The Day I Gave Up Everything to Become Her Slave

I had just finished fifteen years of a lukewarm, predictable marriage when I suddenly found myself free, unrestrained, and with more money than I could spend in several lifetimes. I had no family to answer to and no one waiting for me at home. The only thing burning inside me was an old curiosity, locked away for far too long.

I spent my nights in front of the screen, reading forums, looking at pictures, devouring stories about men who had completely renounced their will. The idea of ceasing to be a person and becoming a thing, an object at someone else’s service, obsessed me to the point of keeping me awake.

At first I turned to professionals. For almost a year I went from appointment to appointment, from one venue to another, looking for someone willing to accept what I was asking for. Almost none of them were. The few who tried charged twice as much, and it was obvious they were counting the minutes. It was a transaction, nothing more, and a transaction wasn’t enough for me.

I tried something else. I posted ads on specialized sites, offering myself as a full-time servant, without conditions. I included photos, details, everything I could think of. For weeks, no one answered.

Maybe this isn’t for me, I thought more than once. Maybe the only thing I deserve is to rent desire by the hour.

And then the email arrived.

***

It was from a woman, although she didn’t give her name. She didn’t identify herself, show any pictures, or tell me anything about herself. She only asked questions. Message after message, she wanted to know exactly what I was looking for, whether I was sure, whether I understood what what I was asking for meant.

—What if you get tired one day? —she wrote in one of the emails—. What if you want your life back?

—That day will never come —I replied—. I want to give myself to you completely and forever. I want to stop making decisions.

She kept pressing me. She wanted clear limits, definitive conditions. She said that if she took the step, she would do it without half measures and with no turning back. Every email from her left me trembling in front of the keyboard, my cock hard against my trousers just imagining her on the other side of the screen. I would have signed anything if only she would agree.

After several weeks, we agreed to meet at a café downtown. I arrived an hour early, unable to sit still. When she came in and sat down across from me without hesitation, I recognized her face immediately. She was one of the professionals I had visited months earlier, one of the ones I had liked most.

—I recognized you from the photos in your ad on the first day —she said, with a smile that was anything but shy—. You had no idea who you were talking to.

It didn’t bother me. On the contrary. Of all the women I had met, she was the one I was most attracted to, and the fact that we already knew each other made the conversation flow without tension.

—I’m willing to do anything —I told her, lowering my voice—. If you choose me, I’ll stop being a person. I’ll sign a contract. My house, my accounts, my cars, my shares, all yours. In exchange, I stay with you.

The proposal was too tempting to reject. We gave ourselves forty-eight hours to handle the paperwork. When I saw her again, I was no longer the owner of anything.

***

Her name was Mara, although her friends called her something else that I never managed to use. She decided that, for the time being, I would move into her apartment, although she made it clear that soon we would settle into my former home: a luxury mansion in a gated community that now stood in her name.

On the first day, as soon as I crossed the threshold, she ordered me to strip and sit on the floor. She had a speech prepared, but before delivering it she approached slowly, hitched her skirt up to her waist, and showed me that she was wearing nothing underneath. Her shaved, already glistening pussy was just inches from my face.

—Before you listen to me, you’re going to taste what will be the only thing feeding you from today onward —she said, gripping my hair with one firm hand.

She pressed my mouth to her sex without giving me time to do anything. I stuck out my tongue and began licking like an animal, searching for her clitoris between the folds, sucking it hungrily. She didn’t guide me gently: she rubbed her pussy all over my face, rode my nose, fucked my mouth with her hips. When I found the exact spot and squeezed it with my lips, I felt her tremble and press my head against her with both hands.

—Deeper, with your whole tongue —she gasped—. Eat what belongs to you.

I pushed my tongue as deep as I could, tasting the hot, salty flavor, while she came against my mouth in short, noisy waves. When she finished, she didn’t pull away. She forced me to keep licking her, to clean her with my tongue until not a trace remained. Then, with the same hand she had been holding my hair with, she shoved me onto my back, squatted over my face, and let a warm stream of piss fall into my open mouth. I swallowed as much as I could; the rest ran down my neck.

—This is what you are from now on —she said, still straddling me, her wet pussy dripping onto my chin—. From now on, you are what you asked to be. You don’t get dressed again. You don’t speak again. You stop having a name.

I listened with my heart pounding against my chest and my hard cock pressed into my own belly.

—I had the toilet removed from the house —she continued—. In its place there’s a drain in the floor with a motorized cover. That cover only opens when I want it to, and at first it will be once a week, early Friday morning. The rest of the time it will stay closed.

It took me a second to understand what that meant.

—You insisted so much on what you wanted —she added, savoring every word—. Well, you’ll have more than enough of it. There’s no fun in something lasting an instant. You’re going to live with it.

She explained the rules as if reciting a house regulation. While the two of us lived there alone, the cover would open only rarely. But she often had guests, and now that money was no problem, she would have many more. Every person who stayed in the house would change the calculation: the more people there were, the less leeway I would have.

—And Fridays —she finished— are sacred. I want to show you off on the weekends. I want my friends to come and meet you.

She had no intention of giving up her profession. She liked it too much. But she would be more selective. And when we moved into the mansion, she said, she would turn it into a luxury house where several more girls could live and work.

—One more thing —she said before leaving me alone, bending down to grab my cock and squeeze it until I moaned—. This has awakened something in me that I didn’t know I had. It turns me on to think about everything I’m going to do to you. And this cock —she added, giving it a sharp tug— doesn’t come again without my permission. Ever.

***

Six women came over on the first Friday night. Mara had me kneeling in the middle of the living room, my hands tied behind my back and a dog collar fastened around my neck. They drank, laughed, and looked me up and down as if evaluating a new piece of furniture. A tall blonde approached me, pinched my nipples with her nails until I arched my back, then sat on the sofa, spread her legs, and pointed at me.

—Come here and do your job.

I crawled on my knees until I was between her thighs and ate her pussy for what seemed like hours. She talked to the others while I licked her, commenting on my technique as though I weren’t there, laughing when she drove her heels into my back to correct me. When she came, she did it by squeezing my head between her thighs until she almost suffocated me.

Then the others came, one by one. Different pussies, different flavors, different ways of grabbing my face and using it. One brunette made me lick her ass while she masturbated with two fingers, moaning that she had been fantasizing for weeks about being the first to use Mara’s pet. Another preferred to put her feet in my mouth rather than let me touch her sex, making me suck her toes one by one while she slapped me with her free hand.

Mara watched them the entire time, sitting in an armchair with a glass of wine in her hand and a smile that never left her face. When the last one finished, she stood up, crossed the room, and grabbed my cock, which had been hard for hours, purple and dripping constantly.

—Look how cute —she said—. He thinks he’s going to come.

The others laughed. Mara took a metal ring from her pocket, slid it down my shaft to the base, and closed it with a dry click. My cock swelled even more against the metal, impossible to soften now.

—No coming tonight —she said, slapping me across the face with an open hand—. Not tonight and not any night. Keep it all inside. Let it rot in there.

***

Two months later, we were already living in the mansion. Six other women moved in with us, all in the same profession as Mara, all from an Eastern European country, all breathtakingly beautiful. During the weeks at the apartment, Mara hadn’t allowed anyone to spend the night, but the visits and parties had been constant. Every weekend, two celebrations with twenty people. During the week, four or five curious visitors who wanted to see her new acquisition.

At the mansion, with seven women in the house, the routine became harsher. Mara had every drain covered except one, in a tiny bathroom in the basement, with its motorized cover. If a client needed anything, he had only me.

On nights when there were clients in the house, the girls made me rotate between the rooms. Sometimes I was the toy they showed off at the beginning, lying on the carpet with my mouth open like an ashtray; sometimes they used me at the end, when the client had finished and needed somewhere to spit or piss before leaving. One night, a huge man asked me to lick his cock while he fucked one of the Russian girls from behind, and I stayed on my knees at the foot of the bed, sucking his balls and licking his ass while I heard the girl moaning inches from my ear. When he came, he pulled out of her, grabbed me by the ears, and emptied my mouth with thick, hot semen that I had to swallow whole. The Russian laughed and applauded.

Every morning Mara came to inspect me. She checked my mouth, smelled my breath, tugged on the ring that was still squeezing my cock, and made sure my scrotum was beginning to hang. My hard cock had gone so long without release that it was now nothing more than a swollen piece of flesh, permanently violet, constantly oozing a thin thread without ever quite coming.

—Perfect —she murmured—. That’s how I want you.

And then she appeared.

***

Daniela, Mara’s cousin, arrived at the house with a smile that boded nothing good. She was as beautiful as the others, but there was something different in her gaze, a sharp coldness. Mara delegated everything related to my punishment to her, and Daniela’s eyes lit up when she heard.

—I don’t owe you any explanations —she told me on the first day, crouching until she was at my level—. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. But I’m doing it because I want you to suffer from this moment on, thinking about what’s coming.

I remained motionless, my skin prickling.

—If you thought I was going to treat you gently, forget it —she continued—. I’m going to make you regret offering yourself every day. And it’s going to be forever.

That same night she took me to the basement, tied me on my back to a table, and slowly undressed in front of me. She had a perfect body, firm breasts, a shaved pussy, and a navel piercing that gleamed beneath the ceiling light. She climbed onto the table, knelt over my face, and planted her ass on my mouth.

—Lick —she ordered without looking at me—. And don’t even think about breathing through your nose.

I spent I don’t know how long with my tongue inside her ass while she toyed with my cock trapped in the ring, squeezing it, flicking it, laughing every time I arched in pain. When she grew tired, she turned around, forced my mouth open with two fingers, and calmly pissed into it like someone emptying a pitcher. I swallowed every last drop. I had no other choice.

—Good —she said, climbing down from the table—. You’re learning.

She described her plans to me with a calmness more frightening than any scream. She talked about transformation, about making me into something definitive, about erasing whatever remained of me as a person. Mara had given her permission to do whatever she wanted to me, with one condition: she wasn’t to kill me.

—That’s the boring part —Daniela murmured—. Death is an ending. I don’t want an ending.

***

A little over a year passed, and my life changed until it became unrecognizable.

First came the hair removal. Laser sessions all over my body until my skin was completely smooth, without a single hair, like the porcelain of an object. Daniela said that a toilet didn’t need hair, just as it didn’t need a voice. That was why, shortly afterward, she made me lose my speech forever: never another complaint, never another word.

—I don’t want to hear whining —she said—. Only silence.

Then came the punishments inflicted on my genitals, which she herself had promised to turn into the center of my torment. Increasingly heavy steel rings on my scrotum, adding weight week after week, stretching the flesh without respite. She said she loved long, deformed scrotums, and that she wouldn’t stop even when we reached her goal. It was a never-ending project, like everything else.

Time became elastic, without days or nights. Whenever I broke some rule—and the only important rule was never to touch myself—Daniela responded with a new punishment, more severe than the last. Until one day, fed up with my relapses, she decided to remove any possibility of disobedience.

—I’m going to simplify your existence —she said, almost tenderly—. A toilet doesn’t need hands. It doesn’t need to move. I’m going to reduce you to the only thing that matters.

***

Meanwhile, Mara’s business grew without restraint. She renovated the mansion, added an entire floor, and built rooms for twenty girls. The house operated at full capacity, and my corner of the basement was reduced to its barest function.

Now I live in a small room, one meter wide and two meters long, with a ventilation grate and a fluorescent tube that is always on. I have no way of knowing whether it is day or night or how long I sleep. I am strapped to the floor by belts that prevent any movement. Above my head, a tank that never empties. Daniela set up a separate mechanism attached to my body so that the weight keeps pulling on me little by little, without rest.

So that the torment would not stop even now that I cannot move, a few days ago Daniela put several chickens in the room. She throws their feed onto me, so their pecking and footsteps keep the sensation alive, the one she enjoys so much. There is almost always one on top of me, scratching around. The chickens and I have lost our sense of time together.

I don’t know how long this will last. I don’t know whether it has an end. And yet, when I stop to think about it—when I remember that I was the one who asked for it, who signed, who begged for it—I still feel that same excitement that brought me here. The same one that condemned me. The only thing I have left.