How a Stranger Turned Us Into His Submissives

The first time I saw him up close I thought he had mistaken me for someone else. I was a professional woman, I dressed well, spoke well, had a good salary and a partner who treated me tenderly. He was the opposite of all that: six foot one of muscle and tattoos, no known job, with a smile that seemed to mock the whole world. I couldn’t understand why he had set his sights on me. There were far more spectacular women in the neighborhood, the kind who live at the gym. And yet I was the one he watched every time I went out into the street.

His name was Darío, or so he said. He started throwing obscenities at me every time we crossed paths, lines that made me quicken my pace and look down at the ground. “What a ass you’ve got, babe,” “I’d wreck that doctor pussy of yours,” “come here and I’ll show you what a real cock is.” When I told my partner, Damián went pale.

“That guy’s mixed up in ugly stuff,” he told me. “Don’t answer him. Don’t look at him. Cross the street if you have to.”

But I wasn’t the kind of woman who lowered her head. One afternoon, sick of it, I planted myself in front of him in the middle of the street.

“Leave me alone,” I said, with all the firmness I could muster. “Me and Damián. One more time and I’m calling the police.”

Darío pretended not to have heard me. He scratched his beard, looked up at the sky, waited for the sun to wear me down. When I turned to leave, his voice caught me from behind.

“I’ve been home since six. I’ve got an errand first. I’ll be waiting for you with a hard cock, doctor.”

What does he think he is? That was what I thought as I walked back to my apartment, outraged, replaying his audacity. A woman like me, summoned by some third-rate criminal. It was absurd. It was insulting. And yet, when I got to the bathroom and pulled down my panties to pee, I found them soaked, sticky, with the smell of my own heat rising to my face.

I went anyway.

***

I told myself I was going to talk. To put things straight once and for all, face to face, where he couldn’t pretend not to hear me. I rang the bell at six ten, my heart hammering against my ribs and a rehearsed speech in my head.

“I came to tell you this ends today,” I blurted out as soon as he opened the door. “Whatever you want from Damián or from me, it’s over.”

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, looking me up and down with a calm that made my skin prickle. He had on gray sweatpants, no shirt, and from where I stood you could make out the bulge of his cock against the fabric, thick and heavy, hanging to one side like a warning.

“And in exchange for what?” he asked.

“Anything. I’m not short on money.”

Darío slowly shook his head, as if I had said something silly. He stepped back, leaving the door open, and pointed at the floor of his living room with a jerk of his chin.

“Get on your knees.”

I don’t know what came over me. I had the keys in my hand, my phone in my pocket, the door open behind me. I had a thousand reasons to leave and none to stay. And yet I lowered my knees to the cold parquet, slowly, looking him in the eyes, as if some part of me had been waiting for weeks for someone to order me to do it.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “Open your mouth, doctor. Let’s see if you’re good for anything.”

He yanked down his pants and his cock sprang out, hard, thick, veins standing out, the head shiny with a heavy drop hanging from the tip. It was the biggest cock I had ever seen in my life, much bigger than Damián’s, and I felt a spasm between my legs just from having it a palm’s breadth from my face. He grabbed my hair with one hand and with the other he brushed the tip across my lips, smearing me with it, forcing me to taste him before he let me in.

“Stick out your tongue. More. Like that, slut.”

He shoved it into my mouth in one go, all the way to the back. I felt the head slam against my throat and arched my back, choking, tears filling my eyes. He didn’t let me go. He pushed my head against his pelvis and made me take it to the hilt, until my nose was buried in the black hairs at the base and I could no longer breathe. When he finally let me out, I coughed, spat out a string of saliva that hung from my chin, and he laughed.

“Again. And now move.”

I sucked his cock like I had never sucked anything for anybody. I took it with hunger, both hands around the base, my tongue working the head, my lips tight as I moved up and down the shaft. I licked his balls, heavy and full, and he pressed them against my face while he ran his cock over my cheek, marking me as his. I could hear his growls above my head, his “like that, doctor, suck it properly,” and every filthy word made my cunt clamp tighter, already dripping inside my skirt.

“Get up. On the couch. Ass up.”

I obeyed. I braced myself on my knees over the backrest, my face mashed against the leather, and he hiked up my skirt and ripped off my soaked panties in one tug. I felt his fingers probing between my ass cheeks, opening me, and then his tongue, thick and shameless, going from my clit to my asshole without asking permission. He licked my ass, spat on it, shoved two fingers into my cunt and pulled them out glistening with slick so I could see them.

“Look at you, you fucking whore. Soaking over a third-rate criminal.”

And then he fucked me. All of it, in one thrust. I screamed into the leather of the couch as he drove into me to the hilt, until I felt his balls hitting my clit. He started fucking me hard, without rhythm, brutally, his hands dug into my waist and his fingers squeezing so hard I knew I’d be left with purple marks the next day. Every shove tore a moan out of me that I didn’t even recognize as mine.

“Say it. Say you’re a slut.”

“I’m a slut,” I whimpered against the leather.

“Whose?”

“Yours. I’m your slut.”

The apartment smelled of cigarette smoke and something else, sex, semen before semen, a thick masculine scent that got into my head and wouldn’t let me think straight. The curtains were half closed and the afternoon light came in bands across the floor. He yanked his cock out, made me turn around, forced my legs open against the backrest and rammed into me from the front again so he could look me in the face while he destroyed me.

“Look, Damián,” he said to the phone screen he had pulled out with his free hand. “Look how much your girlfriend loves you.”

I should have hidden my face. Instead, panting, with my mouth open and my mascara running, I waved at the camera. Darío burst out laughing and came on me without warning: first a hot spurt on my stomach, then another on my tits over my open blouse, and the last he emptied onto my face, into my mouth, into my eyes, so much that I felt drops running down my neck.

“Swallow it.”

I gathered what I could with my fingers and brought it to my mouth. I showed him I’d swallowed it, tongue out, like a little girl at first communion. He nodded approvingly and put the phone away.

I should have felt rage. I did, in some distant corner. But above the rage there was something else I couldn’t name, a kind of vertigo, of surrender. Damián had never dared to treat me like that. With me it was all tenderness, permission, “would it bother you if...?” Darío didn’t ask anything. He took. And I discovered, with a mix of horror and relief, that something in me needed exactly that.

When he was done with me that first afternoon, I thought I’d go home, take a long bath and read a book to wipe all of it from my head. Instead I stayed. He cracked open a beer, turned on the TV — there was a game on — and I remained there, on the floor at his feet, with semen drying on my face, as if that were my place.

His team was losing. Every goal against put him in a bad mood, and every time he got angry he grabbed my neck and unloaded his frustration on me. He made me suck him off twice more during the match, roughly, pushing my head around without care until I was gagging saliva onto the parquet. In the second half he made me ride him, with my back to him, and fucked my ass for the first time, with no lube, spitting between my cheeks and pushing all the way in while he covered my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. “Your fault,” he growled every time I moaned, though we both knew it made no sense. And the most disturbing thing of that whole afternoon was realizing that I was starting to wish his team would lose by a landslide, just so he’d take it out on me again.

***

I told Damián everything that night. I expected reproaches, a fight, maybe the end of us. What I didn’t expect was the way his eyes lit up as he listened. Nor the bulge in his pants that became visible while I described, in loving detail, how another man had made me swallow his load.

“And are you going back?” he asked in a low voice, while I, without even realizing it, lowered his zipper.

“I don’t know,” I lied, and I took his little cock into my mouth, still tasting Darío on my tongue.

I went back. The following Sunday and the one after that and the one after that. Darío waited for me with the door open and a game about to start. Sometimes there was no one else; sometimes his friends were there, three or four guys like him, loud and vulgar, who looked at me the way you look at a newly purchased object.

“Nice little pet you’ve got yourself,” they’d say, laughing, while they made me serve them beer naked, with my tits out.

I should have left at that very moment. Every time I crossed the threshold I swore it would be the last. And every time I stayed, because the humiliation, in doses controlled by his gaze, lit me up in a way I had never felt in my orderly, proper life.

One Sunday Darío ordered something new:

“Next time bring your little boyfriend.”

***

Damián came. I dragged him there, though the truth is he didn’t need much dragging. He sat on the edge of the couch, pale and trembling, while Darío stripped me naked and threw me face down on the rug. He spread my ass in front of my boyfriend and spat on my hole before driving into me. “Look carefully, asshole,” he told him while he fucked me on all fours, jolting me forward with every thrust. “That’s how you fuck a woman. You used to give her little massages and she was bored to death.” Damián didn’t answer. Damián opened his fly and started fondling himself on his own, watching with his mouth half open and his eyes glassy.

And then, without thinking, while Darío was hammering me from behind and I had my boyfriend a meter from my face with his cock out, I leaned in and whispered one word in his ear.

“Look.”

Damián looked. He never took his eyes off it. When Darío made me suck him off to “clean him” of my own juices, Damián came in his own hand without anyone touching him. There was something on his face — shame, yes, but desire too — that told me everything I needed to know about him, about us, about what we were going to be from then on.

“Now you’re both mine,” Darío said, and the sentence didn’t scare me. It gave me a strange calm, as if finally someone had put into words an order we had been building in silence for months. He splattered Damián’s cum across his face with a gesture and ordered him to lick his hand. Damián did it.

From that day on we went together. Every Sunday, religiously, like people going to mass. Damián changed as much as I did, or more. He slowly began to transition into what Darío wanted him to be: softer, more obedient, more docile. He learned to suck Darío’s cock better than I did, kneeling beside me, the two of us taking turns on his head with our tongues while the other laughed and grabbed our hair. It was Damián who started buying me provocative dresses, not out of jealousy but pride, so I would appeal more to the man of the house. And I let him do it, because watching him surrender confirmed that I wasn’t alone in this madness.

***

It wasn’t all pleasure. I want to make that clear, in case someone reads this looking for a clean fantasy. Darío’s friends were something else. With him there was a kind of pact, almost a twisted affection; he treated me as his, and that, all things considered, had rules. With them there were no rules. They were crude, cruel, and they enjoyed it in a way that sometimes left me crying in a corner.

Nights with them were long and loud. They arrived with beers, with the TV blaring, with that pack energy that turned anything into a cruel game. They stripped me within two minutes of walking in and threw me in the middle of the living room, on the prickly rug, to take turns around me. They fucked me in shifts, some with my mouth, others my cunt, others my ass, and when one came the next was already on me before I had time to clean myself. They made me keep my legs open while one after another unloaded inside me, and then they lined up to watch the mix of semen run down my thighs and cheer. They treated me like a trophy passed from hand to hand, laughing at my expressions, celebrating every gesture of submission as if they had won something. I learned to disconnect, to blank my mind and let my body do what it had to do.

One night, all together, it was too much. They had me bent over the dining table, with two cocks inside me at the same time, cunt and ass, and a third one fucking my mouth from above, choking me. I felt the tears rise and for a moment I wanted to let them fall, to let it all out, to scream at them to leave me alone. Right then I looked for Damián across the room, kneeling too between another man’s legs, sucking him off with a soaked face. Just as overwhelmed as I was. And I discovered that he was crying too while he sucked. We stayed like that, looking at each other over the noise and the bodies and the flesh, realizing at the same time that this had gone too far and that neither of us knew how to stop it.

Darío noticed. He sent his friends home early that night, with some excuse or other, and when the three of us were left he blew me a kiss into the air, one of those stupid things he did when he thought no one could see him. He put both of us in his bed, one on each side, and that time he fucked us slowly, almost tenderly, first me and then Damián, finishing in my cunt with a low growl while he stroked my hair. In his rough way, he loved us. Or at least that’s what I told myself so I could sleep.

***

Over time, Darío moved in with us. The excuse was practical: Damián and I were professionals with a nice apartment, and he had nowhere to fall dead in. But we both knew that wasn’t it. He settled into our bed and our life without asking permission, just as he had done that first afternoon in his living room. I slept with him, almost always with his cock inside me until morning; Damián on the sofa, waiting his turn, sucking both of us off when Darío called him with a snap of his fingers.

It sounds like a disaster. And from the outside, it is. I know. I repeat it to myself every morning when I wake up exhausted, my legs sticky, I do my makeup, put on my suit and go off to work as if nothing happened, as if the night before I hadn’t been fucked by two men and hadn’t fallen asleep with cum drying in my mouth, as if the woman I used to be could recognize the one in the mirror.

But it sounds like something else too when I tell it from the inside. It sounds like having found, in the most unlikely and dangerous place, a truth about myself that my whole proper life had hidden from me. I wanted to be told what to do. So did Damián. We wanted a cock that didn’t ask permission and a voice that would call us “slut” without guilt. We spent years pretending we didn’t, until a stranger on the sidewalk forced us to stop pretending.

I’m going to turn forty. It’s not the life anyone would choose, and I don’t recommend it. But when people ask me why I stay, I don’t have a decent answer. I only know that on Sunday, once again, I’m going to ring the bell. And the door is going to be open.