BDSM

I was days from giving birth and could think of only one thing. When the contraction bent me double with pain, I asked Rocío to put her hand beneath the sheet.

I went down to the reservoir to escape the heat and ended up helpless on the shore while a stranger’s toes decided the pace of my surrender.

I go naked at home because nobody can see me. Or so I thought, until the neighbor across the way greeted me with a smile that already knew everything about me.

No one would imagine those giant, ridiculous sneakers were keeping my secrets. That night on the road, with everyone asleep, I finally dared to do what I’d been fantasizing about.

Adrián told me how many to take and in what order, and I obeyed without asking. I had no idea how far he was willing to take control of my body.

When the bathroom light suddenly came on, I froze, bikini bottoms in my hand and her eyes locked on mine. I knew I wasn’t in charge anymore.

I went down to the garden in the dark, not knowing that this time she wouldn’t leave me alone with her underwear: she had something of her mother’s saved for me.

She had something hidden in her hand, and that smile promised nothing innocent. “Stick out your tongue,” she ordered, and I already knew I would obey.

Every night she asked me for something new through the bars of her window, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no, even if it meant rummaging through my own mother’s laundry basket.

I had never paid attention to anyone’s feet until that hot afternoon when she stretched one toward me and asked, with a smile, if I dared to touch it.

For years I fantasized about serving a woman who wanted me at her feet. Renata didn’t pretend to dominate: she did it with a calm that left me breathless.

Carla appeared barefoot among the shadows of the garden, with that good-girl face that hid the most perverse girl I had ever known.

She put her feet on my thighs, ordered me to untie her sandal straps, and with an innocent smile told me that would be the price of her silence.

I always thought there was nothing dirtier than feet. That night, barefoot and nervous in my friend’s bed, I found out how wrong I was.

I offered to check her ankle as a doctor. She crossed her leg, brought her foot to my face, and I knew, in that instant, who was really in charge.

No one at the office imagined what my boots were hiding that rainy morning—or why I refused to take them off all day.

Lying on the edge of the bed, black stockings climbing my legs, I warned him I wouldn’t use my hands that night: I’d undo him with my feet alone.

I couldn’t resist the thong smelling of her whole day: I climbed into bed ready to taste her while she slept, not knowing she’d been waiting awake for me.

Eight years had passed since that coach trip, but the moment I saw him standing in front of the terminal I knew I wouldn’t be coming home for dinner that night.

I watched him from before his failure. He said I was too perfect to walk in the mud, not knowing that sentence condemned him never to leave it.