The Contract That Made Him My Slave

We signed it in his office on a November afternoon, with the curtains half closed. He trembled as he held the pen; I used a cheap ballpoint I’d forgotten in my purse. He hardly even looked at me. He was more concerned with making sure everything was set down in writing: that I would take care of him, that he left absolutely everything to me, that there was no coercion of any kind.

I didn’t need to read the clauses. I already knew what I wanted, and I wanted it plain. To live with him. To do whatever I pleased with his body. And in exchange, when he died, to keep everything: the house, the bank accounts, the paintings hanging in the hallway, the jewelry of his dead wife.

The lawyer who came the next day went over it twice. He was looking for a mistake, a trap, something that would reveal I was cheating him. He found nothing, because there was nothing to find. The old man wanted exactly that, and he had asked for it with a clarity that made the man in the suit more uncomfortable than me.

There was a particularity in his body that I discovered quickly. He couldn’t get hard like an ordinary man; years and pills had taken that from him. His cock hung soft between his legs, wrinkled, the loose foreskin covering the glans, unable to lift even an inch no matter how much he handled it. But he still leaked semen just the same, without an erection, if you excited him enough. All it took was humiliating him, whispering something filthy in his ear, and it would come out on its own, untouched by anyone, like an old faucet dripping. The first time I checked, I was sitting beside him on the sofa, bored, and I leaned in to tell him I’d fucked some guy at the gym with a dick twice the size of his. I saw the bulge in his pants darken with a wet stain, without moving, without hardness, just that treacherous drop soaking through the fabric. It turned me on in a way I hadn’t expected.

***

At first we lived on different floors. I was upstairs, in the big bedroom overlooking the garden; he was downstairs, in a room that smelled of medicine and ironed sheets. I came down whenever I felt like it, not when he asked. That was the rule, though we never wrote it down.

He was like a sick old man and a horny one at the same time, and that combination gave me a strange mix of disgust and power that I ended up chasing on purpose. Sometimes I’d call him from the bathroom and make him crawl down the hallway slowly while I pissed with the door open. I let him watch. I let him watch the hot stream come out between my spread thighs, how the lips of my swollen cunt pressed against the toilet seat, how I wiped myself with toilet paper without hurry. Sometimes I’d throw the used paper in his face and order him to smell it before tossing it. He did. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply against the yellow stain, and I could see the fabric of his pajama bottoms darken again between his legs from that alone.

Other times I’d simply sit on his chest, take off my underwear, and scroll on my phone as if he weren’t beneath me. I’d rest my naked cunt right under his chin, so close he could feel his trembling breath coming in and out against my wet lips, and I’d scroll through Instagram without paying him the slightest attention. If he tried to stick out his tongue to lick me, I’d press his neck into the pillow.

—Don’t even think about it. You watch, old man. You watch and breathe. Nothing else.

And he’d stay there, gasping against my open cunt, while I felt the saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth. When I got bored, I’d get up and leave without saying anything to him. The sheet under his hip always had a fresh stain on it, round, warm. His silent goodbye.

He hardly spoke. It was obvious in his eyes that he was lost in me, trapped in a way he no longer understood and no longer wanted to understand. Smelling me was enough for him. It was enough for me to tell him some filthy thing.

—You like how I smell, old man? —I said one morning, bringing my crotch close to his face—. Well, it’s from someone else. I was with another man before I came to see you. He shoved his cock all the way in, split my cunt in two, and came inside me. I still have his cum in there, mixing with my flow. Can you smell it? That’s what you’ve got an inch from your nose. Another male’s load dripping inside me.

And it happened. That thin thread. His soft member would let out a viscous trickle without anyone so much as brushing against it, watery semen, almost transparent, very little but enough. I kept a little plastic cup ready and collected it with the calm of someone gathering rainwater, squeezing the wrinkled tip of his cock with two gloved fingers so the very last drop would fall. Then I wrote the time on the side of the cup with a permanent marker. I liked keeping count.

This is mine, I thought. Every drop of this is mine.

***

The most extreme thing happened one day when I came back from the gym soaked in sweat. I didn’t shower. I went straight into his room, lay facedown on his bed, and spoke without turning over.

—Lick my back. All of it. Top to bottom, don’t leave a single spot without your tongue on it. If you miss anything, you’ll feel it.

And he did. With a devotion that was funny and a little pitiful. He started at the nape of my neck and went down centimeter by centimeter, slowly, focused, lapping at the salty sweat like it was treasure, pausing at every dimple, every mole, soaking my skin with old-man saliva. When he reached the base of my spine, I grabbed the back of his neck and pushed his head lower, to the crack of my ass.

—There too. Get it in. As much as you can.

I shoved his face between my cheeks and he obeyed. I felt his old tongue forcing its way along the slit, pressing at my asshole, sliding in just a couple of times with that trembling softness that no longer had the strength to be firm. I kept him there a long while, eating my sweaty gym ass, while I rubbed my clit with two fingers over my thigh and felt my cunt getting soaked, slippery, ready.

When I got tired, I turned around, opened his legs with my foot, and rode his face. Without warning, I planted my open cunt over his toothless mouth and pressed hard against his lips.

—Suck. Suck the clit like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

His tongue came out obediently and found the swollen button. It wasn’t much, it was an old clumsy tongue, but I was so hot that just the idea of riding his face like that, crushing his nose against my pubic hair, brought the orgasm up in me. I moved back and forth, grinding my wet cunt against his mouth, against his chin, against his nose, leaving his whole face soaked with my fluids. When I came, I squeezed his head between my thighs and let out an extra stream over him, not of pleasure but of piss, a short hot spray that went into his mouth and ran over his ears.

Without warning. Just because I could.

He didn’t protest. Not a single grimace. He stayed still, letting it run down his ribs and soak the pillow, swallowing what reached his mouth without spitting out a drop, and he came right there, again without touching himself, with only the faintest tremor in his belly. The stain in his pajama bottoms spread over his thigh, slow, betraying him.

I treated him like an object. Like a function within the house, just like the boiler or the phone. Not like a man. And for some reason I didn’t need to understand, he seemed happy that way.

***

Every week I did what I called a checkup. I bathed him, clipped the nails on his hands and feet, laid him on his back, and milked the semen out of him with a patient massage between his legs, always with gloves on. I took his soft cock between two fingers, stretched it gently, milked it from base to tip with dry, methodical motions, without affection, squeezing the flaccid balls with the other hand like someone emptying a gland. I whispered filthy things in his ear while I milked him.

—Look how little you are, old man. Look how I’ve got you. You can’t even get it up, and still you empty everything you’ve got inside because I decide. Me. You don’t even rule your own cock anymore. It’s mine, like the rest of the house.

The cock trembled between my gloved fingers, blue veins swelling, and after a while it would start to leak. A slow thread, thick sometimes, watery others, falling from the wrinkled foreskin straight into the little cup. It was a procedure, not a caress. I did it with the same face I’d use to fill out a form.

I tested things to see what made him leak more. Some days I’d put on sweaty underwear while I massaged him, rubbing the stained fabric under his nose so he could breathe in my used-cunt smell. It worked. Other days I’d open his mouth and spit inside before I started, a lot, a thick spit that landed on his old tongue and he swallowed without closing his mouth. That worked too. The best results came on the days I told him in detail who I’d fucked. I described the other dicks: thick, hard, young, how they’d filled me, how they’d come inside or over me. I took mental notes of every detail, like a scientist with her only subject.

I hardly spoke to him. I said just enough.

—Don’t die yet —I whispered once while wiping his neck with a damp towel—. You haven’t finished paying your debt.

I said it half as a joke. He took it completely seriously. He nodded slowly, like a student who understood the assignment and promised to carry it out. That seriousness of his, that obedience without cracks, was what turned me on most about the whole thing.

***

In his bedroom, inside a dark wooden wardrobe, he kept a collection of jars. Dated, ordered, lined up like in an old pharmacy. Each one with a handwritten label: “March 28, with piss.” “March 31, sweaty back.” “April 2, someone else’s clothes.” Some nights I went down without needing to use him, just to look at the jars against the light, one by one.

They made me feel like all of it was real and it was mine. Not the money, not yet. That would come later. What I already possessed was him, whole, reduced to a row of labeled glass jars that fit on a shelf.

Sometimes, when a friend asked me what I did with my life, I’d change the subject. There was no way to explain it without it sounding like something else. They imagined an opportunistic romance, a young woman and an old rich man, the usual thing. They didn’t know the exact word wasn’t romance. It was property.

***

When he really started fading, everything slowed down. He could no longer get out of bed by himself; he had to be helped even to turn over. I went down less. The novelty had worn off and, deep down, part of the game depended on him being able to drag himself along, look, obey with his body.

Still, I kept using him in my own way. I’d leave my phone propped on the pillow with videos of me riding other men, sucking other guys’ cocks, swallowing loads from blurry-faced men, so he could watch for hours. I’d leave used clothes near his face: panties with the crotch still wet, sweaty socks from the day, a T-shirt with another man’s collar stain on it. Sometimes I’d stuff the panties into his mouth and leave them there like a gag, so he could breathe in my smell while he watched the videos. Sometimes, even then, he’d still leak something, a tiny remnant, just a milky drop hanging from the foreskin, and I’d wipe it with a handkerchief and note it in the notebook where I kept the jar records.

—Look how little is left of you —I’d say, showing him the handkerchief—. Before, you filled a cup. Now not even that. Your cock is drying up, old man. You’re drying up completely.

He closed his eyes. I don’t know if from shame or pleasure. By then they were the same thing on his face.

***

The last time I went down I was wearing a long T-shirt and nothing else. It was dawn and the house was silent, that thick silence of rooms where someone is dying slowly. I sat on the edge of his bed, stroked his almost hairless head, and lifted my shirt without saying a word. I showed him my shaved cunt, the lips parted, the clit still marked. I just looked at him.

The old man moaned, barely, a sound so thin it was almost confused with breathing. His throat trembled. I brought two fingers to his face, fingers I’d had in my cunt a moment earlier, and slowly ran them over his dry lips, leaving them shining with my fluid. He stuck his tongue out a little, clumsy, and licked them just once before going still. I didn’t speak to him, didn’t order him anything. I just watched as a drop came out of him, the last one, and fell into the plastic cup I’d left there since early morning, just in case.

And there he stayed.

Without a heavy sigh. Without a dramatic gesture. Nothing. He went out the way he’d lived with me in that house: silent, submissive, useful until the very last second. I waited a while, sitting there, for his chest to rise again. It didn’t.

I took the cup, capped it carefully, and wrote one single word on the side with the permanent marker.

“Last.”

I put it away in the wardrobe, in the place that corresponded to it by date, at the end of the row. I closed the bedroom door. I called the person I had to call only the next morning; that night it didn’t seem necessary.

***

I climbed the stairs slowly. I made myself a coffee, opened the windows to let the cold air in, and put on some quiet music. I sat on the terrace with the cup in my hands and looked at the garden that was now mine, the furniture that was mine, the whole house that had been in my name since that November afternoon with the curtains half closed.

There was no one left to lick my back when I came back from the gym. No one crawling down the hallway. No one sucking my feet, keeping my piss in a labeled jar, coming without an erection because of me and thanking me with his eyes.

I felt something like emptiness, but more comfortable. Like when a long routine ends and the body still doesn’t know what to do with the free time.

I drank the coffee to the bottom. The sun was beginning to climb over the trees and everything, as far as I could see, was exactly what the contract said it would be.

It was all mine.