My Weekend of Submission Was Meant for the Wrong Man

Carla had spent the entire week thinking about Friday. Not the Friday for going out, or for resting, but the other one: the one she had been planning in secret with Marcos, her partner and her master for three years. She wanted a whole weekend of submission, no reprieve and no safety net. Harder than any of the ones before.

The idea had been growing inside her for days. She felt it in her stomach when she woke up, in the nape of her neck when she worked, between her legs every time she stayed still too long. She didn’t want to wait until Friday to start enjoying it. She wanted the anticipation to consume her already. Her cunt grew wet at work just imagining the soaked gag in her mouth, the ropes biting into her wrists until they left marks, Marcos’s cock sinking deep inside her while she couldn’t even moan.

It was Wednesday. Two days left. Two days were an eternity when the body was crying out for what the mind had already decided. Carla knew herself: if she didn’t let it out now, it would sour until it became one of those fantasies that stay inside and are never actually spoken.

She had been with Marcos for three years, and in that time she had learned that asking was half the pleasure. That writing each desire, in its exact words, without sugarcoating anything, was already a way of surrendering. He had taught her slowly, session by session, until she lost her shame about naming what she wanted. He had forced her to say “cock” out loud before he let her suck it. He had forced her to beg, “Fuck my cunt, sir, fuck it until it bursts,” before he put it in her for the first time each night. Now the dirty words sprang from her as naturally as saliva.

So that afternoon, alone in her apartment, with the curtains half closed and the phone warm in her hand, she opened the chat and started typing.

—Hi, Marcos. This weekend I need you to be harder than ever with your slut. More than you have ever been. I want to give up my safeword and have you take my limits to a place I won’t know how to come back from.

She waited. The three dots appeared and disappeared a couple of times. Then nothing.

Carla smiled. She liked that silence. She took it as an invitation, like the pause he always left before ordering her to do something. She ran her hand over her skirt, without pressing, feeling how the fabric was already sticking to the wetness.

—My master wants me to be explicit, right? —she wrote—. Then I will be. I’m going to describe in detail what this bitch of yours needs. No filters. No holding back.

And she let herself go.

—I want you to tie me hand and foot, legs spread, with my cunt exposed and my ass too, and spank me until I lose count. With your hand, with the riding crop, with the belt, with whatever you feel like. I want my ass cheeks red, swollen, burning for days. I want the gag soaked with my own saliva, and over that the mask that leaves only my mouth free, so the only useful thing about me is the hole I breathe through. I want headphones at full volume with your recorded voice humiliating me, degrading me, telling me for hours that I’m a bitch, a whore, a sow, and what each one of my holes is for.

The words came out on their own, as if she had been writing them in her head for weeks. She could feel her pulse beating in her clit, so hard it was hard to focus on the screen.

—I want you to order me to lick you on my knees for as long as you feel like it: your feet, between your toes, your armpits, your back, your asshole. I want to suck your cock until my jaw drops and tears blur my vision. I want you to shove it down my throat and pinch my nose so I learn to swallow. I want you to spit in my mouth and make me swallow. I want the wheel of spikes moving over my nipples, my belly, the inner side of my thighs, the lips of my cunt, without me being able to move a single millimeter.

She paused, reread it, and kept going. Every sentence she added left her more exposed, and that was exactly what she wanted: to keep digging a pit from which she wouldn’t then be able to climb out. She hiked up her skirt and slid two fingers under her panties. She was soaked. Her cunt was dripping just from writing it, a hot thread already wetting the inner side of her thigh.

—I want hot wax dripping onto my tits and clit, drop by drop, and then ice, so I never know what comes next. Clips on my nipples pulling downward with weight. Clips on my cunt lips, opening me up like a flower. Menthol cream inside, where it burns most, until I scream. I want you to edge me for hours, bring me to the brink of coming again and again and leave me begging, with my cunt swollen and my clit ready to explode, without letting me finish. I want you to film everything, every gesture, every tear, every time I come without permission and you punish me for it, so later I can see myself and not be able to deny what I am.

Her breathing had quickened. She could feel her pulse in her temples, in her nipples, in her cunt. She had never put all of that into words at once, and seeing it written there, ready to send, aroused her more than any touch. She pulled out her soaked fingers and looked at them for a second, shining, before sinking them back in.

—I want role play —she continued, typing with one hand—. Interrogation. Prisoner. Pretend you’ve locked me in a basement and I depend on you for everything: when I eat, when I drink, when I piss, when I sleep, when I come. Make me eat off a plate on the floor. Force me to masturbate in front of you whenever you feel like it, and stop when you feel like it. Threaten me with things I know you’d never actually do, just to feel real fear. Walk me around on a collar like I’m yours, because I am. Call me “bitch,” “sow,” “whore,” “hole,” and force me to answer to every name.

She bit her lip. Only the last thing was missing, the one she had spent weeks not daring to ask for. She pulled her fingers out, wiped them on her skirt, and went back to the keyboard.

—And I want your father to take part in all of that. In everything you can think of and everything he can think of. I want him to use my mouth while you fuck my cunt. I want both of my holes fucked at the same time, one in the ass, one in the cunt, until I can’t tell which cock belongs to whom. I want both of you to come inside, one after the other, and make me keep the semen in without letting a single drop fall. I want you to spit in my face, slap my tits, treat me like the rag I am. This weekend I don’t want to be a person. I want to be your thing and his. A hole with a name for the two of you. Do it. Please, sir. Fuck me with your father until I don’t even know what my name is.

She hit send before thinking twice.

The message stayed there on the screen, with its double gray checkmark. Carla let out the air she hadn’t realized she was holding. She felt exposed and powerful at the same time, that exact mix Marcos alone knew how to provoke in her. Her panties were glued to her cunt, soaked through to the elastic.

Let’s see what he answers.

***

The reply took longer than usual. Too long. Carla kept looking at the phone every few seconds, reclined on the sofa, her knees tucked up against her chest. She imagined Marcos reading every line with that half-smile of his, already calculating how to fulfill point by point what she had asked him. She imagined his cock growing in his trousers as he went down the list.

She got up to drink some water. Came back. Checked the screen. Still nothing. The silence was starting to stretch in a way she didn’t quite like, though she forced herself to read it as part of the game. When it finally vibrated, her heart lurched.

—Wow. Interesting.

That was all. Carla frowned. That wasn’t like him. Marcos usually answered her requests with immediate orders, with that coldness that made her legs go weak. “Interesting” sounded like someone else.

—I’m forwarding it to my father, let’s see what he thinks —the message continued.

She smiled, relieved. Maybe he was only making her wait on purpose. Maybe that was already the first game of the weekend: leaving her hanging, aching, her cunt leaking, not knowing what would happen next.

A full minute passed. Two. Carla gripped the phone with both hands.

—But I think there’s been a small misunderstanding —came at last.

—A misunderstanding? —she typed, suddenly uneasy for no reason she could name.

—Wait. My father just replied. He says he’s in.

Carla stared at the screen. Something was off. Marcos never called his father “my father” in a context like that; they had a code, a way of talking about him that they had spent months refining for the game. This sounded too literal. Too real.

—Though maybe I should say our father.

Her stomach dropped.

Our.

She read the word three times, as if changing its order would give it another meaning. It didn’t. Only one possible reading, and it was impossible.

—As I was saying, there’s been a misunderstanding —the message continued, line after line, without her being able to interrupt—. I’m not Marcos, your boyfriend. Your master, sorry. I’m Marcos, your brother.

The phone almost slipped from her hands. She rushed to the top of the chat and saw it: the profile picture wasn’t her partner’s. It was her brother’s. Two contacts with the same name, one above the other in the list, and she had typed without looking, carried away by desire, certain of who she was talking to.

Then she remembered it, with cruel clarity. That same morning she had written to her brother to ask about Sunday dinner at their parents’ house. The chat had stayed open, at the very top. And in the afternoon, with her mind elsewhere and desire clouding everything else, she had tapped the first Marcos she saw without checking the photo.

Everything she had written. Every word. Every plea. Every cock she had asked for in every hole. He had read it. And so had her father.

She felt her face burn, cold and heat rising up her neck at the same time. She wanted to write something, anything, an excuse, a joke, a “I tapped the wrong chat, sorry, forget it.” Her fingers trembled over the screen and couldn’t find a single useful word.

Before she could type anything, another message came in.

—No need to explain anything. I understood everything perfectly. And look, Dad did too. The two of us have understood exactly what you are and what you need, little sister. Every word you wrote. Every hole you offered. Everything.

Carla stood up from the sofa without really knowing why. She took two steps through the living room, stopped, sat down again. The phone kept vibrating in her hand.

—So you’re going to do one thing, slut —her brother typed, and the word, coming from him, sent a shiver through her that she didn’t know how to interpret, because her cunt tightened at the same time as her stomach shrank—. You’re going to send your boyfriend a message telling him you’re sick, that you have a fever, that you won’t be seeing each other this weekend. That you need to rest alone.

She read without breathing.

—And when you’ve done that, you’re going to strip. Slowly. You’re going to leave your clothes folded on the chair, the way you like to leave them. No new panties, no getting yourself ready. Just as you are now, with your cunt dripping from writing filthy messages to your brother and your father. You’re going to get down on all fours.

—Marcos... —she typed, and erased it. She didn’t know what came after his name.

—And you’re going to crawl down the hallway of your house like that, on all fours, with your ass in the air and your head down, all the way to the living room. Because Dad and I are already here. We arrived a while ago. We heard you typing from the sofa. We heard you breathing hard when you got to the part about the two holes. Dad chuckled under his breath.

The air froze in her chest.

She lifted her head very slowly. The door to her bedroom was ajar, as always. And in the distance, in the reflection of the hallway mirror, she saw a shadow moving that wasn’t hers.

The phone vibrated again.

—We’re waiting for you to expand your limits. Exactly as you asked. Every last one of them. Every cock, every hole, every word you wrote. Point by point. Come.

Carla stared at the screen, then the door, then the screen again. Everything she had written was still there, irreversible, read, accepted. Every order she had imagined for one man and that was going to be carried out by two others. Every obscenity she had asked of a master was now in the hands of her brother and her father, waiting for her in the living room of her own home.

She swallowed. Her knees were shaking. And even so, as she brought her hands to the first button of her blouse, she noticed with a clarity that shamed her more than any message that fear and desire had become completely entangled, until they were impossible to tell apart. Her cunt was throbbing as hard as her heart, and neither of them was asking her to back out.

She set the phone face down on the sofa and began to undo her buttons.