The Slave I Delivered to My Father

I was infatuated with her the moment I saw her. Young, beautiful, with a melancholy air that seemed to wrap her in her own solitude. I found her on one of the last trains of the afternoon, absorbed in a book she held with both hands, oblivious to everything around her.

I sat right across from her, just to look at her better.

I liked the way she was dressed: simple sandals, bare legs, and a white dress that made her seem even more delicate. She didn’t notice me for quite a while.

—Hi.

Much later, she confessed to me that she loved my boldness, that daring of speaking to her without preamble. She felt embarrassed and, at the same time, flattered.

After a quick glance around the carriage, she returned her eyes to the book. But she had already understood it: I had sat down across from her because I wanted to be there.

—I know a really good ice cream shop a couple of stops away. Do you fancy an ice cream?

—Are you asking me on a date?

—At my age? No. Just for an ice cream.

I couldn’t see her whole face, because she was covering her mouth with the book. But she accepted. I saw her text her mother on her phone before getting off with me and walking beside me.

She ordered a cream and vanilla ice cream with lots of wafer rolls. She told me she was a university student, first year of Architecture. What she didn’t tell me, but what I inferred from the way she looked at me, was that it was the first time she had gone out alone with a man.

It got late, so I asked if she wanted me to walk her home. She agreed. She didn’t live far, so we walked together to her building entrance.

Our first kiss happened right there. I kissed her with tongue while pressing her body against mine, and only then did I let her go. I put a hand on the nape of her neck, buried my fingers in her hair and forced her to open her mouth, to accept my tongue without shame, feeling the heat of her broken breathing against my lips. She shivered, stiff at first, then soft, pressed against me at the waist, her hands hesitating on my chest as if she didn’t know whether to push me away or cling harder. I gave her another deeper, dirtier kiss, one of those that leave your mouth wet and your head empty, and when I pulled my face away I saw that her skin was flushed and her lips were shining.

—See you around —I said.

Irene confessed much later that she was left confused. Her first instinct was to go after me, but she held back. She went inside and headed straight to her room. She had just experienced something far too intense with an older man and didn’t know how to react. She had liked it. Her legs were still trembling.

She masturbated twice that night. The first time in the shower, with water sliding down her thighs while she opened herself with two fingers and rubbed her clit with clumsy movements, quick at first, increasingly desperate until she bit her lips to keep from moaning. The second, just before falling asleep, with her hand between her panties, soaking them with her slick, imagining my mouth, my fingers, my tongue entering where shame no longer had any place.

***

She spent the entire next morning with her phone in her hand, watching to see whether I wrote to her and debating whether to wait or take the first step herself. She did at noon. She sent me a full-body photo of herself, wearing a pink T-shirt and a miniskirt, barefoot, telling me she couldn’t stop thinking about me.

When she asked if I liked it, I knew that with a little push I could get a photo in lingerie. Maybe more.

“Strip for me. Show me how beautiful you are.”

It was a risky gamble, a direct command to a girl experiencing her first relationship. When she received it, her heart skipped a beat. It had already been hard enough for her to send the first photo.

—Or not? —she asked herself.

She knew her friends sent pictures like that to their boyfriends, that it was normal. The question was what we were, what I meant to her.

“Promise me only you’ll see it.”

“Promise.”

Alone in her room, Irene began taking off her clothes until she was naked. She felt dizzy, as if she were on the edge of a cliff. She looked at her clothes strewn across the floor and couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“I can’t do it.”

“Too bad. I’m sure it would have been a beautiful image.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.

“I won’t let you down again.”

“We’ll see each other tonight, on the train.”

***

She arrived dressed the same as in the photo. I sat across from her and started caressing her knee, then her bare thigh, in full view of the whole carriage. I moved my hand up until I hooked a finger on the edge of her panties and started pulling them down.

The garment peeked out from under her skirt and slid down to her knees. Yes, I took them off right there. I put them in my jacket pocket like a trophy. She remained motionless, her legs half-closed and her breathing shallow, feeling the train rattle beneath our bodies while I brushed her skin with insolent calm, in control of the situation.

—Do you want an ice cream or a coffee? —I asked, as if nothing had happened.

She chose a café. It was clear that on this second date she wanted to seem older than she was. When we were done, I walked her back. Before we reached her building entrance, I pulled her into a narrow alley.

She expected me to kiss her gently, like the good girl she believed herself to be.

I had other plans.

I turned her around, pressed her against the wall, and spread her legs with my knee. I lifted her dress up to her waist and slid my hand between her thighs, finding her cunt already hot, wet, trembling. She let out a muffled gasp when I pulled her panties to the side and sank two fingers in slowly, just enough to see her arch her back against the brick. With my other hand I grabbed her jaw to force her to look at me.

—Don’t scream —I ordered.

She didn’t scream. Even though I took her hard right there, in the middle of a filthy alley, with her first man pinning her against the brick. I fucked her without giving her time to think, going in and out with a hard, short, dry rhythm, while her tits bounced under her bunched-up dress and her breathing turned into a broken thread. I spread her legs wider, found her clit with my thumb, left her soaked, trembling, and when I felt her come I pressed harder against her, marking every thrust until I drew out a small, shameful moan that was lost in the night. I left her trembling when I finished.

Irene told me she only reacted once she lost sight of me. She pulled up her skirt and walked home alone, where she collapsed on the bed. She didn’t eat dinner. She didn’t shower. She swore she would never want to hear from me again.

***

It was the next morning, when she woke up alone at home, that she thought of me again. She was wearing white panties and a sleep T-shirt, and it occurred to her that maybe I would like to see her like that. She sent me the photo.

“I’m not your boyfriend. If you keep with me, I’m only going to use you.”

“That’s the only thing I want.”

The message arrived accompanied by another image: her kneeling, completely naked, offering herself.

I sent her an address and an order.

“You will be his.”

Irene cried when she read it. She cried because she knew she would do it, that she would show up at a stranger’s house and give herself over to his whims. When she stopped crying, she showered, did her hair, put on makeup, and covered herself with a pink dress. She sent me one last photo before leaving.

***

The address was far away, at the last train stop, in a working-class neighborhood of silent streets. She walked to a house with a courtyard, where she was met by a middle-aged man, calm, with large hands.

—Are you the slave my son sends? —he asked.

Irene nodded. She was in a stranger’s house on someone’s orders. His slave? Apparently, yes.

—Good, good… You’re taller than me. I like tall girls.

He moved his hands to the dress straps and lowered them, leaving her breasts exposed. He began touching them, squeezing them, running his mouth over them. He took the dress off her completely and led her to a bed.

There he tied her up. He put her on all fours and lashed her ankles to the ends of the bed frame, forcing her to keep her legs open, her wrists bound behind her back. Then he placed a mask on her that deprived her of sight, hearing, and almost all of her voice. The room became a thick blackness, filled only with the brush of the sheets, the smell of sweat and skin, and the muffled sound of other people’s breathing coming closer to and farther from her body.

Irene could never say how many men passed through that room, how many hands ran over her, how many took her in turns. In the dark, only touch and waiting existed.

She felt how some merely caressed her, pried her cunt open with their fingers, licked her clit until she twisted against the ropes, forcing her to come with a trembling that ran from her belly to the soles of her feet. Others grabbed her by the hips and used her hard, driving their cocks all the way in, slamming into her pubic bone with every thrust, while she swallowed and let herself go, broken between shame and pleasure. Every time a mouth or fingers left her, others took their place. She lost count. She lost track of time. She felt semen on her belly, on her thighs, between her swollen lips, and even so she stayed there, panting inside the mask, given over to a succession of bodies that emptied and filled her without rest.

At nightfall, the man removed her mask to give her something to drink and eat. When she tried to protest, a thin rod crossed her ass and the soles of her feet. She eventually gave in —if she had ever truly resisted at all—, accepting what they offered her with her head bowed.

Then they let her go.

***

Irene only wanted to shower, get dressed, and go home. But when she came out of the bathroom and saw my father sitting so calmly in the armchair, she felt an impulse she couldn’t explain. She walked to the door and didn’t get to open it: she turned back and knelt in front of him.

My father lifted her chin, looked at her for a long moment, and made her his right there, unhurriedly, while she accepted him with her eyes closed. He spread her legs, slid his hand between her still-sensitive thighs, and took her calmly, as if he were teaching her to breathe inside her own surrender. Irene moaned softly when he opened her body and made her come slowly, patiently, until she was left trembling on her knees, her face wet and her hands resting on his calves.

Irene became his full-fledged slave. She didn’t take long to learn the rules. Her young body, her whole mind, existed only to please her master’s whims.

He liked seeing her kneeling, waiting in silence in a corner. He liked marking her, leaving her with traces she wore proudly. He liked taking her out for walks as if she were a trophy: first through the countryside, then through the park, until he considered her ready for the street.

He walked her around in a long coat and nothing underneath, except for the leather collar that identified her as his. He enjoyed humiliating her with small orders in public, whispered in her ear, which she obeyed without anyone around suspecting anything.

One day he tied her to the bed, her body completely exposed. Irene thought she was about to receive a flogging session. She didn’t mind. Letting her master lay his hand on her was, by then, more a proof of surrender than a punishment.

But that afternoon there was no rod. There was hot wax dripping slowly onto her skin, clamps biting her nipples, hours of bondage in which the only goal was for her to learn to endure, to breathe, to obey even when he wasn’t watching.

She was his. She had surrendered with all the consequences. She had proven it the day she dropped out of university, the day she gave up the future she had imagined as a little girl.

***

One night, fresh out of the shower, Irene slipped her fingers between her legs. It was forbidden: she wasn’t allowed to touch herself without permission. She knew that this meant punishment as soon as she confessed it to her master, but she hadn’t been able to help herself.

She came out of the bathroom naked, wearing only the collar, because that was the only way she was allowed to move around the house. She heard voices downstairs. She put on a white shirt and black stockings —nothing else— and went down, because she had orders never to hide.

She had to walk until she found her master and kneel beside him. Next to him was a young man, younger than she was, who didn’t take his eyes off her. Irene positioned herself beside my father, knelt, and lowered her head.

—Good, you’re here —he said, stroking her hair—. By the way, Marcos, thanks for letting me know about the party.

—That’s what I wanted to talk to you about —the young man replied—. My birthday’s on Saturday. Would you lend her to me for the party? With my friends, you know.

—I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Presenting a trained submissive in front of your buddies, letting them use her as they please… Sounds exciting, I won’t deny it. But you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’d break her in one night, and it took me months to build what she is.

The boy looked at Irene, who could barely contain a smile.

—You don’t have to believe me —my father added—. If you want, I’ll lend her to you tonight, for a couple of hours, and you can see for yourself.

Marcos swallowed. He looked again at the kneeling girl, at the collar, at the absolute stillness of her posture.

—No, I think I’ll pass —he said at last, standing up—. I’ll take your word for it for another day.

He went out the door almost in a hurry.

—You were very bad with him, master —Irene murmured.

—I did him the favor of his life. And now get into position: I know you touched yourself, and you’re going to lick my feet as punishment.

He took off his shoes and socks. His feet smelled of all-day sweat, and still she bowed her head and began licking them slowly, one and then the other, with the devotion of someone who can no longer imagine any other life.

It wasn’t the existence she had dreamed of as a child, nor the one she imagined as an adolescent. But kneeling at her master’s feet, Irene couldn’t imagine living any other way.