The Session in Which My Master Taught Me to Obey

—Mmmff —I muffled the cry against my own teeth.

I was naked and yet I felt as if my skin were burning, as though I’d been in the sun for hours. The clamp on my right nipple pulled downward on the chain, and the left one, still free, throbbed in anticipation of its turn. It burned. It stung. And worst of all, I loved it. I felt my cunt soaking wet, my thighs sticky with my own slick, and every time I drew a deep breath the chain swayed between my tits and wrung another spasm out of me.

—Yes, Master —I answered, and my voice came out trembling.

Adrián noticed the tremor before I even finished the sentence. A spasm born in me on its own, without permission, running from the nape of my neck to the backs of my knees. He sensed it the way a predator senses the slightest movement of its prey.

He came closer slowly. In a breath he was inches away, so close I could feel his breath on my forehead. He gripped my throat firmly, not squeezing too hard, just enough to force me to hold his gaze. With the thumb of his other hand he tipped my chin down.

—Open —he murmured.

I obeyed with a whimper. He spat into my mouth, a thick glob of saliva that landed heavy on my tongue. For a second disgust rose up my throat, an old reaction, the woman I had been before him. Then I swallowed. I swallowed because he wanted me to, and because discovering that I wanted it too made me dizzy in a new way. He watched my throat bob and smiled faintly.

—Again. Open.

I opened again. He spat on me again, and this time he squeezed my jaw to force me to keep my mouth open one second longer, watching his saliva pool on my tongue before letting me swallow. I felt my cunt clench hard inside, as if every little humiliation were a finger going straight to my clit.

He brought his mouth to my ear. His whisper was almost tender, which made it so much worse.

—One day I’m going to leave you so broken you’ll beg me to stop. You’ll say the word and you’ll hate yourself for saying it.

Amber. That was the word. The one we’d agreed on that first afternoon, sitting in his kitchen like two civilized people, when I still had no idea how far this could go. Amber meant stop. I admit that night I came close, closer than I would ever confess to him.

I’d be lying if I said his threat didn’t turn me on. Horny the way the woman he insisted he saw beneath my formal-girl disguise was horny, the one with blouses buttoned to the neck and polite answers. He noticed it, of course he noticed it, because he lowered his hand and pushed two fingers between my legs. He didn’t slide them in: he jammed them in all at once, up to the knuckles, and my cunt swallowed them with an obscene squelch that sounded far too loud in the room’s silence. He pulled out the glistening fingers, dripping, and brought them to my face. A thread of my own wetness hung between them.

They tasted like him. Or like me on him. Like the flavor that had stuck to my tongue the previous afternoon, when he came in my mouth and ordered me not to swallow until he said so, when I spent almost a full minute with his thick cum on my tongue and him watching me fight back my gag reflex.

—What do you taste like? —he asked, serious.

—Like you, Master —I answered, tasting his fingers, sucking them all the way to the back of my mouth the way I would have sucked his cock if he’d let me.

He tugged on the chain. The nipple stretched and a flash of pain shot across my chest to my stomach.

—And if you taste like me, what are you? —He yanked his fingers out, slapped my cheek with a hard crack, and before the sting had finished spreading he shoved them back into my mouth, this time so far back he made me gag. He didn’t pull them out until I licked his palms too.

I shivered all over. I could feel my orgasm gathering between my thighs without even being touched.

—A slut… —I said—. Your slut, Master. A soaked whore.

And that was exactly what I felt like. At his mercy, split in two by something that bore no resemblance to the neat, predictable sex I’d known until then. The way he dominated me was more mental than physical. In just two sessions he had managed to make me see myself through his eyes: a woman eager to be punished, hungry for his approval, her cunt soaked to the knees by every humiliation. I looked at him with a desire that made me ashamed. I wanted to thank him on my knees, with my mouth full of him.

It hadn’t been like that from the beginning. The first afternoon I arrived with a knot in my stomach, convinced that as soon as things got serious I’d run. I sat on the edge of his sofa, knees together, and rattled off all my conditions, all my doubts. He listened to the end without interrupting, and when I was done he told me just one thing: that the only thing he asked of me was honesty, that I always tell him the truth about what my body felt. The rest would come on its own. And it did. It came faster than I would ever have admitted.

—A good slut? —he asked, amused, still with his wet fingers now sliding over my neck, marking me with my own scent.

I lowered my gaze to his underwear. It was all he wore, and the tight fabric betrayed how much he enjoyed all this. His entire bulge showed, his hard cock cocked to one side, the tip pressing the cloth from inside with a dark damp patch. I bit my lip without thinking. He understood the gesture instantly and laughed, stepping back.

—First we’re going to take this off you. Then we continue.

***

He lifted the crop from the table. It was black leather, with a paddle-shaped tip, and I had learned to fear it and to look forward to it with the same intensity. He brought it down on the nipple that still had the clamp. The crack came before the pain.

—Endure five —he said.

At the first one I clenched my teeth. At the second my eyes filled with water and I realized my cunt clenched each time the paddle landed, as if it were wired straight from nipple to groin. At the third I wanted to die, I swear I wanted to die, and the clamp began to slip until it hung from the edge, just like the other one. Adrián stood watching me, motionless, drinking in my suffering like someone looking at something beautiful. I saw him adjust the bulge in his underwear with his free hand, no attempt to hide it. I think he expected to see me cry.

—Please… —I begged—. Master, please…

I was on the edge of the word. I had it on the tip of my tongue, round and bright, ready to save me. I didn’t say it. I didn’t want to give him that victory, or rather I didn’t want to lose the other one: proving to him that I was worthy of being his. He must have read it on my face, because on the fifth strike the clamp flew off and the chain clinked against the wooden floor. I screamed. A scream that scraped my throat raw and left me panting like a bitch.

I bowed my head, gasping, weak. He came toward me and grabbed my hair, forcing me to look up. With the other hand he pinched the still-throbbing nipple and twisted it a quarter turn, very slowly, looking me in the eyes. I screamed again, and he smiled.

—I’m going to love the day you cry —he said, and he said it like a promise of love.

He released me from the wooden frame he had me secured to and let me collapse. I fell to my knees, and without being asked I stayed there, kneeling, thighs open so he could see how wet I was, getting my breath back. He walked to the armchair. He didn’t sit. I followed him on all fours, ass in the air, knowing he was watching me move like that.

—Take them off for me.

I obeyed. I pulled at the elastic of the underwear first with my teeth and then with my hands, and his cock came free, hard, a thick vein throbbing from the base to the swollen head, a clear thread of pre-cum hanging from the tip. I licked my lips without trying to hide it, my mouth already watering.

—Don’t lick it —he warned.

Something inside me deflated. He knew it. He was doing it on purpose. Having it two centimeters from my mouth and not being able to taste it was a cruelty more refined than any crop strike.

He grabbed it by the base and slapped my cheek with it, once, twice, three times, the heavy flesh of his cock thudding against my face, and then he rubbed it all over my face while I closed my eyes and breathed in his smell: man, clean sweat, sex. He dragged it across my forehead, my eyelids, my cheekbone, leaving my skin wet with his pre-cum. He slowly passed it over my lips, marking them as if painting me with it. Without meaning to, I stuck out my tongue a millimeter and barely licked the salty tip.

The slap made my ears ring.

—What did I say?

—I’m sorry, Master —I said, my face burning and his fluids shining on my cheeks.

He ran it over my mouth again, slowly, testing me, rubbing the head against my closed lips.

—Open.

I opened. He shoved it in with one thrust, all the way to the back, until the tip hit my throat and drew a deep gag from me, and when my throat protested he didn’t ease up. He held it there, all of him inside, my nose crushed against his belly, feeling him throb at my uvula. Saliva started dripping from the corner of my mouth, thick, hanging down to my tits.

—More. I don’t want you licking it, slut. I want you to take it. Like a good throat fuck.

I opened as wide as I could, until I felt my jaws coming loose, and he slid into me to the hilt over and over, gripping both my ears to fuck my mouth to his rhythm, not for my pleasure but to remind me whose mouth this was. Each thrust tore a guttural sound from me, a wet gurgle mixed with saliva spilling over. My face filled with drool and involuntary tears, mascara running in two black tracks. He kept going, unstoppable, watching me cry on reflex, enjoying every gag as if it were stroking his ego as much as his cock.

—Look at me, whore. Look at me while I take you all the way back.

I lifted tear-filled eyes and focused on him as best I could. He quickened a couple more thrusts, feeling dangerously close, and suddenly stopped. He did that to me often: bring himself right to the edge and not come. Coming would be giving me something, and that afternoon he still hadn’t decided whether I’d earned it.

My mouth was his when he decided. Only when he decided.

He pulled out sharply, a clean tug, with a sucking sound and a stream of my saliva dripping onto my chest, and he pushed my face away with a dismissive shove, like someone removing an empty plate. I stayed kneeling, panting, strings of drool hanging from my chin and my jaw shining with his pre-cum.

***

—I love feet —he said, finally sitting in the armchair—. It happens to almost everyone who likes this. No matter how you look at it. —He stretched out his legs—. Kiss them.

I crawled to him. I went to kiss his right foot and, with the left, he planted the sole on my head and pushed me to the floor until my cheek was flattened against the cold wood.

—Your feet belong to me now —I said, getting ahead of him, because I knew what he wanted to hear.

—My feet belong to you about as much as you belong to yourself —he corrected. —Kiss them again. Higher. With your tongue.

—Yes, Master.

I stuck out my tongue and started licking them, first one, then the other, unhurried, tracing each toe, the instep, the heel. I took his big toe all the way into my mouth and sucked it like a tiny cock, and he let out an approving grunt. I ran my tongue between the toes, one by one, tasting the warm sweat, and then I licked the entire sole from end to end, long and slow, while my cunt dripped onto the wooden floor, leaving a dark stain beneath me. I felt the warm texture of his skin against my lips and the way he buried the other sole in my hair, setting the rhythm. There was nothing dignified in what I was doing, and yet I had never felt more whole. He kept me like that for a good while, until both our breathing began to settle and the room fell silent again, broken only by the wet sound of my tongue at work. When he was done, he gently moved me aside. I understood the session was over.

He motioned for me to sit on his lap. His cock, still hard, pressed sideways against my thigh, and he didn’t even make a move to adjust it. From the little table beside him he took a jar of cream, dipped his fingers in, and started rubbing it onto my sore nipples, with a care that contrasted with everything that had come before. He circled them with his fingertips, very slowly, spreading the coolness over the skin darkened by the clamps and the crop. I closed my eyes. That part, the part where his hands healed what he himself had punished, was what truly bound me to him.

—You holding up? —he asked.

I nodded and looked at him like a child.

—Yes, Master.

—Outside the session you can call me whatever you want —he said, smiling.

I shrugged. The truth was I didn’t want him any other way, even if the side of him that cared for me melted me.

—I’m still yours, Master.

I saw him stare at my feet, bare on the wood.

—They’re pretty. They turn me on.

I stood and placed them on his thighs so he could see them up close.

—You can do whatever you want with them —I offered.

He barely stroked them with his fingertips and shook his head.

—One day. —His laugh accompanied a glance that dropped to my sex, still shiny, lips swollen and parted from being kneeling open so long—. You smell delicious. Want to shower today, or can you hold out one more day?

I shrugged again.

—Tomorrow I have gym at the university. If I’m sweating, it’ll show, and I’ll feel shy.

—Then surprise me tomorrow when you come. Come without panties and with your cunt smelling like me.

The offer meant there would be another session the next day. I smiled, as happy as a schoolgirl who’s just been invited to something forbidden. That afternoon we hadn’t made it to fucking, and yet I’d be leaving more surrendered than ever, with my cunt throbbing inside my panties, my throat raw, and the taste of his cock still on my tongue, ready to give him even what I didn’t yet know I had.