My Submission Stories Came True

My name is Lucía and I am forty-one years old. I am the woman nobody sees at school meetings, the one who answers “fine, thanks” when people ask how I am, even though inside I have spent months feeling very little at all. My husband, Ernesto, works in logistics and is out of the house between twelve and fourteen hours a day. My children are fifteen and seventeen and live glued to their screens. I live in a three-bedroom flat in a quiet neighborhood, and my routine fits into a five-point list: get up, take the kids, clean, cook, go to bed.

But there is something nobody knows.

For the past four years, when the house goes silent at night, I turn on the laptop and write. Not the diary of an overwhelmed housewife. I write erotic stories: stories of women with soaked cunts who surrender, of men with hard cocks who fuck them without mercy, of nights in hotel rooms where rules do not exist and all that matters is who commands and who obeys. I publish them on an anonymous forum under the name “SombraSeducida.” I never use my real photo, never say which city I live in. But every time a new comment appears — someone telling me they came reading my latest story — I feel something the rest of my life does not give me: mattering.

The first time Marco wrote to me, I had just published a story about a woman tied to a hotel bed, with her legs open and her ass in the air, completely surrendered to a stranger who ordered her how to spread herself, how to moan, and when she was allowed to come. It was one of those stories that seem to write themselves, where the hand writes and you only read what appears on the screen with your cunt throbbing under your pajamas. The next day I read it in daylight and was surprised: it was more honest than I had intended.

The message arrived that same afternoon.

“What you just wrote is not fiction. It is memory. A woman who describes how her cunt gets wet when she is ordered to spread her legs with that level of detail has felt it in her own skin, even if only in dreams. My name is Marco, I am 57 years old, and I am a widower. I spent twenty years tying women up and teaching them to come when I allowed them to, and I had never read anything so precise. Can we talk?”

I took two days to answer. But I answered.

***

The first few days we chatted only at night, when the house was asleep. Marco wrote at length, unhurried, with the assurance of someone who does not need to prove anything. He had been commercial director at an engineering firm until he retired after his wife died of cancer. “Elena was my submissive,” he wrote one night. “I tied her up twice a week, opened her cunt with my fingers and made her come until she begged me to stop. Not because I demanded it, but because that was the way we loved each other. What you describe in your stories is not fantasy for someone who has seen a woman’s ass reddened as she asks for more.”

I had not told him I wanted anything. But I did not deny it either. That night I touched my cunt while reading his messages and came biting the pillow so Ernesto would not wake up on the other side of the bed.

He began asking me for things little by little. First a photo of my hands on the keyboard. Then of my bare feet on the kitchen floor. Then of my neck. Every time I sent him something, he answered with a description of what he would do if he were in front of me: how he would rip off my panties, how he would pry my thighs open with his knees, how he would sink two fingers into my cunt until he felt me clench around them. They were not threats; they were calm promises that left my panties wet for hours. One night he asked for a photo of my breasts. I sat with the cursor over “send” for several minutes. I sent them.

His reply came three minutes later: “Perfect. I’m going to have those tits in my mouth, I’m going to suck them until your nipples stand up hard as rocks, and while I’m biting them I’m going to put my hand in your cunt to feel you come. When I touch them for the first time, I’m going to look you in the eyes to see exactly the face you make.”

That night I could not sleep. I came three times in a row with my fingers between my legs, biting the sheet, imagining his voice giving me orders in the dark.

Three weeks passed like that. He described scenes with a precision that left my cunt leaking as I read: braided ropes that do not cut but hold the wrists while a woman twists in pleasure, the difference between a slap that hurts and one that opens, the psychology of control and surrender, how a woman breaks when you keep her at the edge of orgasm for an hour without letting her come. I asked questions, he answered. He never pressured me. That was what finally convinced me: the absence of urgency.

***

The proposal came on a Tuesday. Coffee at the hotel bar in the Alcázar Hotel, downtown. “Just to chat,” he wrote. We both knew it was a lie, that I would end up with my legs open on a bed in that hotel, but we used that lie as a crutch to cross a threshold we would not have crossed alone.

I spent four days choosing what to wear. In the end I opted for something deliberately neutral: black trousers, a gray button-down blouse, flat shoes. Nothing to give anything away. Underneath, however, I wore a black lace set I had not put on in years, and panties that were already wet before I left the house. I told Ernesto I had a meeting for the book club I never went to. I did not even have to tell my children: they did not ask.

Marco was at the entrance when I arrived. Taller than I had imagined, with completely white hair and a neatly trimmed three-day beard. He wore a dark blue shirt and looked at me from the moment I crossed the door, not looking away, running his eyes over me from top to bottom in a way that made me forget how to walk normally and feel my cunt clench under my clothes.

“Lucía,” he said, and it was only my name, but it sounded like a declaration.

He kissed me twice on the cheek. His lips brushed the edge of my jaw and the hot breath raised goosebumps all the way to my nipples. He smelled of something spiced and discreet, nothing aggressive.

We sat at a table in the back. Ordered coffee. Talked about my stories, about his years in BDSM, about how he had ended up there. He was exactly as he wrote: direct, no detours, but without brutality. He asked if I had any previous experience. I told him no. He nodded as if that did not surprise him. He asked if I had gotten wet reading his messages. I told him yes. He smiled faintly and lifted the cup to his lips.

“Do you want to go up?” he asked when we had both finished the coffee.

I said nothing. I stood up.

***

The room was small and tidy: a double bed with a dark wood headboard, an armchair by the window, curtains half drawn. Marco locked the door and put the key on the bedside table without saying a word. Not as a threat. As a gesture that established where we were and what kind of space this was.

He took a travel bag from under the bed and opened it on the armchair. I saw burgundy braided ropes, a flogger with wide, soft strips, a thin leather collar with a silver ring, a sizable black dildo, and a small bottle of lubricant.

“You can leave if you want,” he said, without looking at me. “No one is stopping you.”

I could. The door was right behind me. Ernesto was on the road. My children were at home staring at screens. No one knew where I was.

And that was exactly what had me paralyzed with desire, my cunt soaked, in front of this man I had only just met.

“I’m not leaving,” I said.

He looked up. Nodded once.

“Then take off your blouse. Slowly.”

My fingers found the buttons without me asking them to. One, two, three, four. The blouse fell onto the chair. I was left in my bra, looking at him, waiting without really knowing for what.

“The trousers too. And the stockings. Stay only in your underwear.”

I obeyed. I lowered my trousers with trembling hands, kicked them off over my feet, and stood in front of him in the black lace set, feeling the wet fabric of my panties stick to the lips of my cunt.

He came closer. He did not touch me yet. He circled me slowly, as if assessing me, and I felt his breath on the nape of my neck before his hands reached the bra straps.

“Your shoulders are tense,” he said. “Breathe.”

I breathed.

The bra fell to the floor. His palms covered my breasts from behind, with a firm, even pressure that had nothing to do with the way Ernesto touched me at night. Marco pinched one nipple between two fingers, gently at first, then harder, until I let out an involuntary sound that surprised even me. His other hand slid down my stomach and slipped inside my panties. When his fingers reached my cunt and felt how soaked I was, he let out a low growl against my ear.

“Dripping,” he said. “You’re dripping, Lucía. You’ve spent three weeks waiting for this.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

His fingers sank between my lips. One first, slow, tracing the full length of my cunt. Then two, pushed all the way in, while his thumb pressed my clit in slow circles. My legs went weak and I had to lean against his chest so I would not fall.

“There,” he said. “That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

He led me to the bed and made me sit on the edge. He tore my panties off in one pull, without ceremony. He took the burgundy ropes and wrapped my wrists with calm, with the kind of concentration one brings to something that matters. The knots were firm but did not cut into the skin. He tied me to the headboard with my arms above my head, leaving my tits stretched upward and completely exposed.

“All right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

I swallowed.

“Yes, Sir.”

The first time I said it, my voice came out almost as a whisper. He said nothing, but I noticed something in his posture shift: a slight easing, as if he had just confirmed something he already knew.

He parted my legs with both hands, opening me fully, and stood for a moment looking at my cunt spread open in front of him. Without touching me. Just looking.

“You’re going to learn to ask for what you want with your mouth full, Lucía. You’re going to learn to say ‘I want to be fucked’ out loud. You’re going to learn to come when I tell you to, and to hold back when I do not allow it. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Marco picked up the flogger. The leather strips were wide and soft, and the first strike on my thighs was so light I barely felt it: almost a caress. The second was firmer. The third landed on the inner thigh, centimeters from my cunt, and tore a gasp from me that filled the whole room.

“Ask for it,” he said.

“More,” I whispered.

“More what?”

“More, Sir. Please.”

The blows gradually increased in intensity, alternating between my thighs, my breasts, and the inner sides of my legs. Every time the leather struck beside my cunt, I moaned and arched my hips, searching for the next blow to land directly on my wet lips. I stopped controlling my hips; they lifted on their own, seeking the leather. I felt a burn that was not only in the skin but somewhere deeper I had not known I had. Each impact left a trail of heat that took seconds to fade, and when it faded I wanted it back. My cunt was dripping onto the sheet; I could feel the hot stream running down my ass.

“Look at you,” he said, voice rough. “Look how that cunt is dripping. You’ve been pretending at home for years, Lucía, and here you can’t lie.”

“No, Sir.”

“Say what you want.”

“I want you to eat me out,” I said, surprised by my own voice.

“Eat out what?”

“My cunt. I want you to eat my cunt, Sir. Please.”

He knelt on the bed between my open legs. He ran his palms along the inner sides of my thighs until he had me wide open. Then he lowered his head and kissed me between the legs with his mouth open, tongue flat and hot, sweeping over my whole cunt from bottom to top in one long pass that tore a cry from me.

It was precise, methodical, like everything he did. He was not trying to finish quickly. His tongue went down to the entrance of my cunt, slipped into me for an instant, then rose slowly to my clit, where it stayed drawing slow circles until I began to tremble. Just when I was about to come, he stopped. He lifted his head, looked at me with his beard wet from my juices, and waited for my breathing to settle before starting again.

He did it three times. On the fourth I was sobbing.

“Please, Sir. Let me come. Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me come in your mouth. Please.”

He knew exactly where to stop, what pressure to apply, when to pull back for a second so I would gasp his name before he returned. When he finally granted me the orgasm, he sucked my clit with tight lips while sliding two fingers into my cunt and curling them upward, searching for a spot I had not known I had. I clung to the ropes as if they were the only solid thing left in the world.

“Marco,” I said.

He lifted his head and looked up at me, lips shining.

“Sir.”

“Sir,” I repeated, and it was not ridiculous or humiliating. It was the most honest thing I had said in years. “Sir, I’m going to come.”

“Come in my mouth. Now.”

I came with my wrists tied, my back arched, my feet sunk into the mattress, with an orgasm that began at the exact center of my body and spread to my fingertips. I felt my cunt tightening around his fingers in waves, my clit throbbing against his tongue, my whole body shaking without my being able to control it. He did not pull away. He stayed there, licking me slowly, drinking me, until the last contractions settled.

When I stopped trembling, Marco climbed up my body, kissing my stomach, my tits, my neck. My juices were all over his beard and he deliberately rubbed them onto my lips before kissing me on the mouth. I tasted myself on his tongue and moaned into his kiss. He untied me with the same calm with which he had tied me, massaged my wrists with his thumbs, and looked at me for a few seconds.

“We’re not done yet,” he said.

He undressed slowly. He had the body of a man who takes care of himself: broad back, a little belly, a small scar on his side I did not ask about. And between his legs, the hard cock, thick, lifted against his stomach. Bigger than I had expected. My mouth watered.

“Come,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “On your knees.”

I slid from the bed to the floor, between his open thighs. He took my hair in one hand, not hard, just enough to guide me. With the other hand he took his cock by the base and brought it to my lips.

“Open.”

I opened. He slid it into my mouth slowly, first the head, letting me suck on it for a few seconds. Then farther in. I felt it thick, hot, filling my whole tongue. I started sucking him hard, up and down, my hand wrapping what would not fit in my mouth, looking him in the eyes while I did it.

“That’s it, Lucía,” he groaned. “Fuck, you suck cock so well. Deeper.”

He pushed my head with the hand in my hair and his cock hit the back of my throat. I gagged but did not pull away. He held me there for a few seconds before letting go. I took a breath and put it back in to the hilt on my own. My own saliva was running down my chin to my tits.

“Stop,” he said after a few minutes, panting. “If you keep going I’m going to come in your mouth and I still haven’t fucked you.”

He lifted me from the floor and laid me on my back on the bed. He opened my legs and positioned himself between them without taking his eyes off mine. The head of his cock brushed the entrance of my cunt and I moaned.

“Tell me you want me inside.”

“I want you inside me, Sir.”

“Where?”

“In my cunt. I want your cock in my cunt, Sir. Put it in me.”

He went in slowly at first, without hurry, watching me as he did. I felt every centimeter of that cock opening me, filling me, until his balls hit my ass. I ran out of breath. I had not felt so full, so open, so possessed in years. He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust, and then he started moving.

Slowly first. Long withdrawals, deep entries, watching my face with each thrust as if he wanted to memorize every expression. Then it stopped being slow. He grabbed my legs and folded them against my chest, opening me fully, and began to fuck me hard, with sharp, deep strokes that made my tits bounce and the headboard slam into the wall.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, little whore?” he said through clenched teeth. “To be fucked properly. For a man to shove his cock all the way in and not let you pretend.”

“Yes, Sir. Yes.”

“Say it all.”

“I wanted to be fucked, Sir. I wanted a hard cock inside me. Keep going, please, keep going.”

The headboard hit the wall twice before I closed my eyes. Then I opened them, because I did not want to miss it. He pulled out of my cunt, turned me over without ceremony, and put me on all fours at the edge of the bed. He grabbed my hips with both hands and buried himself in me in one single thrust.

I screamed. I covered my mouth with my hand. He pulled it away.

“You don’t cover yourself here. Here you moan. Here you let out everything you’ve spent years keeping quiet.”

He fucked me from behind with a steady, deep rhythm, one hand sliding down my spine and the other holding my hip to pull me against him with every thrust. His thumb went down to my ass and began pressing at the hole, lubricating it with my own juices. When he slid it in up to the first knuckle, I came again, screaming into the pillow, my cunt clenching around his cock in spasms.

“That’s one,” he said, never stopping. “I want another before I’m done.”

He made me turn over again. Face up. He took my wrists in one hand and held them above my head against the mattress. With the other hand he grabbed one breast and began fucking me while looking into my eyes, as the other hand slid between our bodies and two fingers pressed my clit in circles in time with his thrusts.

“Look at me,” he ordered. “When you come, look at me.”

I came twice more before he finished, and each time he held my gaze as if he were reading something written on my face. Every time my cunt closed around his cock, he groaned through clenched teeth and thrust harder. When he finally finished, he did it inside me, buried to the hilt, letting out a low, long growl while I felt him shooting hot spurts into my cunt. He did not take his weight off me right away. He stayed still for a moment, forehead against mine, breathing, his cock still throbbing inside me.

I had not expected that.

***

I lay on my back looking at the ceiling, feeling his semen drip from my cunt onto the sheet, while he brought me a glass of water and sat on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

“Normal. Take your time.”

I looked at him. He had a small scar on his chin I had not noticed before. I thought I was glad I had seen it.

“Are you going to ask me to stop publishing my stories?” I asked. That was what happened in my own stories, when the dominant man claims total control over the submissive.

Marco frowned slightly.

“No. What you write is yours. I have no right over that.”

That threw me more than everything before it.

***

We have been seeing each other for nine months. Not every week, not with a fixed ritual: we meet when we both can, when there is space in my invisible schedule and in his. Sometimes it is in the same hotel downtown. Other times it is in his apartment, a small, tidy flat near the river where he has a room with hooks on the walls that are not visible at first glance, and where he has tied me face down on a table to whip my ass until it was red, made me come with the dildo in my cunt while he fucked me in the ass for the first time, and taught me to swallow his semen without wasting a drop.

Ernesto knows nothing. My children know nothing. The other mothers in the hypothetical book club know nothing. Ernesto still turns his back to me in bed at night, and I fall asleep with my cunt still burning from the last session with Marco three days earlier.

What I do know is this: there is a version of me that woke up in that room at the Alcázar Hotel and has no intention of going back to sleep. I still write at night, under my pen name, and my stories are better now. More precise, more honest, more detailed. When I describe how it feels for a hard cock to force its way into a soaked cunt, I no longer imagine it: I remember it.

Because I no longer write them from imagined memory. I write them from lived memory.

And every time Marco writes to me, day or night, I feel exactly the same as I did when I saw that first line on the screen: that someone is finally reading me for real.