The Most Humiliating Order I Carried Out for My Former Master

My name is Lucía. I’m thirty-seven, divorced, and, though it sounds like a cliché, after my divorce I learned more about myself than in twelve years of marriage. I’m open-minded, I’m curious, and I respect other people’s desires as long as they respect mine. What I’m going to tell you happened a few weeks ago, and I still don’t know whether I regret it.

During 2022 I had an office lover. Andrés, I’ll call him here, was a few years older than me. Today he’s around fifty-seven. He fit that type of man who walks into a meeting room and, without saying a word, changes the temperature of the air. Deep voice. Broad back. A way of looking at you that didn’t ask questions, it gave orders. He wasn’t especially tall or handsome, but his self-assurance gave him a magnetism most of my suitors couldn’t even come close to.

What we had was intense from the very first night. We slipped away to a hotel on the outskirts after a company dinner and, as soon as he shut the door, he already had me against the wall, one hand on my throat and the other yanking my skirt up in one brutal tug. He ripped off my panties without ceremony and threw them to the floor. “You’re soaking, slut,” he told me in my ear, and he sank three fingers into my cunt to the knuckle. He was fucking me with his hand while he whispered, without pause, everything he was going to do to me that night, every filthy thing, with the same casualness another man would use to order breakfast. His cock wasn’t very long, but it was thick as a clenched fist, and when he finally drove it into me, bent over the bed with my wrists tied behind my back with his own tie, I felt my whole body open up. He thrust into me to the hilt, dry, setting the rhythm with the flat of his hand on my ass, and each blow tore a cry from me that he muffled by stuffing two fingers into my mouth. He made me suck them, taste myself, then kneel on the carpet and suck his cock until he came on my face. He bent down, licked the semen off my cheek, pushed it into my mouth with his tongue and made me swallow it while looking me in the eye. That first night set the pattern: restraints, raw anal sex, sessions of three or four orgasms in a row, bites on the insides of my thighs that lasted a week, fingers in my ass while he fucked my cunt, words that on other lips would have sounded humiliating and on his seemed tailor-made for my body. When he called me a slut, I only heard the cadence of his voice, not the word.

Unfortunately, one morning he was transferred to Lausanne. A promotion. They offered him the Swiss subsidiary, and he left almost without warning me. For the first few months we tried to keep something alive through messages, but he grew more and more distant. Three-word phrases. Forty-second voice notes telling me about boring meetings. After six months he was only answering two out of every ten messages I sent. After nine, he stopped altogether.

I went on with my life. I went back to Tinder, chained together one- and two-night flings, men I don’t remember anymore. Some had a cock longer than Andrés’s, none of them had his hands or his voice. They fucked me politely, came quickly, and left politely. Nothing lasting. Andrés had set a bar I couldn’t reach, and I, without ever admitting it out loud, compared everyone to him.

Until last autumn, when he came back.

He didn’t come back as a colleague. He came back as deputy CEO, my superior by two levels. I ran into him the first Monday in the corridor, between foreign delegations and closed-door meetings. He was wearing a custom-made slate-gray suit and new gray at his temples. He passed by me without looking at me, as if I were just another piece of furniture in the break room. He repeated the same gesture on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday.

On Friday I wrote to him. My hands were shaking as I pressed send.

—Hi, Andrés. I know I’m an inferior being to you now (I always was). If you ever want to talk outside work, I’m here.

He didn’t answer. The weekend passed, then the next week, then the next. I had already accepted that it would go down as just another one of my stupidities, until a Tuesday in the middle of the afternoon his name appeared on my phone screen.

—Hi, Lucía. I hope you’re well. I’ll call you tonight.

I spent the rest of the day unable to think about anything else. I barely ate dinner, pretended to watch a series on the sofa, checked my phone every three minutes. I shoved two fingers into my cunt before dinner, thinking about his voice, and came on the sofa with my free hand pinching one nipple hard enough to hurt. He called after midnight. His voice still had that quality that went straight to my stomach, and from my stomach to my cunt.

—Hello, slut.

—Hello, Andrés. Thanks for the “slut.” And for your contempt in general. Are you going to tell me how you’ve been and how you are?

There was a long, calculated silence. One of his. I held on. I knew any impatience on my part would be used against me.

—I’m fine —he said at last—. Switzerland was a good chapter. But I missed this.

—This, yes. Not me.

—Exactly. Though your ass too, if I’m not going to lie to you.

Being his submissive three years ago, in those hotel afternoons where everything had been agreed and signed off by both of us, was one thing. This new humiliation, gratuitous, without a contract or a safety net, was something else entirely. I felt a churn of rage and desire. My cunt was throbbing while he kept doing his thing. I wanted to turn the conversation around. I wanted that man, even if only for a second, to show me some melancholy. It was a challenge.

There was no way. He kept talking about himself, about his promotion, about his weekends skiing in the Alps. He didn’t ask me a single thing about myself. I thought about hanging up three times. Before I could, he dropped the line.

—What time do you usually go to the bathroom in the mornings?

I went blank. Not because of the question. Because of the way he asked it, neutral, like someone asking about a bus timetable.

—What? Seriously, you’re asking what I think you’re asking?

—Yes, slut. If you want to see me, answer.

—At eight, usually. Before going to the office. You’re a pig.

—Good, Lucía. Listen. Tomorrow at seven fifty-five you’ll open your front door and leave it ajar. You’ll take off all your clothes, down to your panties, in the hallway. You’ll go to the bathroom. You’ll leave the door open. You’ll squat over the tiles, with your back to the hall, your knees wide open and your ass pointed at the door. I’ll come in, close it, and walk to the bathroom. When you feel me behind you, you can start.

—Manel… Andrés —I corrected myself, and hated myself for the slip—. So now you’re no longer satisfied with tying me up, spitting on me, or calling me a slut? This is what you came to ask me for? You’re sick.

—Until tomorrow.

And he hung up.

***

I spent a night I’d rather not remember. I turned it over in my head a thousand times. I wasn’t going to do it. It was ridiculous, it was sick, it was the worst way to sell myself for someone else’s whim. It was him. It was that voice. It was the suspicion that, if I said no, I’d lose him forever and spend another three years looking for him in every man I crossed in the hallway. At three in the morning I had already fingered myself twice, face down, with my fingers buried in my cunt and the thumb of my other hand pressed hard against my asshole, imagining him breathing at the back of my neck.

At seven the alarm went off, although I’d been awake for a while. I had breakfast like every morning: fruit, fiber, long coffee with coffee. My hands shook a little as I poured the milk.

At seven forty I cleared the plates and left them in the sink. At seven forty-five I sat down on the kitchen chair and realized I was wet. It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation. My panties were soaked through with slick, my cunt swollen, and my nipples so hard they showed under my T-shirt. I’m going to do it. I’m really going to do it.

At seven fifty I opened the apartment door, left the latch undone, and put a shoebox on the floor so the draft wouldn’t slam it shut. I took off my clothes in the hallway and left them in a heap on the chair, including my wet panties. I walked barefoot and naked to the bathroom. The parquet was cold. Gooseflesh broke out all over my body and my nipples stood even harder.

At seven fifty-five I was already inside, squatting, balanced on my feet, my knees spread as far as they would go, my ass open toward the door, my back to the hallway. The bathroom mirror was right in front of me and for a moment I saw myself reflected in it: my hair still tousled, my small tits hanging forward with my nipples hard, my stomach tight, a shining thread of slick running down the inside of my thigh to the tile. My image gave me a grimace I couldn’t quite decipher.

I heard the click of the front door closing.

I heard him set his keys on the console table. I heard his footsteps. I recognized that rhythm of his, slow, landing on the heel first. My guts twisted at the exact moment his shoes crossed the bathroom threshold. I drew a breath. Let it be quick.

I felt his presence behind me. He didn’t come all the way in. He didn’t speak. He only breathed, slowly, not quite a meter from my naked ass. I even heard the rustle of the good wool of his coat when he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

What came next was the most intimate thing a body can offer a stranger. I pushed. At first it was hard, with him there, pinned like a statue behind me, but I pushed. I felt my asshole opening slowly, taut, until it gave. A low groan escaped him, not of disgust, of pleasure, and that sound behind me finally loosened me up. I pushed harder. My skin burned with shame in places I hadn’t known could feel shame: the nape of my neck, the hollow behind my knees, the insides of my thighs. I heard myself breathing very hard. I heard myself moan without meaning to, a low, obscene moan, slutty, that echoed off the tiles and made me close my eyes. I also heard, with humiliating clarity, the noises coming from my own body: the slight creak of my own ass opening wide, the dull impact against the tile, and at the end, when I thought it was over, a hot little thread of piss that betrayed me and ran over my own bare feet. When it was all over, I stayed in that position for a moment, waiting, my cunt throbbing as if I’d just been fucked for half an hour.

—Fascinating —he said behind me—. You still have the best ass on the whole floor. And it opens like a dam gate. I love it. You can see pink inside, slut. And you’re soaking too, look at how your slick is running down your thigh. I could fuck you right now without even touching you with my hand; you’d take it with one push.

He crouched down. I felt him very close, at the level of my kidneys. He didn’t touch me. He just looked. He stayed like that a good half minute, examining me like someone inspecting a piece in a museum, and I let him look because by then I had no shame left to manage. Then he stood up.

—Clean yourself up, slut. And don’t turn around yet.

I obeyed. I cleaned myself with shaking hands, flushed the toilet, washed my fingers in the bidet. I didn’t move from the spot. I didn’t want to turn around. I didn’t know which of the two versions of myself he was going to find when I did. I stood up carefully, covering myself with a small towel hanging from the radiator. When I finally looked at him, his hands were in the pockets of his coat and he had the smile of a boy who’s just stolen dessert. A restrained erection showed under the good wool of his trousers, a thick line I already knew by heart. He could have pulled it out and made me suck it right there, kneeling on the wet tiles, and I would have opened my mouth for him without asking for anything in return. I knew that with a clarity that frightened me.

—Will you want to fuck me someday now? —I asked. My voice came out firmer than I expected.

—I’d love to, slut. But this week I’m handing in my resignation. I’m going to the competition. Abroad again.

I felt the floor tilt thirty degrees.

—What?

—What you heard. I’d been negotiating it for months. I wanted to say goodbye properly.

I had to brace myself against the sink. I saw myself in the mirror, naked, with the towel held up at sternum height, my nipples still pushing against the thin fabric. Behind me, him, dressed, perfumed, serene, and with his hard cock trapped by three-hundred-euro trousers. A perfect postcard of my humiliation.

—You came here, to my house, knowing you were leaving? —I asked, still not raising my voice.

—That’s why I came.

—Get out.

He didn’t insist. He took his keys from the console table, told me to take care with my coffee —“too long, you’ll give yourself gastritis”— and left. The door closed as softly as before.

***

I stayed seated on the edge of the bathtub for a long while. I slipped my hand between my legs almost without thinking and fingered myself right there, furiously, without closing my eyes, two fingers grinding my clit while I watched myself in the bathroom mirror. I came dry, briefly, without glory, more from rage than pleasure, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t cry out. Then I cleaned up, showered twice, and brushed my teeth three times. When I came out of the bathroom wrapped in my robe, the morning light was already pouring fully through the living room window. I was late to the office, for the first time in four years. Nobody noticed.

What’s strangest is that I didn’t feel destroyed. I felt something hard to name, something like clean rage, without sugar, the kind that arrives when you discover how far you’ve gone for nothing. I felt, strange as it sounds, free. That act was the last card he could play with me and I had put it in his hand. From there on, he had nothing else left.

Three days later he signed his resignation. A week after that, he invited me by message to a farewell drink with the whole team. I didn’t go. I replied with an emoji, just one, the thumbs-down. I blocked the number as soon as I pressed send.

I’m telling it now because enough time has passed. I’m telling it, above all, because people often ask me whether I regret that morning and the answer is still complicated. I regret the character I was, not the act. There’s a difference only someone who has been on the squatting side can understand.

And while we’re at it, I also regret something much less profound: not asking for the office keys before seeing him off at the door. I would have left a little perfumed detail on top of his agenda, right next to the signature on his resignation letter. Best of luck, Andrés. I hope your new office smells exactly like what you deserve.