The Stranger Who Taught Me to Kneel

I was never the kind of person who told anyone about my fantasies. Not my best friend, not the partners I’d had, not even to myself out loud. But I had them. I have them. And every day they’re more intense, more detailed, harder to ignore.

It started as something I could control. A fleeting thought while I showered with the water running between my legs, an image slipping into my head before sleep with my hand buried in my panties. A faceless man grabbing my hair, telling me to “open wide,” and filling my mouth with cock until it hit the back of my throat. I obeyed without hesitation, and in that obedience I found something I couldn’t name. Relief, maybe. Or something deeper, something I’d needed my whole life without knowing it.

With time it stopped being fleeting. The fantasies started haunting me at all hours: at work while I stared at the screen without seeing anything and felt my cunt swelling against the seam of my pants, at the supermarket while I absentmindedly squeezed a piece of fruit and imagined sucking off a stranger in the stockroom out back, on the subway when a man brushed my arm by accident and I felt a lash of heat between my legs that left my panties stuck to my lips. I got wet without mercy. I once masturbated in the office bathroom twice in the same afternoon, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound, with two fingers buried in my cunt to the knuckles and my clit swollen against my thumb, coming in silence with my stockings around my ankles and my heart in my throat.

What excited me wasn’t sex itself. It was the idea of surrendering. Of someone saying “kneel and open your mouth” and me doing it without thinking. Of feeling firm hands on my waist forcing me to turn, positioning me on all fours, parting my ass to look at my open cunt and asshole without asking permission. Of not having to decide anything, of letting go of the weight of always being the one who controls everything in her life. I wanted to be used, fucked, opened all the way, and that desire shamed me and turned me on in equal measure.

I always imagined an older man. Not an old man, but someone with gray at his temples and big hands, someone who knew what he was doing without needing me to guide him. In my fantasy, he looked at me as if he could read me, as if he knew that beneath my neat clothes and polite smile there was a hungry little whore waiting for someone to drag her to the surface.

I also fantasized about going further. About his hands exploring every part of my body, even the ones I’d never let anyone touch. I imagined myself face down, ass in the air, offering myself completely, and him claiming every hole without asking but without hurting me either. I imagined his cock entering me from the front and a finger slick with spit going into me from behind at the same time, filling both holes and leaving me breathless. Those thoughts made me writhe in bed in the dark, with three fingers sunk into my soaked cunt and my other hand covering my mouth so the neighbors wouldn’t hear me come.

One Friday in November I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d spent a whole week unable to focus, rubbing my cunt against the edge of my office chair like I was fifteen. I put on a black dress I hadn’t worn in months, tiny lace panties underneath and no bra, painted my lips a red that wasn’t my style, and went out to a bar downtown someone had mentioned once. I didn’t have a plan. Or maybe the plan was to let the first decent cock I ran into that night split me in half.

The place was half full. Low music, warm lights, the kind of spot people go to talk, not to shout. I sat at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. I tried to look calm, but I could feel my pulse in my wrists, my nipples hard against the fabric of the dress, and a dampness between my thighs I could no longer blame on nerves. My panties were already soaking through before I’d spoken to anyone.

I saw him on my second drink. He was alone at a table near the window, with a glass of whiskey and a book he wasn’t reading. He had to be around fifty, maybe a little less. Gray hair cut close, a three-day beard, broad shoulders under a dark shirt. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but there was something about him — a stillness, a confidence — that made me cross and uncross my legs on the stool, rubbing my thighs together to ease the pressure in my cunt.

Our eyes met and he didn’t look away. Neither did I. It was a long, awkward, electric moment. I felt like he was reading me, seeing through my dress and my lipstick and my fake calm. He took a sip of whiskey without taking his eyes off me and something in my stomach tightened. My nipples hurt from how hard they were.

He stood and walked to the bar. He sat on the stool beside mine without asking permission, without asking if the seat was free. He smelled of wood and something citrusy. Up close he had wrinkles around his eyes that gave him a tired but interesting look.

“You’ve been staring at me for twenty minutes,” he said, without an introduction or a smile.

“You were staring at me too,” I replied.

“I know what I’m looking for. Do you?”

It shouldn’t have worked. A line like that, said by anyone else, would have seemed ridiculous to me. But the way he said it — without smiling, without flirting, as if it were a clinical question — left me with no clever answer. I felt my cunt clench around nothing.

“I think so,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than expected.

His name was Adrián. He told me little about himself and asked me a lot. Not the usual questions: not what I did for a living or where I was from. He asked me what kept me awake at night. What made me uncomfortable. When was the last time I’d done something that truly scared me.

I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the way he looked at me, as if nothing I said could shock him. I confessed that I had fantasies I didn’t dare act on. That the idea of losing control turned me on. That for months I’d been thinking about a man who would dominate me without violence but without mercy. I told him I dreamed of being tied up, getting my mouth fucked until I cried, and having every hole filled. That sometimes the arousal was so strong I’d stick my fingers in my ass in the shower just to see, and that got me hot as a bitch too.

Adrián nodded as if I’d told him it was cold outside.

“And why haven’t you done it?” he asked.

“I hadn’t found anyone who inspired enough trust.”

“And now?”

I looked him in the eyes. They were gray, or maybe green under that light.

“Now I’m not sure, but I want to find out.”

He didn’t invite me with words. He left a bill on the bar, stood up, and held out his hand. Open, palm up. An offer, not an order. Not yet.

I took it.

His apartment was four blocks away. We walked in silence. I could feel the November cold on my legs and an absurd heat between them. My panties had soaked through to the point that I could feel the dampness running down the inside of my thigh. He didn’t touch me the whole way. He didn’t need to. The anticipation was like a rope tightening with every step.

***

The apartment was understated. Few pieces of furniture, lots of books, a floor lamp spilling a puddle of golden light over the room. Adrián closed the door and leaned against it. He looked me over slowly, like someone assessing something before buying it.

“First of all,” he said, “I need you to understand something. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. If at any point you want to stop, you say ‘red’ and we stop. No questions, no drama. Understood?”

I nodded.

“With words.”

“Understood.”

“Good.”

He moved away from the door and walked to the center of the room. He sat in a dark leather armchair, crossed his legs, and looked at me from there with a calm that contrasted with the mess I felt inside.

“Take off your shoes.”

I took them off. The floor was cold under my bare feet.

“Now come closer.”

I walked until I was standing in front of him. From the armchair, his eyes were level with my chest.

“Kneel.”

And there it was. The word I had imagined hundreds of times. That I had whispered to myself with my fingers sunk in my cunt in the dark of my room. But hearing it from a real voice, deep, unapologetic, was something entirely different. It was as if someone had opened a door I’d been pushing for years with no key.

My knees touched the floor. I felt the cold of the tiles through my stockings and something loosened inside me, a tension I’d been carrying without knowing it, like exhaling after holding my breath too long. My cunt was already throbbing just from being on my knees in front of him.

Adrián reached out and stroked my hair. Slowly, like you’d pet a nervous animal. He wound a lock around his fingers and tugged gently, just enough to tilt my head back so I had to look at him from below. Something about that perspective, that vulnerability, aroused me more than any kiss anyone had ever given me.

“Like this,” he said. “Just like that.”

With his other hand he traced my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. His thumb stopped in the hollow of my throat where my pulse was beating. He pressed lightly, just enough for me to feel my own heart thudding against his finger. Then he moved up and slipped his thumb into my mouth. I sucked it without needing to be told, closing my lips around it, licking it slowly while I looked him in the eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and I felt my entire cunt clench.

“You’re shaking,” he noted.

“It’s not fear.”

“I know.”

He unbuckled his belt slowly, with one hand, while the other kept holding my hair. The sound of the buckle in that silence was almost obscene. He pulled down the zipper. He took out his cock and held it in front of my face: thick, hard, the head already shiny with fluid, a pronounced vein running beneath it. He didn’t shove it in my mouth. He ran it across my lips, leaving a sticky trail from the corner of my mouth to my cheek, marking me as his before using me.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

I opened. He pushed slowly, without violence but without stopping, until he had it all the way in and the tip hit the back of my throat. I gagged, my eyes filled with tears, and still I pushed toward him to take more. Adrián groaned for the first time all night, a low, satisfied sound, and held my head with both hands.

“Still,” he ordered. “Let me do it.”

He started fucking my mouth. Slowly at first, drawing his cock out to my lips and then driving it back in until my nose was crushed against his stomach. Saliva dripped down my chin, down over my naked tits already peeking out above the neckline of the dress. Every thrust made me moan around his cock, and my moans made him harder: I could feel him swelling against my tongue, throbbing against my palate.

“Look at me,” he said.

I looked at him from below, mouth full, eyes wet, lipstick smeared all over my chin. He smiled for the first time. A small, satisfied smile, almost tender in contrast to what he was doing to me.

“You’re a beauty with a cock in your mouth,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

I tried to answer and only a muffled moan came out. He gave a quiet laugh and yanked it out of my mouth. A strand of saliva connected my lips to the tip, shining under the lamp’s golden light.

“Stand up.”

It was hard. My knees were burning and my legs were trembling. When I was on my feet he turned me around. He pulled down the zipper of the dress with unbearable slowness, letting every inch of fabric separate become a small torture. The dress fell to the floor and I was left in my panties in front of him, back turned, no bra, unable to see his face. I felt his gaze as something physical traveling down my spine, stopping at my ass, at the curve of my waist.

“Hands behind your back,” he ordered.

I obeyed. I crossed my wrists at the small of my back and waited. My breathing was the only sound in the apartment. I heard a drawer open. Something soft wrapped around my wrists, a strip of fabric that wasn’t rough, maybe silk. He tied it firmly but not too tight.

“Color?” he asked.

“Green.”

He turned me around. Now I was facing him, bound, almost naked, with his swollen cock still jutting from his open pants, wet with my saliva. That asymmetry aroused me so much I could feel my cunt dripping through the lace. Adrián lowered his gaze to the darkening stain in my panties and then back to my eyes with something that looked like approval.

“Look how wet you’ve made your panties,” he said. “You’re dripping, little slut.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like being looked at like this.”

“Yes.”

He caught one nipple between his thumb and forefinger and twisted it with measured calm. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel either. It was exactly the pressure I needed for a long moan to slip out of me and my knees to go weak. Then he did the same to the other nipple, looking at my face while he squeezed it, studying every flinch, every broken breath.

“You have beautiful tits,” he said, bending down to suck one nipple and bite it just a little. “I’m going to fuck them another day.”

He gently pushed me to the edge of the armchair and made me lean over the back, with my hands still tied behind me. The leather was cold against my tits, against my stomach. He pulled my panties down slowly, sliding them along my thighs until they fell to my ankles. I was completely naked and exposed, bent over his chair, ass in the air and cunt open to the room, unable to move or cover myself.

His hand ran along my back, every vertebra, the curve of my waist, my sides, taking his time as if memorizing the topography of my body. When he reached my ass, he stopped and parted it with both hands. I felt the cold air on the most intimate parts of me, my asshole exposed, my cunt dripping between swollen lips, and a shiver went through me.

“Look at yourself,” he said, and I heard the click of his phone. He didn’t let me see. He only described it to me. “You’ve got a tight little ass and an open cunt dripping. Your lips are shining from how wet you are. You look made for this.”

He ran two fingers over the entrance to my sex, gathering the moisture, and then put them in my mouth over the back of the chair. I sucked them without having to be told, licking myself off his fingers, moaning from shame and desire.

“Good girl,” he repeated.

He spread my ass open again.

“Nobody’s touched you here, have they?” he asked, and his finger traced the cleft between my ass cheeks with a softness that made me clench my fists behind my back.

“No,” I admitted.

“But you want me to.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew the answer before I did.

“Yes,” I said, and the word came out like a breathless whisper against the leather.

“Say it properly. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to put your finger in my ass, sir. Please.”

He gave a low, satisfied laugh.

“You learn fast.”

I heard the click of a bottle. His fingers came back, now warm and slippery, circling slowly around my asshole. He didn’t push, didn’t force it. He just stroked until my body stopped resisting and I started pushing back, looking for more pressure, offering him my ass like a whore. His other hand slid between my thighs and found me soaked. Two fingers entered my cunt easily, all the way to the knuckles, while his thumb kept drawing circles back there, pressing just enough, slipping in a centimeter and pulling back, driving me mad.

I moaned against the leather of the chair. It wasn’t a pretty or controlled sound. It was animal, guttural, a noise I would have been ashamed of anywhere else in the world. Not here. Here it was exactly what was expected of me.

“More,” I begged, the word coming out like a plea. “Please, more.”

“More what? Speak clearly.”

“More fingers. Put them all the way in. Finger-fuck me, sir.”

Adrián didn’t speed up. He kept the same pace, the same maddening pressure, and forced me to stay there, on the edge of orgasm without letting me fall. His thumb finally slid into my ass, slowly, millimeter by millimeter, while the other two fingers kept moving inside my cunt, curling upward to scratch that spot that made me see stars. The sensation of being filled on both sides tore a scream out of me that I didn’t try to hold back.

“Look how nicely you open for me,” he murmured. “Look at you squeezing my fingers with your cunt. You’re sucking them all the way in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And your ass squeezing my thumb like a virgin. Just imagine when I put my cock in there. Another day. Not today.”

I moaned just thinking about it. The idea of coming back, of him deciding when and how, put me on the edge.

“Not yet,” he said firmly. “When I say.”

I lost track of time. It could have been five minutes or thirty. It was all his hands, his voice giving short orders I obeyed without thinking — “don’t move,” “breathe,” “hold on,” “squeeze my fingers,” “harder” — the leather sticking to my sweaty cheek, the tug of the binding on my wrists every time I tried to writhe. He kept me exactly where he wanted me, right on the edge, and every time I got too close he eased off just enough to make me fall back. My cunt was dripping down my thighs, a bright stain on the leather beneath me.

“You’re a perfect whore,” he said, and the phrase, far from offending me, made me clench around his fingers. “My whore. Right?”

“Yes, sir. Your whore.”

“Please,” I begged, voice breaking. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Let me finish.”

“Say it all.”

I closed my eyes. Pride, shame, the remnants of the woman who had come to the bar in her black dress and fake confidence: all of it evaporated. There was only me, naked and bound and soaked and desperate, and the only truth that mattered.

“Please, sir, let me come. Let me come on your fingers. Please.”

His fingers curled inside me, finding that spot that made me arch my back and clench my teeth. His thumb pushed a little deeper into my ass. His other hand moved to my swollen clit and pressed firmly, mercilessly, rubbing in a rhythm that didn’t let me escape.

“Come,” he said. “Now.”

The orgasm shot through me like an electric current. I screamed against the back of the chair, fists clenched behind my back, trembling from head to toe. I felt my cunt contract in violent waves around his fingers, soaking his whole hand, dripping down his wrist. It was long, brutal, almost painful in its intensity. Wave after wave while he didn’t remove his hands, holding me at that peak, rubbing my swollen clit until I was begging through clenched teeth, forcing me to feel every second until my body stopped jerking and I was left panting, legs weak, ass still up, eyes wet.

He pulled his fingers out slowly. I felt the emptiness all at once, the loss. He turned me around without untying me and made me kneel in front of him again. His cock was still out, rock hard, the tip shiny with precome.

“Open your mouth,” he said, and started jerking off inches from my face. “And stick out your tongue.”

I stuck out my tongue, looked up, and waited. Three strokes of his wrist later he came: the first spurt landed on my tongue, hot and thick; the second marked my cheek and the corner of my mouth; the third splattered my tits, running down between my breasts. I kept my mouth open until he took my chin, gently closed my jaw, and told me:

“Swallow.”

I swallowed. I felt his cum sliding down my throat, salty and hot, while he wiped my cheek with his thumb and put it in my mouth so I could suck it clean.

“Good girl,” he repeated in a low voice, looking at me with a tenderness that didn’t fit with what had just happened and that was somehow exactly what I needed.

***

He untied my wrists carefully. He rubbed the marks where the fabric had left pink lines in my skin. He took me to the bathroom, wiped my face and chest with a warm towel, combed back my hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. He wrapped me in a blanket that smelled of fabric softener, sat me in the armchair beside him, and gave me a glass of cold water.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was different now, softer, almost tender.

“I’m perfect,” I said, and for the first time in a long time, it was completely true.

We stayed like that for a long while, in silence. He stroked my hair. I could still feel his cum sliding down my throat and a dull throb between my legs, satisfied and sore at the same time. We didn’t do anything else that night. It wasn’t necessary. What had happened was more than enough to process, to digest, to change me.

I got dressed around one in the morning. My panties were still soaked, so I put them in my bag and slipped the dress over my naked body. Adrián called me a taxi and waited with me in the doorway. The November cold hit my face and everything felt sharper, the colors of the traffic lights, the sound of a distant car, the pulse of my own cunt still vibrating.

“Will this happen again?” I asked before getting into the car.

“That depends on you,” he replied. “Next time I’ll fuck you. All three holes, if you behave.”

I felt such a hard tug low in my belly that I had to grab the taxi door.

“I’ll behave,” I promised.

He barely smiled and closed the door for me.

In the taxi, with the city lights passing by the window, I touched my wrists where the bindings had been. I could still feel the phantom pressure of the silk. I ran my tongue over my lips and tasted a salty trace of him. I looked at myself in the dark glass and saw a woman who no longer needed to hide what she wanted: a hungry whore, satisfied, and willing to come back for more.

What I want is to go back. And this time, I want him to fill me completely. In front, in back, and in my mouth. Until not a single hole is left unmarked.

I took out my phone and saved his number. I knew I would call him before the week was over. And as I saved it, with my cunt still throbbing and his taste on my tongue, I also knew that night had not been an ending. It had been the first time I let myself be exactly what I was.