The New Student Who Wanted to Test My Submission

Reputation, like cigarette smoke in a closed hallway, always ends up seeping through every crack. In the faculty, the cracks were the messages in WhatsApp groups I never saw, the whispers between classes, the glances exchanged when someone asked another person something with too much discretion. I had been inside that system for three months, and what had begun as something private and almost unimaginable now had structure, a schedule, and a fixed rate.

My Mistress had organized everything with the precision of someone who thinks before acting. The two hours of the midday break were the framework. The space was the covered area behind the sports center, where the trees formed a natural screen and student traffic was minimal. The guys she had designated as the ones in charge acted as a filter and a guarantee of order: they collected payment before any encounter, regulated the timing, and kept discretion above all else. The fee was what the daily set menu cost in the faculty cafeteria. An amount anyone could justify in their expenses without anyone asking questions.

My Mistress had explained it to me from the start: it wasn’t about money. Money was a convention, a way of formalizing something that would otherwise become chaotic. What it was about was proving something. Of seeing how far my obedience went and how far the demand was willing to go.

In the first few days, walking toward that place was hard. I felt my stomach heavy, my legs slow, something like panic mixed with an anticipation I didn’t know how to name. With time, that changed. Now it was more like what I imagine an actor feels before going onstage: tension, yes, but also a concentration that puts everything in order.

It was Thursday. It was cold, that late-November cold that no longer hesitates to stay. I had put on the skirt my Mistress had chosen for that week, without panties, as usual. Without the vibrator I had worn in previous weeks: my Mistress had decided it was a distraction from the job, that the job required total presence. I walked along the side of Building B with my backpack over one shoulder and my eyes on the ground, not meeting anyone’s gaze. I could feel the cold air between my thighs with every step, reminding me that I was open, available, ready to open my mouth when I was ordered to.

My first two clients that day were fourth-year guys, faces that were already familiar to me in an impersonal way. The routine was established: I knelt on the cold concrete floor in front of the first one, a tall blond who already knew my mouth from other times. He pulled down his pants and underwear to his thighs without saying a word, and his cock sprang up hard and thick a handspan from my face. I took it in my hand, feeling its weight, the thick vein running along the side, and I stuffed it into my mouth in one go until the head hit my throat.

He let out a groan through clenched teeth and grabbed my hair, setting the pace. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and let him fuck it however he wanted. I sucked fast and deep, my tongue pressed against the underside of his dick, letting the saliva run down my chin. His balls knocked against my chin with every thrust. Within a few minutes he was already driving hard, gripping my head with both hands, and then I felt him swelling even more between my lips. He came in my mouth with three long shudders, filling my tongue with thick, hot semen. I swallowed without lifting my face, the way I’d been taught, down to the last drop. When I pulled his cock out of my mouth it was still dripping, and I ran my tongue over the head to clean him off.

He pulled his pants up without looking at me and left. The second was already waiting.

This one was dark-haired, shorter, with a thinner but longer cock. He grabbed the back of my neck and shoved it all the way in without preliminaries. I felt him block my throat, the gag reflex rising, tears filling my eyes. He didn’t let up. He fucked my mouth for several minutes, pulling out only enough for me to breathe between gags before sinking back in again. When he came, he did it on my face: he turned my head aside at the last second and blasted thick spurts over my cheek, my nose, my parted lips. The hot semen ran down my chin and fell onto my tits still covered by my sweater. I stuck out my tongue and cleaned the tip of his cock while he breathed heavily over me.

No unnecessary words. No prolonged eye contact. He straightened his clothes and walked away. I stayed kneeling, face soaked, until Tomás handed me a paper tissue without looking at me. I wiped myself slowly while I waited.

It was a functional transaction. What I felt during and after was more complicated to describe: not degradation exactly, because degradation implies resistance, and I wasn’t resisting. It was something more like surrender, the conscious handing over of something I would have guarded fiercely in any other context. I could feel my pussy wet, swollen, throbbing against the fabric of the skirt. That was part of the system too.

When the first two left, Tomás came over.

—There’s a new one —he said, with his usual economy of words—. Girl. She wants something different from the others. Says she’s Carmen’s friend, the one who was at the October party. Valeria already approved her. She pays double the normal rate.

I nodded slowly. My heart gave a slow, heavy lurch.

A female client. A girl. And she wanted “something different.”

Tomás didn’t elaborate. That wasn’t his style.

***

She appeared three minutes later, walking among the trees with her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. She was short, with blue-black hair cut to jaw length and two thin piercings in her left eyebrow. She wore white canvas sneakers, badly worn at the toes, and a look that wasn’t desire but evaluation. She looked me up and down with her head slightly tilted, as if she were reading something printed in very small type.

—So it’s you —she said in a calm voice, almost soft—. The one who obeys.

I didn’t answer. With the guys I knew exactly what came next, the precise order of things: kneel, open my mouth, swallow. With her I didn’t know where to put my hands or what to expect.

—Kneel —she said.

It wasn’t a request. She had the tone of someone who has just decided something and communicates it without needing drama. I knelt on the ground without a second thought.

She squatted in front of me, took my chin between two fingers, and lifted my face toward hers. Her eyes were a light brown, almost golden at that time of day, and she looked at me without blinking.

—Carmen told me quite a lot about you —she said quietly—. I want to see whether she’s exaggerating or telling the truth.

She smelled like unscented soap and cold air. I felt her breath brush my face when she spoke. She ran her thumb over my lower lip and immediately noticed the trace of semen still stuck at the corner.

—Looks like you’ve already been busy —she said, with a half smile that was neither cruel nor kind—. Good. I like finding you like this.

She brought her thumb to her own mouth and sucked it slowly, looking straight into my eyes.

—What I want is simple —she continued, standing up calmly—. You’re going to lick my feet. First the feet. Then, if I’m satisfied, the inside of my sneakers. And then we’ll see.

It took me a second to process the instruction. Not because I rejected it, but because the body sometimes needs that instant to organize what’s coming next.

—Any problem? —she asked. Now there was a sharp edge beneath the calm.

—No, ma’am —I replied—. None.

She sat down on the wooden bench against the sports center wall, untied the right sneaker with slow, deliberate movements, and took it off. Then the sock. Her foot was small, with nails painted a nearly black burgundy. She held it out to me without ceremony.

I leaned in.

The skin was cold from the November air and tasted like fabric and the outdoors, like something clean and concrete. I ran my tongue slowly over the instep, following the arch of her foot until I reached the base of the toes. She made no sound. One arm rested on the back of the bench, and she watched me from above with a calm that was harder for me to bear than anything else I’d faced before.

I circled her big toe with my tongue, took it fully into my mouth and sucked it like a small cock. Then the next one. I got to the little toe, where she wore a very thin silver ring, and felt the cold metal against my lips. The taste was real, unfiltered, with none of the distance I sometimes put between what I do and what I process. It was her, direct, with no possible mediation.

The heat that had started in my stomach slowly sank down to my pussy. I felt my lips swell, felt moisture start to run down the inside of my thighs.

—The other one —she said.

I repeated the process with the left foot, more slowly this time. I ran my tongue between each toe one by one, sucked them all, let the saliva wet the top of her foot. I could feel her breathing become a little steadier even as she kept control of her expression. She didn’t want to give me the satisfaction of seeing a reaction. That too was domination.

—Good —she said at last—. Now the sneakers.

She handed me the first one. It was white canvas, badly worn at the sides, with the insole sunk from use and the inner edges worn down by years of daily friction. The smell was the first thing: strong, concentrated, a mixture of sweat, fabric, and her. Direct and impossible to mistake.

I glanced at Tomás for a moment. He nodded briefly, without meeting my eyes.

I brought the sneaker to my face and stuck my tongue inside. The rough fabric scraped my palate. The taste was intense and naked, with no room for distance. I felt my cheeks burn. And at the same time, and this was what was hardest for me to sort out in my head, I felt my pussy gushing with a clarity that admitted no interpretation. My thighs were sticky. If I stood up, I’d feel it soaking me all the way down to my stockings.

Humiliation didn’t close me off. It opened me.

—Slowly —she said—. Make it obvious you’re doing it right. Get all the flavor out of it.

I ran my tongue over the entire insole slowly, following every seam, every worn patch. I sucked the edges, the tips where the canvas had turned almost gray with use, the inner hollow where months of sweat had concentrated. When I finished, she handed me the second sneaker in silence. I worked on it the same way, with the same attention, while she watched me with her arms crossed and that calm that was the most efficient form of domination I had found so far: not anger, not shouting, but quiet, sustained expectation.

When I finished, my mouth was thick and my lips were swollen. The smell of her sneakers had gotten into my nose and wouldn’t leave.

There was a long silence. The wind moved the branches of the trees in the background. Someone crossed on the other side of the building without seeing me.

—Stand up —she said at last.

I got to my feet. My knees trembled slightly, and it wasn’t from fear.

She stepped toward me without hesitation. She slid her hand under my skirt in a direct gesture, not probing, as if she knew exactly where to find what she was looking for. Her fingers brushed the inside of my thigh, wet halfway up, and moved to my pussy. They stopped there. I felt two fingers part my lips calmly, taking note of how swollen they were, how soaked.

—Look at this —she said in a low voice, almost amused—. You’re dripping. You’re coming just from licking a stranger’s sneakers.

It wasn’t a question. I didn’t answer.

She slid one finger inside, slowly, all the way to the bottom. She held it there for a moment, feeling how tightly I clenched around it, and then added a second. She started fucking me with her fingers unhurriedly, in a slow, deliberate rhythm, looking at my face to register every reaction. I clenched my teeth not to moan. I felt pleasure rise from my pussy to my throat. My legs opened on their own, seeking more depth. She smiled with one corner of her mouth.

—That’s it —she murmured—. Open up properly.

She curved her fingers upward and found the exact spot. She pressed it with the pad of her finger while her thumb searched for my clit above. She started rubbing it in small circles, without speeding up, without changing pace, watching me with that terrible calm she had. My breathing unraveled in less than a minute. I felt the orgasm rise from my legs, gather in my lower belly, and break in a wave that made me grab the bench so I wouldn’t fall. I came in her hand with a muffled moan I barely managed to keep between my teeth, while she kept moving her fingers inside me until the last contraction was gone.

When she withdrew her hand, her fingers glistened with my fluid all the way to the knuckles. She looked at them for a moment with clinical interest. Then she brought them to my face.

—Clean them.

I opened my mouth and sucked them one by one, tasting myself on her skin. Then she smiled, for the first time, with a genuine smile that had nothing cruel about it.

—Carmen wasn’t exaggerating —she said, finally withdrawing her hand and shaking it twice—. You’re a good investment.

She turned to Tomás, took a folded bill from the pocket of her hoodie, and handed it to him. He counted it, nodded. Everything in silence, with the efficiency of something that already had a protocol.

—I might come back —she told him, as if I weren’t there—. Depends on how I feel. Next time I want to try other things with her.

She put her sneakers back on, tied them unhurriedly, and disappeared among the trees without looking back.

***

My Mistress arrived ten minutes later, when the handlers were already putting away the day’s money. She assessed me with that quick look that took everything in in a second: the mussed hair, swollen lips, the wet mark crossing the inside of my thigh that the skirt hadn’t quite covered.

—How was it?

—Good —I answered.

Tomás chimed in without being asked:

—Best tip of the whole week. The girl said maybe she’ll come back. And she made me come in front of him.

My Mistress nodded with a satisfaction that was almost mathematical. She put a hand on the back of my neck for a moment, brief and firm.

—I knew it —she said—. You were already good. Now you’re complete too.

She ran two fingers over my lower lip, checking something, then put them in my mouth. I sucked them without thinking.

—Good bitch —she murmured, almost to herself.

I gathered my things in silence. I still had the taste of Iris’s sneakers on my tongue, mixed with my own pussy and the two guys from earlier. My cheeks burned. And some part of me, the part my Mistress had patiently built from the beginning, felt strangely whole.

It wasn’t pride in the usual sense of the word. It was something harder to name: the satisfaction of having performed well on unfamiliar ground, before someone new, with a request I hadn’t anticipated. Of having responded as what my Mistress said I was: not just obedient by habit, but adaptable by something that went beyond obedience.

I walked back toward Building B with my backpack over my shoulder, among the groups of students returning from the cafeteria. I could still feel my pussy throbbing, sensitive, wet against the fabric of my skirt. No one looked at me differently. No one asked anything. The campus kept its usual rhythm, oblivious to everything.

That too was one of the rules of the system my Mistress had built: silence was the most valuable currency, more than the fee and more than any tip.

And I, above all, knew how to keep silent.

I wondered whether Iris would come back. And I also wondered what she would ask for if she did. Whether she would fuck me with her fingers again, whether she would make me eat her pussy until she came in my mouth, whether she would lend me to someone like her just to watch me surrender in front of the two of them.

It wasn’t fear I felt when I thought about that. It was something very close to the anticipation with which I walked to the sports center every midday: nervous, yes. But ready.