My landlord taught me to obey on my knees

Cleaning my own mess off his floor was, perhaps, the most degrading thing I had ever done in my entire life. And the worst part was that we were only just getting started.

I came back from the kitchen naked, with a yellow microfiber cloth in my hand that looked absurdly cheerful in that dark, minimalist designer living room. Marco hadn’t moved an inch. He was still standing by the column, arms crossed, staring at the three drops of my own fluid on the black marble with the same expression one gives a squashed insect.

—On your knees —he ordered when I reached him.

I obeyed at once. The cold stone bit into my shins. I bent forward and rubbed the cloth over the polished floor, wiping away the proof of my lack of control. The movement of my arm made my pecs contract and, to my shame, I felt my cock swinging heavy between my thighs, hard and demanding without my having asked it to.

—Clean —I muttered, without looking up, watching my blurred reflection in the stone.

—Don’t get up —Marco’s voice pinned me in place—. Crawl.

—What?

—I said crawl. To the sofa. If you behave like an animal that can’t control what it lets out, I’m going to treat you like one.

My pride had one last spasm of resistance. This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man. But then I looked toward the black leather sofa in the middle of the room. Marco walked over to it with a firm stride and sat down, spreading his legs wide, exposing the fly that was already starting to bulge again.

Desire punched me in the stomach like a closed fist. The humiliation of crossing his living room on all fours did not stop me; it was gasoline.

I lowered my hands to the floor. I moved forward.

I felt my knees brush against the marble, the sway of my genitals hanging free, the helplessness of having my ass exposed to the air. I felt grotesque and, at the same time, strangely powerful. I was the center of his attention. His gaze weighed on my back like a real hand.

Halfway there, I stopped for a second, unwillingly. I thought about the first time I knocked on his door, just a few weeks earlier, with the lease in my hand and my head full of excuses for the late payment. Back then I was another man. One who shook hands firmly, looked people in the eye, who would never have imagined himself crossing a living room on all fours to get faster to another man’s crotch. I didn’t recognize that man. And discovering that I didn’t miss him was what scared me most of all.

I reached his feet and stopped, breathing hard. From down there, Marco seemed like a giant. His black shoes, immaculate, gleamed a few centimeters from my face. They smelled of polish and new leather, and for an absurd instant I wanted to lower my head and brush them with my cheek, just to see what he would do.

—Sit on your heels —he instructed—. Back straight. Hands behind you.

I settled myself as best I could. My heart was pounding in my throat. Marco leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, invading my space with that scent of wood and musk that had become my personal drug.

—You have a beautiful mouth, Darío —he said quietly, running his thumb over my lower lip, pulling it down to show my teeth—. But it’s an unruly mouth. You moan too much. You ask for too much. And your cock… —he dropped his gaze to my erection, throbbing against my own abdomen—. Your cock gets ahead of itself. It cries before its time.

He snatched his hand away and unfastened his belt in one sharp motion.

—We’re going to fix that. Today you’re not going to suck. Today you’re going to be used.

He pulled his cock out. It was already hard, dark, veins standing out. I didn’t have time to prepare myself. He grabbed my hair, at the nape of my neck, with just enough force to tear a hiss of pain from me, and yanked my head back to align my throat.

—Open.

I opened my mouth.

This time there was nothing slow about it. Marco rose slightly from the sofa and lunged forward. His cock came in like a battering ram. It passed my lips, brushed my teeth, flattened my tongue, and slammed straight into the back of my throat.

My eyes flew wide open. Instinctive panic surged at the suffocation. I tried to pull back, but the hand on my nape was a vise. He held me there, pinned against his groin, while he thrust again and forced his way toward my esophagus.

It was too big. Too deep.

I felt my throat stretching beyond what I had thought possible. The hot, rough texture of his cock invaded every millimeter of my sensitivity. I couldn’t breathe. My nose was crushed against his pubic hair, smelling his concentrated, thick, filthy scent.

Marco started moving.

This wasn’t making love. It wasn’t even oral sex. He was fucking my mouth brutally. He used my face like nameless meat, in and out with a punishing rhythm, not caring about my gagging or the tears that began to stream down my temples.

—That’s it… —he growled from above—. Swallow it whole. Accept your place.

The sounds were wet, visceral. Saliva ran down my chin. Every time he pulled back a little, I gasped desperately for air, only to be filled again a second later with a violence that, against all logic, I loved.

My jaw hurt. My throat burned. And then, in the middle of it all, something changed.

In the middle of the choking, with my brain deprived of oxygen and saturated with endorphins, it clicked. I stopped fighting.

The feeling of being completely at his mercy, of my own breathing depending on his will, gave me an erection so hard it hurt. I stopped trying to pull away.

My hands, which had been squeezing my thighs from pure tension, moved on their own. They went up and clutched Marco’s hips. I gripped the expensive fabric with my sweaty fingers, not to push him away, but to pull him toward me.

I wanted more. I wanted him to choke me. I wanted him to erase me.

Marco noticed the change. He stopped for a second, his cock buried to the hilt, feeling how I tried to swallow around it instead of expelling it.

—Mmm… —his voice vibrated above me—. So you like it rough, huh? You like being broken.

He let out a dark, breathless laugh and accelerated.

Now it was a savage pounding. His pelvis struck my face with a dull blow of flesh against flesh. I was dizzy, drugged on desire and lack of air. My whole world had been reduced to that cock: the salty taste, the thickness that wouldn’t fit, the heat radiating inside me.

I felt everything clenching inside, even though nobody was touching me. My back entrance tightened and opened empty, pulsing, begging to be filled too.

—I’m going to come —Marco warned me, his voice tight, broken—. Don’t you dare spit. Don’t close your throat. Open up, for fuck’s sake.

He seized my hair with both hands, completely immobilizing my head.

He drove in three final thrusts, deep, brutal, that made stars burst behind my eyes. On the last one he stayed inside, pressing against the back of my throat.

I felt the spasm of his cock against my tongue. And then, the flood.

The semen shot out forcefully, hot, thick, and bitter. It flooded my throat. My swallowing reflex kicked in purely for survival. I swallowed. I swallowed once, twice, three times. It was a lot. I could feel the liquid sliding down my esophagus, filling my stomach, marking me from within.

Marco stayed there a few seconds longer, trembling a little, milking the last drop into me while I kept weakly sucking, dazed, eyes rolling back.

At last he withdrew slowly.

The loss of his cock left a cold emptiness. A thick thread of saliva and semen dripped from my lips and stained my bare chest. I coughed, a rough, wet sound, trying to catch my breath. I felt wrecked, used, and yet euphoric.

I let myself fall back, sitting on the floor, bracing my hands behind me so I wouldn’t collapse. My face was soaked with tears, sweat, and fluids. I must have looked like a mess.

Marco straightened his clothes with maddening calm. He pulled up his zipper, adjusted his belt, and ran a hand through his hair, regaining his perfect composure in seconds. Then he looked at me.

I held his gaze from the floor, my mouth swollen and red, my chest rising and falling fast. There was no shame in my eyes. There was need. I ran my tongue over my lips, tasting what was left, and swallowed again.

Marco smiled. This time it wasn’t a cruel smile, but one of approval. The smile of a satisfied owner.

He came over, crouched in front of me, and gave my cheek a couple of gentle but firm pats, like one gives a dog that has just learned a new trick.

—Good boy —he whispered—. You swallowed like a champion.

He stood and walked toward the living room exit, turning his back on me.

—Clean your face and rest, Darío. You’ll need your energy —he said without turning around—. You’ve passed the mouth test. You’re ready for what comes next.

I was left alone in the middle of that cold living room, with the yellow cloth still beside me and the taste of him still in my throat. I should have felt humiliated. I should have gotten dressed, gathered my things, and walked out the door never to return.

Instead, I brought my fingers to my lips and closed my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I knew exactly where I belonged. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to be anywhere else.