My Submissive Confession in That Shared Apartment

I'm not going to pretend that was a romantic story or a pretty fantasy fulfilled perfectly. It was a dirty, uncomfortable, very real confession. I'd spent weeks messaging a man who insisted he wanted a real submissive, someone willing to obey without reservations, and I, out of sheer horniness and curiosity, eventually agreed to meet him at the shared apartment where he lived.

I'm not even going to use his real name. I'll call him Darío, because what matters isn't who he was, but what he made me feel. I knew clearly that we were both adults, that we'd discussed everything by message, that I could leave if anything became unbearable, and yet, when I crossed the threshold of his room and he asked me to kneel, I felt the first true blow of fear driving itself into my chest.

The room smelled of strong cologne, clean sheets, and confinement. He carefully blindfolded me, but that gentleness lasted only a few seconds, because he soon tied my hands behind my back and left me alone, kneeling in the middle of the room. I could hear distant voices on the other side of the apartment, a television playing, a door closing, and I kept reminding myself that if everything went wrong, all I had to do was scream.

What the fuck are you doing here? I thought several times. My heart was beating so hard it seemed to climb up my throat. The blindfold pressed against me a little, and the friction of the rope around my wrists made me more aware of my body than ever: my knees against the floor, my back tense, my mouth dry, the wetness between my legs betraying me even in the middle of my nerves.

The worst part was that I wasn't there out of naivety, or because I'd been forced, or because of some sudden madness. I'd gone because I wanted to try that raw fantasy of submission I'd read about and gotten myself off to in my head so many times. I wanted to know whether I really could let someone use me, whether disgust, shame, and obedience could mingle with pleasure until they drove me crazy.

I heard his footsteps returning. He stopped in front of me and said nothing for several seconds. I only felt his hand settle on my head, heavy and firm, claiming me as if I already belonged to him.

—Open your mouth, bitch.

The word aroused me and unsettled me at the same time. I'd been turned on by reading it in messages, but hearing it so close, in a low, dry voice, landed like a slap to my pride. I stayed still, my jaw clenched. Not out of bravery, but from an absurd mixture of fear and rejection.

The slap came a second later. It wasn't brutal, but it was hard enough to turn my face and make me understand that the game had already begun. I felt the instant heat in my cheek, and a gasp escaped me.

—You came here because you wanted this—he told me beside my ear—. Nobody forced you to come in. You said you wanted to obey. So open your fucking mouth.

I opened it. The moment I did, he shoved his cock inside without warning. He didn't let me get used to it, lick it first, or catch my breath. The tip brushed my tongue, and the next second he was already pushing it inside me, hard and thick, advancing until it struck the back of my throat. My stomach clenched. Gagging. Saliva. A violent spasm that made my whole body tense.

I tried to pull my head back, but he held it by my hair. His cock scraped my tongue as it came out, and I gasped again, searching for air. I coughed, drool slid down my chin, and I was still trying to recover when I felt another slap.

—Don't bite—he ordered—. If I shove my cock all the way in, you swallow it.

—Let me... slowly...—I managed to say, coughing—. Let me suck it a little.

There was a brief silence. I thought he was going to ease up. I was wrong.

—No. Today I want to use your mouth, not teach you.

He pushed me backward until I was lying on the rug. My tied hands bothered me behind my back and left my chest arched in an uncomfortable, vulnerable position. Then I felt his legs on either side of my face. He was riding my mouth as if it were a chair, and as humiliating as that sounds, it made my legs clench with pure arousal.

—Stay still—he said.

The tip of his cock sought my mouth again. This time he fed it in by stages, as if he enjoyed noticing every reaction in my body. First just the head, sliding through my saliva. Then a little more, brushing my palate. Then half his cock, forcing me to open my jaw wider. I breathed through my nose, quickly, trying to find a rhythm, trying not to close up.

When he thought I'd gotten used to it, he plunged it in all at once. All the way. His hair brushed my nose and his pubic bone crushed my lips. The reflex was immediate: gagging, tears in my eyes beneath the blindfold, my body twisting beneath him. And still he didn't stop. He pulled almost all the way out and shoved it back in, again and again, using my throat at his pace, giving me barely seconds to recover my breath.

I drooled uncontrollably. I felt hot saliva run over my cheeks and down to my neck. Every time I managed to inhale, he pushed again. I heard his breathing grow heavier, his voice muttering insults, the wet sound of his cock going in and out of my mouth.

—That's it. That's it, fuck. Swallow. Relax your throat.

It wasn't a pretty scene. It was raw, physical, almost animal. My jaw hurt. My tongue was crushed against the base of his cock every time he put the whole thing in. At times I wanted to kick him away, and at others all I wanted was to stay there, used, open, humiliated until he came wherever he wanted.

When he got tired of fucking my mouth while I lay down, he lifted me by the arm and put me on my knees again. Finally, he removed the blindfold. I blinked several times. The yellowish light from the lamp let me see him properly: naked from the waist down, his cock red and shiny with saliva, looking at me with a mixture of concentration and arrogance that made me even hotter.

He sat in a chair in front of me, spread his legs, and watched me as if evaluating a toy.

—Now that's better. Suck it.

This time I could move toward him myself. I stuck out my tongue and traced the swollen vein underneath. The tip was wet, slightly salty, with that thick, masculine smell that clings to your nose. I licked it slowly, trying to regain some control, then began taking it between my lips, squeezing just enough and letting my mouth adjust.

He let out a longer sigh. He held my hair, not to punish me but to set the pace. At first I moved up and down carefully, circling the head with my tongue, sucking, swallowing saliva so it would slide in more easily. The glans bumped against my palate, and the texture of his cock grew softer as it became coated in spit.

—Stick out your tongue.

I obeyed. I stuck it out as far as I could, panting. He spit on it. I felt the thick glob land on my tongue and partly on my lips. The gesture turned my stomach, and at the same time it tightened something deep down. I wanted to close my mouth on reflex, but he pushed two fingers inside until they nearly touched my throat.

—Don't close it. Ask me for it.

I looked at him with anger and shame. I had saliva on my chin, my face was burning, and his cock was swaying inches from my eyes. I swallowed as best I could.

—Spit on me again—I said.

—What?

It burned to have to say it, but I did.

—Spit on me again, Master.

He barely smiled. This time he spat in my face. The saliva landed on my cheek and lip. I closed my eyes for a moment, disgusted. He saw it and enjoyed the expression. I could tell by the way he gripped my hair more tightly and brought his cock toward me again.

—Clean yourself by sucking.

I swallowed it again. Not with the clumsiness of the beginning, but with a kind of hot resignation that had me soaked. I moved my head forward and back at a steady rhythm, letting him fill my mouth, breathing through my nose, relaxing my jaw despite the pain. When I went lower, he pushed. When I tried to set my own rhythm, he stopped me with his hand and decided it for me.

Again and again. My lips sliding over his cock. My tongue pressing underneath it. Saliva dripping from my chin down onto my breasts. Him letting out little grunts, watching me work, using my mouth as if that had always been its purpose.

Then he pulled me away abruptly. I thought he was finished with me, but he stood up, turned me around, and bent me over the bed. My hands were still tied behind my back. The mattress came level with my waist, leaving my ass raised with no way to cover myself.

—You didn't tell me you also wanted this from the front and from behind— I murmured, more to provoke him than anything else.

He smacked my ass sharply. It sounded loud. I felt the sting spread across my skin, and an involuntary moan escaped me.

—Don't act clever. You're wet, aren't you?

I didn't answer. He yanked my underwear down to my thighs. The air brushed my wet pussy and I shuddered. Then I felt his fingers parting my lips, exploring me without gentleness, confirming what was obvious.

—Well, well—he said with amused contempt—. All this humiliation, and you're dripping.

He shoved two fingers inside me. It wasn't a caress or a tentative touch. It was a direct, deep invasion, opening me while his other hand held me still by the hip. I moaned into the bedspread. His fingers moved in and out quickly, smeared with my own lubrication, striking that inner spot that made me writhe even though the position humiliated me.

—You like being used—he murmured—. You like it more than you wanted to admit.

He pulled his fingers out and brought them to my mouth. —Suck them.

I did. They tasted like me: salty, hot, intimate. He watched while I licked them one by one, then spat in my face again, as if he wanted to mix my saliva with his and mark me even more thoroughly.

Then he opened my thighs with his knee. I felt the tip of his cock brush between the lips of my pussy, getting wet with me. He passed it over my entrance several times, playing at threatening me, and when I was already pushing backward out of sheer need, he drove it into me in a single thrust.

I screamed into the bed. He filled me all at once, hard and deep, without giving me time to adjust. The pressure cut off my breath. He had fucked my mouth brutally, yes, but feeling him buried inside my pussy, with my hands tied and my body bent over, was something else. A dirty, hot jolt that rose from my belly to my chest.

—Fuck—it slipped out.

He didn't answer with words. He began to move. He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in hard, striking me inside with a dry rhythm that made my hips jerk despite myself. The mattress creaked. My breathing broke into short gasps. Each thrust opened me wider and tore a different sound from me: sometimes a moan, sometimes a whimper, sometimes a curse.

I could feel everything: his balls knocking against me, the rough rub of his pubic bone, the wetness already running down my thighs, the rope digging into my wrists every time I tried to grab hold of something and couldn't. He held me by the waist and fucked me with the firmness of someone who had decided not to be gentle.

—Say it—he ordered through his teeth—. Tell me what you are.

I wanted to resist. I wanted to keep some of my pride. But he reached around me, found my clitoris, and started rubbing it just as he thrust into me. The combination destroyed my will.

—Your submissive—I gasped.

—Clearer.

He drove into me again, deep. My legs buckled.

—Your submissive bitch.

He grunted with satisfaction and continued. Every time I shifted out of position, he pulled me back into place by the hip and shoved himself all the way in again. I could no longer think clearly. There was only the rhythmic pounding inside my pussy, the sting in my ass from the spanking, the desperate pulse of my clitoris beneath his fingers, and the obscene shame of hearing myself beg him for more.

—Don't stop.

—Didn't you want to go slowly?—he taunted.

—Not now. Fuck me. Like that. Fuck, just like that.

That must have aroused him even more. He took his hand away from between my legs and spanked me again. Then again. Each blow left my skin hot and sensitive, and after every one his cock plunged back inside, as if finishing the punishment from within. I began to moan without shame, wetting the bedspread with saliva and squeezing around him whenever he brushed the exact right spot.

The orgasm came dirty, forced, almost furious. It wasn't sweet or elegant. It was a brutal buildup of tension and humiliation exploding through my pelvis. I came in a long spasm, clenching my pussy around his cock while he kept thrusting without granting me any rest. My legs trembled. My vision blurred. Two or three broken moans escaped me, along with a word I don't even remember.

—That's it—he said, breathing heavily—. That's how I like it.

He didn't come out of me. He kept fucking me while I was still sensitive, trembling, far too open. Each new thrust over that recent orgasm tore little cries from me. I wanted to pull away, and at the same time I wanted him to finish me there, folded over, full, and obedient.

After a while he pulled his cock out. I felt the emptiness and almost protested. He turned me around, pushed me onto my knees in front of him again, and placed the tip against my lips.

—Finish what you started.

I sucked it hungrily. After he'd fucked my pussy, my own arousal had erased much of the disgust. My jaw still hurt, I was still humiliated, and I was still aware of how raw the scene was, but now I also wanted his cum. I wanted to feel him lose control while I worked his cock with my mouth until I emptied him.

I moved my head back and forth faster. I sucked him hard, tightening my lips as I came up. I went as deep as I could, and when he took me farther down, I swallowed and tried to relax. One of his hands held my hair. The other guided me, set the rhythm, made it clear that the ending would belong to him too.

—Don't stop—he said, his voice already breaking—. Keep going, fuck. That's it.

I kept going. His cock throbbed against my tongue. I felt his thighs tense, his breathing grow shorter, his thrusts against my mouth become clumsy and desperate. Every time the tip touched my uvula, my body urged me to spit it out, but I forced myself to endure. I looked up at him from below, drool hanging from my mouth and my eyes wet, and understood that this exact image was part of what he had come looking for.

When he came, he held my head with both hands and shoved me all the way down. The first spurt landed directly in my throat, hot and thick. The gag reflex returned violently, but he didn't let me go. He continued spilling into my mouth while I swallowed as best I could, feeling the semen descend in short bursts, one after another. His cock trembled. So did his body.

The last part of his release remained on my tongue when he allowed me just enough air. I swallowed again. Then again. I wanted to pull away, cough, clean myself, but he kept the tip between my lips until he was sure he'd emptied himself completely.

Only then did he let me go.

I leaned back, breathing through my mouth, my throat irritated, my jaw aching, my face sticky with saliva and dried spit. He stood there for a moment, looking at me. He didn't seem especially tender or especially cruel. Just satisfied.

He dressed without hurrying. I was still on my knees, recovering my breath and feeling both my pussy and my face throb. Then he took a damp towel and wiped me clean without gentleness, but not with contempt either. It was almost a practical gesture, like putting away a tool after using it.

When he untied my wrists, I felt the tingling of blood returning to my hands. I removed the blindfold completely and blinked several times. He handed me my underwear. I pulled it on silently, still wet between my legs.

—The bathroom is at the end—he said.

I went without answering. I looked at myself in the mirror and had trouble recognizing myself. My mouth was somewhat swollen, my hair was a mess, and I wore a strange expression, halfway between exhaustion and bewilderment. I washed my face several times, rinsed my mouth angrily, and still felt his smell clinging to me—in my skin, my throat, my pussy.

***

We said goodbye without actually saying goodbye. No hugs, no promises, no “I'll text you later.” I crossed the hallway, heard the distant television from the shared apartment again, went outside, and the cold night air struck my face like a second cleansing.

For days I didn't know how to remember it. There were parts that made me ashamed, parts that infuriated me, and parts that turned me on so much I had to put my hand between my legs just from thinking about them. Because yes: I didn't like everything. There were moments of genuine disgust, pain, and discomfort. But there was also a truth I found difficult to admit.

Being obedient turned me on. The humiliation turned me on in exactly the measure in which it brushed against my limit without breaking it. I was aroused by discovering that inside me there was a woman capable of kneeling, opening her mouth, letting herself be fucked, and coming while being called a bitch.

I never saw him again. We never repeated it, and, to be honest, I'm not even sure I would want to repeat that exact scene. But that night taught me something I hadn't understood from reading fantasies on a screen: real submission isn't always elegant, clean, or cinematic. Sometimes it's sweat, saliva, gagging, a soaked pussy, and brutal shame throbbing at the same time as desire.

And that's why I remember it.

Because I left that apartment feeling used, confused, and strangely satisfied. Because yes, I swallowed his cum, but above all I swallowed the idealized image I had of my own fantasy. What I found in its place was something rougher, rawer, and much more honest.

That's my confession: I went looking to play at being submissive and ended up discovering that when fantasy becomes flesh, it smells strong, hurts a little, humiliates you quite a lot, and can leave you trembling with pleasure even as you wonder what the hell you've just done.