I Don’t Know Whether I’m Bisexual or a Submissive Degenerate
I’ve posted several confessions on this site. Some were completely true, others had a bit of fantasy mixed in so I wouldn’t expose myself too much. This time there’s no invention to hide behind. I’m writing precisely so that you, the ones who take the time to read me, can give me your verdict: what I do, is it just the kind of thing a bisexual would do, or is it the sign of someone who has become a degenerate with a taste for the perverse?
It’s hard for me to tell it because it feels very intimate and I never thought I’d share it. But anonymity protects me, and at this point I need to get it out of me. I’m going to recount part of what I live through with Nadia and with Hugo, the third person who comes in and out of our arrangement depending on the season.
I’ve been with Nadia for almost twenty years. We don’t live together. We each have our own house in the same city and we see each other when the body asks for it. There’s no affection in what we do, and that’s important: ours is pure role play. She is the Dominant, the Mistress. The third man in turn plays the part of the Bull, the macho who takes charge, and I am the servant. The submissive. I’m only allowed to use my hands, my tongue, and my mouth to give them both pleasure.
Over the years, four different Bulls have passed through our bed, in separate periods. Only once did two of them coincide at the same time. That was something else, a loss of control I still remember with a dry mouth.
***
Hugo is fifty-five years old. He’s not a handsome man, and that’s worth saying right away. He’s thickset, with a belly starting to show and a chest covered in hair that runs down over his stomach to his sex. He’s almost bald, a little over five foot seven, and has gray eyes that, in sexual moments, give him an air of cruelty that makes me tremble.
He’s been married for years, has two teenage children, and holds a fairly important position in a municipal office. Out on the street he’s a kind gentleman, well-mannered, one of those men who greet everyone. In private with us he transforms: crude, rough, demanding. He truly feels he has power over me. And he does.
Sometimes he and Nadia build a kind of complicity between them, look at each other, chuckle under their breath, and I’m left in the middle like the instrument that’s supposed to make them both come. That shared mockery, far from offending me, sinks me deeper into the role.
Everything that might seem like a disadvantage about his body disappears when he gets naked, or just in his boxer briefs. There appears a huge cock, thick in a way that isn’t normal, crowned by a glans that looks like a ripe plum. His ability to ejaculate isn’t ordinary either. His semen comes out thick, white, with a flavor somewhere between bitter and salty that has stayed etched in me.
He also has strong legs and a round, hard ass, surely inherited from some sport in his youth. It isn’t beauty that drags me in. It’s something else.
***
By now you’ll have guessed what my part consists of. It’s always oral sex, in every form you can imagine. And here is the knot in my confession: I’ve never, ever been attracted to men. I’m not interested in them as people, I can’t stand another man kissing me or touching me, and the mere idea of being penetrated fills me with a deep revulsion.
And yet. A thick, hot cock that curves slightly as it hardens turns me on like nothing else. I have not the slightest problem taking it in my hand, pulling back the foreskin, kissing and licking the glans, taking it all the way into my mouth and sucking it until I feel it spill over my tongue and force me to swallow. What excites me isn’t the man. It’s his authority. That in that instant he’s the one in charge, that he orders me to serve him, that he does it with rough words and a firm hand, that there’s no doubt about who’s in charge.
His erect cock can’t be more than seven inches, but the thickness is what turns it into a monster. I hold it with both hands and feel its heat, its hardness, its smell. I pull the skin back to expose the glans and devote myself to tracing it with my tongue slowly, unhurriedly, like someone venerating something sacred. I like bringing my nose close and breathing in its strong scent, almost like slightly past seafood. Anyone else would be disgusted. It drives me to the edge.
—Eat it all —he tells me, and whips my face with it—. Go over every inch, don’t leave a single bit without your tongue.
Then I take it into my mouth and feel it throbbing between my lips while I try to swallow more and more of it. I always know when he’s about to come. Standing or sitting, his legs tense up, he grabs my hair hard and thrusts to the back of my throat. The hot semen floods my mouth and I let it sit there for a moment on my tongue to taste it before it goes down my throat.
***
Sometimes he spills so much that I can’t hold it all in, and a stream escapes from the corner of my mouth, runs down my chin, and reaches my neck. Other times he pulls his cock out in time and comes all over my face, marking me.
When that happens comes what he enjoys most. He takes me to the bathroom, orders me to rest my chin on the toilet rim, and pisses on me, as if washing off his own semen with his piss. He does it looking me in the eyes, unhurried, savoring the power.
—You like it, don’t you, submissive? —he murmurs as he shakes it off—. I know you’re going to clean it for me now.
And he’s right. As soon as he’s finished, I pull back the foreskin and run my tongue over the head to clean it. I feel the bitter taste of his piss and, instead of repulsing me, a current runs through me. I start sucking it again. If it gets hard again, that’s the sign he wants my mouth a second time.
We go back to the living room or the bedroom. He gets comfortable, I kneel between his legs, and I get back to work. Sometimes, while I lick his balls, he puts his feet up on the couch and leaves his ass exposed. I already know what comes next. I part his buttocks with my hands, run my tongue along the crease, pause in the center to kiss it and lick it, and end up pushing the tip where he wants it.
—Like that, like that, you piece of shit submissive —he growls, pressing my face against him—. Get it nice and deep while you jerk me off. Make me come.
And I obey, because obeying is the only thing I know how to do with him.
***
Nadia, meanwhile, is not a passive spectator. Sometimes she directs from the side, smoking, legs crossed, commenting on my performance as if she were evaluating an employee. Other times she comes over and demands her share: that I attend to her with my mouth while I keep Hugo on the brink with my hand. Splitting myself between the two of them is the moment when I most feel my place in this world we’ve built. There’s no confusion or doubt while it lasts. The doubt comes afterward, when I go back alone to my house.
Because that’s exactly my problem. I like women, I’m truly attracted to them, they undo me. And at the same time I seek this out. I’m not attracted to men for being men; I’m attracted, I’m turned on, by the sex of a man with character. Not just any man. Physical appearance doesn’t matter much to me in general, but he has to own a thick, powerful cock, be an older guy, decisive, one of those who give orders instead of asking. He has to know how to play his role as the macho in charge, while I’m the submissive one who has to get him off with his hands and mouth whenever he decides.
Does that make me bisexual? Or a degenerate who confuses desire with submission?
I’ve thought about it a thousand times. I’ve tried to put a label on myself that will leave me at peace and I can’t find one that fits. I don’t want a man at my side, I don’t want his tenderness or his company. I want his raw authority, his cock, and his orders. I want to kneel and disappear inside the role.
That’s why I’m writing. That’s why I expose myself, even if it’s behind a fake name. I need someone who reads this to tell me, without mercy, what I am. Whether what I’m describing is just one more variant of human desire, or whether I’ve been outside the margins for a long time and simply refuse to see it.
I await your verdict.
