What I Confess About That Summer in Valencia
I’m going to tell it exactly as it happened, without polishing it up, because if I start prettifying it, it loses all its charm. Marcos and I had been playing this game for years, but that summer in Valencia was different. It was sticky-hot, the kind of heat that leaves your clothes stuck to your skin, and I’d been teasing him since we set foot in the city.
We rented a small car and spent our time wandering the center with no real destination. I was wearing a tiny skirt, an almost transparent top that made my hard nipples easy to guess under the air conditioning, a soaked thong from breakfast onward, and a plug I’d shoved up my ass that same morning in the hotel bathroom, with Marcos watching and smearing it with lube until it slid in with a shove. Every time the car hit a bump, the plug pressed against me from the inside and a gasp would slip out of me that Marcos pretended not to hear.
“You’re impossible today,” Marcos said without taking his eyes off the road.
“Pull over for a second,” I told him.
I took a piece of paper from my bag and wrote a note. I’m not going to transcribe every word, but the idea was clear: I told whoever read it that I had a plug up my ass, that I was a horny tourist, that I wanted to be fucked without too many questions, and that Marcos, my husband, was waiting in the car knowing everything. I folded the paper, put a condom next to it, and got out before I could change my mind.
If I don’t do it now, I never will.
There was a young guard on a corner, watching over the entrance to a pedestrian street. Tall, dark, with that confidence of someone who knows he turns heads, and with a pronounced bulge under the uniform trousers that was obvious even from a distance. I walked up to him, handed him the folded note and the condom, and waited.
He read it slowly. He looked up, ran his eyes over me from head to toe with a calm that made my skin crawl, paused on my nipples, dropped to my skirt, and climbed back up to my mouth. He only said:
“Come with me.”
***
He took me to a shop on the same street, said a quick word to the clerk, and asked to use the back bathroom. We went in together. The moment he closed the door, he grabbed my throat, not hard, just enough to make me understand who was in charge, and shoved two fingers into my mouth all the way to the back. He pulled them out slick with saliva and ran them over my nipples through the top.
“What exactly do you want?” he asked.
“What the note says,” I answered. “No beating around the bush. Fuck me now.”
He spun me against the sink in one tug, hiked my skirt up to my waist, and took a second to look at my ass. He pulled my thong down halfway over my thigh, grabbed the base of the plug, and eased it out slowly, finishing with a twist that made me clench my teeth. He gave a low whistle when he saw the way my ass stayed open for an instant before closing.
“Fuck, what a slut,” he muttered. “You came prepared from home.”
He dropped his fly, pulled out his cock—thick, dark, the head already shining—put the condom on, and shoved two fingers into my cunt at once to check. I was dripping. He snorted a laugh, moved behind me, and drove into me in one go, all the way in, without warning. I gripped the edge of the sink and looked at our reflection in the mirror: him behind me, uniform open, jaw tight, thrusting, and me with my mouth open, my nipples pressing against the wet fabric, not knowing whether the tremble was pain or pleasure.
He started fucking me hard and fast, gripping my hips with both hands, slamming his pelvis against my ass with a wet sound that filled the bathroom. He pushed my hair aside so he could see my face in the mirror while he pounded into me.
“Look at me,” he ordered. “Watch yourself as I fuck you.”
I obeyed. I forced myself not to close my eyes even when I felt the orgasm building in my belly. He leaned in, slid a hand under my top, squeezed one breast, and pinched my nipple while he kept driving his hips into mine. I came there, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream, my cunt clenching around his cock in spasms that he felt and used to drive himself in a couple more times, all the way to the base, finding the rhythm in my shaking.
When he was done, he pulled out, took off the condom, tied it off, and tossed it away. I ran a hand down my back myself, trying to catch my breath, my cunt throbbing and my legs weak. I asked him for another condom and more, and he gave it to me with a half-smile. I planted my palms against the tiled wall, arched my back, spread my legs, and told him not to stop until I told him to.
He obeyed. This time he fucked me in the cunt and then, without taking himself all the way out, pulled out and pressed into my ass instead, pushing slowly, taking advantage of how the plug had already opened me up. He went in all the way with two firm thrusts. I let out a long moan that bounced off the tiles.
“That’s it, slut,” he whispered in my ear. “That’s how you like it.”
He fucked me in the ass until he came a second time, holding his breath, gripping my hip so hard that the next day I had four purple fingers there. Afterward he put the plug back in with a care that contrasted with everything before, pulled my thong back up, smoothed my skirt with his palm, and wrote his number on the note.
“In case you come back to Valencia,” he said, and left.
***
I got back to the car with my legs trembling and the plug pressing into me with every step. Marcos looked at me with that half-smile he gets when he already knows the answer.
“So?” he asked.
“I want more. Park there and lean the seat back.”
He did. He pulled the car into a shaded alley behind a construction site, reclined the seat, and unzipped himself without taking his eyes off me. I slid into the driver’s seat and straddled him. I hooked my thong aside with two fingers and grabbed his cock, already hard, rubbed it for a second against my wet lips, and drove it into myself in one shove. I let out all my breath at once.
“You’re still dripping,” Marcos said through clenched teeth. “Hot inside.”
“Shut up and let me,” I shot back.
I started slowly, grinding my pelvis against his, biting his lip, letting him fill me and empty me at the pace I wanted. I took his hand and brought it to my throat. Marcos squeezed just enough, the way he knows how, while with his other hand he pushed my top up and sucked one of my breasts. I sped up. The car rocked on its wheels, and I rose and sank on him without mercy, the plug rubbing inside me every time I came down.
“I’m going to come,” he panted.
“Not a chance,” I told him.
I lifted myself off him, shoved his chest against the seatback, and ducked my head. I licked his cock from base to tip, wet with me. I took it into my mouth until I choked a little, pulled off, spat, swallowed it again. He tangled a hand in my hair and set the rhythm himself, pushing me down slowly. When I felt the tremor in his thighs, I doubled down, sucking and pumping with my hand at the same time, and he let himself go in my mouth with a muffled grunt. I swallowed what I could and let the rest spill down the corner of my mouth, looking him in the eye.
“You’ve got a problem,” he told me afterward, laughing as I put my clothes back in place.
“You’re part of the problem,” I answered, running my thumb over his mouth to wipe away a drop that wasn’t his.
***
That night we went to dinner at a restaurant near the port. There was a very young waiter, with the face of someone who had never done a bad thing in his life, and at another table an older man in a light suit who hadn’t taken his eyes off me since we walked in. Marcos noticed. He didn’t say anything, but he noticed.
I wrote another note while he ordered the wine. Same idea as always, with a different ending: “I’ll be waiting in the bathroom, ass ready.” I slipped it to the waiter as he passed and got up without looking back.
The boy took a while to show up. When he did, he was dying of embarrassment, his hands trembling a little as he locked the door. I grabbed his tie, gave him a wet kiss that made his eyes go wide, and took care of everything myself. I unbuttoned his trousers, pulled down his underwear, and found his cock already hard, smaller than the guard’s but beautiful, young and clean. I put the condom on with my mouth—the poor thing nearly fell backward—and sat him on the toilet lid.
“Stay still,” I told him. “I’ll take care of it.”
I climbed on top, took his cock into my cunt with my hand, and started moving myself. I grabbed his face and made him look at my tits while I bounced on him. He lasted three minutes, if that. I could tell by the way his thighs tightened and how he gripped the toilet seat with both hands. He came with his face buried between my breasts, shaking all over. It almost made me tender toward him. I didn’t blame him. I thanked him, ran my hand through his hair, put another note in his hand, and asked him to deliver it to the man at the table across from us.
The man knew what he was doing. He came in without saying a word, locked the door, left his jacket folded on the cistern, and approached me slowly. He looked me over, put one finger in my mouth, then two, and pulled them out to slide them between my legs and check how wet I was.
“Soaked,” he said. “And with the plug in. Good.”
He let me set the first movement, let me unbuckle his belt and pull out a thick cock, much thicker than the previous two, with veins standing out. I sucked it for a while, kneeling on the bathroom floor, with him holding the back of my neck without hurry, until it was properly soaked in saliva. Then he lifted me, pressed me against the wall, raised one of my legs, and drove into my cunt with a thrust that made me cry out.
“Hold onto that,” he ordered, pointing at the towel bar.
I obeyed. He fucked me with a firmness the waiter hadn’t even come close to, driving me against the tiles with every thrust, biting my neck, squeezing my breast under my top. He pulled out, turned me around, made me brace my hands on the sink, and drove back into me from behind, gripping my hip with one hand and my hair with the other, yanking my head back.
“That’s how you fuck sluts like you,” he said softly in my ear. “With class.”
I came again, my cunt clenching around his cock, and he held on for another minute, setting a slow, deep rhythm, until he let himself go inside the condom with a restrained gasp. When he was done, he pulled out slowly, wiped himself with a handkerchief, threw away the condom, put the plug back in himself, smoothed my skirt as if nothing had happened, fixed my hair with both hands, and said:
“Pleasure, gorgeous.”
***
I went back to the table. Marcos was cutting his steak as if nothing had happened.
“How’s it going?” he asked without looking up.
“Wide open,” I replied, and the two of us laughed like kids.
The man from the bathroom sat down at the table across from us. We didn’t stop staring at each other during dessert. After a while he came over, placed his hands on our table, and said he wanted more, that he hadn’t had enough, that he’d like to see me filled. I looked at Marcos. He thought about it for two seconds, pulled a card from his pocket, and wrote down the address of a hotel a couple of streets from ours.
“In half an hour,” Marcos told him. “And bring whoever you want, if you feel like it.”
The man nodded. I, on my own, sent a message to the young guard from that afternoon. He answered right away: he could come with a friend. I said yes. The more, the better.
***
The hotel was discreet, the kind that doesn’t ask questions. Marcos booked the room and, when we got upstairs, undressed me himself: he pulled off my top, tugged down my skirt, left me only in my thong and plug. He tied my wrists to the leg of a low table with a scarf, forced me to stay on my knees, ass up and tits hanging down. He scattered condoms all around the room and said the rules out loud for when the others arrived: always with protection, always with the plug in between turns, and one hour total, not a minute more.
First came the man from the restaurant, then the two young ones together—the guard and his friend, another kid from the station—and they didn’t waste time. The one from the restaurant got in front of me and put his cock in my mouth before saying hello. I sucked him on my knees, with my hands still tied, while I heard the other two undressing behind me. I recognized the guard by his hands: he grabbed my ass, pulled the plug out with a twist, and shoved into my cunt while I was like that, tied up, with another cock in my mouth.
What came after I remember in pieces. Double penetration with the guard behind me and the man in front, both of them driving into me at once, playing with the rhythm. The guard’s friend standing off to the side, slowly jerking off, watching. Marcos untied my hands at some point so I could move between them, and I shifted to the friend, who fucked me while seated in the armchair as I rode him facing away from the other two. They took advantage of that: the guard fucked me in the ass for the first time without the plug in between, pushing patiently until I opened for him, while the other filled my mouth in front.
There was a moment when two of them held me up by the thighs, one cock in my cunt, another in my ass, a third waiting standing with his cock in his hand to take over, and all I could think was that I didn’t want it to end. I came in a chain, not even knowing where one orgasm ended and the next began. When they changed turns, they put the plug back in between one and the next without telling me, following Marcos’s rules to the letter.
What matters, and why I’m telling this, is that Marcos never took his eyes off me for a second. We have a signal, a specific look, for when I want everything to stop. He always watches for it. He knows my limit better than I do, and that night, despite appearances, he was the most careful one there.
When the phone alarm sounded, the three of them started leaving, getting dressed in silence, with that strange courtesy that always appears at the end. Before the guard left, I grabbed his arm. He still had his cock hanging half-hard out of his unbuttoned trousers.
“One last one, and hard,” I told him.
He gave it to me. He laid me on the low table, spread my legs, put on a fresh condom, and drove into my cunt with everything he had left, pressing one hand against my belly to take it deeper. He finished inside the condom with his face buried against my neck, panting my name, though I don’t know how he knew my name. Then he got dressed, winked at me, and left. Marcos closed the door, pulled out my plug, put me in the bathtub, washed me with endless patience—each finger, each thigh, each fold—and we went back to our hotel to sleep. I was sensitive, sore, and deeply happy.
“I’m lucky to spend my life with you and your adventures,” he told me in the dark.
***
I’d been messaging for days with a man from here, from Valencia. A real dominant, the kind who knows what he’s doing. He’d told me about his experiences, all BDSM, and just reading him made my head spin. Marcos wrote to him: come by the hotel the next day, bring nothing, I’ll have her at your disposal.
“I’ll be there,” he replied. “To give that slut what she’s asking for.”
I woke up early and started doing yoga, in my thong and with the plug in, like almost every morning. Marcos got up to watch me with a cup of tea in his hand. When I finished, he grabbed my hips without warning, ripped off my thong, pulled out the plug, and fucked me from behind right there, legs spread on the mat, no condom because it’s us, gripping my tits while he thrust into me. We came almost at the same time, me with my forehead pressed to the floor, him emptying himself inside with a low groan. We started the day the way we usually did.
Then I got ready. A latex bodysuit with strategic zippers—one at the cunt, another at the ass—a vibrating plug in my ass, a harness vibrator pressed tight against my clit, a light coat over it for crossing the lobby. Marcos carried the controls in his pocket. Every couple of minutes, while we went up in the other hotel’s elevator, he would press a button and I’d have to grab the rail so I wouldn’t buckle.
We went to the room. He placed me at the entrance with my hands tied behind my back, a red ball gag that left my mouth open and dripping, and a sign hanging around my neck that I won’t repeat here.
***
The master arrived on time. Marcos greeted him, checked that he wasn’t carrying anything, handed over the controls, and explained the rules and my stop signal. Then he stepped aside, as always, to watch from an armchair in the corner.
The man turned the vibrator intensity all the way up from the first minute. He watched me tremble against the door without touching me, enjoying seeing me hold out. When I couldn’t take any more and my knees began to give way, he grabbed my hair, dragged me on my knees to the center of the room, and made me look up. He pulled out his cock and shoved it into my mouth open around the gag, fucking my throat at whatever pace he wanted, with the vibrators going full blast between my legs. I came like that, tied up, with his cock choking me, unable to breathe properly.
“Good slut,” he said. “Keep going.”
He dragged me to the bed, pulled down the bodysuit zipper at my ass, took out the vibrating plug, and entered my ass with a condom, very slowly, letting me feel every centimeter. At the same time he left the clit vibrator on full. He brought me to the edge again and again and kept me there, never letting me breathe properly, backing off when he felt the orgasm building, thrusting again when the shaking subsided. He blindfolded me with his tie. From that point on it was all broken-up sensations: a thin strap across my ass, a vibrating rod pressed where I least expected it, fingers in my cunt while he fucked my ass, one orgasm after another until I lost count and started drooling without realizing it.
“You’re going to be left nice and open,” he whispered in my ear, “and you’re going to take all of them.”
There was a moment when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, and then he eased off, ran a hand through my hair, almost tender. Another when I thought he was going to stop, and then he came back full force, with two fingers and his cock at the same time, stretching me. He played with timing like a musician. Marcos came over once, lifted the blindfold just enough to look me in the eyes and ask silently if I was okay. I gave him the signal for yes, three blinks. Only then did he step back.
When his time was up, the master finally came inside the condom, without pulling out of my ass, gritting his teeth, and stayed there for a second, breathing against my nape. Then he put in a large plug, bigger than mine, to leave me as open as he’d promised, untied me slowly, removed the gag carefully, wiped my chin with his thumb, and said goodbye with a formality that was almost tender, as if the last few hours had never happened.
***
After that he left, and Marcos took a long while to fully release me. He checked me over, massaged my wrists, gave me water in small sips. When he was sure I was okay, he took me to the bathtub again. That’s the part people don’t see and, for me, the most important one: what comes after.
“You’re very sensitive,” he said, running the sponge over my back.
“Everything hurts,” I admitted. “And I’d do it again tomorrow.”
And we did, more or less. The next few days we went walking on the outskirts, among pine trees, with the guard and the man from the restaurant. It was different, more relaxed, more laughter than whips, though the guard fucked me against a pine tree one afternoon when the others walked ahead, fast and smiling, and the man from the restaurant asked for a blowjob at a viewpoint and I gave it to him without arguing. I bathed in a cold pool of water that stole my breath, and that’s what I remember more than anything else: the cold on my nipples, the sun through the leaves, and how absurdly happy I was.
***
A few days passed and the trip came to an end. I couldn’t stop thinking about the master. I wrote him one last note before we left, with my conditions up front—no real harm, only pleasure, and my signal above everything—and one single request: that he leave me again the way only he knew how, with my ass open and my cunt trembling.
He replied that he’d be there.
And this is what I confess about that summer in Valencia. I don’t expect anyone to understand it fully. Marcos and I do, and in the end, in a relationship, that’s the only thing that matters.