My Mistress Was Waiting for Me Barefoot in That Hotel

It didn't take her too long to write to me after that first conversation. I already knew, from the moment I agreed to call her my mistress, that the waiting would be the worst part. And it was. Every day I checked my phone like a teenager, waiting for that order I knew would eventually come.

My job requires me to travel across half the country. Meetings, presentations, roadside hotels that all look alike. She knew that, and she knew how to take advantage of it immediately.

—I want your schedule for the next two months. Every trip, every city, every date —she wrote to me one morning, without a greeting or preamble.

I sent it to her in less than ten minutes. I didn't even hesitate. That automatic obedience frightened and aroused me in equal measure.

Two days before I was due to travel to Salamanca, the message that changed everything arrived. She would be there. I was to book the hotel, inform reception that a woman would arrive at six in the evening under the name on the room, and show up myself after that time. Not a minute earlier.

—When you walk in, I will already be your owner within those four walls —she added—. Think carefully about whether you want to cross that door.

I thought about it. I thought about it throughout the train journey, with my laptop open and without reading a single line. And at exactly seven, I was standing in front of the door to room 214, my heart pounding against my ribs and my cock already half-hard, pressed against my fly.

I knocked with my knuckles.

—Who is it? —her voice sounded from inside, calm, almost amused.

I lowered my gaze to the doormat and answered quietly that I was her slave. She hadn't given me a name yet.

—I can't hear you —she said, and I heard her laugh on the other side of the wood. She had heard me perfectly.

—I am your slave, Mistress —I repeated, a little louder, glancing down the empty hallway.

I heard her footsteps. The door opened just enough for her to appear in the gap, without letting me in. She was wearing a tight black dress and extremely high-heeled sandals. She looked me up and down with a calmness that made me feel like merchandise in a shop window.

—You're going to get naked right here —she said—. Completely. When you're naked like what you are, knock again.

And she shut the door in my face.

The hotel was full. At any moment another door could open, the elevator could sound, someone could appear around the corner of the hallway. My hands trembled as I took off my shirt, trousers, and underwear, piling everything against the wall. The air conditioning raised gooseflesh on my skin, and my cock, now completely erect, jerked against my belly with every movement. I had never felt so exposed, so absurdly vulnerable, with my stiff dick pointing at the ceiling of a three-star hotel's hallway, and I had never wanted a door to open so badly.

I knocked again, this time with my whole palm.

—What is it out there? —she asked, drawing out every word.

—Your slave, Mistress.

She took her time. I counted the seconds pressed against the door, hunched over, my cock drooling a thick drop that slid over my glans, praying for it to end. When she finally opened, she ordered me to come in on all fours.

***

—Well, this thing is here already —she said, locking the door behind me—. And with his cock stiff as a dog in heat, too. And how do you think one greets one's mistress?

I didn't answer with words. I bent down and began kissing her feet, still encased in those impossible sandals, the warm leather beneath my lips, the heel brushing my cheek. I licked the bare instep above the leather strap, went up her ankle, came back down to her big toe, and took it all the way into my mouth, sucking it as if everything depended on it. She let me do it, watching me from above like someone observing a newly trained animal, and I felt another thread of pre-cum escape me and fall to the floor between my knees.

—That mouth is going to be useful to me today —she said—. Go out onto the terrace and lie on your back on the floor, in front of the chair on the left.

I obeyed. The terrace overlooked an interior courtyard, and the tiled floor was cold against my naked back. My cock lay against my navel, stiff and throbbing to the rhythm of my heart. I was alone for a couple of minutes, looking at the violet evening sky and listening to the distant murmur of the city, until she appeared. She was barefoot and carrying a small cloth bag whose contents I couldn't make out.

—Open your mouth and wet my feet —she ordered, sitting in the chair.

She placed the sole of her foot on my face. I began to work on it slowly, running my tongue over the instep, pausing at the heel, pushing it between her toes one by one. She sighed, not with pleasure, but from the sheer satisfaction of giving orders, like someone checking that a tool worked.

—Stay still, with your mouth open —she said, taking a file and nail clippers from the bag—. I need you to be my tray. I don't want anything on the floor.

She gave herself a pedicure using me as a support. I remained motionless, bearing the weight of her feet on my face while she filed and trimmed with absolute indifference, occasionally talking to herself and commenting on how convenient it was to have me like this. The humiliation lay not in what she was doing, but in how little I mattered to her while she did it. And still I drooled, my cock tensed, and my ass clenched against the cold tile.

—Good. That's done —she said when she finished—. Turn over without getting up from the floor. That's your place.

I rolled over on the tiles. She tied my wrists behind my back with a leather strap that had appeared from God knows where.

—Make sure nothing has fallen on the floor —she added—. And if anything has, clean it with your tongue. It's a reward for you. Isn't that right?

—Yes, Mistress —I murmured against the tile—. That's right.

***

She left me there for a few more minutes, tied up and facedown, my cock crushed against the floor, until she came back in. This time she had a black leather collar, which she fastened around my neck after releasing my hands. The clasp made a metallic click and, I don't know why, that sound made me go completely soft. I felt branded.

—I'm going to lie down for a while —she said, dropping onto the bed—. Watch TV, look at my phone, whatever. You take care of my feet. Massage them until I say so. And first, bring me something from the minibar: a juice and a bag of chips.

I went to the minibar on all fours, the collar pulling at my neck and my cock swinging between my legs, picked up what she had requested, holding it carefully, and returned to the bed.

—Come on, start. What are you waiting for?

I took one of her feet in my hands and began kneading it, digging my thumbs into the arch and sliding them toward her toes. She turned on the television and, after a while, made a video call to a friend. I kept massaging, invisible, while I heard her talk about me in the third person.

—I've got my new toy here —she said, laughing—. Quietly giving me a massage. And you should see his cock, stiff as a post since he walked through the door. He won't touch it and doesn't dare to. Maybe I'll lend him to you one of these days; you'll see how well trained I have him.

Her friend laughed on the other end and asked for details, and she gave them without lowering her voice, describing me as if I weren't hearing every word. From time to time, she spat a piece of chip onto the floor and ordered me to pick it up with my mouth without letting go of her foot. Every gesture served the same purpose: reminding me where I belonged. And it worked. The more she degraded me, the harder it became to imagine wanting anything else.

When she grew tired of the phone, she left it on the nightstand and looked at me with a new, sharper smile.

—Go to my suitcase. Open the zipper on the hidden compartment and bring me whatever you find inside.

I crossed the room on all fours. In the hidden compartment there was a harness with a thick black silicone dildo, one of those bigger than most real cocks. I carried it to her between my teeth because I didn't dare use my hands without permission.

—Good dog —she said, taking it.

But she didn't put it on herself. She fitted it onto me, over my face, the straps tightening around my head, the dildo jutting from my mouth like an absurd extension of my own uselessness. She tightened the buckles until they dug into my cheeks, and the rubber base completely covered my lips. I could no longer even speak. I could only breathe through my nose and offer her that artificial cock that was now my face.

—The massage and the conversation have put me in a good mood —she said, pulling her dress over her head and yanking off her panties—. Another day you'll find me a real man. Today I'll make do with this.

She climbed onto the bed naked, her tits swaying above me, and straddled my head. I saw her open pussy directly above me, shiny and wet, her swollen lips and clitoris peeking between them like a dark pearl. She spat on the tip of the dildo, rubbed the saliva over it with two fingers, and slowly lowered herself onto the silicone. At first she only brushed against it, running the false glans between her folds, coating it in her juices, playing and making me feel the heat of her pussy without giving me anything. I felt thick drops falling down the base of the harness and sliding over my chin to my neck.

Then she dropped down onto it completely. I saw her clench her teeth when the dildo opened her and disappeared inside her to the hilt. She held herself there for a second, breathing through her nose, and began riding it in earnest. Forward and back, in circles, up and down, changing the rhythm as she pleased, bracing her hands against the wall to propel herself. Her pussy slapped against the rubber base with a wet squelch that reached my ears. I couldn't move. I existed only as a base, as furniture, feeling the trembling of her thighs against my cheeks, the heavy smell of her sex running down my throat, my own cock throbbing abandoned against my belly, ignored, forgotten.

—That's it, you filthy thing, that's it —she panted—. Hold my cock properly; don't let it fall out.

She sped up. The mattress creaked, her tits bounced right above my forehead, and the harness sank into my face with every thrust. I heard her break apart inside with a long moan, almost a growl, felt her pussy squeeze the silicone in spasms and a warm stream fall over my chin and neck. She collapsed onto me for a moment, sweaty, her sex pressed against my jaw, panting.

When she had caught her breath, she released the harness and put the dildo in my mouth without pulling it all the way out, pushing the base against my teeth.

—Suck it. Clean it. Very clean and dry.

I sucked the silicone as I would have sucked a man's cock. Her juices covered my tongue, salty and thick, and she watched me suck it with her eyebrows raised, amused. I did it for several minutes, until it was spotless. Then she sat in the armchair in the corner, spread her legs wide, and beckoned me with two fingers.

—Come here. Finish the job.

I crawled over to her with my cock dripping between my legs and buried my face between her thighs. Her pussy smelled of freshly fucked sex, saliva, and her own come. I licked her slowly, from bottom to top, gathering with my tongue everything dripping down her perineum. I spread her lips with my thumbs, sucked every fold, pushed my tongue inside as deeply as I could, then moved up to her clitoris, tracing circles, sucking it, tapping it lightly with the tip. She grabbed my hair and pressed my face against her pussy until I could hardly breathe.

—Deeper. Suck my clitoris, pig. Don't stop.

I sucked it hungrily. I felt her tremble again, felt her shudder against my mouth, felt her fill my tongue with another little squirt of fluid, and then she made me start again, resting her heels on my back while I worked, scratching the nape of my neck with her nails.

—I like the way you do it —she said, almost breathless—. You're good for this. Not much else, but you're good for this.

When she finally pushed me away, my entire face was soaked, my chin and cheeks shining with her juices, and my cock still hadn't been touched even once, stiff and throbbing between my legs, dripping a long thread of pre-cum onto the carpet.

***

That was how we reached dinnertime. She ordered me to put on a pair of shorts and go downstairs to collect the order at reception. I came back with a salad and some chicken, took my clothes off again, and got on all fours beside her chair, holding the plate.

She ate calmly, without hurrying, stretching out my humiliation as much as she could. She threw chicken bones and the occasional piece of lettuce she didn't feel like eating onto the floor, and I had to pick them up. When she was finished, she left the leftovers scattered across the tile.

—Leave the plate shining —she said—. With your tongue.

I left it spotless. She watched me with her legs crossed, assessing me like someone deciding whether a purchase had been worth it.

—You look thirsty —she said then—. Am I wrong?

—Yes, Mistress. I'm thirsty.

—Then go to the bathroom, bring a towel, spread it on the floor, and lie down on it. On your back, with your mouth open.

I understood before she came closer. I obeyed anyway. She stood over the towel, straddling my face, spread her pussy open with two fingers, and stared at me as a hot stream fell onto my tongue, filled my mouth, and overflowed at the corners toward my ears. She used me as her toilet as naturally as she had used my mouth all afternoon. I swallowed what I could; the rest escaped down my neck, and she shook the last few drops onto my lips.

—You're this, too —she said when she finished—. You're not good for much more than serving me. And honestly, I think you're good for nothing else. —She bit her lip thoughtfully, looking at my cock, which was still stiff against my belly—. I'm getting aroused again. But no. I'll save myself for tomorrow. I've got a real male ready, and I want you to watch everything from your place on the floor, with that little cock of yours stiff and unable to touch it, while someone who knows what he's doing fucks me. What do you think?

The question surprised me. I didn't know whether I was ready for something like that, whether I wanted to see it, whether I could stand watching another man sink his cock into the pussy I had just licked. But I had no will left with which to decide. I could only articulate the one thing that felt true at that moment.

—My will does not exist, Mistress. I am an object for your use. Your property.

—Good —she said, and for the first time all night her smile seemed almost approving—. We'll see about that tomorrow. Now I'm sleepy. You sleep there, beside the bed, on the floor, in a dog's place. And don't even think about touching that cock of yours all night. If I wake up and catch you jerking off, tomorrow I won't even let you look. The first thing you'll see when you wake up will be my feet in front of your face. You'll know what to do.

I lay down on the floor beside the bed, the collar still around my neck, my face sticky with everything I had received, and my cock aching from throbbing without rest. She turned off the light. In the darkness of that hotel room, listening to her calm breathing above my head, my hands crossed over my chest so I wouldn't give in to temptation, I thought about the next day, the work I would have to show up for, and how impossible it would be to concentrate after all that. And above all, I thought about the male she had promised for tomorrow and everything that was still to come.