The Afternoon I Dreamed of Losing Control

I started exploring that territory almost by accident. I was on a forum looking for something completely different when the word appeared in a comment and I stopped. I copied it, pasted it into the search bar. I found an article. Then another. Then a story that made the room feel a little hotter. Then another story.

When I realized it, I had been in front of the screen for almost two hours, heart racing and cheeks flushed, trying to understand why the things I was reading were affecting me that way. It wasn’t abstract curiosity. It was something physical, concrete, a sensation running down my back every time I found certain words. My panties were soaked without me touching myself, and every time I pressed my thighs together I could feel my cunt throbbing against the seam of my jeans.

BDSM. Dominance. Submission. Terms that until that day had seemed foreign to me, almost clinical, and that suddenly had a completely different weight.

I spent a long time staring at the screen after closing the last article. I asked myself if it was normal to feel that. I wondered if everyone felt something similar at first. I found no answer. I only noticed that something had opened inside me that I wasn’t going to be able to close easily, and that this, far from frightening me, gave me a kind of vertigo that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

That night I took a long time to fall asleep. I thought about everything I had read while staring at the ceiling. I thought about the words that kept repeating in my head like an echo. I thought about the person my brain had decided to populate those fantasies with without consulting me. And that, yes, that surprised me.

***

The following afternoon I had to study with Nicolás for the sociology midterm. I’d known him since my second year at college: calm, focused, one of those people who don’t need to make noise for you to notice their presence in the room. We had gotten used to preparing exams together because he handled the theory well and I remembered the concrete examples, and together we usually did well.

I went to his apartment at four in the afternoon. He lived alone, in a building with thick walls that trapped the June cold. He opened the door wearing a T-shirt and barefoot, his hair just slightly damp, and motioned for me to come in without much preamble. There were two cups of coffee on the coffee table and the notes already spread open on the couch.

We sat down. Some street noise reached us through the window, but muted, in the background. The TV was off. It was just us and Bourdieu’s texts.

I couldn’t concentrate.

It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened to me near him. There was something between us, that soft tension with no name that anyone recognizes, which had existed for months without either of us naming it. It was like static. But that day was different. That night I had read things. I had imagined things that were still buzzing in my head. And sociological theory was the last thing I could focus on.

After an hour of studying we closed our notebooks almost at the same time.

—That’s enough for the exam —he said.

He suggested putting something on the TV. I said okay. He chose a movie neither of us was really watching.

***

That was when I felt his hand on my knee.

At first it could have passed for something casual, if it hadn’t stayed there long enough for both of us to know it wasn’t. Then it started moving up, slowly, without urgency, with a slow deliberation that took my breath away from the very first movement.

I didn’t stop him.

His hand drew small circles over the fabric of my jeans, approaching and withdrawing from my crotch without quite getting there. It was a question without words, and I was answering it with my silence, with the fact that I hadn’t moved a single centimeter. When he finally ran his fingers over the seam of my jeans, right above my cunt, a gasp escaped me that I couldn’t swallow. I was so wet that the cotton of my panties was sticking to my lips, and he noticed, because he pressed there for a second longer, measuring the heat through the fabric.

Then he stopped suddenly.

He took my chin in one hand and turned me toward him. I looked at him. He looked at me. There was something different in his face, a calm that didn’t fit with the person who had been explaining Giddens to me half an hour earlier.

—If you want me to continue —he said, in a voice I hadn’t heard him use before, lower and slower— I need you to ask me.

All the air left me completely.

No one had ever said something like that to me. I’d had clumsy kisses and hands that assumed things without asking, but no one had asked my permission that way, with the calm of someone who isn’t in a hurry because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

—Please —I said, and the word sounded small in my own mouth—. I want you to keep going. I want you to fuck me.

***

He took me by the waist with a firmness I hadn’t expected and settled me on top of him as if my body were something that had belonged to him forever. Not violently, but with total certainty, as if he had already decided where every part of me was going to go and my only job was not to resist.

I didn’t want to resist.

His hands traveled over my back, my sides, and at a moment I hadn’t anticipated, he pulled my T-shirt up. I took it off. He unhooked my bra without hurrying and stayed looking at me for a moment. Just looking. That look lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough for heat to rise from my chest to my ears. My nipples were rock hard, pointing at his face, and he leaned down slowly and took one whole nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, with tongue, and used his teeth just enough for a sharp moan to slip out of me. He took the other breast in his hand, squeezing it with a possessiveness that made me arch my back against him.

—What tits —he murmured against my skin, and bit my nipple again, harder—. You’re going to learn to do what I tell you.

He smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who understands exactly what is happening to the other person and enjoys it without the slightest pretense.

—On the floor —he said.

Two words. No preamble, no explanation.

I stayed still for an instant. Not out of fear, but because something in that order had touched me somewhere I hadn’t known existed, a place that answered to that tone without asking my permission first.

—Come on —he added, with the same calm as always—. On your knees.

And I did.

I knelt in front of him on the rug, my palms resting on my thighs, not fully understanding what was happening inside me but with no desire for it to stop. He leaned forward and brought a thumb to my lips, brushing them slowly.

—Open.

I opened.

He slipped two fingers into my mouth with deliberate slowness. I closed my lips around them. I didn’t need instructions: something older than reasoning took over. I sucked them. He watched me without saying anything, with that total concentration that made me feel completely exposed and, at the same time, completely present. He pushed them a little deeper until I could feel them brush the back of my throat, and then he smiled.

—Good —he said—. Like that, no teeth. You’re going to choke on more than that in a minute.

He pulled his fingers out, wet with my saliva, and unzipped his jeans with the other hand. When he took his cock out, I felt my mouth go dry and fill with saliva at the same time, all at once. It was hard, thick, the tip shining. He took me by the hair, not hard but with ownership, and brought my face close to it.

—Stick out your tongue.

I did. He ran the tip of his cock over my tongue, slowly, drawing a circle, then rested it against my lips without pushing it in.

—Now ask for it.

My throat closed for a second. I swallowed.

—Please —I murmured—. Please, let me suck it.

He laughed softly, satisfied, and pushed his hips forward. The dick entered my mouth slowly at first, halfway, and he stayed like that, still, letting me feel the weight, the heat, the texture of the skin. Then he tugged a little harder at my hair and pushed deeper. I felt the tip brush the back of my palate and then my throat. My eyes filled with tears on the first try.

—Breathe through your nose —he said, calm, as if explaining something from class—. Relax your jaw. That’s it.

He started moving. Not fast, but deep, each thrust going a little farther than the last, until I felt his lips slam against the base and my nose pressed against his stomach. He stayed like that for a few seconds, cutting off my air, looking down at me, and when a long string of saliva slipped down my chin and fell between my breasts.

—Good girl —he said, and repeated it every time I endured one more, deeper push—. Good girl.

Those two words made me clench my thighs together, searching for friction where no one was touching me. I was coming almost without a finger being laid on me, just from having him in my mouth and hearing the way he spoke to me.

***

What followed was a mix of shame and desire I couldn’t separate at any point, neither while it was happening nor long after.

He showed me with his hands —never roughly, always with that same precision that ran through everything he did— what to do and how. I sucked his cock guided by the pressure of his fingers in my hair, by his breathing growing shorter and shorter, by the tiny signals I learned to read in real time. There were moments when I couldn’t breathe. There were moments when my eyes grew wet without me actually crying. He yanked his cock out of my mouth with a wet sound and dragged the head over my lips, my cheeks, my chin, marking my face with the mixture of saliva and pre-cum.

Was this it? This strange combination of surrender and total focus, of feeling small and at the same time more present than ever in my own skin? Feeling my cunt dripping down the insides of my thighs while someone uses my mouth however he wants?

When he lifted me from the floor and laid me back on the couch, my mouth was dry and my body was on fire from my throat to my knees. He knelt behind me and slowly pulled my jeans off. Then the stockings. He left my panties on for a long moment, looking at me from behind, and then ran a finger over the fabric, top to bottom, following the line of my cunt.

—Look at how wet you are —he said softly—. Soaked.

He pulled my panties down to my knees and spread my legs with his hands, unhurried. His fingers traced the inner surface of my thigh with a slowness that was almost cruel, approaching and withdrawing, building a tension I hadn’t known could be sustained that long before breaking. When he finally ran his thumb over my clit, barely grazing it, a long moan escaped me. He started circling there, slowly, while with two fingers of his other hand he opened my cunt lips and played at slipping in and out without going past the first knuckle.

—Ask me to put them in.

—Please —I panted—. Put them in. Put them all the way in.

He shoved two fingers all the way in at once and I screamed into the back of the couch. He started pumping them, curling them upward, searching for that spot that made me press my heels against the leather, while he kept his thumb on my clit. He made me come like that, my mouth open against the upholstery, shaking all over, and he didn’t give me time to come down before he had already turned me over onto my stomach and was tugging my ass up.

—I need to tell you something —I managed to say between one breath and the next.

He stopped.

I looked over my shoulder. He waited.

—I’ve never done this —I said—. Not really. I want to, but I need you to know that.

There was a brief silence.

—Okay —he said—. I’ll be careful. At first.

The last part he pronounced almost like a warning, and something inside me tightened in pure anticipation.

***

At first it was slow.

He ran the tip of his cock over my cunt lips, top to bottom, wetting it in my own juices, pressing only slightly against my entrance without pushing it all the way in. Then he pushed, just a centimeter, and stopped. Another push. Another. I felt pain, a sharp, localized pain that made me grip the couch fabric with my fingers and exhale slowly through my mouth. He didn’t advance until he felt my body yielding, the tension dissolving, me settling around him, my cunt opening around his cock and swallowing it little by little. There was something meticulous in that patience that contradicted everything else about that afternoon, all that firmness that admitted no negotiation.

When he went in all the way, he stayed still, his hips pressed against mine, and whispered in my ear:

—Feel it. All the way in. That’s how I’m going to fuck you.

And then that disappeared.

What came in its place didn’t leave me time to think. Only to feel. His hand on my hip marking the rhythm, the other on my back pressing me down against the couch. He started fucking me with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and plunging back in to the hilt, each collision making an obscene wet sound that filled the living room. He took me by the hair and threw my head back to talk in my ear while he drove into me.

—This is what you wanted, right? For me to teach you. For me to take you like this.

—Yes —I panted—. Yes, yes, yes.

—Harder, say it.

—Harder —I begged—. Fuck me harder.

And he fucked me harder. I listened to the slap of his hips against my ass, the splashing of my soaked cunt taking his cock all the way in, my own voice coming out in broken moans I didn’t recognize as mine. He slid a hand underneath me and squeezed my tits, then moved lower and found my clit with two fingers, rubbing it in the same rhythm as his thrusts. His voice telling me things in my ear that I’m not going to repeat but that stayed stuck to my skin for days. Things about how I was his. About how tight, wet, tiny I was. About how I was going to come when he said so.

—Come —he ordered at last, his teeth close to my ear—. Come now.

And I came. The climax hit like a jolt, brief and total, leaving me breathless for seconds I couldn’t count. I felt my cunt clenching in spasms around his cock, squeezing him whole, and he kept thrusting two, three, four more times until he gave a low groan, yanked his cock out sharply, and I felt hot cum spilling onto my lower back, my ass, in a long stream that marked my skin.

After that there was silence. Only the TV noise in the background, some instrumental music I didn’t recognize, and the sensation that my body belonged to someone who was still holding me. He ran two fingers over my back, gathering up his cum, and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them without thinking.

—Good girl —he said again.

***

When I opened my eyes I was alone.

Alone on my bed, in my room, with the laptop screen still on and the sociology notes scattered across the desk. My legs were trembling. The pillow was twisted under my hip. I had my hand inside my panties and three fingers sunk into a cunt that wouldn’t stop contracting, soaked all the way to my wrists, with my other hand squeezing one breast under my T-shirt.

Nicolás didn’t exist, or he did, but he was in his apartment on the other side of the city, completely oblivious to all of this.

I had gone alone to the darkest, most honest place I had found up to that moment.

I could still feel his imaginary hands on my skin. I could still hear that voice —which wasn’t anyone’s real voice— giving me orders that I obeyed without hesitating for a second. Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.

I pulled my fingers out of my cunt slowly and looked at them glistening under the bluish light of the screen. I brought them to my mouth without fully deciding to. I stayed looking at the ceiling for a long while with my own taste on my tongue. The streetlights filtered through the blinds and made oblique stripes on the wall. Outside, someone drove by with music playing from a car. Inside, I was still trembling a little.

I stretched out my arm and opened the laptop again.

There was more to read. And I wanted to read it all.