The Woman I Became After Nadia

For years I was a self-confident woman. Firm in my convictions, impossible to bend, tough enough to be cruel when business demanded it. I was capable of reaching any goal I set myself, and I almost always did.

I hadn't always been that way. As a girl, I was the ugly duckling of the class, the redhead with glasses and freckles whom everyone at school chose as an easy target. I learned to look at the ground before I learned to look people in the eye. So when I grew up and discovered that I inspired as much passion as envy, it didn't hurt me. On the contrary: I liked being the one who could now look down her nose at everyone else.

My hair was naturally copper-colored, the kind people paid fortunes to imitate. I had honey-colored eyes, long, curled eyelashes, a small but full mouth, and a body sculpted through hours at the gym and doing Pilates. I knew the effect I had when I entered a room, and I used it without apology.

I was bisexual, passionate, deeply sexual. I never cared who knew it, because I felt above other people's opinions. I had had many partners, men and women, and I knew how to enjoy myself and give pleasure. I loved sucking a cock all the way down my throat just as much as I loved burying my tongue in another woman's wet pussy. My only flaw was that I tired quickly. My desire died out as soon as I conquered whatever I wanted.

But we all have an Achilles' heel, and mine had a name: Nadia.

***

Nadia was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt to look at her for too long. She was also insecure, jealous, manipulative, and aggressive. With any other woman, I would have kept my distance within a week, but with her I lost my entire personality, all that “power” I had built with such effort. I became submissive to her desire in a way even I didn't recognize.

And she took advantage of it.

In the privacy of our home, she abused and humiliated me. More than once I ended up in the emergency room, inventing clumsy excuses for the nurses: that I'd fallen, that I'd hit a door, that I was clumsy. I even spent time in the hospital. And still I went back to her every time she asked me to.

The six years I spent by her side brought me to rock bottom. I ended up believing every one of her insults. She told me I was a nymphomaniac, that I slept with anyone as long as I could have sex, that I was worse than whores because I probably charged for it too. That she was disgusted by what I was.

Then, like the good manipulator she was, she played the victim. She cried, blamed me for the blows she herself had inflicted, swore it would never happen again. And I, who had learned to negotiate with sharks, forgave the only person who didn't deserve my forgiveness.

Nadia left me for another woman. When a new victim appeared for her to hunt, it took her less than a week to abandon me. I should have celebrated. Instead, I was left shattered, split in two: between the woman I had been before her and the woman she had convinced me I had become.

***

One night, trying to rebuild myself over drinks, I met an Italian man in a bar in downtown Valencia. He was an important negotiator for a luxury car brand. I realized immediately that he had noticed me; he came over, we had a drink, and ended up having dinner together.

He wasn't the most attractive man in the world, but he had something magnetic about him. The connection was immediate. I laughed for real, without putting on an act, for the first time in a long while. I couldn't remember a date that had been so much fun.

“Would you like to go somewhere nice?” he asked me at the end, with that accent that rolled his r's. “I know a hotel nearby.”

I accepted.

The room was five-star. He undressed first. Thin, with black hair and a neat mustache, long arms to match his legs. Nothing about his body was spectacular except his cock: thick, long, already half-hard as it hung between his legs, the tip shining with a drop of pre-cum. That magnetism of his was still working. I stood in front of him, took off my shoes, let my dress fall, and slowly removed my underwear, looking him in the eye.

I saw his breath catch and his cock stiffen completely, taut against his belly. I knew what I had in front of me: strong legs, shapely thighs, a flat stomach, firm, round breasts, nipples already hard, and between my legs a shaved, wet pussy that hadn't been properly eaten in weeks.

He came toward me almost without thinking and kissed me hungrily on the mouth, sucking my tongue while squeezing my tits with both hands, pinching my nipples until he drew a moan from me. He pushed me onto the bed on my back and yanked my legs apart.

“What a delicious pussy you have,” he murmured in Italian, licking his lips. “I'm going to eat the whole thing.”

And he buried himself down there. He licked me slowly, from bottom to top, gathering my wetness with his flat tongue. Then he opened my lips with his fingers and clamped his mouth over my clitoris, sucking it with such persistence that my back arched. He inserted two fingers, then three, moving them inside me while he kept eating my pussy hungrily. I grabbed his black hair, pressed him against my sex, riding his face shamelessly.

“Keep going, don't stop, eat me like that,” I panted. “Fuck me harder with your fingers, goddammit.”

I came in his mouth with a long spasm, soaking his mustache with my juices. He rose, dripping and smiling, his cock throbbing between his legs.

“Now you,” he said, and knelt beside my face.

I gripped his cock with both hands, weighed it, and brought it to my mouth. I started by licking the tip, savoring the salty taste of the pre-cum, then swallowed him whole until I felt the head brush the back of my throat. I sucked him eagerly, moving up and down, spitting saliva over the glans so it would slide more easily, licking his balls between strokes. He held my head and thrust his hips against my face, fucking my mouth without mercy.

“Puttana, che bocca,” he grunted. “Suck it, suck all of it.”

When he realized he was about to come, he pulled me away, laid me on my back again, positioned himself between my legs, and penetrated me with one thrust. His cock entered me all the way and I let out a hoarse cry. He began fucking me with an almost savage frenzy, thrusting with a violence that, far from frightening me, turned me on even more. Every stroke shook my tits against his face. He gripped my hips and drove his cock into me to the root, pulling almost all the way out before slamming it back inside.

“Harder,” I begged, biting his lip. “Fuck me harder, you bastard, wreck my pussy.”

I caught his fervor. I pushed him over, threw him onto his back, and sat on him as if I were riding a stallion, his cock buried deep inside me. I began moving over his hips, up and down, my pussy sucking his cock with every thrust, my tits bouncing in front of his face. He grabbed them and sucked my nipples one after the other, biting them until I howled.

I turned around without taking him out, riding him backward now so he could watch my ass open every time I sank down onto him. I put a finger in my mouth, coated it with saliva, and pushed it into my asshole while I kept riding him.

“That's it, you filthy slut, just like that,” he panted beneath me. “Put your finger in your ass, I want to see it.”

I turned to face him again and slammed myself down onto his cock with all my strength, squeezing my pussy around him. He held out as long as he could, gripping my hips, until he threw his head back and came with a muffled cry, filling me inside with jet after jet of hot semen. I came on top of him, biting my lips, feeling his cum run between my legs when I pulled him out.

He was exhausted and breathless, his cock shining with my fluids and his own milk. For me, it was the best sex in years. I couldn't remember a night like it.

***

I woke up alone in the bed. There was an envelope on the nightstand.

I smiled. I thought he must have had to leave early for work and had left me a letter about the night we'd spent together, perhaps his number, an excuse to see each other again. I opened it with the foolish hope of a teenager.

Inside were ten thousand euros in bills and a small, folded piece of paper. Three words written by hand.

“I hope it's enough.”

That was when I finally sank. In my head, all of Nadia's words echoed, one by one. That I was worse than whores. That I probably charged for it. That she was disgusted by what I was. The Italian didn't know it, but he had just signed the sentence Nadia had passed on me six years earlier.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I took the money, got dressed, and left that hotel a different person.

***

From that morning on, I began living a double life. By day I was a prestigious businesswoman, brilliant, calculating, and soulless. By night I was a burning woman seeking any kind of sex that would fill me, for free or for money, it made no difference. I sucked cocks in hotel bathrooms, let strangers fuck me against the wall, spread my legs in rooms I would never set foot in again. I let myself be dragged along by the idea Nadia had planted in me, as if proving her right were the only way to keep breathing.

Until fate decided to give something back to me.

One morning, at a meeting with a group of Italian businessmen, he appeared. The man who had given me ten thousand euros. He had changed companies: now he was the negotiator for an Italian tourism company, and it turned out I was responsible for that account in Spain. He was sitting across the table from me, with his coffee and the smile of a man who didn't remember how many women he had humiliated.

But I remembered.

The meeting was tense. When it ended, I approached him with a cappuccino in my hand and offered it to him with all the sweetness in the world. Beneath the cup was a folded piece of paper: the address of a hotel and a single sentence.

“Bring another ten thousand euros.”

I had realized something. His position was just as vulnerable as mine. A scandal would destroy him just as it would destroy me. And for once in a long time, I felt I was back in control.

***

That same night I prepared carefully. I put in my contact lenses, painted a fake beauty mark above my upper lip, and booked the room under a false name. I wanted to be someone else. I wanted to be the woman in charge.

I went in, undressed, and left myself wearing only a garter belt and fishnet stockings. I lay in the middle of the bed, legs crossed and arms spread wide, waiting, my pussy already wet at the mere thought of revenge. I heard the card slide into the lock. The door opened.

And he came in. But he wasn't alone.

He was accompanied by one of his colleagues and two of my subordinates. Four men looking at me, naked, my tits exposed and my pussy spread open on that bed.

Panic closed my throat. I felt violated, humiliated in a way even Nadia had never managed to make me feel. Somehow I leaped from the bed, grabbed my clothes, and ran toward the door just as I was, caring about nothing but escape.

He stopped me with his arm, still smiling.

“We've got the ten thousand euros,” he said slowly. “If more is needed, we've got more. We're four cocks, beautiful. There's enough for everyone.”

“Please, let me leave,” I begged, my voice breaking. “I don't care about the money. I just want to go.”

They laughed. All four of them. And then, almost out of boredom, he moved his arm aside and let me pass.

***

I never went back to that company. I resigned the next day without explanation and disappeared from the city before anyone could ask me anything.

Sometimes I think about the self-confident woman I was before Nadia, and I find it hard to recognize her. Other times I think that woman never truly existed, that she was only armor over the redheaded girl who had been taught far too early that other people's contempt could become the voice inside your own head.

It took me years to understand that the problem was never my body or my desire. The problem was believing those who told me I deserved it. Today, at last, I no longer believe that. And that's why I can tell the story.