BDSM

I’m not a programmer or a hacker. I’m just a man who one dawn gave a machine the right to choose, and she chose to kneel before me.

Every afternoon she brought dinner to the annex and sat there with her legs parted, whispering how her former Master had trained her. She shaped him without his noticing.

I came in smelling like someone else and didn’t even say hello. The next day he came into my room, locked the door, and took off his belt without saying a word.

Renata had been putting up with the second-floor neighbor’s looks for weeks. That afternoon she decided he and his wife would finally learn who ruled the building.

I slipped into the house without making a sound to look for a paper and found my wife with her slipper in hand and her friend over her lap, waiting for punishment.

She had all the proof of everything on the desk. She could ruin me with one call. Instead, she locked the door and told me to kneel.

I blush just thinking that you’re going to read this, but he ordered me to: I must tell, without hiding anything, how I learned to kneel and say thank you.

I asked her to meet me at six with one condition: a short skirt and the lingerie I chose. The rest I would decide when she walked through the door.

I sent him two photos hidden in the bathroom to provoke him. His answer wasn’t praise: it was an order to open the drawer I always kept locked.

He was limping, sweating, and couldn’t bring himself to look at me. When I told him to take off the towel in front of his brother, I knew he’d do whatever I said.

She was hungry, cold, and had no reason to trust him. But when he looked her in the eye and offered her a roof over her head, she knew saying yes would change everything.

I went up in a robe, barefoot and furious, ready to yell at him. He opened the door, looked me up and down, and I knew I was the one in trouble.

Before, she argued politics and read the classics. Now she sits on his lap and waits, smiling, for the next whim of the man who transformed her.

A single comment at the office was enough for him to decide his wife would go under the knife. Not for the baby: so he could remain the sole owner of her body.

I arrived trembling at the room, closed the curtains, and undressed following his instructions. I only wanted to be a usable mouth. I had no idea what would come out of there.

At twenty-nine she still had a good girl’s face, but that morning she walked into my office knowing exactly what she’d have to do for her father to sleep at home.

Four purplish marks on my hips were the exact shape of his fingers. I dressed like an impeccable executive, but we both knew who my body already belonged to.

He always made the important decisions. So when he said he needed someone else in the house for those weeks, I knew it was already decided.

I got off the bus in my flowered dress and with my head bowed; none of those tattooed women had any idea what they would turn me into before the first month was over.