The Closet From Which My Friend Tamed Her Men

As a girl I never understood why it hurt men so much to take a blow down there. In the movies, the hero and the villain always ended up doubled over on the ground sooner or later, hands between their legs and faces twisted. The same at school, when some boy took a ball right where it hurt and spent ten minutes gasping for air. I’d been elbowed, pelted with balls, knocked down, and never once had I writhed for that long. It took me years to draw the obvious conclusion: it was because of those two little things hanging between their legs, the same thing that’s supposed to make them men.

I thought about it in the abstract, almost like a curious amateur biologist. Until Daniela invited me to one of her sessions.

Daniela had been my best friend since university. She had one of those social media accounts with thousands of followers, photos right on the edge of what was allowed, and a smile that knew exactly how much it was worth. What almost nobody knew was where most of her money came from. Not from the photos. From the men who paid a fortune to kneel in front of her.

—You’re going to lose your mind —she told me one afternoon, while painting her lips a nearly black red—. But you stay hidden. The client can’t know there’s anyone else. It’s part of the deal: absolute discretion.

That’s how I ended up inside a spacious dressing room, with the doors left ajar, sitting on a pile of blankets, peeking through the crack like an intruder in my own life.

***

The first man arrived on time. By day he was probably a respectable type: suit, expensive watch, the air of someone used to giving orders in an office. But there, in front of Daniela, he stripped without her having to ask twice. He let his wrists be tied to a metal frame, opened his legs, and remained exposed, offering the most vulnerable part of his body to a woman who looked at him the way one looks at an interesting insect.

—Let the show begin —she said, and her voice had an edge I had never heard in it before.

Daniela walked slowly around him, her heels striking the concrete floor. Every so often she brushed against him, dragged a fingernail along the inside of his thigh, and the man trembled all over. Then, without warning, she landed a sharp blow. The sound made me clamp my legs together in my hiding place. He, instead, let out a moan that was not entirely pain.

—Harder —he begged—. Please, harder.

She laughed. A low, satisfied laugh, the kind that comes from someone who knows she has complete control. Blow after blow, turn after turn, until the man, without anyone touching him where he would have wanted, came with a spasm that left him hanging from his restraints. I stayed staring through the crack, mouth dry, unable to quite believe what I had just seen.

—I told you you’d lose your mind —Daniela whispered after, while washing her hands as if nothing had happened—. And that one was one of the easy ones.

***

It wasn’t the only session I attended. I came back. I came back many times, and each time I understood a little less why it turned me on so much and a little more that I could no longer stop it.

I saw beautiful men, with trained torsos and big hands, behave like dogs while Daniela rode them from behind with a strap fastened at her waist.

—Come on, crawl! —she ordered them, laughing out loud, and they dragged their knees across the floor, obedient, grateful.

I saw men who would never lower their gaze in the street beg for permission for everything: to speak, to move, to breathe more loudly. Daniela dismantled them piece by piece, and what remained beneath the suit and expensive watch was always the same: a desire to obey.

My favorite was the one who asked for the extreme. Daniela had a low bench, almost like a worktable, with two steel plates on one side. The man rested the most sensitive part of his body there, she slowly closed the mechanism, and he screamed a pain that reached me all the way in my hiding place. I, hidden away, masturbated in silence, biting my lip so as not to make a sound, fascinated by a cruelty he himself had paid to receive.

—More, fuck, tighten it! —he roared, and the more she tightened, the harder he got.

What came next always surprised me by contrast. Daniela removed the plates, applied ice with an almost maternal delicacy, waited for him to catch his breath. Then she put him on all fours, stroked his back, and gave him what he had really come for. She fucked him slowly, with a harness that seemed lighter on her than her own authority, while he moaned with his face to the floor. Before finishing, she threatened him: if he came without permission, he’d be in for it. And the threat, far from calming him, lit him up until he exploded.

—Good boy —she would say then, and to me those two words seemed more obscene than everything else.

***

The money those men paid was absurd. After each session, Daniela counted the bills with the same smile with which she painted her lips, sat down beside me, and we chatted like any two friends until the next one arrived.

—Easy money —she’d say, fanning herself with the bills—. And I even have fun.

Not everything was so intense. There were softer clients, and therefore cheaper ones. Some only paid to strip in front of her and jerk off while Daniela wore a costume they themselves had chosen and financed. They had only one task: kneel, look at her, and finish. Some lasted barely a minute before coming, shaking, ashamed and happy at the same time.

—For some of them, I get them hornier just by watching than the scene itself —she confessed to me one night—. That’s why sometimes I give you a cut.

Because yes, Daniela had started sharing with me. Not just the money. She was including me in her world little by little, like someone letting you into a room that’s locked. And one night, without my asking, she invited me out of the closet.

***

The client that night had asked for something specific: to be humiliated by two women instead of one. Daniela lent me a mask to cover my face and nodded at me. I hesitated for a second, only one, before crossing the door of the hiding place and stepping into the center of the scene, where the light was harsher and the air smelled of sweat and expectation.

The man stripped slowly, as if he wanted to prolong his own exposure. When he stood completely naked before us, Daniela and I looked at each other and laughed almost without meaning to. It wasn’t a calculated cruel laugh; it was genuine, and that was why the man’s face lit up before he started touching himself.

—You can barely brag with that, little man —Daniela said, circling him.

I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I had never spoken in one of those scenes. But something loosened inside me and the words came out on their own.

—Imagine you’re on a beach full of people —I told him, stepping closer—. Imagine everyone is looking at you right now, like this, with nothing you can hide.

The effect was immediate. The man gave a growl and came with a force that almost reached me, while Daniela clapped as if I had scored a goal. I felt something unknown rise through my chest. It wasn’t just arousal. It was power. It was the sudden certainty that, with a single sentence, I could rule someone completely.

***

From that night on I stopped being only the one who watched. Daniela started teaching me her tricks, her way of reading each man, of knowing when to tighten and when to ease off, when a word was worth more than a blow. I learned that domination wasn’t about brute force, but something subtler: making the other person desperately want what you had to give them, and then deciding whether to give it or not.

I especially enjoyed the ridiculous details some of them asked for. There was one who strapped on an enormous toy, much bigger than he was, and fucked himself with it while out loud describing how well endowed he was, how big he felt, while we watched in silence. The contrast between what he said and what we saw was so absurd it was hard not to laugh, and that stifled laughter was part of the punishment.

But one request in particular changed me forever. A client, tied up and on his knees, asked that I be the one to hit him where it hurt most. I had never done it. Daniela encouraged me with her eyes. I slipped off my shoes, planted my foot on the cold floor, gathered momentum, and struck.

The man lifted off the ground half an inch before collapsing with a long, grateful groan. And I felt an emotion hard to explain: the sole of my bare foot had, for an instant, complete control over the most fragile part of a stranger.

I straightened slowly, still breathing hard, and looked at Daniela. She was smiling with pride, like a teacher watching her student master the lesson.

—Welcome —she simply said.

That night, on my way home, I thought about the girl who had once wondered why men hurt so much when they got hit down there. At last I had the answer, and it was far more interesting than I had ever imagined. I felt powerful, untouchable, owner of something they would never have.

And all of it, in the end, because they don’t carry those two little fragile things between their legs.