back in, while her thumb searched for my clit and pressed it in short circles. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan, my hands still clenched at my sides. In less than a minute I felt the orgasm rising from my belly, impossible to hide. She noticed and sped her fingers up, pushing them deeper. I came standing up, silently, squeezing her wrist between my thighs, with the walls of my cunt contracting around her fingers in long spasms. I felt a stream of fluid running down her wrist to her elbow. She held it there, still, until I stopped shaking.

She slowly withdrew her fingers. She lifted them to my face, shiny, and put them in my mouth without saying anything. I sucked until the last drop of my own taste was gone, eyes lowered, and she nodded once, satisfied.

She turned to Valentina, who had appeared silently beside the largest tree.

—She’s good —she said, handing over the bill—. Worth what she charges.

—I know —Valentina replied, slipping it into the pocket of her jacket without looking at it.

The girl put on her sneakers, tied the laces calmly, and left down the dirt path between the trees without looking back.

***

Valentina stayed. She waited until the girl’s footsteps faded into the noise of the campus before speaking.

—How are you? —she asked, and when she asked like that, in a low voice, without the commanding tone, it was a real question.

—Good —I said. And it was true, though I wouldn’t have known how to explain why.

She nodded, brushed my cheek once with her thumb, quick as a gesture of approval, and headed back toward the faculty buildings.

I remained alone among the trees with the taste of her still in my mouth, with the semen from the two before still on my tongue, with my cunt throbbing and my thighs sticky, and the humiliation still burning, but already transformed into something else. Into something that didn’t have an exact name, but that I had recognized for months.

I had started to understand something about myself in that corner. It wasn’t just that I obeyed. It was that obedience gave me something. A strange clarity, a sense of fitting into a precise place, like a piece that finds its slot after a long time rattling loose in the box.

It wasn’t passivity. It was choice. More and more, it was choice.

***

That night Valentina texted me late, after midnight.

The girl wants to come back on Thursday. I said yes. Are you okay with that?

I looked at the message for a moment. I thought about cold feet, rough fabric, her fingers sinking into me, her gaze that didn’t ask but asserted.

I wrote: Yes.

Valentina replied with a single emoji: a star. It was her way of saying I’d done well.

I turned off the screen and lay staring at the ceiling, my hand between my legs almost without realizing it, my fingers sliding over a clit that was still swollen. I stroked myself slowly, thinking about what Thursday would be like, whether she’d make me swallow her fingers again, whether this time she’d make me spread my legs against the trunk and fuck me with whatever she brought. I came in silence, alone, with my fingers sunk into my soaked cunt, biting the pillow. Outside, the campus was silent. Inside me there was also a silence different from anguish: it was the silence of someone who has made a decision and recognized it as her own.

Thursday arrived on time, the way things do when you’re waiting for them without admitting it. The grove was the same: wet leaves, slanting light, the fallen log. But I arrived differently. Without the tremor of the first times, without the urgency to prove anything. Only with the calm certainty of someone who already knows where she stands.

The girl arrived three minutes late. She wore the same sweatshirt, but the lip piercing had changed: now it was a smaller hoop, almost discreet. She looked at me the same way as before, with that serious appraisal that was beginning to feel familiar.

—I’m glad you came back —I said, and I was surprised by my own tone: serene, without anxiety.

She raised an eyebrow.

—I’m the one doing the evaluating here —she replied, but there was something at the corner of her mouth that was not entirely disapproval.

—I know —I said—. That’s why I said it.

A brief silence. Then she pointed to the ground in front of the log.

I knelt without needing her to repeat it.

And as I knelt, I thought that this was exactly what I wanted to do. Not because I was being ordered. But because I had learned, in those weeks among the campus trees, that some forms of freedom have the exact shape of a knee touching the ground.